#enemies to obsession

[hauntedbyjoel]

Hate Turned Hungry

pairing: joel miller x f!reader warnings: MDNI | age gap | rough sex | dom!Joel | degradation | choking (light) | spitting | mirror sex | face fucking | oral (f & m receiving) | overstimulation | power imbalance | light humiliation | unsafe sex | possessive behavior | brat taming | emotional obsession | dark themes word count - 13.5k summary - You used to think Joel Miller was the most insufferable man alive — grumpy, condescending, always in your way. Now he’s all you can think about. Every glance is a warning. Every word, a threat. And when he finally snaps, you find out exactly what it means to lose control.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Sophomore year was... fine.

Not great. Not terrible. Just fine.

You got the grades you needed to keep your scholarship. Showed up to class. Went out enough that no one could accuse you of being boring, but not so much that you had to fake sick texts to your professors the next morning. You did what you were supposed to.

But somewhere along the way, you got tired. Tired of group projects, of roommates who left hair in the sink, of cafeteria coffee and lecture halls that smelled like damp carpet. You missed real food. Your own bed. Quiet.

So when your last exam ended, you packed your shit, dumped half your closet in a suitcase, and texted your dad your flight info without asking if it was a good time.

You didn't expect balloons or anything. But you also didn't expect the first thing out of your dad's mouth to be, "Joel’s gonna be around a lot this summer.”

That made you pause. “Joel?”

“Miller. Helping me finish the patio. Said he’s got time off between contracts, so he’ll be in and out pretty regular.”

Your dad either didn’t hear you or didn’t care. He was already deep in a monologue about gravel and retaining walls when you followed him into the kitchen.

And there he was.

Joel fucking Miller.

Leaning against the counter, arms crossed, bottle of beer in hand, face set in that same unimpressed expression you remembered from years ago. You hadn’t seen him in a while. Not since before graduation. He’d always been around when you were younger. Fixing things that didn’t need fixing. Offering to “help out” when no one asked. The kind of man who’d show up uninvited to your birthday party and then spend it bitching about how loud the music was.

You used to think he was fucking annoying and not in a fun way. In a gruff, overly serious, who-invited-this-guy kind of way. He was always in your space. Always talking to your dad like you weren’t there. Always looking at you like he could see through whatever attitude you threw out that day.

But now?

Now he looked like the kind of man your friends would lie about sleeping with.

And now he’s here. In your goddamn kitchen. Older, broader, tan from working outside, the sleeves of his worn shirt hugging his biceps like it was intentional. He’d grown out a bit of a beard. Just enough stubble to ruin your life.

You blinked at him. Actually blinked. Like a cartoon character rebooting. Your hand was still on your suitcase handle.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just nodded once, slow and unreadable, eyes dragging down your frame like he was assessing you. Not in a creepy way. Just…in a Joel way. Like he was still deciding if you were a pain in the ass.

“Joel,” you said, flat and unimpressed.

“Hey there, princess.”

Your spine straightened. That nickname used to piss you off, because when you were younger, he’d say it with that patronizing tone, like he thought you were spoiled. Entitled. A brat who didn’t know how to lift anything heavier than a lip gloss.

It used to make your blood boil.

Now it was doing something else entirely. Something lower. Hotter. Like your body hadn’t gotten the memo that it was supposed to hate him.

You scowled anyway, crossing your arms. “Don’t call me that.”

He raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip from his beer. “Still got that attitude, huh?”

You crossed your arms, jaw tight. “Still hanging around like a stray dog?”

That almost got a smile. Just a flicker at the corner of his mouth, quickly buried behind the bottle.

“Been a while,” he said, unbothered. “You back for the summer?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Right. School’s up in New York, yeah?”

You gave a short nod, not offering more. But he waited. So you sighed. “It’s fine. Crowded. Expensive. Kind of bullshit.”

His eyes narrow, not unkind, but knowing. Like he already expected you to say that.

“Sounds about right,” he said. “City’ll chew you up if you let it.”

You shrugged, unwilling to agree. “Better than rotting in suburbia.”

Joel huffed — maybe a laugh, maybe not. He looked at you again, with that unreadable stare.

“Well,” he said, tipping the bottle toward you. “Welcome back.”

And then he turned to your dad, asking something about the new drill he’d lent him, and just like that, you were dismissed.

Not in a rude way. Not even deliberately. But your part in the conversation was over. Joel had acknowledged your presence, spoken, and then moved on like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t the hottest man you’d seen in real life in probably two years. Like he didn’t just activate something feral in the pit of your stomach without even trying.

You stood there for another second, dizzy, your suitcase still clenched in your hand.

Because what the fuck.

Joel hadn’t always looked like that. You knew he hadn’t. 

Now he looked like the kind of man who didn’t even know how hot he was. Stronger. Broader. Like he’d aged in slow motion and soaked up every good part of it. His beard was short, a little patchy, but it made his jaw look sharp. His eyes were deep-set and serious, even when he smiled. And his voice had weight to it now.

You couldn’t stop watching him.

Every little movement drew your attention — the way his fingers drummed once against the side of his beer bottle, the flex of his arm when he leaned onto the counter, the way he tilted his head slightly when your dad spoke, like he was actually listening.

You’d known him your whole life, and suddenly it was like your brain had rewritten him overnight.

You forced yourself to walk your suitcase to your room. Forced your legs to move. Forced your eyes not to look back over your shoulder and drink in one last glance at him.

But even after you shut the door behind you and collapsed on your bed, shoes still on, backpack half-zipped and slipping off your shoulder, your mind was stuck in the kitchen.

You stood there for a beat too long, heart hammering, skin hot. You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. Something low in your stomach was pulsing like an alarm bell, and your legs felt weirdly light, like they might give out if you didn’t sit the fuck down.

You made it to your room somehow. Kicked the door shut, dropped your bag to the floor, and sat on the edge of your bed like a girl who’d just seen God.

Because what the actual fuck.

He was not supposed to look like that.

Not Joel. Not your dad’s know-it-all friend with the truck and the permanent scowl. He wasn’t supposed to look like he belonged in a whiskey commercial. He wasn’t supposed to have forearms like that or a voice that made your stomach do weird, traitorous flips. He wasn’t supposed to look at you — steady, unreadable — like he already knew what you were about, and then turn around like you weren’t even worth a second thought.

But it mattered.

Your hands were shaking.

Not visibly, not enough to panic about — just enough that you noticed when you touched your face. Just enough that you wanted to lie down and scream into your pillow like a deranged high schooler with a forbidden crush.

You were so fucking gone already.

You laid back, stared at the ceiling, let the heat of the house sink into your skin. Your heart hadn’t slowed down. You didn’t want it to. Every second that passed made you want to run downstairs and see him again, just to confirm that your brain hadn’t exaggerated it. That he really looked like that. That he really sounded like that.

You could still hear his voice in your head. Still feel it in your spine.

Your phone was face-down on the bed next to you. You didn’t need advice. You didn’t even think they’d understand. But you opened your college group chat anyway, because holding it in felt unbearable.

you: my dad’s friend is gonna be here all summer you: he’s hot. like really hot. you: i’m gonna fuck him or die trying

You didn’t even wait for the replies. Just turned your phone over again like it was something shameful. Like saying it out loud made it real.

But it didn’t help. Nothing helped.

You could still see the way his shirt clung to his shoulders, how his fingers curled around the neck of the bottle, and that brief moment before he really looked at you—like he wasn’t sure what to do with what he saw.

Your thighs pressed together. You didn’t even notice at first. It just happened, automatically. You only realized when you exhaled and the tension was still there, low and tight and coiled like it had nowhere else to go.

You were in so much trouble.

So you did what any emotionally stable adult would do: climbed into bed in the middle of the day and burrowed under the covers like that would fix something. The sheets were still warm from earlier, the pillow too soft to be comforting, and even though your brain wouldn’t shut up, your eyes eventually did.

You don’t even remember falling asleep. One second you were staring at the ceiling, the next—

You woke up too hot. Disoriented. Mouth dry, hair stuck to the side of your face.

The fan was still going in the corner, buzzing like it had been doing something important. Your shirt clung to your back with sweat. Your phone buzzed once and went quiet — probably some bullshit screen time notification telling you you’d rotted your brain 43% more this week. No shit.

You sat up slowly, wiped your hand down your face, and squinted at the digital clock across the room. Late afternoon. The kind of hour that made everything feel heavy. Sunlight leaking through the blinds in slanted lines, painting the room in that weird in-between light that didn’t feel like day or night.

Then, downstairs something thudded.

You froze.

A second later came the sound of metal scraping on concrete. Then another thud—low and heavy, like something being shifted. A toolbox, maybe? The noise was familiar, but distant, like a half-remembered thought. Probably your dad. Doing too much again, for no real reason.

You pulled your hair into a loose knot, padded barefoot down the stairs, still heavy with sleep and vague irritation.

But when you stepped into the kitchen and glanced out the back window, it wasn’t your dad.

Joel was in the yard, bent over a stack of lumber, arms flexing beneath his T-shirt. Moving slow. Focused. Like nothing in the world existed except whatever he was trying to fix.

You watched him for a moment, letting it settle.

When you finally opened the sliding door and stepped outside, he didn’t look up right away. But when he did, his expression didn’t change. No surprise. No hesitation. Just steady eyes that met yours without blinking.

“Didn’t know you were still here,” you said.

Joel straightened with a soft grunt. “Didn’t know you were sleepin’.”

“I wasn’t,” you lied. “I was just—”

“Your mom’s at some class thing. Dad ran out to get more plywood.”

He said it like it meant nothing. Like it wasn’t the most dangerous sentence you’d ever heard.

You crossed your arms loosely, feigning casual. “So what, you got left behind?”

“Somebody’s gotta keep it movin’.”

You nodded slowly. “And that somebody’s you.”

He didn’t respond. Just looked at you for a beat too long, then turned back to his tools.

You should’ve gone back inside. But you didn’t.

You hovered for a beat, then said, “Hot out,” not because it was, but because it was the first excuse your brain offered to keep him looking at you.

“Sure is.”

“You always this sweaty before noon?”

He let out a breath — not quite a laugh. “Try movin’ bricks around and stayin’ pretty.”

You tilted your head, smirking. “I’m naturally pretty. You’re just old.”

That got his attention. His mouth twitched. Barely.

“That mouth of yours really hasn’t changed,” he said, brow raised.

“Neither has your attitude,” you shot back.

He didn’t answer. Just turned back to the bolts he was working on.

You stayed there. Watching. Simmering. Wanting something he wasn’t giving. And when he didn’t say anything else, you stepped back inside before you said something stupid.

But the damage was already done.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

It’d been a few days since you last spoke to him.

Not that you were waiting around for it. You had better things to do. Lists to make. Jobs to apply for. Endless tabs open on your laptop, none of which explained why you still froze every time you heard heavy footsteps downstairs — boots on the floor, a drawer opening — like your body was waiting for something your brain hadn’t agreed to.

Joel was back again. Of course he was.

Fixing something. Always fixing something. Same slow footsteps. Same way he moved through the house like it was his, like he didn’t need permission to open cabinets or track dirt across the tile. You used to roll your eyes at it. All of it. The sighing and muttering, the way he smelled like sawdust and sweat. It used to drive you crazy — just not like this.

Now it was something else entirely.

You were lying on your stomach in bed, pretending to scroll, when you heard him. Tools shifting. A soft grunt. The unmistakable sound of that goddamn wrench he always brought inside like it was a part of him.

You sat up. Peeled your shirt off where it stuck to your back. Told yourself you were just thirsty.

That was it.

Your feet moved on their own. Down the hall, down the stairs. Loose shorts slung low, tank top clinging from the heat. The air was quiet and thick, and Joel was crouched in front of the kitchen sink, one arm braced on the cabinet frame.

You wandered over to the fridge and opened it without hurry. Bent down slowly, casually, letting your shirt ride up as you reached for a water bottle on the bottom shelf. You stayed there a moment too long, pretending to search, fully aware of the way your body looked from behind.

Then straightened. Cracked the cap. Took a sip. Let it trickle down your throat as you leaned back against the counter.

Still no acknowledgment. Typical.

You didn’t say a word. Just took another sip and turned to leave. And as you walked away, you caught it. His eyes were on you. Low. Heavy. Hungry.

It only lasted a second. Maybe not even that long. But it landed like a jolt, pulsing through your whole body like static under skin.

You bit the inside of your cheek and kept walking. Didn’t look back, didn’t smile.

But your pulse was hammering, and your whole body buzzed with it — the confirmation, the tension, the undeniable truth of that glance.

He saw you and he liked what he saw. And now you knew.

The water bottle is still cool in your hand by the time you get upstairs, but you don’t drink it. Just stand there with your back against the closed door, staring across your bedroom like you’ve forgotten what you came in for.

You don’t even sit down before stripping off your clothes. It’s not some grand plan. Not at first. But by the time you’ve pulled on your black bikini — the tie-side one you debated even packing — it starts to feel like a mission. Like strategy.

Because if he’s gonna look, you’re gonna give him something to look at.

You catch yourself smiling in the mirror as you adjust the top. Not the sweet kind of smile either — the kind that could get you in trouble. That could ruin a man like him if he wasn’t careful.

Downstairs is still quiet when you come back through. The fridge hums. There’s a soft creak from outside — the deck, maybe — but no voices. No parents. You grab your towel, a random book, and the bottle of sunscreen from the hall drawer, then make your way to the backyard like you’re not plotting anything at all.

The deck boards are warm beneath your feet, the heat still clinging to them from earlier. You spread the towel out slowly, stretching a little more than necessary as you settle onto the lounge chair and lay back. The sun’s high, your skin already starting to prickle beneath it, and you can hear the steady rhythm of movement from somewhere behind the fence.

Joel’s still here. Still working. Still close enough to hear you if you needed something.

You wait five minutes. Maybe ten.

And then—soft, almost sweet— “Joel?”

There’s a pause. A clunk. Then the unmistakable sound of boots on concrete.

He rounds the corner wiping his hands with a rag, forearms smudged with sweat and sawdust, eyes hidden beneath the brim of his cap. He slows when he sees you but doesn’t stop. Just lets his gaze drag over the scene for a beat longer than it needs to.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” you say, casual. “Can you help me with something real quick?”

You hold up the sunscreen, twisting the bottle lazily between your fingers. He doesn’t take it. Just looks at it. Then at you.

“You don’t have someone else for that?”

“Do you see anyone else around?” You raise a brow. “It’s just my back. I can’t reach it.”

He exhales slowly through his nose. “You’re a grown woman. I think you can manage.”

“Wow,” you say, smiling, “don’t be such a fucking prude.”

Joel stares at you, expression flat and unreadable. For a moment, you think he’s going to walk away. Maybe you pushed it too far. But then he steps closer. Gives a small nod, like he’s made some kind of decision. Like he’s choosing to stay.

“Turn around.”

You do, almost too fast, heart racing, stomach flipping. Your hair falls over one shoulder as you settle forward on your elbows, the backs of your thighs already warming under the sun.

He comes up behind you, and for a moment you brace yourself for something detached. Something quick, routine, maybe even indifferent. But the second his hands find your skin, that thought disappears completely.

His hands are rough. Calloused. Hot.

You suck in a breath.

It isn’t the chill of the lotion that gets to you. It’s the contrast. His hands are rough and steady, moving over your skin with a kind of focus that makes your breath catch. The pressure is slow and deliberate, like he’s taking his time on purpose.

Your back is burning, and the sun has nothing to do with it.

“You’re gonna burn in five minutes flat,” Joel mutters, spreading the lotion over your shoulders.

“Yeah?” Your voice is steadier than it should be. “Then hurry up.”

You swear you feel his hand hesitate — just for a second. A flicker. Then it’s back, smoothing the lotion down the slope of your back, skimming the sides of your ribs like he’s being careful not to slip.

Which only makes it worse.

He’s trying not to enjoy it. That’s what undoes you. Not the touch itself, but the restraint. The tension of it. The way his fingers dig just a little too hard, like he’s mad at himself for doing this in the first place.

He lets out a quiet breath. “You've changed. And somehow... not at all”

There it is. A spark. Not a full crack in the dam, but a hairline fracture — something just close enough to flirting that it hits your nerves like a live wire.

You grin into your forearm. “That a bad thing?”

"Not sure yet," he huffs.

A moment later, his hands leave your skin. You hear the soft clink of the sunscreen bottle hitting the deck, followed by the faint creak of him stepping back.

You wait. Just long enough to give yourself an excuse. Then you turn.

He’s still there.

He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t walked away. He’s just standing there, watching you.

The sun is behind him now, throwing sharp shadows across his face. You aren’t sure what you expected. Maybe an awkward glance to the side. Maybe a quiet goodbye.

But he doesn’t move. His eyes stay on yours.

And for one quiet, startling moment, neither of you says a word.

You blink. Swallow. “Thanks,” you say, quieter than you meant to.

Joel nods once. Barely. Then he grabs the toolbox off the table and walks back inside of the house without another word.

You stand there longer than you mean to.

Eventually, you grab your phone.

You tell your friends that you think you might actually lose your mind this summer. Say something vague about sunscreen and how his hands were rough—too rough to be accidental, right?

They blow up instantly.

Someone sends a voice memo screaming. Another says you need to film it next time. Someone else asks if he’s divorced, and a fourth says she wants you to “do it for the team.”

You laugh. Kind of. But it’s not enough to shake the feeling crawling up your spine.

You tell them you’re spiraling. That you’re thinking about things you probably shouldn’t be thinking about. That you might actually lose it if he looks at you like that again.

You put your phone on the table and stand up, making your way to the house. The sliding door gives with a soft clatter, and cool air greets your skin as you step inside. The shift in light makes you blink, eyes adjusting to the dimmer space.

The house feels cooler, the air still and quiet. Your footsteps sound louder than they should on the hardwood, each one echoing softly as you move forward.

The house is quiet when you walk in.

No keys in the dish. No car in the driveway. Your mom’s probably at yoga or barre or wherever she disappears to for hours at a time. Your dad? Maybe Lowe’s. Maybe Home Depot. Probably dragging Joel along to pick out something unnecessary.

You don’t know why it matters. You just know you’re alone.

You fill a glass of water in the kitchen. Take a few long sips. Keep expecting to hear boots on the porch or the murmur of conversation through the wall.

But the silence holds.

You go upstairs. You peel your bikini off piece by piece. You lie back on your bed.

And then you really spiral.

You think about the way he looked at you—not like he meant to, but like he couldn’t help it. Like he noticed you. Finally. Like maybe he wasn’t just being polite. Like maybe his hands lingered just a little longer than they needed to.

You close your eyes.

One minute, you’re still damp from the pool. The next, you’re soaked for a completely different reason.

You lie back on your bed, one leg still damp where the towel missed a spot. Your skin’s flushed—not from the sun, but from the memory.

From the way his fingers felt against your spine. How he touched you like he was trying not to touch you. Like restraint was stitched into every motion, pulling tight at the seams.

But in your head?

He doesn't stop.

You replay the whole thing in your head. Same pool, same sunscreen, same quiet pull between you. But this time, when his hand drifts to the small of your back, it doesn’t keep moving. It hesitates. Fingers settling just above the curve of your ass, slow and careful, like he’s thinking about what it would mean to go further.

“Shouldn’t let me touch you like this.”

But he wouldn’t stop.

He would trace the edge of your bikini bottom with one finger. Not slipping beneath the fabric, just following the line. Just enough to make your hips twitch beneath his hand. Just enough to make you shift, trying to play it cool.

His other hand would rest at your jaw, guiding your face toward his. Not forceful, just enough to make sure you’re looking at him.

You picture it now: Joel kneeling beside the you, one hand trailing lower, the other guiding your eyes to his. “Tell me to stop,” he’d say.

And you wouldn’t. You couldn’t.

Because this was your fucking mission, wasn’t it?

Something twists inside you, not painful, just sharp — like your nerves are waking up all at once.

“You wanna act grown?” A shake of the head. A quiet scoff. “Show me.”

But there’s no voice now. No rough fingers. Just your own fingers and the quiet whir of a ceiling fan overhead.

The room is too still. Too quiet. Too not Joel.

You open your eyes and let out a sharp breath. Your chest rises with the effort it takes to come back to yourself. For a second, you almost expect to hear him. His voice low and close, saying things he has never said. But all you hear is the soft creak of the house settling around you.

Your fingers pause.

Reality floods in. You’re alone. He never touched you like that. He never said a word. None of it happened.

But it felt so real. Still does.

So you let your eyes drift shut again, desperate to recapture it.

He’d lean closer, his voice barely a breath now, hot against your ear. “Thought you wanted this.”

You’d nod without hesitation, barely holding yourself together. You’d say whatever he wanted to hear if it meant his hand would keep moving, sliding lower with that same steady pressure. His fingers would trace the waistband, slow and deliberate, before slipping beneath the fabric.

Careful at first. Just enough to find how wet you already are. Just enough to show you he knew exactly what you needed, and exactly how ready you were for it.

Your hips arch into your own touch at the thought, mouth falling open. You bite back a sound as your fingers circle just right, matching the rhythm you know he’d set.

“Knew it,” he’d mutter. “So fuckin’ wet for me already.”

You lose yourself in it then.

His mouth on your throat. His hand between your legs. His body heavy and warm and everywhere. Not careful anymore. Not restrained.

He’d groan when your thighs shake, press his forehead to your shoulder, and hold you there like he’d earned it.

“That’s it,” he’d whisper. “Just like that. Good fuckin’ girl.”

You come hard—quiet, fast, and messy. Thighs shaking under your own hand.

And even when it fades, you don’t move.

You lie in bed for a while, replaying every second of that almost-moment until it’s not just fantasy anymore—it’s fuel. It’s fire under your ribs. It’s proof that Joel wants you, too. He looked at you. He touched you. He didn’t pull away like some concerned father-figure. He just stood there, watching your body react to him like it was the first time he really saw you.

And next time you’re gonna push harder. Be bolder. Give him even less of a reason to walk away.

Because this summer? You’re not leaving empty-handed.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The next day, your mom tells you about dinner around noon, already buzzing about the menu, tossing out options like she’s hosting a wedding reception.

“Joel’s coming over tonight. Your dad asked him to stay after they work on the fence—so be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” you say, too quickly.

She gives you a look but lets it go.

You hide the way your stomach flips at the mention of Joel’s name. At the idea of him in your kitchen, in your house. Sitting at the table like it’s normal. Like it’s fine.

You’d taken your time getting ready.

Shaved everything, deep-conditioned, spent half an hour standing in front of your closet like it was a gallery wall. Eventually, you picked a sundress that wasn’t too short but still skimmed your thighs when you sat down. Soft straps, bare shoulders. One of those easy, flirty fabrics that made you feel pretty without trying too hard. You’d gone light on makeup—just enough to make you feel pretty without looking like you were trying too hard.

By the time dinner’s close, your nerves are barely containable. You keep imagining his eyes on you again. Wondering what he thought when he was touching you. Wondering if he went home and touched himself thinking about it. Or if he’s been trying not to think about it at all.

You’re still wondering when you hear his voice outside—deep and low, that familiar Southern drawl drifting in from the backyard like it belongs here. Like he does. Laughing with your dad about something stupid—plywood or screws or whatever men like them talk about with sunburnt necks and half-empty coolers beside them.

You glance out the window when they head in. Joel cleaned up—hair damp, a fresh change of clothes. He’s shaved. Or trimmed. Either way, it’s intentional. It’s for something.

He walks in, and his eyes go to you immediately.

Just for a second.

Not long enough to scare anyone—but long enough to confirm it wasn’t your imagination. Long enough to say, I see you.

You tilt your head, all innocent-like. “Hey,” you say, casual, like you don’t care he’s here. Like you didn’t spend an hour getting ready just in case he looked at you like that again.

Joel nods. His gaze flicks down and back up. Bare shoulders. That dress. He sees it.

“You’re gonna get cold in that,” he says, voice even but his eyes linger. “Kitchen’s freezing.”

You smile. “Guess I’ll have to borrow a jacket.”

His jaw ticks. “Not mine.”

That gets your attention. You go quiet, studying the way he moves — the grip he's got on the fridge handle, the way he avoids your eyes now, like looking again might be a mistake.

“You don’t like the dress?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He grabs a beer from the fridge but doesn’t open it. Just stands there, turning it slowly between his hands. The glass is slick with condensation, catching the light as it moves. His eyes stay on the counter, steady and distant, like he’s trying not to think too hard.

You ease forward a little. Not enough to draw attention, but just enough to close the space between you. Close enough that he can feel the change in the air. You know he notices, even if he won’t look at you.

“Would’ve picked something else if I knew you’d be shy,” you say lightly, fingers trailing the edge of the island.

Joel finally lifts his gaze. The look he gives you is steady and sharp, and it settles over your skin like static.

And when you crossed your arms — mostly out of irritation — your chest shifted with the motion. The neckline of your dress dipped lower, the fabric pulling just enough to press your breasts together. The curve of them lifted, pushed up by your own arms, framed perfectly between the soft straps and the shape of the dress.

It wasn’t intentional. But it wasn’t subtle, either.

They sat there, high and obvious, the kind of distraction that would be hard to look past. And the best part was, you knew it. You could feel the air brushing over the bare skin at the top of your chest. Could feel the way his gaze dragged, even if he tried to look away.

“Stop.”

One word. Firm. Not loud—but you hear everything behind it.

You blink. “Stop what?”

His eyes flick down again, quick and unthinking, like his body’s moving before his brain can stop it. That’s when you notice the change. His stance tightens. He shifts his weight, angles his body slightly away, like distance might steady him. One hand curls at his side, flexing once, like he needs somewhere to put that tension.

He’s hard.

You see it, clear as day, and your breath catches before you can even think of what to say. But he moves first.

He turns without a word, muttering something under his breath about needing to wash up, and walks out of the room. No glance back. No chance for a response. Just his footsteps down the hall, fading until he’s gone.

And you’re still standing there, legs locked like your body’s trying to hold onto something that already slipped through your fingers. There’s a tight, aching pull low in your belly, and nothing you do makes it ease up.

He was hard.

You did that. Just by standing there. Just by existing in that dress, in that room, looking at him the way you did.

You can’t catch your breath.

You’re supposed to join your parents in the next room, sit at the table like nothing’s happened, like you’re not losing your mind in real time. Like you didn’t just pull that reaction out of him with a sundress and a smile.

You glance toward the hallway, even though he’s long gone now.

Replay it all in your head. That flick of his gaze. That shift in his stance. The heat in his eyes before he remembered who he was—who you were—and shut it down.

God, he looked like he hated himself for it.

And why shouldn’t he? You’re too young. You’re his friend’s daughter. You’re a guest in your own damn house and still had the nerve to stand there hoping he’d look.

And he did.

He fucking did.

You take a step back, trying to reset. Trying to cool off. But it’s pointless. Your skin is flushed, buzzing in places that have no business reacting like this. You swear you can still feel the way he looked at you, like it clung to your body and soaked straight through.

You plant your hands on the counter.

But the need doesn’t fade. It settles low and steady, pulsing with purpose. Your body already knows what it wants, and now there’s no point pretending otherwise. Every second you stand there, it sharpens — not out of confusion, but hunger.

You want him to come back.

You want him to say something. Do something.

You want him to admit it.

Instead, you hear the bathroom door shut at the end of the hall. Running water. Silence.

He’s not coming back right now.

And that’s maybe the worst part of it—how badly you want him to. How desperate you feel. How completely wrecked you are over something that lasted less than thirty seconds.

So yeah. You freak out.

And then you sit down like nothing happened.

You join your parents at the table, heart pounding and hands way too still in your lap. You nod along as your mom talks about garlic bread and marinated chicken like you’re not still replaying the moment Joel adjusted himself in the kitchen.

He comes back a minute later. Calm. Composed. Like his dick wasn’t just hard under those jeans.

Like you didn’t fucking notice.

He settles in across from you, casual as ever, resting one forearm on the table while your dad passes him another beer. There’s a streak of sawdust still clinging to his wrist. A tiny scrape near his knuckle.

It shouldn’t make you feel anything.

But it does.

“Almost done with everything,” Joel says, cracking the bottle open like it’s nothing. “Just a few more odds and ends.”

Your dad nods. “Yeah—can’t believe how much we’ve knocked out. Seriously, man, I feel bad. You didn’t need to do all the extra stuff.”

Joel shrugs. “I don’t mind. I like stayin’ busy.”

The conversation eventually drifts.

Your mom asks Joel about work—some job on the north side that had him tied up for weeks. He talks about new permits, someone underquoting a kitchen reno, and how this heat makes everyone meaner than usual.

You play with the edge of your napkin. Pretend to listen.

Your dad complains about the neighbor’s lawn. Your mom brings up a new Thai place downtown. Joel doesn’t say much after that—just sips his beer and keeps his attention anywhere but you.

It starts to feel like the moment in the kitchen didn’t happen at all.

And then—

“Hey, remember that girl in high school?” your dad says suddenly, half-laughing, mid-sip. “The one who used to leave notes on your truck? What was her name—Kelsey?”

Your whole body locks up.

Joel chuckles. Quiet. A breath through his nose. Doesn’t really answer.

Your dad grins, nudging Joel’s arm like he’s setting him up. “Man, she was relentless. Thought you hung the moon. She’d bake all that stuff and just happen to show up whenever you had a shift. I swear, she timed her schedule around yours.”

You blink and set your fork down with a soft clink against the plate. Something tight pulls in your chest.

This isn’t just jealousy anymore. It’s heavier than that.

You’re the one who’s been orbiting him. The one flirting too much, pushing too far. And if this is how he sees it — if you’re just another girl who doesn’t know where the line is, if he’s only letting you hang around for the attention, for the ego boost — then you don’t know whether you want to cry or disappear.

You feel it rising, that hot, unbearable flush behind your eyes. A part of you wants to throw your fork across the table. Another part wants to crawl under it and vanish completely.

Instead, you take a breath and swallow it down.

You barely register the rest of dinner.

There’s some mention of your dad’s back hurting. Your mom brings out dessert even though no one asked for it. Joel laughs at something she says about needing to bottle her salad dressing and sell it at the farmers market. You smile automatically, keep your eyes down, and chew on the inside of your cheek until it stings.

Joel doesn’t even look at you again.

Not when your mom gets up to clear the table. Not when she sighs and says she’ll start the dishes. And not when Joel, fucking saint Joel, follows with a quiet offer to help.

"I can help with that," he says, like he means it. 

Your heart seizes.

“Oh!” your mom says, delighted. “You don’t have to, but that’s so sweet. She can help you!”

You blink. “Wait, what—?”

“Come on,” your dad says, already standing. “He fixes half the house, least you can do is help him load the dishwasher.”

Your mom shoots you a smile. “Be nice.”

You force a smile that feels like it might crack your skull in half. “Always.”

The kitchen clears out. Your parents wander off, plates in hand, like they didn’t just throw you into a minefield. And now it’s just you and Joel. Standing beside a counter full of dishes. Avoiding eye contact like it’s a goddamn war tactic.

You grab a plate. Set it in the sink. Joel runs the water.

For a second, neither of you say anything.

Then, quiet—barely above the hum of the faucet—he mutters, “You’ve got a real sharp mouth on you tonight.”

You glance at him. “Don’t act like you didn’t earn it.”

His jaw flexes. He scrubs at a plate harder than necessary. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you should go ask Kelsey.”

Joel freezes. Just for a beat. Then looks at you—really looks at you—for the first time since the kitchen.

There’s a flicker in his eyes. Something dangerous. Something alive.

“You jealous over a girl who baked me brownies twenty years ago?”

You stare at him. “I’m not jealous.”

He laughs once. Low. Dry. “Sure you’re not.”

You snatch a fork off the counter a little too hard. “Maybe I just don’t like being grouped with every other girl who’s ever thrown herself at you.”

That lands. You see it in the way his shoulders tense. The way his grip tightens on the edge of the sink.

And then—quiet again, but colder this time: “You think this is the same?”

You don’t answer.

Because you don’t know what this is.

But you know it’s not nothing.

Joel turns to face you fully, arms crossed now, jaw locked tight.

“You’ve been struttin’ around like it’s your goddamn mission to drive me insane.”

You scoff. “I’m not doing anything you’re not letting happen.”

His eyes narrow. “You think batting your lashes and prancing around in that little dress makes you grown?”

“I am grown.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You feel the snap in your chest, all sharp edges and rising heat.

“You can pretend all you want,” you bite out, “but I saw the way you looked at me.”

Joel shakes his head, laughing once—but there’s no humor in it.

“You don’t get it.”

“Oh, I get it,” you fire back. “I walk in the room and you can’t even look at me without getting hard.”

He stills.

You know you’ve hit it now. That buried nerve he’s been trying to cover with silence and sarcasm and distance.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he mutters.

“I think I do.”

You move closer, closing the space between you until the air shifts. He doesn’t back away. Doesn’t speak. Just watches as you stop in front of him, close enough to be heard without raising your voice.

“You like it,” you whisper. “Even if you wish you didn’t.”

He exhales hard through his nose, like he’s counting to ten.

“You keep this up,” he says, voice low and strained, “and you’re gonna find out exactly how grown you really are.”

And then he walks out of the kitchen.

Leaving you standing there, heart pounding, whole body burning with equal parts rage and want.

You clean up in a daze. Not that anyone notices. Your parents are too busy arguing about whether the grill should be cleaned now or in the morning, and Joel—well, Joel’s long gone.

Didn’t say goodbye. Just left.

You lie on your bed later, legs still smooth from your shower, body too warm under the sheets.

Your phone is dark. Group chat silent.

You’re alone with it now—this thing in your chest that’s turned into obsession. It’s not a crush anymore. It’s not innocent.

You want him to look at you like that again. Want to push until he snaps. Want to know what it feels like to ruin him.

He wants me. I know he does. He’s just being a coward about it.

You wonder what would happen if you just walked into his house. No excuses. No fake questions about drills or light bulbs or fence measurements. Just showed up in that stupid sundress and asked for what you wanted.

Would he push you away again?

Would he kiss you this time?

You stare at the ceiling and plot your next move.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

When you woke up you were already thinking about Joel.

Not in a cute, butterflies-and-daydreams kind of way—but in the desperate, need-to-do-something-about-it way. It’s like there’s a pressure building behind your ribs, all that unresolved tension simmering with nowhere to go.

You replay the kitchen. The look. The way his hand twitched by his side like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

You’d worn that dress for a reason. And he’d seen it. You know he had.

But he still wouldn’t touch you.

Still wouldn’t speak unless he had to.

Which means it’s up to you now.

You spend the whole morning plotting—half-thinking, half-fantasizing. Wondering what might happen if you caught him alone. If you pushed a little harder. If you gave him less room to pretend like he didn’t want it.

You’re still lost in your own head when your dad starts cursing under the sink.

You peek in to see him struggling with some stripped bolt, red-faced and muttering under his breath. Then he tosses the wrench on the floor and groans.

And that’s when he says it—without even looking up:

“Go ask Joel if he’s got a socket wrench that’ll fit this.”

The plan clicks into place before you even have time to second-guess it.

Phone in hand, you check your reflection in the hallway mirror. A quick glance is enough. No need to change. The top hugs just right, and your shorts are already flirting with the edge of decency. It’ll do.

Outside, the grass is warm underfoot as you step off the porch and start across the yard, like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

Like your heart isn’t pounding.

Like you didn’t rehearse six different versions of this exact scenario in your head last night.

Joel’s truck is in the driveway. Curtains open. Front door shut.

You knock.

No answer.

You knock again, a little harder this time, and step back just as the door creaks open.

He’s there. Barefoot. Coffee in hand. That same gray tee from yesterday hanging low over his hips. He smells like sawdust and lemon cleaner and him, and your mouth goes a little dry.

He leans against the frame, lazy and quiet.

“Need something?” he asks, voice scratchy like he hadn’t expected company.

You nod, keeping your voice light. “Socket wrench. Dad stripped the one under the sink.”

Joel breathes out through his nose, glancing off behind him. “Of course he did.”

He gives a small shake of his head, something between a sigh and a smirk, then pulls the door open a little wider.

"Come on in."

You step inside, doing your best to ignore the way his arm grazes yours. The entryway feels smaller than it should, the air a little warmer with both of you standing there. A quick glance around confirms what you already expected — everything is tidy, quiet, a little too put-together. You turn to face him, trying to keep your expression neutral.

He shuts the door and you follow him into the kitchen, floor cool under your bare feet. Joel moves ahead of you without a word, setting his mug down on the counter with a dull thunk. His hand brushes over a drawer handle, and for a second, that’s all he does—just stands there, back to you, knuckles tense.

He hasn’t looked at you.

Not once since you walked in.

You lean against the other side of the kitchen island, arms folded loosely under your chest, letting the silence stretch.

“So…” you say, like it’s nothing. Like your pulse isn't already skipping. “Busy day?”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. He opens the drawer and pulls out a wrench, holding it by the head like it might break in his hand.

“Yeah,” he mutters, still not looking. “Been runnin’ around all damn day.”

Another pause. He finally sets the wrench on the counter, slides it across the granite toward you—but doesn’t step back. Doesn’t give you space.

His eyes flick up. Land on yours.

And stay there.

“Here.”

You could just take it. Say thank you. Leave like a normal person. Instead, you step around the island. Close the gap.

You stop in front of him and tilt your head, fingers grazing the cool metal behind you—but not picking it up. Not yet.

“You always this quiet when you’ve got company?” you ask.

Joel’s jaw shifts. “Not when they’re invited.”

It should sting. Should be enough to make you back off. But the way he says it, low and steady like his patience is already wearing thin, only adds to the heat building deep in your stomach.

You move in closer, just a little.

He doesn’t step back, doesn’t shift, but his eyes track the movement. They drift downward for a beat before meeting yours again.

When you speak, your voice comes out quieter, softer than before.

“So uninvited guests don’t count?”

His breath ticks in his throat. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move.

So you keep going.

“‘Cause it kinda feels like you’re letting me stay.”

Joel doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t touch you. Just stands there, breathing slow, looking down at you like he’s doing the fucking math.

His voice is calm, almost careful, like he’s choosing every word.

“You really think this is a good idea?”

You blink up at him. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

You can feel it in the air between you — the tension, the effort it takes for him to stay still. It stretches tight, like his restraint has a weight all its own.

He doesn’t move.

So you do.

Your hand lifts, slow and careful, as if testing the moment. Your fingertips skim the edge of his shirt where it rests low on his stomach, soft cotton stretched over firm muscle.

His throat works with a swallow.

His hands stay at his sides, but his fingers shift slightly, curling once before going still again. He doesn’t stop you when you step in closer, when your other hand rises to settle gently against his chest.

Your voice is barely a whisper.

“So what now?”

His jaw ticks. “You should take the wrench.”

You lean up—closer.

“But I don’t want the wrench.”

Joel’s breath stutters. His hands twitch again, and for a second—just a second—it feels like the tension might snap. Like he might finally grab you, slam you back against the counter and say all the things he’s been trying not to.

But he doesn’t.

He leans down instead until his mouth is by your ear.

“You have no idea what you’re getting into," he says, voice rough and sharp.

Your breath catches. Then you smile.

“Sure I do.”

His eyes drop to your mouth, then return to yours. For a long moment, he just watches you.

No warning. No retreat.

Something in his expression shifts. He’s not looking at you like a kid anymore. There’s hesitation, maybe even guilt, but underneath it is something else. Want. Recognition. Trouble he knows better than to touch.

And still, he stays frozen, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next.

So you close the distance until you’re close enough to feel the heat coming off him.

You step into his space, hand trailing lightly up his arm. His skin is warm and rough under your fingertips—sun-worn and calloused, like it’s never been soft. You feel him stiffen. Not pulling away. Just holding still. Waiting.

“Thought you said this was a bad idea,” you murmur.

“I did.”

He says it like it still is.

And then he grabs your face.

Not gentle—possessive. Like he’s finally giving in, like he’s pissed it took him this long. His palm cups your cheek, thumb along your jaw, and before you can speak—

He kisses you.

It’s not sweet. It’s not slow. It’s the kind of kiss that says he’s tired of pretending. Heated, chaotic, and full of everything he wouldn’t say out loud.

Like he’s punishing himself with it.

Your lips part on instinct, and his tongue slides past, rough and claiming. His other hand clamps around your waist, yanking you in until there’s nothing left between you but heat.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely pulling back. His breath hits your mouth. “You don’t make shit easy, you know that?”

You blink up at him, dazed.

His hand’s still at your jaw. Still holding you there.

“I’ve been trying to be good,” he grits out. “Tryin’ to ignore the way you look at me, the way you walk around like—”

He cuts himself off with a breath. Shakes his head like he’s disgusted—with himself, with you, with all of it.

But he doesn’t stop touching you.

Doesn’t step back.

His hand slides down your side, rough palm dragging over the curve of your waist. You feel it like a brand. Like confirmation.

“You want this?” he asks—low, serious now.

You nod.

“Say it.”

“I want you.”

It’s the softest thing you’ve said all day. And somehow it makes everything snap.

Joel’s grip tightens. Not enough to hurt, but enough to say you’ve crossed a line.

"Just this once," he mutters, breath hot against your cheek, "so you finally shut the fuck up."

You barely have time to react before he’s got you turned around, chest hitting the nearest wall. His hand slides down your back, flat and heavy, pressing you into the drywall like he owns you. You gasp, heat blooming across your skin. This is what you wanted. What you teased him for.

“You think you can talk all that shit and not get put in your place?” he growls, mouth at your ear.

You open your mouth, but no sound comes out. Your cheek scrapes the wall.

“That’s what I thought,” he says. His knee nudges between your thighs, forcing your stance wider.

You whimper. It’s the only sound you can manage.

He drags one hand up the back of your thigh, slow and deliberate. The fabric of your shorts rides up, and he palms your ass—squeezing hard enough to make your knees buckle.

"This what you needed? Someone to handle you?"

He laughs when your breath stutters.

"Say it. You wanted this."

You nod. Frantic.

"Nah," he says, voice cold. "Use that smart little mouth of yours."

You swallow. Try again. "I wanted it. I want you."

"Yeah?"

He grabs a fistful of your hair and tugs your head back just enough so you can hear him clearer.

"Then take what you asked for."

He presses his hips into yours—just enough friction to make you cry out.

And still he waits, drawing it out with maddening patience. He watches you shift under the weight of it, says nothing, does nothing, just stands there and lets you unravel. Every second that passes feels deliberate, like he’s letting you beg without ever needing to hear the words.

You grind back against him without thinking, desperate for any kind of relief, but Joel doesn’t move. Doesn’t let up. His grip stays iron-tight in your hair, his hips a wall of heat behind you—there, but just out of reach.

“So fuckin’ needy,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Didn’t even touch you yet.”

Your thighs tremble. You nod again, breath catching in your throat, but it’s not enough.

“Say it,” he says, voice like gravel. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to touch me.”

“Where?”

You hesitate for half a second and he yanks your hair a little harder.

“Everywhere,” you gasp. “Please, Joel—”

His name breaks something in him. You hear it in the way his breath hitches, in the way his palm slides down your stomach and under the waistband of your shorts like he owns the space.

“You beg real pretty,” he murmurs. “Bet you come even prettier.”

You whimper when his fingers find you—already soaked, already shaking—and he groans low in his throat.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “All this for me?”

You nod helplessly, chest heaving.

He pulls his hand away and you almost cry.

But he spins you around instead—rough but careful, like you’re something he’s still deciding whether to ruin or revere—and lifts you onto the nearby counter. His hand wraps around your throat as he leans in close, eyes locked on yours.

“Open your mouth,” he says.

You do.

And he spits. Slow. Dirty. Right on your tongue.

Your breath stutters. Your whole body flinches—but you don’t close your mouth. You swallow. You hold his stare.

“So you do know how to behave after all,” he mutters. 

His praise is dark and low and mean. A reward and a warning all at once.

Then his hands find you again, tugging your shorts down and guiding your legs apart with quiet purpose. He moves between them without hesitation, like he belongs there, like he never even questioned it.

One hand trails down the back of your thigh, steady and warm. His touch lingers, slow and certain, like he’s learning every inch by feel alone, like there’s no need to rush a single thing.

But he doesn’t do anything else. Just breathes against you. Lets the weight of his body settle over yours until you're trembling.

“You were so mouthy all week,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers up the inside of your thigh, maddeningly close. “All that talk. All that fuckin’ attitude. Where’d it go, huh?”

You grind back against him—desperate, shameless—but his hand comes down hard across your ass.

“Don’t start.”

You flinch. Moan. His palm stays there, heavy and unmoved.

“I’ll give you what you want,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “but you’re gonna earn it.”

Then he moves—slides his hand between your legs, just barely grazing you through your panties. His fingers stroke softly, deliberately avoiding pressure. You gasp, frustrated.

“You like teasing me” he growls. “That it? You like walkin’ around like that? Smiling like you don’t know what you’re doing?”

You can’t answer. Not when he’s doing that. Not when your whole body’s pulsing.

He laughs.

“You’re not so tough now, are you?”

Then he pulls his hand back entirely. Steps away like he’s done.

Just to make you whimper.

He steps back just enough to let you turn, air sharp in your lungs. His hand finds your hair again—fingers tight at the roots, pulling until your scalp tingles and your knees hit the floor.

It’s cold against your skin. You blink up at him, lips parted, heart hammering like it’s trying to break through your chest.

"Go on," he says, thumb dragging across your cheek. “You wanted to act grown, didn’t you? Let’s see what that mouth is really good for.”

You reach for his belt with trembling hands. You’re soaked already, thighs pressed together as you undo the buckle, slowly—dragging it out because you want to. Because he’s watching you, jaw tight and arms crossed like he doesn’t care. But he does. You can see it. The tension in his knuckles. The way his hips twitch forward when your fingers brush his zipper.

“You sure about this?” he asks, low and almost too calm. There’s something dangerous in it. Not hesitation—warning.

You nod. Whisper, “Please.”

Joel exhales sharply through his nose. “You don’t get to beg yet.”

His hand returns to your jaw, grip firmer this time, his fingers pressing in just enough to make your breath hitch. His zipper is already undone, and the shape of him is impossible to miss. Thick, heavy, straining against the fabric like he’s been holding back for too long.

“You want it?” he asks.

You try to answer, but he taps your cheek—mocking.

"Use your words."

“Yes,” you whisper. “I want it.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Bet you do.”

He pulls himself free, thick and flushed, already slick at the tip. The weight of him settles against your lips, warm and heavy, but he doesn’t push forward. Not yet. He just holds there, waiting, letting you feel it, letting the moment stretch.

You freeze.

Not out of fear, not even nerves—just the sheer weight of it, heavy against your mouth, the heat of him pulsing with every breath. Your lips part automatically, but he still doesn’t push. Just lets it sit there. Daring you.

It’s bigger than you expected.

You’ve imagined this. More times than you’ll ever admit, in the quiet, in the dark, when no one could see how badly you wanted it. But now that it’s real—right here in front of you, thick and slick and so fucking pretty—your brain stalls.

Your mouth waters before you can stop it. Saliva slips past your bottom lip, and the heat that floods your cheeks has nothing to do with embarrassment. It’s need, sharp and overwhelming, and you hate how badly you want to taste him.

“Open up,” he says, voice rough. “Nice and wide.”

You part your lips, but it’s not fast enough. Not wide enough. He tuts.

“Didn’t say half-ass it,” he growls. “Open.”

You stretch your jaw. Embarrassingly fast. You want to make him proud. Want him to see what you’ll do for him.

And then—he presses in.

Slow. Heavy.

The stretch burns. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make your throat tighten around him. Your jaw aches almost instantly. You blink hard, focus narrowing, breath steady through your nose as you fight to stay in control.

Joel groans low in his chest. His voice is rough, heavy with approval.

"That’s it. Fuckin’ knew this mouth was good for something."

Your hands grip the denim at his hips, fingers curling tight, nails pressing in. He pushes deeper, slow and deliberate, just far enough to make your eyes sting.

And still, he holds back. Watching you. Letting you struggle with the weight of him, your tongue flattened and lips stretched obscenely wide.

You gag around him, just barely, throat tightening as your eyes blur.

Joel watches you choke a little and smirks. Not cruel, but proud. Amused. Like this is exactly what he expected.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek even as he rocks a little deeper. “All that talk… and now you’re quiet as can be.”

You whine low in your throat. Can’t help it. He’s thick and hot on your tongue, the weight of him dizzying, like it’s short-circuiting your brain. Every time he presses in, your thighs squeeze together—aching, dripping.

“Didn’t expect you to take it this well,” he mutters. “Might’ve started this sooner if I knew you’d behave.” 

You moan. Or try to. It comes out garbled, desperate. Your jaw’s already sore and he’s not even all the way in yet.

His hand fists in your hair, tugging you off with a wet pop.

You gasp. Drool clings to your lip.

“Breathe,” Joel says. “Don’t want this to end just yet.”

You blink up at him, glazed, ruined, eager. He sees all of it and he grins.

Then he shoves back in, slower this time, groaning as your lips stretch tight around him again.

“Fuck, that’s better,” he pants. “Yeah. Just like that. Fuckin’—look at you.”

You do. Eyes glassy, chest heaving, spit dripping down your chin.

He grabs your face with one hand, holding you in place as he thrusts into your mouth. The rhythm is slow, controlled, each stroke dragging across your tongue before slipping back in, the tip catching on your lip just to make you feel it.

"You gonna come like this?" he growls. "Just from having your mouth full?"

You whimper, unable to answer. Your thighs are soaked, your core pulsing with every shallow grind against nothing. The friction from your shorts only makes it worse. You’re clenching around empty air, nerves lit up from the inside out, every part of you buzzing.

Joel chuckles, low and mean. “Course you would. Filthy fuckin’ girl.”

He pulls back one last time, leaving your lips parted and your breath caught somewhere in your throat. Your jaw throbs. Your chest feels tight, like you’ve been holding everything in for too long.

And then—

“Stand up,” he says. His voice is low. Final. “Take those fuckin’ shorts off.”

Your breath catches.

For a second, everything inside you short-circuits, like your brain’s still struggling to process what’s happening. Your throat’s raw. Jaw aching. Knees pressed into the floor, burning slightly from the pressure. You can still feel the echo of his grip in your hair, the stretch of your mouth, the way he didn’t let you come.

You should be spent. Used. Done.

But you’re not.

You blink, chest heaving. And somewhere in the mess of arousal and adrenaline, something steadies. A strange kind of clarity. Not logical—this isn’t that. It’s instinctive. Deep. Like your body recognizing what this moment could be.

He's standing above you now, waiting. Watching. His breathing’s heavier than before, chest rising under the thin cotton of his shirt. And he hasn’t touched you since.

You’re still on your knees, but your eyes flick up to his face. You hold his gaze, just long enough to test the air between you. Your thighs squeeze together, heartbeat climbing. You feel wild. Wired. Like you’re dancing the edge of a cliff with no idea what happens if you fall.

And then, slowly, you shift your weight to your heels and stand.

You want to see what happens if you play with fire a little more.

So you take a step back. Not away from him—just enough to put space between your bodies, just enough to give yourself room to perform.

He doesn’t move.

His arms hang loosely at his sides, but the tension in his body is impossible to miss. It sits just beneath the surface, tight and coiled, like a wire ready to snap. His jaw shifts. His eyes drop to your chest, then return to your face. Still watching. Still holding back.

You let your fingertips skim the hem of your shirt.

Just a light touch. Barely there. The fabric gathers slowly beneath your palms as you start to lift, inch by inch, revealing skin that tingles under the weight of his stare. Your stomach. The curve of your ribs. The soft lower edge of your bra.

He doesn’t say a word.

Doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t help you.

So you keep going.

You raise your arms, twist at the wrists, and tug the shirt over your head in one smooth motion. It falls behind you, forgotten on the floor. You’re bare from the waist up now, save for the thin lace of your bra. It’s nothing. It’s everything.

The air touches your skin. So does his stare.

It makes you bolder.

You reach behind your back, unclasping slowly, making sure he sees every movement. One strap slips from your shoulder. Then the other. When the lace falls to the floor, you don’t cover yourself. You stay exactly where you are, letting him take it all in.

You want him to ache for it.

You want him to lose control.

But when he still doesn’t move, doesn’t respond the way you thought he would, something tightens in your chest. You shift slightly, the silence starting to press in, your heart knocking unevenly in your ribs.

That’s when you catch it.

The slight curl of his fingers. The sharp set of his jaw.

Your lips part. You exhale, head swimming from the power. From the anticipation.

You curl your thumbs in the waistband of your shorts.

“You said take them off,” you murmur, almost taunting now. “Didn’t say I had to rush.”

You slide them down slowly, letting the fabric skim your thighs, your knees, your ankles. You step out of them with care. Stand up fully—completely bare. Hot. Slick. Waiting.

Joel doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.

The look on his face says enough.

It says: You just made the biggest mistake of your life.

It says: You’re not in control anymore.

Then—he moves.

Two steps forward, and you’re backing up instinctively, spine hitting the wall. He follows, slow and deliberate, like he’s reeling you in just to show you how easy it is.

“Thought you were real cute,” he says, voice low. “Givin’ me a little show like that.”

His hand comes up, thumb brushing the bottom of your lip—not gentle. Not sweet. Just a warning.

“You wanna play, baby? That it?”

You swallow hard, breath catching when his other hand drops to your hip. Gripping. Anchoring.

“You think that little smirk makes you untouchable?” he mutters. “Think battin’ your lashes is gonna make me soft?”

He leans in—just enough for his mouth to skim your cheek.

“When,” he snarls, “are you gonna learn your fuckin’ lesson?”

His face is right in yours now, breath hot, chest rising hard. One hand pins your wrists above your head. The other drags down the front of your body, unforgiving, firm—claiming.

“You think this is a game? That you can look at me like that, put on a little show, and win?”

You’re gasping now, hips squirming, thighs rubbing together for friction. But he’s not giving you any.

“You want control?” he growls, voice gravel against your ear. “Then take it.”

He steps back, only slightly. Just enough to release your wrists. Just enough to test you, to see if you’ll move.

You don’t.

You couldn’t, even if you wanted to.

"Yeah," he mutters, voice low as he watches you breathe through it, eyes dark and steady. "That’s what I thought."

His fingers close around your wrists again. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make a point. To remind you who’s in control.

You’re caged between his arms, back flush to the wall, body thrumming with tension. He’s so close you can feel every breath he takes, the heat of him pouring into your skin like gasoline on an open flame.

He lets go of your wrists, just for a second—but your hands don’t move. Can’t move.

Because you're frozen. Dripping. Buzzing with the sharp edge of humiliation and thrill.

“Coulda been different,” Joel says. His hand drags slowly down your arm, over your waist, thumb brushing under the curve of your breast. “Could’ve had you nice. Sweet. Could’ve made you feel real good.”

He dips his head, nose brushing your neck. You shiver.

“But that’s not what you wanted, is it?”

He bites—not hard, but sharp enough to make you gasp. Your hips buck forward, instinctive, useless. His thigh presses between yours, pinning you down, and your breath stutters.

“You had to push.” His voice is darker now, all grit and fire. “Had to act like a fuckin’ brat.”

He presses into you with a single slow grind, firm and deliberate, and it’s enough to make your knees go weak. Your breath catches, balance slipping for a second as heat rushes through you.

Joel catches you by the jaw. Tilts your face to his.

“You knew exactly what you were doing,” he growls.

His voice is low. Controlled. Dangerous.

And before you can answer, before you can even breathe, Joel’s grabbing you by the waist and lifting you like you weigh nothing.

You yelp, legs wrapping instinctively around his middle. He doesn’t say a word as he hauls you through the hallway, one hand locked under your ass, the other braced against your spine, holding you so tight you can feel his heartbeat hammering through his chest.

“Put on a show?” he mutters, jaw flexing as he kicks a door open. “Let’s see how you like being the one watchin’.”

Your back hits the wall just inside the room—his bedroom. You recognize the mirror before anything else. Tall. Wide. Angled slightly toward the bed.

He doesn’t let you down. Just drags his mouth along your jaw, breath hot and ragged, before finally tossing you onto the mattress.

You bounce once. Gasp. And then—freeze.

Because he’s turning the mirror. Adjusting it. Lining it up perfectly.

“You wanted my attention,” Joel says, voice hard. “You’ve got all of it now.”

Then he’s on you again. Gripping your ankles. Dragging you to the edge of the bed.

“Eyes on yourself, baby,” he growls, climbing up after you. “Watch what you fuckin’ asked for.”

You try to blink, to breathe, but your eyes are glued to the mirror. To the image of yourself spread wide across Joel’s sheets, hair messy, chest rising in quick, shallow gasps. Your thighs tremble as he settles between them—broad shoulders parting you with ease, hands rough on your skin.

“Pretty thing,” he murmurs, dragging his palm up your inner thigh. “All that and now you’re quiet again.”

He watches your face as his fingers slide through your folds—slow, deliberate, soaking in how slick you already are for him.

“Told me you wanted it,” he says, not bothering to look down. “So show me.”

You moan when he sinks two fingers inside without warning, curling them deep. Your hips lift off the bed, but his free hand presses to your stomach, pinning you still.

“Uh-uh,” he warns. “You stay right there.”

You nod, breathless, whimpering when his thumb finds your clit and starts to circle.

“That’s it,” he mutters, watching the mirror. “Look at yourself. Watch me ruin you.”

You want to close your eyes, to give into the feeling—but you can’t. Not when he’s making you watch like this. Not when he’s so fucking good at this.

You whimper under his grip, trembling, thighs slick and clenched. Your body’s aching for release, every nerve ending on fire. But Joel? He’s calm. Cruel, even.

“You think you deserve to come?” he mutters, voice thick with amusement. “After all that?”

Your hips twitch, chasing any friction you can get.

A slow, dangerous grin spreads across his face. “Then you gotta earn it.”

You blink up at him, breath caught. “What?”

Joel leans in, mouth barely brushing the inside of your thigh. “You heard me,” he says, warm breath ghosting over your skin. “You don’t get to act like that and expect me to just hand it over.”

You’re squirming now. Desperate. Embarrassingly wet.

“Say it,” he says. “You gotta beg for it.”

Your jaw tightens. You try to hold back at first. But then he leans in and presses a single kiss against your skin, hot and open-mouthed, landing too low to satisfy and too perfect to ignore.

And you break.

“…Please,” you whisper.

“That ain’t beggin’, baby. That’s whining.” He palms your thighs, pushing them apart until you’re spread wide for him. “Try again.”

You whimper, cheeks burning with humiliation, but it doesn’t stop you. You can’t think about anything else. Not the way you're trembling. Not how desperate you sound. Just his mouth, his hands, and the unbearable promise of relief that’s almost close enough to touch.

“Please, Joel. Please eat me out. I need it—I need your mouth, I’ll do anything—”

“Anything?” he smirks, leaning in, lips brushing your inner thigh. “You don’t even know what that means.”

But he doesn’t make you wait any longer.

He licks you slowly at first, long, flat strokes that make your back arch. Then he seals his mouth around your clit, tongue flicking just enough to tease.

A moan slips out, loud and broken, as your hand flies to his hair. But he growls and knocks it away, firm and unbothered, like he’s not finished with you yet.

“Don’t fucking touch,” he mutters. “You come when I say you can.”

And then he dives in.

It’s overwhelming. Wet, hot, messy in a way that makes your toes curl. His tongue moves with purpose, fucking into you like he’s starving for it, like he needs to prove something. Two fingers press in deep, curling just right, grinding against that spot that makes your legs shake. His mouth stays locked on your clit, sucking hard enough to make your vision blur.

Your entire body tenses. The release builds fast, tight, pulsing at the edge—but it won’t break. He’s holding you there. Keeping you on the brink. Doing it on purpose.

“Joel—please—” you sob. “I’m trying—I can’t—please—”

He doesn’t let up. Doesn’t soften.

“You can,” he mutters, voice thick against you. “You want it? Say you fuckin’ deserve it.”

Your thighs are shaking. Everything’s clenching. You’re unraveling.

“I deserve it,” you choke out. “I—I need it, please, I need to come—please—”

Joel groans low against your cunt. You feel it ripple through you—rough, pleased, dark.

“Yeah,” he mutters, breath hot. “That’s more like it.”

And then—he gives it to you.

His mouth locks onto your clit, tongue working fast, merciless. His fingers grind into you deep, relentless, curling like they know exactly where to break you.

The pressure climbs quickly, sharp and all-consuming, until it makes your head spin. Every sound fills your ears—the slick pull of his tongue, the ragged edge of his breathing, the low hum of focus in his throat. It’s all too much, and somehow still not enough.

“You wanna come?” he growls. “Then fuckin’ take it.”

You do. It hits hard.

The orgasm tears through you, sharp and blinding, your body jerking with the force of it. Your thighs clamp around his head, your spine arches, and you swear you scream his name, though it barely sounds like a word. He holds you there, tongue unrelenting, working you through every wave without giving you a second to breathe.

When you finally go still, wrecked and soaking, Joel pulls back. His lips are wet. His eyes are heavy.

He doesn’t try to soothe you. He doesn’t speak softly or let you come down gently.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and says, calm and clear, “Get on your hands and knees.”

The words barely register. Your mind is still ringing. Your legs are shaking. But then his hand lands on your hip, not rough, not gentle, just firm. And he flips you over like it’s nothing. Like he already knows you’ll do exactly what he says.

“Hands and knees,” he repeats. “Face the mirror.”

You obey. You can’t do anything else. You crawl forward, dragging yourself up until you’re kneeling on all fours, arms braced against the headboard, your reflection staring back at you—flushed, glassy-eyed, lips parted.

Joel settles behind you, his presence a sudden rush of heat against your back. You feel him next. The thick weight of his cock drags through your folds, slow and deliberate, teasing your entrance with every pass.

He doesn’t push in right away. Just grinds against your slit, slow and heavy, like he has all the time in the world.

“You feel that?” he mutters, dragging the tip over your clit. “That’s what you wanted, huh?”

You nod frantically, pushing back against him—but he grips your hips, holding you still.

“Nuh-uh,” he says. “You don’t get to rush now. You’re gonna feel every fuckin’ inch.”

Then comes the pressure.

Just the tip, nudging at your entrance, pressing in with slow, careful force. It isn’t enough. Not yet. The stretch teases, shallow and incomplete, leaving your body straining for more.

“Say it,” he grunts. “You gotta tell me how much you need it”

You swallow hard, eyes locked on the mirror. You see it—the way your mouth falls open, the tremble in your arms, the raw anticipation in your stare.

“Please,” you whisper. “Please, Joel. I need it—I need you inside me. I can’t—fuck—I need it.”

He pushes in slowly, stretching you already. He doesn’t move. Just stays there, buried shallow, like he wants you to feel how big he is — how much more he’s holding back.

You gasp, hands scrabbling at the headboard. He’s hot, thick, already stretching you wide.

“That all you got?” he mutters, leaning forward. His chest brushes your back, breath hot against your neck. “You’re gonna beg for every inch, and I’m gonna take my time giving it to you.”

“Please,” you whimper. “More—please, fuck, I want all of it—”

Another inch.

Your jaw drops.

He groans low, voice right in your ear. “Tight fuckin’ pussy. So desperate to be full.”

He drags it out, inch by inch, shallow thrusts that barely go deeper, just enough to make you crazy. You’re panting. Shaking. Dripping.

“You wanted to play games?” he growls. “This what you wanted? To make me lose my fuckin’ mind?”

And then—finally—he bottoms out. Deep and brutal, burying himself all the way. You cry out, the stretch overwhelming.

“Fuck—so deep—” you choke out.

“That’s right,” Joel grits. “Take it.”

Your eyes flutter closed from the sensation, but the second they do, he stops moving.

“Eyes. On. The mirror.”

You blink fast, heart hammering, and force yourself to look up again. To see your own wrecked face. The flushed skin, the fucked-out mouth, the way your body’s split open around him.

Joel pulls out slowly, nearly all the way, and slams back in.

You scream.

“That’s it,” he growls. “You look at what you fuckin’ did. Every time you glance away—I stop.”

He pulls out again, painfully slow, letting you feel the absence, the ache. You keep your eyes locked on the mirror like your life depends on it.

“Good,” he mutters, dragging the head of his cock over your soaked entrance, teasing.

Then he starts to move.

Not fast. Not punishing. Just deep—grinding in inch by inch, each thrust deliberate, each stroke angled to make your body sing. The pressure builds again, slow and relentless, curling up your spine like heat from a flame.

Your arms shake from the effort of holding yourself up. Your knees slip against the sheets. Still, you can’t look away. The mirror keeps you locked in place, your eyes fixed on the way his hips move against yours, on the way your body takes him in so easily. Open. Desperate. Soaked.

He leans in, chest heavy against your back, voice rough in your ear.

“Feels different when you have to watch, huh?”

You whimper.

“Look at how wet you are,” he snarls. “Messy fuckin’ girl. This what you wanted? To get split open like this?”

You nod frantically, moaning as his pace finally picks up—each thrust harder, meaner.

Your thighs shake.

Your moans get louder.

“Gonna come again?” he pants, biting down just behind your ear. “You better ask real nice this time.”

You don’t trust your voice.

You can barely form a thought, let alone a sentence, through the haze crawling up your spine. Your whole body feels wired and wild, trembling under the weight of him. Every inch of him stretches you to the brink, every thrust a shock to your system.

It’s not just the way he moves inside you that undoes you. It’s the way he makes you look at it. Makes you see every inch of it.

The mirror catches every detail. Skin glowing with sweat, mouth slack, pupils blown wide. Your body moves without thought, lost to rhythm and heat, and the expression on your face makes it impossible to pretend this is anything but need.

You should feel shame. Maybe you do.

But God, it’s hot.

Your eyes lift to his in the mirror, drawn to the way he watches you. Dark, steady, completely focused. His hand stays firm on your hip, possessive and unmoving, like he knows exactly what’s his. Maybe he does.

You can’t keep it in any longer.

"I… I wanna come," you whisper, voice catching. "Please, Joel. I need it."

He doesn’t answer right away. Just grits out, "Yeah? Then tell me why."

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to breathe, trying to think.

And then he stops. Still buried deep, but motionless. Holding you there. Waiting.

“No,” you gasp. “No, no, I’m sorry—” Your eyes snap open. Lock on the mirror. “I’m watching—I’m watching, I swear—”

He waits. Still inside you. Still in control.

And you realize this is what he wants. Not just your body, but your surrender. The whole of you.

So you give it.

“Please let me come,” you whisper, voice wrecked. “Because I’m yours. Because no one else—no one else can do this to me. I want you, I need you—I need you to let me come.”

Joel’s hand comes up to your throat. Not squeezing, just resting there, heavy and sure. His mouth curves at the corner, equal parts approval and warning.

"That’s more like it."

He draws back slightly, just enough to drive forward again with force that knocks the breath from your lungs. His rhythm shifts—harder, faster, relentless. The bed groans beneath you. Your vision starts to blur. And in the mirror, your reflection begins to break apart, piece by piece.

"You don’t come until I say so," he growls, breath ragged. "And when you do, you remember who gave it to you."

You're close. Too close.

Your body’s screaming. Your brain’s melting.

Your vision goes white.

It doesn’t build slowly. There’s nothing gentle about it. Release crashes through you all at once, explosive and overwhelming, like something tearing loose deep in your core. Your body goes rigid, then shakes, then gives out completely.

The sound that leaves your mouth is raw and unfiltered. Loud. Desperate. Barely even a word. It’s too much and somehow not enough, and the pleasure is so sharp it robs you of breath.

Joel doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it, one hand on your hip, the other still braced around your throat, keeping you exactly where he wants you as your orgasm tears through you. Your mouth drops open. Your nails dig into the headboard just to keep from floating away.

He watches the whole thing in the mirror.

“Look at you,” he growls, breath ragged. “So fuckin’ pretty when you come for me.”

You collapse forward, gasping, arms trembling from the effort of holding yourself up. Every nerve in your body is still sparking. Still twitching.

But Joel’s not done.

He slides out, and the emptiness hits you hard. A sob catches in your throat, raw and involuntary. Your body clenches around nothing, still aching, still desperate for more.

His voice cuts through the haze.

"Turn around," he says, low and steady. "I’m not finished with you."

You don’t hesitate.

You don’t resist when he flips you onto your back. His grip is firm, unyielding, moving you like you weigh nothing at all. The sheets burn against your skin, and your chest rises too quickly, breath catching in your throat.

Joel moves between your legs, eyes locked on you with something wild and hungry in his expression. He wraps a hand around his cock, still slick and swollen, stroking once, twice before lining himself up again.

“You gonna stay with me this time?” he mutters. “Or you gonna fall apart again?”

You don’t even have time to answer.

Because then he’s inside again. Deep. All at once.

And this time, it’s for him.

He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t speak. Just drives into you with a force that borders on desperate, like he’s trying to bury something deeper than just his cock.

You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Your body’s a live wire, strung tight and sparking with every thrust. He’s not just fucking you—he’s claiming you. Dragging every sound, every tremble, every filthy reaction out of you like it’s his right.

“You feel that?” he mutters, voice rough in your ear. “That’s me. Inside you. Where I belong.”

Your breath hitches. That heat coils low in your stomach again, impossible and reckless.

“I could stay here,” he rasps. “Just like this. Fill you up every fuckin’ night until you’re ruined for anyone else.”

You whimper. He grabs your hips tighter, pace brutal.

“Bet you’d let me, too.”

His words unravel you. Not because they’re dirty—but because they don’t sound like dirty talk. They sound like promises. Like threats. Like he’s not going to let you go.

And you don’t know what that does to you—only that your whole body clenches around him in response.

Joel groans—louder this time, wrecked—and his rhythm starts to falter. Rougher. Needier. He’s right there.

“Say you want it,” he grits. “Say you want me to come inside.”

You choke on a breath. “I want it—I want you—”

His hands tighten like a vice. One hooks around your waist, the other tangles in your hair, pulling your head back as he fucks up into you, savage and possessive.

“You’re gonna take it,” he growls. “Gonna let me fill you up.”

And then—he breaks.

He slams in one final time, cock pulsing, spilling hot inside you with a sound that’s more like a growl than a moan. His body shakes, muscles locked, sweat dripping down his back.

You collapse forward, boneless and dazed.

Joel stays there, chest to your back, his breath heavy and uneven.

But it doesn’t feel finished.

Because after a long moment, he leans in, mouth against your ear, and says—

“You’ll think about this tomorrow. In the shower. In your bed. Every time you try to forget.”

He pauses. Breathes deep.

“And it still won’t be enough.”

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

You’re on your side now, face buried in the pillow, skin flushed and damp. Your body twitches with the last of it, nerves raw and oversensitive.

Joel hasn’t moved much. Just enough to slip out slowly, deliberately, like he wants you to feel it later. Like that’s part of the point.

You half expect him to say something. A joke. A warning. Maybe even a sneer.

But he stays quiet.

Instead, he reaches for the blanket and pulls it up over your spine. Not careful, not soft. Just efficient. Like it’s a reflex. Like leaving you uncovered would be too dangerous.

The bed shifts beside you.

His hand lands on the back of your thigh, heavy and warm, his thumb dragging once across your skin. It’s not intentional. Not careful. But it catches in your throat anyway.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough with gravel and breath.

You nod against the pillow. Your mouth’s too dry to answer out loud.

He makes a small sound, barely more than a breath, and leans back. For a moment, you think he’s going to leave.

But the mattress moves again. He lies down beside you, shoulder brushing yours, one arm tucked behind his head.

He doesn’t hold you. Doesn’t reach for more.

He just stays.

You keep your eyes closed. Your pulse is still loud in your ears. You don’t know what this is, or what comes next.

But for now, it’s enough.

[booart5]

Reblogging this drawing with the Timelapse because I finally figured out how to add those and I think it’s cool

Took me about 60 hours which is CRAZY,, I call this one The Quark Family when I’m talking about it (which seems apt) and I’ve literally crammed so many references and details and hours into this my life feels so empty without it. Tumblr is butchering the image quality but that’s just what it is ig,,, I’ve tried and I can’t seem to fix it

Progress shots and closeups under the cut (and a full list of the references and stuff I crammed in in the tags bc I have to know that they’re all noticed)

[veryberrybad]

happy pride month!

[purerae]

— DUPLEXITY;;

fem!reader x coworker!yanderes

— who knew attempting to bond with your co workers would lead to a fucked up love triangle?

prologue; quit your job! If dying was an option right now, Y/N would take it with a gleeful smile.

Sprinting through the woods, her ears ringing, she slams her grimy, broken hand against her head over and over. Her knees, bruised to a swollen pulp of purple, threaten to buckle beneath her. A deep, unprotected gash dressed painfully across her back, its edges rotting, every movement tearing at the poorly dressed wound.

Ignoring the piercing whine in her ears, her heart froze at the sound of shuffling drawing closer. Her legs wobbled, threatening to give out, but the surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins kept her moving forward. An ear striking screech bursts from the girl’s throat, desperate to catch the attention of any passing drivers or hikers.

How could she be so foolish? It’s four in the morning, and she’s in the middle of nowhere, with two freaks relentlessly chasing her.

Her scream was a terrible mistake. It brought her no closer to freedom instead only closer to her pursuers. Their shouts echo behind her, filled with words she can’t—and doesn’t want to comprehend.

Pleas, threats, and bursts of anger escape from their mouths but the only thing that Y/N had her mind on was getting her brother and leaving this shithole. Y/N ran and ran, but to her dismay and an almost comical cruel sense of bad luck , Her vision was slammed with a wall ruined with graffiti that was now taunting her from her inescapable future. Her breathing slows as she stumbled back, desperately praying for anything that could save her. Surely they weren't close, she put in all this effort, they cannot be close! With trembling caution, she moved backward, her steps deliberate and silent. She avoided every brittle branch and insect littering the forest floor, straining to make as little noise as possible. Her back pressed into something soft yet unyielding, carrying the earthy scent of firewood mixed with the sharp tang of blood that she’ll always loathe.  Y/N’s breath hitched, frozen in her chest as the sound of heavy breathing enveloped her ears from just behind.

‘Fuck.'

“You can’t run from us. It’s two against one, cutie.”

Even with her back turned, she could picture his smug, shit-eating smirk. A chill ran down her spine as his arms snaked around her waist, pulling her closer, trapping her. God, she wished she had a bat so she could beat him till he was a lifeless piece of flesh that she could point and laugh at. Too bad that would never be possible, even if she had a weapon to begin with. Deep down, Y/N knew there was no escaping this. But with every ounce of strength her battered body could summon, she let out the loudest scream she could muster; a semblance of hope in her body that somebody could save her. It tore through the cold night air before everything turned black. The last thing she heard was another man's footsteps approaching them, and two voices she made an oath to never hear, conversing. All she wanted was a fucking pay raise.

-

-

- Y/N buttoned her blouse with a giddy smile, rushing around her room in search of the shoes she’d bought just for this day. "I can't believe I got the job! I'm so excited, this still feels so surreal."  she exclaimed, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm as she grabbed her phone, waiting for her friend’s response. "Girl, I'm happy for you!” her friend shouted over the line, her voice barely cutting through the loud music and chatter in the background. “Just work hard, and you’ll be promoted to detective in no time! My little Sherlock Holmes~” Y/N scoffs out a laugh before she shakes her head at the chaos on the other end. Normally, she’d lecture her friend about hosting a party at seven in the morning, but today, she was too nervous and way too excited about her first day to care. "Ahaha, Yeah  I don't know about that... I'm still in shock that I got the job to be the assistant, let alone be the main thing. I just hope the person in charge of me is nice." The E/C-eyed girl replied looking at the ceiling , nervously biting her nails whilst walking back and forth in her room.

"Don't stress about it! I'm sure they'll be nice, babes. And you should ju-" Y/N’s friend was abruptly cut off by a guy shouting in the background, his voice carrying over the music: “Ayra! Get back to the party already!” "Hold on a sec Noel! Im talking to Y/N" she yells back with an obvious scowl on her face… Well, Y/N was almost positive that she displayed one based on the tone of her voice. "It's fine! You go do your shit, I gotta’ finish getting ready." "Okay Okay, message me after your shift ends. I wanna know everything~!" The bubbly girl says as she mimics a kiss sound. Despite Ayra not being able to see Y/N, she smiles with a soft gaze at the phone before hanging up. Staring into the mirror, she carefully assessed her outfit. A sleek black blouse layered over a white undershirt paired perfectly with a matching black pencil skirt. Light makeup enhanced her features, and her neatly styled hair framed her face just right. She smoothed her clothes with her hands, beaming widely as she twirled in front of the mirror. Y/N gathered all her essentials, carefully packing them into her bag before stepping out of her apartment. She locked the door with a quick twist of the key, then paused to double-check it twice…just to be sure; it was a habit she had done ever since she lived in her parents home. 

Stepping into the elevator, she pressed the button for the ground floor. Knowing the ride would take a while, she lived on the second-highest floor, after all, she pulled out her phone to check the time. It was 7:15 a.m. Perfect. With the bus journey to the department taking only 30 minutes, she was right on schedule (which was always a struggle for her.) A grin spread across her face as she opened her email app and tapped on the message from the 'Warrens Department.' Her heart fluttered nervously as she re-read the letter, scanning each line to ensure she hadn’t missed anything important. As she scrolled to the bottom, her brows furrowed. There, tucked away, was a link she hadn’t noticed before.

'Shit I must've missed this' She thought with worry before quickly clicking the link, silently thanking her instincts for prompting her to double-check the message. The link was a profile of the detective that she would be working with. Looking at the picture, she notices that he was a very conventionally attractive male. The formally dressed girl squints her eyes before assessing the man that her eyes laid upon.

Xavier Allette, it read. Twenty-five years old, with five years of experience as a detective.

‘Holy shit, he became a detective at 20? I was still in university then.’ Y/N’s thoughts wandered briefly as she reminisced about her own journey, a flicker of envy stirring as she compared herself to her boss.

Letting out a breath of relief that she didn't know she had; The assistant was expecting an old cruel man as her boss, but to her luck, it was someone of a similar age to her. And, as a bonus, he wasn’t bad to look at either.

Y/N knew better than to judge someone based on their appearance, but as her cheeks warmed, she couldn’t help but blush at the handsome face staring back at her from the screen. A straight pale face, with a clean-shaven look. His hair was a wavy deep black, tussled formally. Eyes sharp and matched with his extremely dark hair. Y/N couldn’t help but notice the absence of a glint or any sign of life in his pupils. ‘I’m overthinking it,’ she told herself. ‘He’s just posing for the picture’. It had to be her psychology degree kicking in, making her analyze every feature of his face like a subject in a case study. Xavier’s nose was strikingly defined, and his lips were full, holding a slightly warm tint that gave his serious expression a subtle softness. Though he was wearing a suit, anyone could tell the detective worked out as his jaw was sharp and his shoulders were broad. It was clear that he took good care of himself.

The only other information displayed on his profile was a list of the cases he had worked on and details about his educational background. 'Maketa Academy?!' That was the most prestigious high school that Y/N had ever heard of. You could either get in with a scholarship or a lot of money. Unfortunately for her, she had been neither crazy smart nor crazy rich, so attending a place like that had never been an option. Y/N couldn’t tell whether Xavier had gotten in through wealth or intellect, but either way, it was impressive. Her train of thought abruptly halted as the elevator chimed, signaling her arrival on the first floor.

Turning off her phone, She exits the building before walking a short distance to the bus so she could arrive at the destination where she was going to be working.

'Please be nice to me, Warrens Department.'

-

-

-

Y/N rushed out of the bus, the clock read 8:00 am. The bus kept on delaying because of the traffic that the driver faced. The 15 minutes that she was hoping she had left to spare, disappeared all because of not getting a driver's licence! Cursing at herself, she ran to the building that was two minutes away. She could get there in ten seconds, her stubbornness is saving her life today.

The girl stared in awe at the building for a second. It was massive and incredibly modern. A large sign labelled Warrens Department was placed right in the middle of the building. Shaking her head, she scans the key card that came into the mail a week ago and fixes any loose hairs before walking into the building.

8:01 am, Already a minute late, though not much of a difference, she didn't want to disappoint her boss on the first day. Power walking to the reception she sighs shyly before speaking up. "Hi!" Her voice cracks.

'Oh my god, first I'm late, now my voice cracks, I should just quit my job and leave this e-' "Hello! Who’re  you? I've never seen you before?" The ginger girl behind the desk questioned loudly. Her light southern accent peeked through. The red-haired was incredibly short, her face caked with pink-themed makeup matching her formal pink outfit. Y/N thought the receptionist was cute and seemed nice too! If she wasn't too busy stressing about being late, she'd love to be her friend. "I'm the detective's new assistant— Xaviers Allette's assistant." Y/N rambles, hands shaking with nerves.

"Y/N L/N?" The receptionist questioned with eyebrows raised, Y/N nods quickly and shows her key card to the lady. "I'm Abigail!" her smile drops, "Also, you should probably head over to his office quickly, Mr Allette hates tardiness.. a lot." It was now Y/N's turn for her face to drop, she mumbles a quick thank you before running off.She stops in her tracks as she realised her stupid mistake. "Hey Abigail, what's his room number?" Y/N spoke rushing back to the desk. Reaching halfway, the red-haired girl puts her hand out, ordering her to stop running back. "It's on the second floor, room 11, hurry!" She yells, shaking her hand. The late assistant puts a thumbs up as a way of saying thank you before completely ignoring the elevator and rushing up the stairs. Turning left she finds the room that is the lead detective. On the door, a silver plate is shown with  'Room 11' and 'Xavier Allette' engraved onto them in a fancy font.. It was clear that his room was the biggest on the floor.

Wiping the sweat off her hands and re-checking herself on the reflection of the plate, she checks the time. 

8:05 am.

Y/N knocks on her boss's door. The door opens automatically, she notices the man that was just on her screen almost an hour ago, sitting down with his eyes furrowed and lips pulled into a frown.  His eyes were fixated on his computer screen, fist propped against his chin. The assistant looks around while patiently waiting for him to say something.

20 seconds passed and all that she could hear were the sounds of him typing. the h/c hair-coloured girl clears her throat.

"Good morning, sir. My name is Y/N L/N, and Im p-"

"You're late." A deep, harsh voice cuts her off. 

A/N : New story :p !! i really like the plot for this one and will have a masterlist out for it soon!

[poundingwaves]

After some much needed post-battle rest, Gorgug is still left with one mystery to solve. How the hell is he supposed to figure out Mary Ann’s phone number? First, he asks Fig for help since she’s apparently on lime level. She laugh reacts to his message and tells him she has absolutely no clue what Quokki Pets is but she’ll meet him at Basrar’s.

Fig offers to Wanda Childa Mary Ann to try to get more information out of her and Gorgug practically begs her not to. They agree instead to request Adaine’s research expertise. Adaine sends them a bulleted list of Quokki Pets facts including where to find the game. The three of them meet at the Elmville mall to see if Mary Ann actually left her phone number there. Adaine starts mage handing copies of the game over to Fig (disguised as an employee) who opens them to see if there are any notes inside. Gorgug purchases a copy for himself. Maybe actually playing the game could be a good idea (and impress Mary Ann if that’s even possible). 

After being booted from the store, Mary Ann’s number still eluding them, they consider that finding Mary Ann’s profile could help. They enlist their tech genius, so Riz shows up with his equipment ready to go. He hacks into the Quokki Pets message boards and finds a high level user located in Elmville with the name Mangostrawb. Gotta be her. So they look through her posts on the message boards and mostly just find her showing off her Quokkis, leaving scathing comments on non-optimized builds, or occasionally dropping tips for new players. After scrolling through dozens of pages, they’re positive Mangostrawb is Mary Ann but that’s still not exactly helpful.

They finally call it quits for the day and go their separate ways, vowing to keep helping Gorgug get to that bench. Late that night as he’s embarking on his Quokki Pets journey, Gorgug gets a text from an unknown number. He opens it. “you don’t just get quokki pets. they come to you”

Gorgug sighs and puts his crystal down. She's so fucking annoying.

And so hot.

[lara635kookie]

Rumi and Jinu Aesthetics: (Made by Me)

[rosenr0tten]

Meljay isn’t boring. Most people are just unwilling to discuss or engage with them in a meaningful way because of their own biases + inability to think of ship dynamics beyond their cookie cutter tropes

[mochatricks]

based off a fic i read…. i love them :’) GAY PPL

(read the fic here it’s very cute and silly give op your love: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60027655)

[anghraine]

It's silly, but one of my favorite Kirk/Spock things is that they are clearly very much more on each other's wavelength intellectually than most others are, but—

There are so many scenes in which everyone else is baffled or missing something important that Spock or Kirk see in the other's behavior. Probably the peak moment for this is Spock, and Spock alone, realizing in "Arena" that Kirk has the raw materials to make gunpowder just as Kirk himself realizes it. So you get Spock murmuring "good, good...yes...yes..." right there on the bridge as his beloved starts reinventing the bazooka (pretty sure this counts as sex for him), but McCoy and the bridge crew are completely confused about what they're seeing. And there are plenty of moments of this kind of half-unspoken mutual brilliance while their co-workers wish they'd just use their words.

However. The important counterpoint to this is that Kirk and Spock each possess the special ability to instantly incinerate entire neuron paths in each other's brains and become 10x stupider around each other, also. Spock barges into Kirk's quarters in "The Enemy Within" without explanation, sees his naked chest, and his higher functions crumble into ash on the spot; when he regains the power of speech, he asks the baffled Kirk what he can do for him as if this somehow explains what he's doing there, and Kirk is just confused but pleased, and smiles enough that Spock's gay awakening visibly burns through even more neural circuits until he runs away.

And Kirk himself doesn't need to see skin to completely lose track of what he was even talking about because Spock did a thing. For instance, the scene when Kirk looks at Spock with flirty adoration at the end of "A Taste of Armageddon" and bats his eyelashes and says, "Why, Mr. Spock, you almost make me believe in miracles"—yes, it's extremely gay, but I feel it's important to understand the immediate context is a general conversation on the bridge about the horrors of war. But then Spock raised his brows and ambiguously complimented him, so Kirk's entire cognitive process melted into Spock Spock Spock Spock. In S3, Spock sits down beside Kirk to tenderly watch him sleep, without appearing to consider that anyone (like say the empath standing right by them) would notice, and then poorly fakes looking at tricorder readings when said empath picks on his emotions. Surely that will fool her psychic powers! (It doesn't.) Kirk, often a master of performance and theatricality, has to be physically held back from trying to singlehandedly maul a Klingon while in disguise and surrounded by an occupying Klingon force because one guy slightly shoved Spock.

They're a brilliant and wildly successful command team together and they are also so incredibly stupid about each other, it's beautiful

[clowns0cks]

thinking about how when the doctor is chameleon arched he's a mess he has no idea what he's doing ever he's just a victim of the events around him and he's pathetic and confused asf and also a bit of a coward while when the master is chameleon arched he is a scientist, he builds an entire system out of "food and string and staples" to save humankind, gives people hope, and ultimately he's brave and plans to stay behind and die to let the other people get to utopia safely. Idk something about how they're normally the opposite of this (the doctor is always ready to save people and always has a plan / the master has ridiculous plans that are obviously gonna fail and he's scared to die a lot of times) and maybe when they don't know who they are they are actually what they would have been without external influences (yes I mean death from master audio but also every other experience that has shaped them). I don't know. I'm just rambling as I think about it I don't know what is the point of this post

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Director's Obsession - Phase 2

Character: Director Orson Krennic x F!ISB Agent

Summary: Director Orson Krennic keeps one ISB agent under his thumb, pulling her from lunches, stealing her sleep, and destroying three dates. The project demands everything. Or maybe his obsession demands more.

Word Count: 3,553

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi🙏🏻

Phase 1 , Phase 2 , Phase 3 , Phase 4 , Phase 5 , Phase 6 , Phase 7 , Phase 8 , Phase 9 , -

Headcanons

Phase 2:  The Second Date.

The next morning at ISB HQ was exactly as you feared. The moment you stepped inside, the teasing began.

Jung greeted you first with a sly grin. "So, the Emperor himself, huh? Look at you."

"You're becoming quite the celebrity," Dedra added with a smirk.

Major Partagaz, sipping his caf, gave you a sidelong glance. "Do let us know when Krennic finally promotes you as co-director. Since he seems to take half of your credit anyway."

You exhaled sharply, waving your hand dismissively. "Alright, enough. Back to work."

But the grins never faded.

Then came your day off.

Your friend, ever persistent, messaged you.

"Okay, new blind date. This one's different. He's a musician. You need this."

Well, why not? You were exhausted, but you could use the distraction. At least this time, Krennic wouldn’t be barging into any restaurant. Surely.

You dressed up, nothing too formal, but still enough to feel human again. The café was cozy, yes, there were cafés in the Empire, even under its cold grip. Citizens still needed places to drink caf and pretend life was normal.

You met him, Rylek, a musician who played an odd but beautiful string instrument. He had soft eyes, an easy smile, and was charming in a gentle way. You laughed more than you had in months. He even recited a little improvised poem about your eyes under the starry sky.

For a moment, you almost forgot who you were.

Then the room fell silent.

You sensed the shift instantly.

Everyone's eyes, including Rylek's, were fixed on the entrance. You had a bad feeling about this. Slowly, you turned around, and your breath hitched at the sight that had silenced the bustling room.

You cursed inwardly.

Four Death Troopers stood at the entrance, clad in black, imposing, their presence drowning the room in fear. The customers froze. The band stopped playing. Even the air seemed to grow heavier.

Only the most powerful individuals in the Empire could command the deadly squad–elite, intimidating enforcers of Imperial Intelligence. That meant only one person: Director Orson Krennic.

One of them marched directly toward you.

Rylek stiffened, his face drained of color. His hand trembled slightly as he gripped his glass. You couldn’t blame him.

The Death Trooper extended a gloved hand and handed you a data chip.

A simple note was displayed on the screen.

"Phase 4. Agent. No delay. Send it tomorrow morning."

You inhaled sharply, keeping your face calm. "Understood," you whispered.

"I,I should… we… what’s happening?" Rylek stammered, his voice shaking.

You gave him a soft but tired smile. "I’m so sorry. I have to go. Urgent work."

He tried to mask his fear, but his pale complexion gave him away. "I, I’ll… I’ll call you?"

You nodded, but you both knew the answer.

With a sigh, you grabbed your coat and walked past the Death Troopers, who turned and exited like silent shadows.

Straight home. Straight to work.

*******

By morning, you were back at ISB HQ. Phase 4 was still unfinished. You had not even slept because no ideas had come to you. The exhaustion pulled at your eyes as you barely sat down, but you did not even get the luxury of a moment's rest. The door to your office opened without warning.

There he was. Director Krennic. Of course. Perfectly composed, perfectly smug, as if he had not sent four walking nightmares into what should have been your peaceful evening.

He strolled in with his usual swagger, his pristine uniform immaculate, his cape trailing behind like some royal banner. His eyes flicked toward your datapad and he spoke in that infuriatingly smooth tone.

"Ah, you are early. Efficient, as always."

You glared at him, your jaw tightening. "You couldn’t just send a message? You had to send Death Troopers into a public place?"

He raised a brow, thoroughly amused. "They are very punctual. I find punctuality comforting, don’t you?"

"You humiliated me. Again."

Krennic offered a careless shrug, completely unbothered. "You were on a date again, weren’t you?"

"That’s not the point."

"Oh, but it is." His voice lowered just enough to make every word sound like deliberate provocation. "You want to balance your personal life and your work. Admirable, in theory. But you, my dear, are far too valuable to indulge in such distractions right now. Your work remains unfinished. Phase 4 still needs to be polished. Perfected. And you," he allowed a small, infuriating smirk to deepen, "you are my finest piece of work."

You stood up, arms folding tightly across your chest. "You are impossible."

He stepped closer, closing the distance with that same predatory grace that always made your blood boil. His voice dipped into a velvety whisper.

"And yet, despite my impossibility, you keep delivering exactly what I need." His eyes gleamed sharply. "That is why I tolerate your little hobbies. I even let you pretend you have choices. But let’s not forget something important."

He paused, allowing the silence to weigh heavy before delivering the next blow.

"Without me, you are still working in the lower ground, buried in files no one reads. It was my hand that pulled you out of obscurity. I made you into what you are."

He was right. If it hadn't been for him choosing your work, you wouldn't have gotten promoted to the upper level. You clenched your teeth. Every word dug under your skin, but you could not argue its truth.

"You joined the Empire because you sought to improve, didn't you?" Krennic stated, his gaze piercing. He was right. You were tired of living in the shadows. "As you well know, only the best truly survive here."

He continued, a smug satisfaction in his tone, "I unearthed your potential. And thanks to my discerning eye, the Emperor himself has taken notice of you." His voice then dropped, a silken threat. "But understand this: if you fail, you will drag me down with you. And if I fall, I assure you, I won't be falling alone."

"You understand?" Krennic's voice was a low rumble, his eyes fixed on you.

"I understand, Director," you replied, your voice steady, though a tremor of unease ran through you. You added, with practiced formality, "Long live the Empire."

A slow, knowing smile spread across Krennic's face, a hint of triumph glinting in his eyes. He gave a sharp, satisfied nod. "Good. Very good."

******

Phase 4 was torture.

Perfection.

That was what Director Krennic demanded now. No more "good enough", no more "acceptable." Every chart, every slogan, every color palette on the propaganda posters had to be perfect. He visited your office three times a day, sometimes more. And worst of all, he developed the most infuriating habit of finding you during your lunch breaks.

Today was no different.

You barely had time to take a sip of your caf when the familiar sound of polished boots echoed through the cafeteria. Heads turned. Krennic strode toward your table, datapad in hand, utterly unapologetic.

"There you are," he said, voice smooth as ever. "I need you to review the updated casualty projection charts. The earlier numbers were off by point-three percent."

You looked up, blinking. "Director, I’m on my break."

He feigned surprise. "Break? I don’t recall authorizing extended leisure during Phase 4." He placed the datapad on your tray like it belonged there. "Besides, this will only take a moment."

Partagaz, sitting a few tables away, watched the scene unfold with his usual calm demeanor, though his eyes held a hint of sympathy. After Krennic left, he even muttered under his breath as he passed by your table.

"Poor thing. He doesn’t even let you chew in peace."

Dedra and Jung, who had been eavesdropping shamelessly, leaned closer.

"Your work husband is insatiable," Jung whispered with a grin.

Dedra added, "He’s obsessed, honestly. I’ve never seen him hover like this over anyone."

You tried to glare but couldn’t suppress a weary sigh. "I’m not having this conversation."

But of course, they continued, snickering like schoolchildren.

*******

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Phase 4 was finished. You submitted the report, ahead of schedule, no less. And just when you hoped for some breathing room, a new assignment arrived.

A temporary deployment. To Dareth Prime. A peaceful trade hub world known for its data archives and agricultural exports. You would be stationed there for a few days to collect regional data for future propaganda angles.

Krennic wasn’t pleased.

"You’re not going," he declared sharply the moment he saw the order.

"It’s from the Emperor," you said firmly. "I don’t have a choice."

Krennic paced your office like a caged loth-wolf. "Ridiculous. You just completed Phase 4. You should be resting and preparing for the next phase, not being sent off-world for some routine data collection."

Partagaz walked in during Krennic’s tirade, folding his hands behind his back. "Let her go, Director. She finished her assignment early. Orders are orders."

Krennic shot him a withering look but finally exhaled and turned to you. "Fine. But this isn’t a holiday. Don't get too comfortable."

You saluted mockingly. "Of course not, Director."

********

Dareth Prime was a breath of fresh air. Literally.

The air was warm but crisp, the skies clear. The pace here was slower, and for the first time in months, you could think without hearing Krennic’s voice echoing in your mind.

You don't exactly have official duty here,  but the Emperor kinda wants you to spread propaganda quietly there. You don't show that you're an ISB agent; it's easy for you to blend in. Since you also create the propaganda, it's your duty.

You handled your assignment with ease. The local officials were cooperative, the data was clean, and the work was simple. On your last day, before heading back, you decided to explore the markets to buy a souvenir for your friend Mia.

That’s where you saw it: a Death Trooper. From afar, you knew it was watching you. You wanted to avoid it, because you knew enough about who had sent it here.

That white devil. 

When you make a sudden turned. Then it happened suddenly. A tall man was shoved by you, he stumbling hard and nearly falling into a cart of fruits. 

You instinctively reached out and steadied him.

"I'm so sorry! Are you alright?" you asked.

He offered a small, reassuring smile, still a bit flushed from the collision. "No harm done. Really."

You let out a breath of relief. "I didn’t see you there."

"It’s alright," he said, his voice warm. "Honestly, I should’ve been paying more attention too."

For a moment, both of you stood there, the awkwardness easing into a strange kind of pleasant tension.

He introduced himself as Marlon, a merchant who traded in rare fabrics and spices. The two of you struck up an easy conversation as you helped him collect his scattered goods. He was charming in a genuine, non-political way. A refreshing change.

As you chatted, you noticed movement from the corner of your eye. One Death Trooper who stood at a respectful distance starts moving towards you. You don't want to make a fuzz and make everyone around you scared

Marlon noticed you seems restless  “Are you busy? Need somewhere to go? ” 

"Something like that," you said with a small smile. "I’m afraid I have to go."

He hesitated, then quickly added, "Maybe we’ll meet again? Where are you from?"

"Coruscant," you replied, adjusting your coat.

His smile widened. "I do business there sometimes. Perhaps our paths will cross again."

You nodded politely before following your black-armored escort.

*********

The next morning at ISB HQ, you returned glowing. Relaxed. Even humming softly as you walked through the stark white halls, still riding the high from last night.

Jung was the first to notice. He narrowed his eyes like a predator smelling something new.

"You are in a suspiciously good mood," he said, watching you closely. "Did you meet someone over there?"

You gave him a playful smile and nodded. You did not need to say more.

"Ooooh!" Dedra gasped dramatically, eyes wide with surprise. "Finally!"

Even Partagaz peeked up from behind his datapad with a rare amused chuckle. "Coruscant will be more interesting soon, I take it."

You said nothing. Just kept walking toward your office, letting their assumptions hang in the air. You could feel their eyes following you, their curiosity practically radiating.

Then it happened. His voice cut through the hallway like a blade.

"My office. Now."

You froze mid-step. Your heart jolted violently inside your chest. He was right behind you.

How long had he been standing there? Did he hear? The conversation replayed in your mind in an instant, your stomach tightening with every word that might have reached his ears.

You turned slowly, carefully schooling your face into neutrality. Director Krennic stood there, composed as always, hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. That dangerous gleam in his eyes sent a fresh wave of unease crawling down your spine.

Without a word, you followed him, pulse quickening as you tried to gauge how much damage had just been done.

Inside, the familiar pristine walls and cold lighting of his office seemed more suffocating than usual. The doors hissed shut behind you.

He stood behind his desk, arms crossed, looking at your latest report. His eyes scanned the data thoroughly before slowly nodding in approval.

"I must say," Krennic started, his voice low and deliberate, "this report is… impressive. You’ve outdone yourself."

You straightened your posture, professional, composed. "Thank you, Director. I take my work seriously."

He narrowed his eyes slightly, leaning back in his chair. "I can see that. Your focus has returned... despite your recent little holiday."

The way he said holiday made your jaw tighten.

He continued, casually twirling a stylus in his hand. "Tell me. Did you meet someone there?"

You blinked. "I met a lot of people. It was a professional assignment."

"A boy or a man?" His voice dipped dangerously low, the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

You stiffened. "That’s none of your business." 

His smirk grew wider. "Oh, I see. So there was someone."

Your temper flared. "Director, with all due respect, my personal life has no bearing on my efficiency or loyalty to the Empire."

The room filled with that thick tension you hated, the kind that burned under your skin. His gaze sharpened, studying you like you were some rare crystal slipping out of his grasp. His voice lowered into a silky threat.

"You should be careful who you let distract you, Agent. I require your full attention. Always."

Your heart pounded in your chest, but you kept your face neutral. You couldn’t afford to let him see how much he got under your skin.

"I’m fully committed to the job. Always have been." Your voice was clipped, cool.

His eyes locked on yours, that damned smirk never leaving. "Good. I’d hate to see you slip… after I’ve spent so much time polishing your potential."

You inhaled sharply, eyes narrowing at the arrogance of that remark. "I polished my own potential, Director. You just gave me the assignments."

He laughed softly, not denying it. "Of course."

The moment grew heavier, neither of you willing to break first, but finally you exhaled and turned toward the door. "If that’s all, Director?"

"That’s all… for now."

You left his office, heart racing, frustrated and confused. What was that? That wasn’t a professional conversation. That was something else entirely. You shook your head, trying to shake off the heat rising to your cheeks.

Shake it off. You had work to do.

*******

Burned out and restless from the ongoing Phase 5 preparations, you decided to get some air. You found yourself strolling through the Coruscant shopping district, where you ended up wandering into a small, cozy antique store tucked away between towering buildings.

As you examined a few old holoprojectors, a familiar voice caught your ear.

"Hey, you. Surprise, seeing you here. A wonderful surprise."

You turned sharply to see Marlon, the handsome merchant from Dareth Prime, smiling warmly.

Your eyes widened. "Marlon? What are you doing here?"

He gestured around the store with easy charm. "Selling a few pieces to the owner here. I do some trading with Master Rael." He nodded toward the shopkeeper, Luthen Rael, who gave you both a polite smile but kept out of your conversation.

Marlon’s eyes sparkled. "Since fate has reunited us... Would you consider joining me for a caf? Or perhaps, since you seem quite the expert of the capital, could I hire you as a tour guide?"

You chuckled lightly. "Tour guide? I don’t think I’m qualified for that."

"Then just accompany me," he said with a boyish grin.

You agreed. The evening passed in a blur of pleasant conversation and gentle laughter. Marlon was easygoing, talkative, sharing tales of his travels and trade. And yet, despite the warmth of his company, there were moments where your thoughts drifted, unexpectedly,to Krennic. His cold stares. His clipped words. His sharp focus. His frustrating control.

You shook your head discreetly. Why on earth would you think of him now, when you had a charming, attentive man sitting across from you?

Before you parted, Marlon grew bolder. "Would you have dinner with me? A proper one?"

You smiled. "I’d like that."

You returned home giddy, already pulling out your comlink to message your best friend with all the details.

******

The next morning at ISB HQ, your glow didn’t go unnoticed.

Partagaz raised an eyebrow the moment you entered. "You seem to be floating. Enjoying Phase 5, are we?"

You grinned. "Yes. I had an idea last night. I’m submitting it to Director Krennic today."

"Ooh, inspiration and romance do wonders for productivity," Dedra whispered teasingly.

Jung added, laughing, "Careful. Too much happiness might violate ISB regulations."

You just smiled and walked past them, datapad in hand.

Inside Krennic’s office, he glanced at you as you placed the updated work in front of him.

He skimmed through the material carefully. His fingers paused now and then, tapping lightly against the glass, his eyes narrowing in concentration.

Finally, he looked up.

"This is... sharp," he said, voice lower than usual. "Efficient. Very efficient." His gaze lingered on you longer than necessary, as if searching for something beyond the report.

"Thank you, Director. I take pride in my work," you answered calmly, purely professional.

He nodded slowly. "You’ve finally… settled into your role, it seems."

You felt the weight behind those words but kept your face unreadable. "The Empire’s propaganda division is my priority. I love my job, Director."

His lips twitched into a knowing smirk. "Yes, yes, you do." He sat back, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Excellent. Perhaps I’ve finally succeeded in binding you to my leash."

You clenched your jaw but kept your tone neutral. "I serve the Empire, Director."

He leaned forward slightly, eyes glittering with both amusement and something darker. "Of course."

After a beat, he waved his hand dismissively. "You may go. For now."

As you exited, you caught yourself exhaling sharply. Whatever game Krennic was playing, he was playing it well.

*******

You returned to the ISB cafeteria, where the usual group was already gathered around the long table. As you approached with your tray, the chatter gradually died down. Everyone watched you, wide-eyed, as you sat down and started eating.

And kept eating.

Slowly. Calmly. Enjoying your lunch.

It was a sight so rare that it nearly paralyzed the table.

Finally, Dedra broke the silence. "You’re… eating."

Jung leaned forward like he was studying a classified case file. "And enjoying it."

"I eat every day," you replied evenly, cutting into your food. "Just usually not with an audience."

Partagaz raised a brow. "You look… rather content today. Something happened?"

"Nothing unusual," you answered smoothly.

Dedra smirked. "Early submission for Phase 5? Perhaps the Director finally praised you properly?"

"Maybe," you said with a polite smile, still giving them nothing.

Jung tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Well, perhaps you got inspired during your little break. Or maybe you're seeing someone?"

Your fork paused briefly. Ah, there it was,a trap question.

"I might have plans," you answered, keeping your tone light.

Jung’s eyes lit up. "A date?"

You shrugged you shoulders. 

The table erupted instantly.

"Ooooh!"

"Finally!"

Dedra clapped once. "And here we go…"

Jung grinned devilishly. "Will Director Krennic ruin your date for the third time?"

Dedra shook her head, laughing. "As they say, third time’s the charm."

Everyone around the table started chattering, joking, and even making bets right there.

"I give it fifteen minutes before the Death Troopers show up again," someone whispered.

"Ten credits say Krennic calls her in the middle of dessert."

"I’m betting the Director himself will just show up at the restaurant," another snickered.

You just rolled your eyes, sipping your drink, determined not to let their voices cloud your mood.

"Whatever happens," you said calmly, "I intend to enjoy my evening."

The group erupted in more laughter and teasing, but you simply smiled. This time, you were going to have your date, and no amount of Director interference or ISB gossip was going to ruin it.

At least, you hoped.

Sorry if I tagged you without permission. If you want to be removed, please let me know.

Join the Taglist 💖💖💖 (All Krennic's fans gather around) 😘

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Please feel free to leave your comments. I'd love to know what you think.

My book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing are on Kindle. Check it out!

Link for Arrogant Ex-Husband

Amazon.com

Link for Dad I Can't Let You Go

Amazon.com: Dad, I Can't Let You Go eBook : Bing, Alina C.: Kindle Store

[bea-l-t]

I love that everyone has decided that Jeremy now has beef with Neil. Like dude I feel like that never turns out well for anyone. I don't want aftg's biased karma coming after our sunshine boy because he chose the wrong person to have an issue with.

[starlightnightworld]

Hey...hey ladies??? Hey LADIES???? What do you mean they're just LIKE THAT???

[yoursooogolden]

you are the sun to me - Vitramite Mark Grayson mini series

You don’t know him—but he knows everything about you.

In his world, you were the only thing keeping Viltrumite Mark Grayson from becoming a monster… until death took you from him.

Now, he’s crossed the multiverse to find the version of you still breathing—and he’s not leaving without you.

Ripped from your world and trapped in his new thriving empire, you swear you’ll never be his Y/N. You would never love a tyrant. Never yield to the man who burned the stars just to hold you again.

But when your daring escape nearly costs you your life, it’s his hands that are shaking, bloodied, and bruised that save you.

And the more you deny him, the more the line between hatred and something else begins to blur.

Because beneath the god-like powers, the empire, and the grief…is a man who would destroy everything just to keep you safe.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Masterlist:

part one: beneath red skies

part two: a strange new world

part three: the devil you know

part four: you're mine in every universe

part five: burn for you

part six: if you stay

Hi I am so so excited to share this with you guys! The first part will be up Friday @ 6:00PM EST!

This series will be updated every week or bi-weekly!

[amoritasart]

Love the idea of Philip coming into the isles with the same I’M THE HERO mentality as Luz. He never grows out of this fantasy. Well at least one of them got to see it through!

[lavender-vixen]

Hi! I was thinking about an idea and wanted to know if you could write something about Henry Bowers having a younger sister, where he finds out she’s secretly dating one of the members of his gang.

Could you write how he would react to each specific member? Which one do you think Henry would disapprove of the most? And what kind of actions would he take in this situation?

Henry isn't the type of guy to be overjoyed at the thought of his kid sister sneaking around with one of his friends. Not that he thinks she's a saint or anything. But his sister? Messing around with one of his guys? That's crossing a line.

Vic Criss (the least bad option)

Vic is the calmest, most level-headed one in the gang, which means Henry wouldn't immediately want to kill him.

But that doesn't mean he'd approve.

Henry would still be pissed, especially if Vic had been keeping it a secret from him.

He'd probably corner Vic after school, slam him into a locker, and demand answers.

"You serious, man? You fucking serious? What, you think you're better than the rest of them? Think I'm just gonna let you play house with my sister?"

If Vic reassured him that he was serious about her, Henry might ease up, just a little.

Henry would threaten Vic but not beat the shit out of him...yet. He'd watch him like a hawk and make it very clear that if his sister got hurt, Vic would too.

Belch Huggins (not ideal, but not the worst)

Henry would be annoyed as hell but not instantly murderous.

Belch is loyal, but Henry would still feel betrayed that his sister was sneaking around behind his back.

He'd confront Belch immediately, shoving him against his car or dragging him away from the gang.

"You been screwing around with my sister, you fat fuck? How long?"

Belch would probably stammer through an explanation, trying to convince Henry that he actually likes her, but Henry wouldn't wanna hear it.

He'd rough Belch up a little, shove him around, and warn him that if his sister ever cried over him, he'd rip his head off.

Patrick Hockstetter (absolute worst option)

If Henry found out about this, he wouldn't just be mad.

He'd be murderous.

Because out of everyone, Patrick is the most dangerous, unhinged, and least trustworthy.

Henry knows exactly what kind of person Patrick is.

He wouldn't believe for a second that Patrick actually cares about his sister.

And if Patrick smirked, made some offhand comment, or tried to brush it off like it wasn't a big deal?

Henry would snap.

He'd jump Patrick on sight, fists flying, not giving a fuck where they were.

"You fucking psycho. You think this is funny? You think you can just use her like you use every other girl?"

And Patrick would just grin through bloody teeth, laughing his ass off, taunting Henry even more.

"Aw, come on, Bowers. You didn't think I'd keep my hands off her forever, did ya?"

He'd beat the shit out of Patrick, warning him to stay the fuck away from his sister, or he'd make sure he never touched another girl again. But Patrick wouldn't listen. He'd push, push, push, just to see how far Henry would go.

Henry would disapprove of Patrick the most. He already knows Patrick is twisted. He wouldn't trust him at all, not with his sister, not with anything. Patrick would taunt him, make it worse, and keep pushing his buttons just to get a reaction. Henry would feel like he failed as a brother by letting something like this happen. It wouldn't just be about protecting her, it'd be personal.

Henry wouldn't beat around the bush, he'd be in his gang member's face the second he found out. If he didn't like what he heard, he'd start swinging. He'd try to forbid her from seeing them, which would probably backfire. If it were Patrick, Henry wouldn't just want to beat him up. He'd want to ruin him.

Vic or Belch? Henry would watch them, but if they genuinely cared about his sister, he might tolerate it, begrudgingly. Patrick? Not a chance. This would end in blood.