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[scarluna]

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

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

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

Pairing: Jungkook x Fem!Reader x Min Yoongi

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

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

Chapters: 5 / ?

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

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

ACT V.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before she could say anything else, another voice interrupted.

“Y/N.”

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

Great. Just what I needed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

Tae <3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A cold wave of panic washed over me.

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

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

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

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

When I stepped outside, I froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of his words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N,” Rya said, her voice tentative.

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

Relief washed over their faces.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tina.

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

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

Someone?

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

This time, it was Yoongi.

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

On his arm was Gina.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then Yoongi’s gaze followed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When I turned to look up, I froze.

Jungkook.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly, a voice called my name from behind me.

“Y/N?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded, understanding exactly what he meant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

And then it happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N, let me—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t have to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded, swallowing hard. “I understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[erodasfishtacos]

Threadbare - I ||FWB!H||

prompt: yn avoids because she doesn't know what else to do

word count: 3.2k

warnings: angst, cheating

author's note:

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-

The transition in being friends to friends with benefits was surprisingly smooth for the impressively big amount of lack of communication, lack of resolution, and all over how much was swept under the rug instead of address.

It’s was a quiet tension between them that was sometimes sexual tension, sometimes angsty.

They couldn’t wait for trivia to be over so they could get their hands on each other or this other.

It was not as pleasant when someone mentioned Lauren or Ben.

How if someone brought up Lauren, YN’s eyes would automatically dart to Harry to see his reaction and she didn’t miss the ways his jaw clenched when Ben was brought up.

It wasn’t a mutual agreement of not talking about these things, acting like them coming together was conventional or that everytime they went out with their friends - they didn't tell them.

They held this secret between them, not only that they were currently hooking up but what transpired that weekend at the lake house.

Neither of them were that kind of person, who would step out on their partner, or cross boundaries they shouldn’t when they’re in a committed relationship but apparently they were that kind of people - both of them.

YN knows there is nuance.

She knows neither her nor Harry were happy in their relationship.

She knew that Lauren treated Harry like shit nearly a ninety-percent of the time.

Ben had never been all that great after the love-bombing phase was done which she had fell for the flowers and the random grand gestures.

It didn’t make it okay.

YN always had a bit of a crush on Harry.

He was a bit more attentive to her than he was to any other females in the friend group but she’d never looked into that or fed into that too much.

She brushed it off on the fact that she had a (now looking back) massive crush on him that she didn’t want to actually acknowledge because she shouldn’t have a crush on someone who’s in a relationship as she’s in a relationship with someone else.

It was fucked up.

The rest of the time of at the lake house was tense after YN had bolted from the pool, leaving Harry mid-apology but knowing better than to chase after her.

He hadn’t bothered her again - even as they both were in different rooms in the same big summer house.

She could hear him in the kitchen, starting the blender, he had to be able to hear when she turned on the shower but there was silence between them.

And it disappointed her, selfishly, she wanted there to be a knock on the bedroom door, another conversation, something from Harry.

But she was the one who ran, who made it clear that what happened wasn’t good, and YN has always struggled with avoidance, it why she hasn’t broken up with Ben.

She hated confrontation and uncomfortable situations to a fault.

Being socially anxious was in her bloodstream, and having hard conversations was like pulling teeth without being numbed first.

So the second Harry had pulled his hand back, his mouth opening to discuss what just happened - there was no other option for YN then to just avoid, flee so that she didn’t have to talk about it.

YN doesn’t come out of her bedroom for the rest of the night.

Her heart’s in her stomach because even if she doesn’t want to be with Ben, there was guilt for liking what just happened with Harry.

She couldn’t get it out of her mind when he’s cupped her breast, when the rough pad of his thumb had nudged over her nipple.

It was fucked up that her thighs were wet at the thought, at the way his eyes had honed in on her, and how fucking turned on he looked as he reached out to touch her.

She’d never felt that kind of arousal in her life and it wasn’t right, she wasn’t expecting it with Harry when she had long ago deemed him out of her league.

YN wasn’t asleep by the time that Ben stumbled in, drunk and clueless to the internal crisis of self she was having.

She kept her eyes squeezed shut when she felt him looking at her.

Determining whether she was asleep or not, and mumbled some intelligible before he was stumbling out of his clothes and crawling into bed - promptly passing out even while YN struggled to calm her mind.

+

YN knew she was making everything worse.

She knew that she needed to talk to Harry but avoidance was easier.

It was easier to not make eye contact with him when everyone clmabered downstairs in the morning.

It was easier to sit as far away as possible from him at the table when they all ate breakfast, and made sure not to look at him.

YN could feel his gaze burning into the side of her face.

She could tell that he was staring at her, willing her to look at him, and she wanted him to stop because he was being obvious - or at least she felt like he was drawing attention to the situation but if anyone notices, nobody say anything.

Then they’re down by the lake, YN’s laying on a lounger on the dock, soaking up the sun, and trying to warm up before getting into the water which was chiller than she usually liked.

It was peaceful until she can feel the wood of the dock start to tremble next to her until someone is sitting on the chair opposite her.

YN has sunglasses on that were big enough to hide her eyes completely, dark enough that he couldn’t see.

She blinked her eyes open to Harry looking at her with an unfamiliar look on his face, she didn’t know what he was feeling but he definitely wanted her attention.

YN sits up as Harry hands her something, his voice quiet and unsure, “You’ve got to reapply, you’re gettin’ burnt.”

“Thanks,” YN takes it from him, making sure their hands don’t touch even though she can acknowledge that it’s dramatic.

Even if she’s being short outward, internally there were butterflies tumbling around in her belly that he was even paying attention to her like this.

Apparently her standards were incredibly low because Ben would never do something like this.

He wouldn’t have noticed in the first place, nor used any amount of energy to go up to the house to get the bottle of sunscreen.

“Think I grabbed the right one, you said the one in the blue bottle irritates your skin, right?” Harry checks, he’s off, subdued.

YN didn’t like it but she couldn’t bring it up, they couldn’t talk about it where anyone could hear them.

The thoughtfulness, the fact that he listened when she made that off-handed comment the other day when Ben handed her the blue bottle.

“This is the right one,” YN agrees lamely, taking it out of his hand, they were both skating on uncertainty.

“You ignored me at breakfast,” Harry observes, suddenly on topic to what they really need to talk about.

And YN knows her eyes must have widened like a deer about to be hit by oncoming headlights because she wasn’t ready to have this conversation.

“Didn’t mean to,” YN lies, it wasn’t even a good one but she could feel this uneasiness starting to churn in her stomach because at the end of the day, she had this stupid fucking crush on Harry.

And now she’s seemingly on track to continuously make herself look like an immature little girl who can’t have a conversation.

Harry’s brow furrows at that, huffing with a shake of his head, “Okay. I guess it’s just in my head then.”

And YN didn’t want to gaslight him either.

Fuck.

“I-” YN doesn’t know what to say, swallowing harshly as toys with the sunblock bottle, “It’s not…in your head. I - don’ know.”

It wasn’t graceful or intelligent whatsoever, she felt tongue-tied suddenly at having to explain her poor behavior.

“I would like to talk to you about yesterday,” Harry replies, his tone is neutral, unreadable.

She'd rather not have a conversation about him apologizing, saying it was a mistake, that he wasn’t thinking, that it didn’t mean anything.

She was going to actively avoid the conversation at all fucking costs.

“Not…here,” YN glances around, no one was directly by them but it wasn’t the place to have it - in active eyeline of both of their significant others.

“You will talk to me about it though?” Harry persists, his fingertips are digging into his knees, she knows

it's

absurd but it looks like he’s actively resisting reaching out and touching her.

YN nods, the guilt revving back up because she knows she’s going to do whatever to avoid it, to not have all of her false hopes and dreams crushed.

He was out of her league, he had a gorgeous girlfriend, he was in a committed relationship, and she was too - it was stupid for her to even entertain the idea.

“Yeah, just not here,” YN agrees weakly, she wonders if he can tell she’s not being truthful with him, if he’ll call her out on it.

“Please just know that -” Harry starts to say, leaning in a bit closer in a way that wasn’t inappropriate but made if more difficult for anyone to overhear.

“Harry! Stop bullshitting and get me a fuckin’ drink!” Lauren interrupts obnxiously from the water.

By the slur of her words, she already had enough alcohol pumping through her veins, and the way she demanded from Harry wasn’t anything new but it never got easier to hear him being barked orders to.

The rest of their friends laugh, like it’s funny how Lauren talks to him.

But by the subtle sharp edge to her tone and the way that Harry’s eyes instantly go dark, his nose scrunching slightly in disgust before he hides it shows just how unfunny that interaction is.

Maybe because she sees too much of herself in Harry in that way.

Ben barking at her for things and she just does it to avoid conflict or arguements.

Nothing was funny about it.

++

YN unsurprisingly doesn’t stick to her word, Harry seeks her out two times during the day to try to talk to her.

The first time YN gets flustered, makes up an excuse about having to use the bathroom, and promptly hides in the bathroom for a good twenty minutes.

The second time, YN suddenly gets very busy helping set up the volleyball net when she notices Harry starting to make his way towards her.

And she knows by the end of the night, his patience is wearing thin - purely based off of the unamused glances he gives her.

The way he’s not anywhere near as talkative as he normally is, and his general demeanor is off - even their friends call him out a few times on it.

Now, she’s nervous to talk to him because of the fact that he’s getting annoyed with her.

She truly keeps digging the hole she’s stepped into deeper and deeper until it feels entirely impossible to pull herself up out of without ramifications.

It wasn’t until late, it was nearly eleven, and their night was in full swing.

The bonfire was blazing, everyone had alcohol flooding their systems except for YN and Harry.

YN wasn’t naturally a big drinker but tonight, she was far too uneasy to think about even sipping anything.

Whereas Harry had a beer or two but he’d been nursing them slowly, enough that he wouldn’t feel any effects of it.

YN feels like the walls were closing in around her.

The conversation was going to come, Harry seemed determined by this point, and YN has probably just made this whole situation worse by not having the conversation in the first place.

YN sneaks away to the bathroom in the house, the second floor one because it was one that no one was allowed to throw up in if they drank too much.

She did it while Harry was in the middle of a volleyball game, and she really didn’t think he’d dip out to have the conversation or pull away from the group because it would surely be suspicious if YN and Harry randomly disappeared around the same time.

But YN is wrong.

God, she’s so wrong.

Because when there’s a knock at the door, YN’s first thought is that it’s Georgia, so without thinking she opens it.

But standing there is a very very unhappy looking Harry who’s lips are in a firm line, his brows drawn inward, and his voice is rougher than usual when he says, “Time to talk.”

“What do you want?” YN has the nerve to huff, surprised by her own attitude as she steps backwards, and Harry follows her in, shutting the door, and locking it behind him.

She wants to point out that this looks so entirely shady, that they should have this conversation not in a locked room, in a house alone but she cannot find it in her to care to point that out nor does she wants to.

“I want you to stop avoiding me,” Harry replies as he crosses his arms, standing towards the door and allowing YN to put some distance between them.

There was this sick, twisted thrill shooting arousal up her spine that she was able to rile him up, get a reaction, it meant in some capacity that he cared at least a bit about her.

When Ben was mad - it turned her off completely but something about the sharp, defined cut of Harry’s clenched jaw, the puffiness of his bottom lip from his front teeth digging into it.

He looked fucking hot when he was pissed and that’s when YN realized she is in deep shit because fuck, she smitten.

“I’m not,” YN replies stubbornly, mirroring his posture by crossing her arms and popping her hip to the side, tongue poking at the inside of her cheek.

Harry looks like he wants to sink his teeth into her- she’d never seen him like this and it was fucked up but she wanted more.

Harry finally smiles but it’s not his normally, boyish grin.

It’s intimidating, sharp and dangerous, his dimples popping as he tilts his head, “I didn’t ask you if you were avoiding me. I’m telling you what you were doing. I’m done with it, we need to talk. Understood?”

And if YN could rub her thighs together without it being obnoxious she would.

It’s twisted, he’s clearly upset and she’s better than no man, thirsting over the way the vein at the side of his neck bulges, his biceps look massive as they flex, and his eyes are sparkling with fury.

“I’m sorry,” Harry takes a deep inhale, calming slightly as he becomes a tad bit more lax in his posture, “It was never my intention to make you uncomfortable and it was completely out of line for me to do. I take full accountability and I’m so fucking sorry for putting you in an uncomfortable position.”

YN takes a minute to process it because…it wasn’t the apology or the regret she was expecting to hear from him.

It wasn’t necessarily rejection.

It was genuine remorse.

“You…I’m the one who showed you them,” YN replies slowly, more confused than ever, and the arousal fizzles when she notices how distraught Harry is underneath hsis cool demeanor.

“I should have never asked. I should have never put you in a position where you felt like you had to-”

“I didn’t feel pressured or uncomfortable, Harry. I’m an adult who made decisions too,” YN points out because it was on both of them, they both participated equally in the bad behavior.

“Then why did you run away? I thought it was because I made you uncomfortable,” Harry’s shoulder slump slightly in relief, his arms uncross but he doesn’t step forward even if she wants him too, even though she shouldn’t want him to.

“I was scared,” YN admits quietly, she has to look away for a moment because his gaze was so fucking intense.

“What were you scared of, Honey?” Harry pushes, he takes a step forward, lessening the space in the small area but they still weren’t touching, and her heart was starting to fully pound like she was running a marathon.

YN finally blinks at him, teeth dug into her lip, debating whether she should tell him the blunt truth - gauging whether that will just lead to rejection but the way he’s looking at her, it makes her want to risk it, say ‘fuck it’.

“Of how much I wanted it,” YN’s voice is barely above a whisper but he could hear it in the otherwise silent house.

“Wanted what,” Harry’s voice is deeper, rougher, and it’s an almost a demand like he needs to know, that it’s not optional.

“Harry-” YN resists, barely hanging onto her morals with a fucking thread, and waiting for him to cut the string.

And he fucking does.

“Tell me, tell what you wanted so badly,” Harry pushes, his fingers are clenching like earlier, he has to restrain himself from reaching out at her.

“It scared me how badly I wanted you to touch me, wanted your hands on me, on my tits, on…yeah,” YN trails off, sheepish and her cheeks were so fucking hot in embarassment at what she’d just said, admitted.

It’s faster than YN can process, the way Harry strides forward, and handles her - twisting her roughly until she’s pinned against the wall across from the sink, it’s tight and their bodies are pressed flushed.

His lips aren’t on hers but they’re ghosting close enough that if they moved even an inch they would brush.

“Tell me I can,” Harry murmurs, there’s this sweet, desperate, needy plea in it that makes her knees weak, “ I wan’na, so bad, honey.”

YN swallows harshly, losing all sense of why this is wrong, and she finds her hands coming to his hair - gripping there and puling his mouth to hers, “Yeah, yes. You can have it.”

[triptychgrip]

Viktor and Yuuri Answer The Web's Most Searched Questions

“I’m Viktor Katsuki-Nikiforov!”

“And I’m Yuuri Katsuki Nikiforov!”

They turn to look at each other and grin, attempting to speak in unison.

“And this is the WIRED Autocomplete Interview.”

They’re a little off on the wording, but what is simultaneous is the way they break out into giggles right after saying ‘interview’. It’s only been a few seconds since the cameras have begun rolling, and Viktor is already feeling charmed by the pink tint staining his husband’s cheeks.

“Aww, and we even practiced that a few times!” Yuuri says, now donning a cute little pout.

“It was my fault,” Viktor automatically pipes up, before letting his heart-shaped smile take over his face. “I started speaking a half-beat too late because I was too busy admiring your pretty eyes, love.”

Giggles and hushed whispers immediately break out on the WIRED filming set, but Viktor only has eyes for the way Yuuri’s lips instantly morph, curving into a pleased, albeit shy smile. 

“You’re sweet, Vitya,” he murmurs, before reaching over to hold his hand. 

There’s not much space between them to begin with on the bench they’re seated on, but Yuuri closes that miniscule gap so that their thighs are pressed right up against each other. Viktor hopes the audience is grateful; the slight tension his love is now holding in his leg will give the cameras a nice view of his immaculate, muscular thighs, outfitted in the sleek trackpants that Mizuno specifically designed for him. (After some sleuthing, Phichit had informed the two of them that Kenjirou had gone ahead and bought four different pairs.)

Nyala – the WIRED production assistant in charge of this episode taping – then hands them the show’s distinctive looking question tableau. On it, are Google’s top ten most searched questions containing their names. They’re partially covered, which adds to the fun: they’ll be taking turns reading them aloud, while unpeeling the adhesive covering to reveal each query.

As they’d agreed earlier, he will read and answer the first question, so Yuuri holds the board steady.

“What did Yuuri and Viktor…”

Viktor pauses to draw out the suspense, and then whips off the adhesive in one rapid motion, his enthusiasm almost causing Yuuri to topple over.

“Oops! Sorry, Yuranya!” he exclaims, feeling a bit flustered as he helps his spouse right himself and presses a kiss to his temple. 

Nyala’s eyes are glittering with amusement, so he aims a sheepish smile at her before facing forwards.

“What did Yuuri and Viktor do before they met?” he reads off, feeling quite pleased with this clear opportunity to extol Yuuri’s praises (and, additionally, to lambast certain International Skating Union officials for not recognizing how talented he was prior to that silver medal win at the Barcelona Grand Prix Final).

“Well, the short answer is that we were both competitive figure skaters, but the long answer is more interesting! Let’s start with my Yuuri, because my side of things is boring, not to mention quite sad,” he chirps, not even batting an eye when his husband begins to splutter in protest next to him (“Vitya! Five gold medals at World’s is not sad!”)

But Viktor feigns an inability to hear Yuuri’s counter, and whips his phone out. 

One of the first things he’d done after they’d met at the banquet was to look up as many of Yuuri’s Senior division competitions as he could, hungry to expand his personal archives with any video or photos he could get his hands on. By now, his love is aware of his meticulous culling efforts, because he wears a pained expression as Viktor begins to talk and flip through his photo gallery.

“Where to even begin?” he says, allowing his voice to slide into that grandiose tone that Yurio claims “makes you seem even more punchable than normal”.

“Since we only have an hour for this taping, I will unfortunately have to limit myself to the year of Yuuri’s skating career before he and I met,” he continues on, making sure his annoyance is plain. “And, for those that don’t know, we met in December 2015 at the Sochi Grand Prix Final.”

It’s a testament to their many years of being together, because Yuuri doesn’t even tense at the mention of Sochi. He knows Viktor would never try to embarrass him by contextualizing the event in a way that makes him uncomfortable, and, besides, his spouse now shares the opinion that pole-dancing into your soulmate’s life is a pretty badass meet-cute. Even so, it had taken awhile to convince Yuuri’s anxiety of this, and Viktor owes a lot to their couples’ therapist for that mindset change. 

“Look at this picture of my beautiful Yuuri on the podium at Four Continents’ in February 2015!” he exclaims in triumph, holding his phone up so that the camera operator gets a perfect view. 

Taken in Seoul’s Mokdong Ice Rink is a photo of an adorable, 22-year-old Katsuki Yuuri, wearing a shy smile and holding a bronze medal. Next to him is an obviously ecstatic Celestino Cialdini.

“Now, no offense to anyone, but take it from me: my husband was severely underscored at that competition and should have been standing higher on that podium. Well before he ever broke my World’s winning streak, Yuuri was commanding audiences the world over with his stunning artistry. Particularly, his dazzling interpretation skills,” Viktor states declaratively, his tone brooking no argument.

Well, almost no argument. 

Yuuri makes a barely perceptible noise of disagreement, but it’s enough to make him turn and bestow his most unimpressed expression onto him, as if daring him to issue a rebuttal. 

“Something to say, Yusha?” Viktor prompts, a bit goadingly. “Do you wish to argue with “Living Legend” Viktor Katsuki-Nikiforov, who, I daresay, might know a little something or two about judging politics and biased scoring?”

His love gives him a light smack on the bicep, and when he replies, his tone is prim.

“If you want biased scoring to be the focus of this question, then I’ll have to bring up your European Championships score from 2013, where you were unfairly beat out for gold by our good friend, Christophe Giacometti.”

An “oooohing” sort of taunting sound ripples around the set, but far from flustering Yuuri, he just raises a brow and sets his jaw. (Viktor feels quite turned on at the look, as well as his protective instincts.)

“I know how the internet loves to spin things but there’s nothing to spin,” Yuuri continues, dryly. “Christophe, himself, made a big stir at the post-skate press conference about judging bias, and he still regularly tweets at the officials from that competition…so much so, that two of them have blocked him on Twitter.”

Viktor gasps with delight at the memory of this juicy event and his spouse’s answering smirk is all the permission he needs.

“Ok, let me set the scene for you all!” he eagerly volunteers, sitting up straighter on the bench. 

He makes a big show of clearing his throat and Nyala – who, evidently, has the patience of a saint – hides her smile behind her hand. It’s a wonder that she hasn’t redirected their attention back to the question list, yet.

“January 2013: Zagreb, Croatia,” he continues on, in the grave “I’m narrating a documentary” tone that he knows will make Yuuri laugh. “Twenty-three-year old Viktor Nikiforov takes his starting position on the ice of Dom Sportova arena. Unlike present-day, his hair is much more lustrous, and he has not yet needed to start using thickening oil as part of his nightly primping regimen.”

Yuuri smacks his bicep a second time.

—

Hope you enjoyed this ficlet! I adore writing post-canon interview/game content featuring sappy/extra married Viktuuri, so if I get the energy (and need the distraction from my WIPS *nervous laughter*) I may expand this into a proper fic.

If you’re also a fan of this type of thing, you may like my story on ao3 featuring their joint appearance on Vanity Fair’s Lie Detector Game series. It’s one of my favorite things I’ve ever written :)  

[yoursweetheartsrevenge]

Your Blood, My Love - Chapter Four - The Blood of the Targaryens - Allara

Summary: Harrenhal was haunted. A beacon of darkness that attracted dark magic and monsters. When Alys and Allara Rivers’ birthright is stolen from them by a mysterious buyer, the sisters will stop at nothing to take back what is theirs, but who has called who to the darkness? 

Chapter Summary: Allara is summoned before Aemond after dinner discovering exactly why she is needed.

Read on Ao3

Masterlist

Warnings: sexual tension, MINORS DNI, 18+

Word Count: 2.7k+

Author’s Note: Thanks to everyone who has read so far! I was hitting a bit of a wall on this story. It actually has a plot before the smut (there will be smut, promise). But yes, this actually gets into a bit of the plot of why our naughty little vampire needs Allara. And surprise guest, The Ghosts of Harrenhal.

Chapter Four: The Blood of the Targaryens

The blood still seeped through Alys’ gauze on her hand. 

Allara could see it and smell it from her apartments in Harrenhal. Her sister was to depart. Without her. She could see the young woman, white cuff dried with dirt red blood, pull along her travel luggage on the cobblestones below. She could hear the stones hit each wheel. Even with the windows shut and the darkness enveloping the witch below, Allara could hear every step her sweet sister struggled to make. 

Alys’ eyes cast upward. The hazel color fluttered about with a deep sadness that made Allara’s hand flick upward to the glass in a small helpless wave. Their thoughts were muffled as the night grew darker. The ghosts sometimes were disturbed by the presence of strong magic. 

“It is a tickle to their senses. A need to  sneeze that never comes.” Their mother had once explained. 

There were no true words as Alys Rivers reached out to Allara’s mind, but the idea was there. 

She would not leave her. 

She would return. 

For now Allara watched as her sister got into a slick luxury vehicle to properly drive back to the station and her own life. 

Allara's breath fogged at the window coating it in eerie frost. It was the spirits’ attempt to shield her from the image that tore at her very heart and soul. The car was black shielded in the darkness as it drove off. She hugged tight the malformed shawl of her youth, a crocheted attempt at a hobby to sate her wandering mind. 

Nothing kept the girl’s hands idle for long, but the shawl was a comfort. 

Even mistakes could be a comforting warmth in the cold dark. 

Alys had made certain not to change much of Allara’s chambers. It still held the tacky gold wallpaper etched with tiny vines that a young budding daydreamer had imagined as spider webs in her youth and brain waves as a teenager. The edges of the room held waist high bookshelves filled with hundreds of books set in far off places and a few dozen or so about Westeros and Valyerian history. They were mostly gifts from Alys, but Allara kept them to show her appreciation of her sister’s one true love. 

History. 

There was a small worn silver settee between the two large oval windows showcasing the outside courtyard of the home. When curious kittens wandered in she always imagined them settling in sleep on the worn cozy cushions. Her fingers traced out the claw marks the cats had lovingly pressed into the soft velvet. There was a pair of sliding doors opposite to the large canopy bed. Inside would be fresh clothes that she had left. They had been kept safe in the room, since the fire had not touched either sisters’ room as if too afraid to disturb the sanctuary of powerful witches. 

Allara strode to the closet teasing her fingers at the wood. She slid them open watching as the automatic light flickered to life. It was a small walk in. Not long or wide like the other bedrooms in the house. The young woman was not a fashion fiend like her sister who had a plethora of business, business casual, and formal ware. 

In the closet, Allara found darkness. She was a shade too dark in her teen years. The style had been spurred on by her mother’s death. Her wardrobe had been seeped with lacy neck lines and dark leathers. She toyed with the stiff velvet of a dark pink skirt, the closest to something airy and light in the whole closet. 

“Miss Rivers?” She gripped the velvet in her hand at the sound of Ser Criston Cole at her door. “My master calls for your attendance in his study.” She pulled the shawl closer. 

“The study.” She told the air. It grew colder around her in response. 

She turned to see Ser Criston still in his attire from earlier at the entrance to her chambers, though he had not quite entered as if giving her a sliver of privacy. He stepped aside as she turned to him. 

“I will dress and -” 

“My master does not like to wait.” 

She cocked her head slightly and smiled. 

“He will wait.” She dropped the shawl to the settee as she strode across the room to a dresser hidden among the bookshelves. “And I suggest you leave to inform him of this alteration to his night lest you see my naked ass.” She reached to tug at the zipper on her back. 

Allara heard the door shutting quietly followed by long clattering steps. She smiled a bit triumphant at the victory. Her dress dropped to the floor. She began to look through her night attire in the drawers. She decided against what was in her drawer. 

A black dressing gown hung pressed in her closet seemed to call her. The spirits tickled her ears in anticipation as she played with the silk fabric of the robe. Underneath the hanging gown was a black lace nightie she hid. She wore it when her parents were not at home for fear of finding her in something scandalous. As a grown woman she wore it often, looking in the mirror to see how it hugged her curves and made her feel goose pimpled at her own reflection. 

Tonight she slipped into it like a second skin or battle armor. Allara shrugged on the silk robe tying it around her waist. She could smell the lingering scent of the fire licking wood as she journeyed down the hall. Harrenhal wanted to remind her of what she had lost and how. Larys had scurried back to whatever hole he found himself in these days. She could not sense his presence. 

Upon approaching the door she heard the crackle of a hungry fire. 

“You should feed that.” 

He was sitting at the restored oaken desk. The desk had been restored by Alys as Allara remembered one of the last selfies she had sent. Her sister had several cherished pictures of sitting on and at Lionel Strong’s desk as a little girl tracing the cravings of the fallen weirwood trees. Alys claimed each little mark was a scar on the tree, that told a story. 

They would make up stories of squirrels burying magical seeds in the little slits or of small forest children hiding hidden toys. Once Allara had dreamed of finding a small doll waiting for her the next time she sat at the desk. A handmade doll crafted from twigs, leaves, and yarn sat proudly on the desk the next morning. Perhaps it had been gifted by the spirits or more then likely a gift from her father from his travels to the capitol.

“And you should have come when called for.” He did not acknowledge her as he spoke. Aemond Targaryen read his papers before scanning different tomes spread across the desk. It was not the same desk, only one commissioned to look as such. 

“I am not a very good listener. As you will learn.” She pushed hair to cover her neck lest he seek out substance. 

“Don’t do that. It only inflates your current predicament. The air wafts in your perfumed hair.” She saw his nostrils flare in irritation. “You need not worry. I am sated for tonight.” He looked up meaning to smile, but it flickered to a shocked wide eyed frown upon seeing her outfit.  

“You have other appetites I imagine that are not as sated.” She teased knowing it was a dangerous thing to do. 

The spirits licked at the fire causing it to flicker blue for a flash. 

“You are a crude little thing.” The eye narrowed. The sapphire hummed with delight at her words. 

“You have already seen me in the throes of my desire. What else is left? Come, we are not strangers. We are dark callings. Two coins melted as one.” She stepped further into the room feeling the comfort of fire and heat. 

“I see it,” He swallowed, looking her over. “You fear you called me here. You fear it is your fault Harrenhal is lost.” 

It was her turn to look upon him with widened eyes. 

She would not even admit that to herself, but yes. It was her fear. In her longing for dark friendship, in her longing to keep her sister in her apartment and not led astray back to the dark beacon of Harrenhal, she had feared she called the devil to Westeros. 

“It was not you that called me from my slumber, from across the Summer Sea.It was a blood pact. A covenant met with ancient promises and desires.” He appeared to look between her round chest at the word desires. 

“I reached out.” 

“Yes, and you found your dream for darkness in the cold of night.” A puff of cold air left his mouth curling and dissipating before it touched her cheeks. 

Despite the warmth of the room he would be forever chilled.  

“I am,” What was she? What was she to him? “I am afraid I do not know of your desires, Mr. Targaryen.” 

“Your formality flatters me.” He began closing all his books looking down at each before standing as he closed the last. “But it is unneeded. Aemond will do just fine.” It wouldn’t. Her mind recoiled at the name as if he were a disease to be dealt with. “I do need you. Very much it would seem.” He traced along the edges of a thin pale paper before him. “The rumors of your . . . gift have not fallen upon deaf ears. They are exactly what I desire to be be freed of my current . .  hmmm . . .” He seemed to choose his words carefully before looking directly into her soft eyes. “Predicament.” 

“Pray tell,” She wondered with a hint of a sigh. “What is that?”

“A blood pact has been invoked. A member or relative of the Targaryen lineage has called me out to seek what they desire. An ancient bond I cannot break from for blood is sacred.” 

“And thicker than water.” Allara smirked at the hint of a joke. 

Aemond Targaryen did not find it amusing. 

“I am bound to fulfill the oath before I can return home.” Back to a destroyed and ancient Valyria. His lean body half leaned on the desk, fingers tapping at what she now could see was a family tree, Targaryen lineage stretched across time. “Power. Money. Wealth. Fame. All desires of the one who called me.” 

She stepped forward again, soft bare feet against the heated tiles. Allara looked to him for permission before journeying further. He nodded, stepping aside, turning the large family tree to her eyesight. He loomed over her as she looked, but quickly stepped aside when her fingers raked over the images. There were many intertwining factors, marriages, children, brothers, sisters, pangs of loves lost. Her fingers ran over Rhaenyra Targaryen and she could feel the blood she shared with her brother cry for the loss. 

She always knew they loved each other. 

It was a sense many could see upon looking at them together. 

Tear stains ballooned on the paper beside her name. 

“Oh Harwin.” She whispered feeling the hurt as they dried quickly. “Your boys are well.” 

It was then that she looked passed her nephews to the family who was struggling for power after Viserys passed. There were three children from the second marriage, Aegon,Helaena, and Daeron. Their mother was Alicent, a young woman who had been friends with Rhaenyra in her youth. She knew that they were all struggling to gain control over the immense wealth. Rhaenyra believed it was hers as the first born. Alicent very much believed her children deserved more as Rhaenyra had been estranged from her father in his final days having married his long time friend and business partner, Daemon. 

The family was a horrid mess that she would rather not get involved in. 

However her nephews, Jace, Luke, and Joffrey were all tied to this predicament. 

Her finger trailed along Alicent’s name. Hightower was squeezed between her first name and married surname. 

“It is troublesome as I do not know which of my line has called me.” He softly moved another yellowed ancient page to her view. It was written in an ancient language. 

A contract? She saw his signed signature marred with dirt and ware as it had been signed centuries prior. Slowly she saw in blood red ink a promise form. Her fingers felt over the words. Her head buzzed to use her own magic to translate, but hundreds of souls screaming in agony cupped her ears. Her fingers moved

 From the page as if the paper burned with the fires that consumed old Valyeria. 

“I am bound to kill Rhaenyra Targaryen and all she loves.” 

Her nephews were in danger. 

“I do not know who binds me so, witch.” It was then that she realized that he had lost control. There was frustration in his eye. His shoulders sat tense. It was not the killing he needed assistance with. It was the mystery of who dared call him. “I can not reach out as you.” He tapped the family tree again. “I am to fulfill this promise before the next blood moon. If I do not know who I am contracted to -” 

“You can not fulfill the contract.” She realized looking over each name. “This blood pact. If not fulfilled . . .?”

“My blood will burn within me. Consume me. A living liquid sun in my veins.” His jaw tensed at the thought of death. 

“And you are too stubborn to let your family end you as such.” Her smile let a flicker of a smirk cross his features. “But if you find the contractor . . .”

“And kill them. It would end the pact for the rest of time.” He swallowed. “There are two options. Kill Rhaenyra Targaryen and all she loves, a vague and unknowing contract or kill my kin who made the pact.” 

She saw it there on the paper. 

“Not kin.” Her fingernail scraped over the green inked name of Alicent Highertower Tarygaren. A line spider webbed out following her touch as if she summoned more links to her relationships and so on and so on. “Blood and all connected to the blood of Targaryens.” 

She looked to feel blood burn at her fingertips. The ghosts pulled at her in a longing, the smell of burnt juniper nipped at the air causing her eyes to water. She felt them attempting to stop her, the spirits lashed out in a hiss pulling her into the memory, the heavy fog of what stopped her from calling a good fate for her family. 

His arm pushed against the softness of her stomach, holding her close to his sharp lean body. The other hand laid flat on the surface of the desk. He was anchoring her, blowing hot air on her neck. The spirits did not want her here, not to aid the dark beast who sniffed at her neck. 

“He is a toad, that brother of yours.” She swallowed at the hiss and venom in his voice. “A kinslayer.” The ancient word perfumed the room. “I can not smell you, even this close. You can smell it can’t you? Hmmm . . .” He hummed, his lips pressed against her jaw line, dry and coarse. “Juniper, meant to chase away darkness. It clouded you from saving them.” 

She stiffened and remembered how she had promised never to say those words aloud or in her own mind. It was Larys’ knowledge of herbs and his desire for wealth that had murdered her family nearly fully. Allara focused on the cold touch of Aemond Targaryen feeling that an unpleasant stirring shuddered in her thighs as he spoke at her soft flesh. 

“You will have pleasant dreams here. I will make sure of it.” His fingers teased her hip bone kneading at the hardness of bone there. “Dream tonight of Targaryens in their mansions and parties and penthouses. Dream of the suspects who may have called me. Call them here if you must. You are my desirer. The one who will save me from this curse. And I will let you go, should you wish to by that time.”

The kiss was soft against her neck. 

Dry. 

No teeth. 

It was as gentlemanly as when he drank her blood earlier that night.  “Return to your quarters, enchantress.” He moved his hand across her stomach as he released her, teasing the silk tie that held her dressing gown all together negating the temptation. “I will see you when the dark curtain falls once more upon my beautiful home.”

[d-issent]

Botched. (Dissent AU.)

Peter Sam encounters Proteus. Having had the Sad Story of Smudger in the back of his mind for decades, he wishes on a whim for Smudger to be restored. Months later, after a remarkable discovery at the Mid Sodor, rebuild!Smudger is indeed - well, rebuilt - but has seemingly lost all of his memories in “exchange.” He loses his personality, his quirks, everything, he’s completely reset.  Peter Sam doesn't do well with guilt. This is part of the Dissent AU! So these guys are all robotisized - robofied? Robotified. Hell if I know. I could've written this with them as their normal engine selves that you see in the show but uhhh I didn't want to! Enjoy!

After days and days of a stalemate, on a hazy, muggy summer evening, Peter Sam finally spoke up, with no one around to hear him but the root cause of his grievances.

“I just feel so guilty,” he blurted out to his shed-mate, “I feel responsible. I feel like I’m the only one at fault for the state you’re in, and I can’t speak about how I feel without someone dismissing everything as ‘just an old fairytale.’ I can’t get closure like that.”

Silence followed his words, at least at first, but soon enough a gentle, almost melodic, metallic ticking of well-oiled parts began to sound, as the second occupant of the shed slowly stretched his arms up to the ceiling. As he moved, the cylinders in his shoulders and elbow joints clunked, releasing a few short, sharp jets of steam, and with it, the tension of the day’s work judging by the sigh of relief that also left him.

“Dunno how I feel about that wording of yours, Peter.” He finally replied, blinking rapidly as the fading daylight from outside prompted the automatic lights in his eyes to flicker on, bathing the shed’s dull, wooden ceiling beams in soft, golden light. Even on their lowest setting, they still illuminated the dust, the cracks and the spider webs stretched across the wood.

Another pause, then his voice sounded again, a twang of something that almost resembled humour mixed into his usual monotone.

“I like to think that I’m in a far better state than some of them poor bastards in the scrapyard at least.”

“That’s setting the bar pretty low if you ask me.” Peter Sam mumbled, his eyebrows pinching together in distress, a crease forming in the soft silicone of his face. “Anyway. My wording’s the least of my worries, God’s sake, Smudger, I’m pouring my heart out to you here, mate.”

“I know, I know. Sorry, I’ll try to be a little more compassionate.”

With another muffled cacophony of clicking and ticking, Smudger hauled himself up into a sitting position, more steam hissed, warming the already humid air.

“I don’t wanna sound like everyone else when I say this, I really don’t,” he began, “but aren’t I enough closure for you? I’m back up and running again, right?”

“Not all of you.” Peter Sam retorted, his voice deepening into an almost pouty, sulking tone. It was a wonder he hadn’t stuck out his bottom lip. “Sure you’re working, Percival even said he’s never seen a re-hauled engine operate so smoothly, but that’s all there is. So what if you’re a ‘miracle of engineering’? You’re not you, Granpuff said so.”

“Duke hasn’t made you feel like this, has he?” Smudger asked. “Because from what I’ve been told, he’s never had the best opinion of me.”

“He hasn’t done anything like that. He never wants to talk about the Mid Sodor anymore.” Peter Sam said defensively, proverbial hackles immediately raising at the thought of the tension between Smudger and his mentor. His hands twitched and twisted in front of him anxiously, wearing down the already peeling, plush grey silicone a little further down his fingertips, revealing the smooth metal beneath. 

Smudger eventually spoke up again, his shoulders pulled up around his head in a tiny shrug. 

“Eh. That’s his cross to bear, I guess. Anyway, even if I’m not all there as you said, I’m not sure if I even wanna be the ‘me’ I was back then if just the thought of that ‘me’ gives our fellow engines a headache, Peter.” 

The older engine tilted his head, eyebrows raising, bringing a little bit of life into his usual plain, weary expression.

“Leave your dang fingers alone. You know it’s not easy for management to get hold of that material. You wanna look like the Terminator?”

“Ugh…”

Peter Sam threw his mauled hands down with a groan of frustration, but the itch to do something with his hands just wouldn’t leave him, and soon enough he was back, almost stealthily picking at the peeling silicone, hoping against hope that Smudger wouldn’t notice.

Silence fell between the two of them, in which the air around them hung heavily with troubles yet to be spoken about, grievances yet to be aired. Peter Sam really couldn’t stand it, he knew that the night was drawing in, and with it the other engines, all groaning and complaining half-heartedly about the day’s work, yet all of them still content and chatting away, filling the shed with noise and stripping away all privacy. He wasn’t sure if he could go another day without getting this off of his chest, he feared his boiler might explode.

“Look. I know how silly this sounds, I know it’s nonsense!” He blurted out, voice high and wavering with misery. “But I know what I saw and I know what I did. I wanted you to be found, I wished for it, I asked Proteus to save you and he said, consider it done! Should’ve known that it would’ve been too good to be true; that it was a botched deal; look at what he’s done to you!”

He turned in his seat, gesturing wildly towards his bemused friend.

“You’re a total blank slate! I know everyone is all cock-a-hoop about your re-haul, everyone’s always talking about how good a job they did and everybody’s always saying how well you run and how bright and glossy your livery is, but what does it matter? You get up; you do your work; you come back here and that’s it! You hardly talk to anyone, you barely react to anything, it’s like you’re sleepwalking through life. Is that really what you want?”

“Sleepwalking through work doesn’t sound so bad.” Smudger quipped.

“God above, Smudger…”

Peter Sam ran his patchy hands down his face, the last remnants of steam leaking out from his ears, covering his face in a misty halo, obscuring his expression for a moment. 

He continued on.

“I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for you to be so apathetic about everything, I asked for you to be given a second chance, but what does that matter if he didn’t bring you back? You’re completely rebuilt, you don’t have a single original part left, save for your chip, and even that got completely overwritten! It’s like you’re still lost under the Mid Sodor. You don’t remember what happened, you don’t remember who you were, you couldn’t even remember your name when you first came here, for goodness’ sake, and it’s my fault!” 

He exhaled sharply, leaning forward with a creak of metal, his head in his hands, shoulders hunched, a truly pitiful sight to behold.

“I hate sitting on all of this, and I hate that no one believes me.” He grumbled. 

Outside, the muggy, sticky heat was finally given a period of reprieve. From the murky sky, raindrops began to fall, thick and fast, peppering the ground and the buildings of the Skarloey Estate with much needed water, a roll of thunder sounded in the distance, deep yet muffled, a promise of a stormy night yet to come.

From the gaps between his fingers, Peter Sam saw Smudger tilt his head towards the sound inquisitively, and he couldn’t help but wonder if this was the older engine’s first storm since his retrieval from the Mid Sodor, and his suspicions were confirmed as he spoke;

“Man. It ain’t just you. Dang sky’s yelling at me and all now.” He muttered, his voice almost lost in the white noise of the rain.

Peter Sam grimaced.

“… I’m sorry,” he sighed, finally lifting his head out of his hands, an uncharacteristically haggard expression on his face, it made him look far older than he was, “didn’t mean to shout, really.”

“S’fine. Feels good to yell sometimes. You’re just lucky Handel ain’t around to make a fuss about the noise.”

Another lapse, and outside the rainfall turned into a deluge, pouring from the sky in a great sheet. The temperature steadily dropped, and the scent of petrichor lingered in the air; the sight and the smell normally would’ve brought some sense of comfort to Peter Sam, but tonight the gloomy weather just made him feel boxed in. He gazed reproachfully up into the dark hills that surrounded the estate, eyes narrowing.

Was Proteus up there right now? Skulking around, refusing to interact with anyone, human or engine, loyal to no railway, answering to no man; spreading his spoiled wishes across the island, duping silly little engines like him into thinking they could make a difference.

Oh. If he found him again… 

“Think you’re beating yourself up about this for nothing, y’know.” Smudger said, bright eyes watching the rain, blinking slowly, lazily. “All that spiel that came outta your mouth was great and all. But you didn’t actually stop to ask me how I feel about all of this, the uh… So-called victim of the hillbilly and his faulty lamp.”

Peter Sam drew his knees up to his chest, his face pulled into a sullen, moody arrangement, feeling for all the world like a student being reprimanded by his teacher. It was a weirdly familiar sensation, one that he really didn’t care to look into at the moment.

“Alrighty. Penny for your thoughts?” He asked, doing his best to lighten his tone.

“I ain’t that cheap, sorry,” Smudger sighed, barely disguising a yawn, it was clear that the older engine’s lack of steam was winding him down for the night, but still, he spoke, “look, I just reckon you’re thinking about all of this the wrong way. Sure, I don’t remember anything about Duke, or the Mid Sodor, but from what I’ve been told, I’m not sure I want to.”

“I can understand that.” Peter Sam nodded, though an awful, sour feeling now sat resolutely in his throat, a need to tell Smudger that he should at least be a little curious as to his origins, but he stayed silent, letting the older engine speak on.

“Even if I could remember all of my misfortune, all of my spills, all those decades spent as a generator, I’d probably wanna forget all that crap anyway.” Smudger said simply. “Wouldn’t you? Growing and healing from horrible stuff that’s happened to you is cool when it’s a plot for some cheesy novel, but it sucks in the real world. Would you wanna do it if you didn’t have to? I wouldn’t.”

“Depends on the engine.” Peter Sam pointed out. “Some of my friends wouldn’t be who they are today if they hadn’t gone through the hardships of life.”

“Guess you could argue that, yeah. But I’m not interested in working through everything that’s happened to me,” Smudger replied, “if I was given the choice, and I have been; I’m fine with not knowing. That’s good enough for me, and that should be good enough for you too, right?”

Peter Sam didn’t reply, but it was clear that Smudger’s words hadn’t sat well with him. He was frowning mightily, his mouth pressed into a thin line, and when he finally spoke again, that sulky edge was present once more, rough and grating.

“Being told about who you were and what happened to you isn’t the same as remembering it.” He grumbled. “It’s hard to think about the past, of course it is, but how are we supposed to grow if we don’t? We need that experience and those life lessons, otherwise we never learn anything, we end up doomed to repeat the same things over and over again.”

“Peter, I’m not stuck in a loop, you know.” Smudger said sharply. “I’m not an idiot, man. I’m not doomed to make mistakes and then immediately forget why and how I made them.”

The older engine sighed, a short and sharp exhalation of breath, a frustrated sound.

“Maybe I haven’t started growing yet,” he went on, “maybe you, and Duke have just gotta give me a chance to figure some stuff out first. Maybe this right here is gonna lead me to become whoever I am in the future. ‘Cept this time the world’s a kinder place, this time I’ve got a bit more sense and this time, I’ve got a couple hints as to what I shouldn’t do under my belt. How about that?”

“What happened to you on the Mid Sodor wasn’t right.” Peter Sam said doggedly, and in his anxious fidgeting, an entire strip of silicone was peeled away from his thumb, earning a grimace form him. “Fiddlesticks. You shouldn’t have been put away like that because of a bad track record, no engine who was treated like some object with no sentience did. What humans did to some of us back then was draconian, you know that, right?”

“That’s not what I’m getting at,” Smudger replied with a shake of his head, “I don’t wanna be a victim. I’m tryna reassure you that this is a far, far better start in life for an engine like me, and knowing what little I know about who I was back then is enough to make me wanna be better. Useful, if you want, that sounds like a second chance. Sounds like you got your wish to me.”

“But…”

Peter Sam struggled to think of another point to make, another angle at which he could approach this, all of what Smudger said made sense, but it still did nothing to appease the squirming, nauseating feeling of guilt inside of his stomach.

“Think what this all boils down to is you worrying that after all of that effort to restore me, I’ve ended up as some miserable prick. A bit like Duke,” Smudger snorted, casting a glance at the deluge outside, “contrary to what you think, I’m pretty happy right now. I’m not out in that mess at least. That’s a cause for celebration if you want my opinion.”

Peter Sam finally found himself cracking something like a smile, a wobbly expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and from across the shed, Smudger appeared to notice this, as with a groan of metal, he sat up a little straighter, fixing the younger engine with those intense, yet warm eyes.

“Peter Sam.”

“Smudger?”

“You did a good thing, alright? It’s fine.”

Peter Sam swallowed a retort, a retort that he wasn’t even sure he wanted to make. Something about the way Smudger spoke worked to calm the storm howling away inside of his head, after such a hard conversation, it was strange how just that simple sentence was enough to quell the unease plaguing him.

It’s fine.

Directly above Smudger’s head, the lamp hanging from the wooden ceiling beam suddenly fizzled, the lightbulb buzzing and dimming almost to the point of popping, before it flashed back up again, bright and warm as if nothing had happened.

Smudger glanced up, an eyebrow cocked.

Peter Sam held his breath, hoping against hope that nothing would come of it, hoping that it was just a faulty lightbulb, hoping…

“Someone’s gotta check out the wiring in this shed tomorrow.” Smudger commented, his eyes sliding closed. “Reckon I might know a thing or two about that.”

[isacksteban]

Please. — Marcmarc

It was the week before Christmas, and the season had just ended. Tavullia was quiet, it's cobbled streets dusted with a thin layer of snow, and Marco's small apartment felt even quieter. The radiator clicked as it tried to fight off the chill, but Marco barely noticed. He stood by the window, staring out at the frost creeping along the glass. Outside, the fairy lights strung across the neighboring buildings blinked softly, their gentle glow reflecting like tiny stars.

His thoughts were heavy, tangled with memories he couldn’t escape. The pit in his stomach twisted tighter, the kind of unease that only one person could bring. He knew Marc was on his way. He always did. It was something in the air, a weight that settled on him whenever Marc was near. It was equal parts anticipation and dread, the two emotions locked in a tug-of-war that left him feeling raw.

When the knock came, Marco’s breath hitched, his heart leaping in a way that made him hate himself just a little more. For a fleeting moment, he thought about ignoring it. Pretending he wasn’t home. But he knew better. He always let Marc in. Always had, always would.

He opened the door, and there he was — Marc Marquez, leaning casually against the doorframe, his crooked, feline grin already in place. His dark hair was tousled from the cold, his cheeks pink from the wind. In his hands was a small, neatly wrapped box, the paper shimmering faintly in the dim light of the hallway.

“Merry Christmas, Bez,” Marc said, his voice low and warm as he stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.

Marco stepped back automatically, his chest tightening as Marc brushed past him, the familiar scent of his cologne filling the small space. It was always like this. Marc’s presence filled the room, filled him, and left no room for anything else.

“You didn’t have to come all the way here,” Marco said, his voice steady, though it cost him more effort than he’d ever admit. He closed the door and turned to face Marc, who had already set the gift on Marco’s cluttered table.

“I wanted to.” Marc shrugged, his tone too casual, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But Marco knew better. The tension in Marc’s shoulders, the way his eyes darted around the room, betrayed him.

“We need to talk,” Marc said finally, his voice softer now.

Marco’s stomach dropped. Of course, they needed to talk. That’s all they ever seemed to do these days — they’d talk. Or fight. Or fuck. Pretend everything wasn't ruined.

“What’s the point, Marc?” Marco asked, his voice heavy with exhaustion. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, leaning against the counter as if it were the only thing holding him up. His voice wavered, despite his best efforts to sound resolute. “You’ll just say the same things you always do. That it’s complicated. That you care about me, but—”

“But I do care about you!” Marc interrupted, his voice sharp, almost desperate. The words sliced through the tension in the room like a blade, their force making Marco flinch.

“You care,” Marco said, his voice soft but raw with pain. “But not enough.” His arms tightened around himself as if trying to keep his breaking heart from spilling out. He turned his gaze away, staring down at the chipped linoleum floor as tears threatened to escape. “Not enough to stop lying to her.”

It was always about her. Marco tried to convince himself it wasn’t — tried to blame Marc, blame himself, blame the world — but deep down, he couldn’t help but think of her. Gemma. The name tasted bitter on his tongue, though he never said it aloud. He blamed her, hated her, envied her. And yet, he knew none of it was her fault. She was just as trapped in Marc’s web of indecision as he was.

“Not enough to stop hurting me,” Marco added, his voice breaking.

Marc exhaled a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his messy hair, the gesture as familiar as it was infuriating. “It’s not that simple—”

“It is that simple!” Marco snapped, his voice rising, trembling with the force of his frustration and grief. He finally looked up, his tear-filled eyes locking onto Marc’s. His anger flared, hot and consuming, burning away the vulnerability he’d tried so hard to hide. “You don’t get to show up here every time you feel guilty. Every time you want to tell me how much I mean to you but never enough to actually choose me!”

Marc flinched at the words, his face twisting with pain. He stepped forward instinctively, his hand half-reaching toward Marco as if he could somehow soothe the storm he’d caused.

But Marco held up a hand, palm out, his body stiff and trembling. “Don’t,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Just... don’t.”

The space between them felt impossibly wide, a chasm filled with unspoken words and broken promises. Marc froze, his outstretched hand falling limply to his side, his expression crumbling into something unreadable. Marco could see it — the guilt, the regret — but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. And it never would be.

“Ti voglio tanto bene, Marco,” Marc said, his voice barely more than a whisper, the words trembling as they left his lips.

Marco closed his eyes for a moment, letting the words wash over him, but they didn’t comfort him. Instead, they twisted the knife already buried in his chest. “Then why does it hurt more?” he whispered back, his voice fragile, as though speaking too loudly would shatter him completely. His eyes flicked up to meet Marc’s, brimming with unshed tears. “Why do I feel my pain more than I feel your love?”

The silence that followed was suffocating, the weight of it pressing down on both of them. Marc looked down at the floor, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. Marco could see the storm raging in his dark eyes, the conflict, the guilt, the love he claimed to feel but never acted on. He always looked like this when they reached the inevitable breaking point—torn, but never enough to make a choice.

“You should go,” Marco said at last, his voice hollow, barely audible. He turned away from Marc, staring at the window and the blinking fairy lights outside, the soft glow mocking the darkness inside him. “It’s Christmas, Marc. Go be with her. She’s waiting, I’m sure.”

Marc’s breath hitched at Marco’s words, and for a moment, he stood frozen, as though waiting for Marco to take them back, to beg him to stay. But Marco didn’t. He stayed rooted where he was, his arms wrapped around himself, his back to Marc, a silent but final wall between them.

Marc hesitated, the weight of his indecision visible in the way his body tensed. But then he nodded, the movement slow and reluctant. He walked to the door, each step feeling heavier than the last. When he opened it, the icy December air rushed in, swirling around them both, a stark contrast to the stifling heat of their unresolved emotions.

At the threshold, Marc paused, his hand on the doorframe. He turned back one last time, his dark eyes pleading, his voice trembling with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. “Marco, mi amor…”

Marco finally turned to face him, his expression unreadable. He forced a smile onto his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes — it was brittle, fragile, as if it might crumble under the weight of the moment. “Merry Christmas, Marc,” he said, his tone steady despite the ache in his chest. “Please don’t call.”

The words hung in the air between them, final and unyielding. Marc’s shoulders sagged, his hand falling limply to his side. Marco stepped forward and gently closed the door, the soft click of the latch echoing like a gunshot in the silence of the apartment.

On the other side of the door, Marc stood frozen, his hand hovering over the wood as if he could push it open again, as if he could undo everything — as if he could stop himself from turning into the villain in his story, into Rossi. He rested his forehead against the door, his breath clouding in the frigid air. For a moment, he considered knocking, begging Marco for one more chance. But he didn’t.

Instead, he turned and walked away, his boots crunching against the snow, his shadow growing fainter as he disappeared into the cold, empty night.

Inside, Marco leaned back against the door, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees. The tears he had fought so hard to hold back finally spilled over, silent and unstoppable. The fairy lights outside kept blinking, their cheerful glow a cruel reminder of everything he had just let go.

And somewhere, Marc walked through the streets of Tavullia, carrying the weight of his choices, knowing he’d never hear Marco’s voice again. He'd never speak to his Bez, his amor, all that was left was Marco Bezzecchi. The most talented rider Aprilia had ever seen — in Marc's eyes at least.

[muchitwenty-eight]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐍´𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 │𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏

The sound of the door closing behind her marked the end of yet another endless meeting.

Tina Kovka exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of exhaustion clinging to her shoulders like an invisible burden. The conference room had been stifling, filled with the monotonous murmur of superiors discussing strategies, reviewing reports, and issuing orders that, at this point, slipped through her mind like sand through her fingers. Nothing she hadn't heard before. Nothing that could help ease the fatigue accumulating in her body like a second skin.

With firm steps, she walked down the police department hallway, feeling the echo of her boots resonating against the tiled floor. Around her, the daily hustle carried on: agents hunched over desks overflowing with documents, phones ringing nonstop, empty coffee cups scattered like silent witnesses of endless workdays. The scent of old paper and ink mixed with that of stale coffee and half-smoked cigarettes.

She adjusted her thigh holster with an automatic gesture, making sure everything was in place. Her sweatshirt with the London Police Department logo hung loosely over the boxy-cut white T-shirt, and her low-rise black jeans molded to her every movement with the ease of everyday wear. She didn't need a mirror to know that her appearance betrayed her lack of sleep. The feeling was enough.

Upon reaching her desk, she let a folder drop onto the table and collapsed into the chair, feeling the tension in her back protest with a slight twinge. In front of her, a board covered in photographs, newspaper clippings, and red strings awaited—a web of clues that still didn't quite fit together.

– Great – she muttered, rubbing her eyes.

She couldn't remember the last time she had slept more than four hours straight without dreaming of open case files and blurry faces watching her from the other side of consciousness.

The work didn't stop.

And neither could she.

The pen in her hand spun between her fingers at a slow, almost hypnotic rhythm. Tina's mind delved into the documents scattered across the desk, but exhaustion made her lose focus every few seconds. Her gaze traveled over the board in front of her—the black-and-white faces pinned with red tacks, the reports with crumpled edges, the diagrams drawn with rushed strokes. Nothing seemed to fit yet, and that thought frustrated her.

Then, a massive shadow covered the table.

A chill ran down her spine before she lifted her eyes. Standing before her, taking up more space than seemed physically possible, was the chief commissioner. A Black man wearing a suit that looked like it was about to burst at the seams, with a face as solid and stone-like as his own body. His bald head gleamed under the fluorescent lights, and his small, deep-set eyes looked at her with a mix of impatience and displeasure.

— Kovka, to the conference office.

His voice was a deep growl, as if every word was sharpened with the intent to cut off any attempt at objection.

Tina set the pen down on the table and looked at him, not bothering to hide her annoyance.

— I just came from there — she replied, dragging her words with exhaustion — I have work to do.

The man didn't even blink. His expression remained unchanged, only tilting his head slightly, casting even more of his shadow over her.

— To the office. Now.

She clenched her teeth. They knew each other too well for this to surprise her. There had always been an uncomfortable tension between them, a silent tug-of-war where neither gave in too much. He looked at her as if she were a constant problem, an unsolved case, an anomaly in his department. But despite everything, he kept her close. Kovka wasn't the typical obedient officer who nodded without question, but she was the best at what she did. And he knew it.

She exhaled heavily and pushed her chair back, standing up reluctantly.

— If you make me waste my time with another meeting about bureaucracy, I swear…

The commissioner had already turned on his heels and was walking away with the same imposing presence as always, not bothering to listen to her half-finished threat.

Tina huffed and, with an almost childish gesture, grabbed the folder more forcefully than necessary before following him. Her job exhausted her. Her boss exhausted her. But if he was calling an extra meeting, it meant something serious was in motion.

And that was enough to shake the sleep from her eyes.

Here's the start of the scene with all the details you requested. I'm going to make it extensive, gripping, and highly detailed.

Tina entered the conference room with a furrowed brow and tense shoulders. It wasn't because of the meeting itself—she was used to dealing with last-minute orders and absurd changes of plans—but because she hated wasting time when she had an open case on her desk. She had spent the last few days buried in files, photographs, and connection diagrams that still failed to form a clear picture, and now she was being pulled away from her work for a new mission that, knowing her superiors, would undoubtedly complicate her life.

The air in the room was thick with the stale scent of old coffee and paper, mixed with the faint leather perfume of chairs worn down by years of use. On the conference table, a handful of reports and documents lay stacked with precise symmetry. The cold glow of the fluorescent lights barely managed to ease the oppressive atmosphere of the place.

At the far end of the table, a man watched her with a stern expression. Tall and slender, with an elegance that betrayed his rank, Sir Reginald Whitmore looked as though he belonged to another era. His graying hair was perfectly slicked back, not a single strand out of place, and his dark gray suit was flawlessly pressed, without a single wrinkle.

In contrast to the imposing figure of her other superior who had called her earlier—Chief Commissioner Douglas Barker—Whitmore exuded a dangerous calm, like a predator analyzing the exact moment to strike.

The towering Barker shut the door behind her with a sharp thud, crossing his arms over his chest. His black suit seemed on the verge of bursting with every movement he made, and his perpetually angry face added extra weight to the already heavy atmosphere in the room.

Whitmore studied her for a few seconds before speaking.

— Kovka, we have an assignment for you.

Tina crossed her arms, already feeling the irritation pulse behind her temples.

— Another last-minute assignment? I'm working on an "assignment" right this very moment.

The older man gave a slight tilt of his head, as if her protest was irrelevant.

— This is a priority. There's an illegal gambling house operating in Mayfair. We know it's not just a betting site but a meeting point for all kinds of transactions, but we need an undercover agent to get inside—it's exclusive.

Tina arched an eyebrow.

— And what exactly do you expect me to do? Walk in with a flashlight and politely ask where they keep the financial records of their transactions?

Barker grunted from his position, his deep tone echoing through the room.

— Don't get smart, Kovka.

She shot him a sidelong glance before turning her attention back to Whitmore.

— We need evidence. Pictures, documents, anything that helps us prosecute the owner. He calls himself Oliver, but we know that's not his real name. He's never been arrested, never left a trace. We want that man and everything surrounding him.

Tina let her arms drop to her sides with an exasperated sigh.

— And what, do I look like I'd be a good undercover agent? I haven't done it in years—I did it when I was a minor, not now.

Whitmore barely smiled, though there was no trace of humor in his expression.

— But you're smart enough to find what we need.

She shook her head.

— I can't accept this. I have a life.

Barker's scoff was immediate. The massive man placed both hands on the table, leaning toward her with a stern expression.

— Don't make me laugh, Kovka.

She met his gaze coldly.

— I'm serious.

— You have no family, no personal connections. No one can threaten your loved ones if you don't have any. You're the most solitary detective in the department, and that makes you the perfect person for this job—you don't leak information.

Tina's jaw tightened, and for a moment, the silence in the room was as thick as the fog on the streets of London.

She knew he was right. Barker wasn't a man of subtlety, but he wasn't one to lie either. Since joining the department, she had kept her personal life to a minimum. She wasn't the kind of person who socialized beyond what was necessary, nor did she take the time to build relationships outside of work. Her colleagues respected her, sure, but there were no deep connections with any of them. She had no one to call on a lonely night, no one waiting for her to come home.

And right now, that was working against her.

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to stay calm.

— How much time do I have?

Whitmore offered a faint smile.

— As much as you need. But tomorrow night, you go to the club. You have an apartment in Mayfair now, not far from the place. The clothes are in that apartment, along with your fake documents and money. Don't bring anything personal—you already know all of this.

Tina pressed her lips into a thin line and looked down at the table, where the documents waited. Deep down, she already knew she had no choice.

Kovka remained silent for a moment, her eyes locked onto the stack of documents on the table. She could still feel the gaze of her superiors on her, the thin patience of Whitmore and the oppressive presence of Barker, as if they were waiting for the slightest complaint just so they could throw the assignment back at her with twice the force.

She knew she had no choice. She never really did.

Slowly, she reached out and took the first report. The paper crinkled slightly between her fingers as she skimmed through it. Black-and-white surveillance photos where nothing was clearly visible, descriptions of suspicious movements, lists of names connected to the Mayfair location that, in the end, didn't really matter. Nothing she hadn't seen before in similar cases.

However, the lack of information about the owner of the business unsettled her. A ghost running an illegal empire. That was never a good sign.

With a heavy sigh, she closed the folder and gripped it tightly.

— Fine. I'll do it.

Whitmore inclined his head in satisfaction, as if her acceptance had been the only logical conclusion. Barker, on the other hand, scoffed with disinterest, unfolding his arms.

— Didn't expect anything less.

Tina gave them both one last look.

— If this costs me more hours of sleep, I want a raise.

The head detective let out a low chuckle, though without a trace of real amusement.

— When you finish the job, we'll discuss compensation.

She knew that meant never, but she hadn't expected any other answer.

With one last nod, she turned on her heels and walked out of the room, leaving the two men behind. Her steps echoed down the hallway as she moved forward, the folder held tightly against her side like a reminder of the mess that had just landed on her shoulders.

Her desk was exactly as she had left it. The board covered with photographs and reports, the cold coffee cups piled up in a corner, her open notebook filled with half-written notes. If she was going to take on this case, she couldn't leave any traces of her previous investigation unattended. She didn't trust anyone else to handle her work properly.

With an automatic motion, she pulled off her department-issued sweatshirt and let it fall onto her chair. She adjusted her T-shirt in an attempt to tidy up her appearance.

She started with the simplest task: stacking and organizing the documents into separate folders, making sure each case was properly archived. She pulled the photographs off the board, carefully folding the corners to prevent damage, and stored them in labeled envelopes. Her notebook was the last thing to be closed and locked away in the bottom drawer of her desk.

When she was done, she exhaled sharply, pressing her hands against the desk for a moment.

The weight of exhaustion was still there, clinging to her back like a persistent shadow. She knew this case wouldn't be easy. No undercover job ever was. She was diving into a network of illegal betting, where money flowed more easily than information, and where mistakes cost more than just a scolding from her superiors.

She was about to disappear for a while. It was best to make sure nothing was left out of place before leaving.

Tina Kovka's desk was clear. A miracle, considering the chaos she usually drowned in during her investigations. Now everything was filed away, stored, or locked up. Only the new case folder remained, resting at the center of the desk, waiting to be devoured by her analytical gaze.

She dropped into her chair, feeling the weight of accumulated exhaustion pressing down on her shoulders. Stretching her arms behind her head, she let out a sigh and finally opened the folder.

The first few pages were surveillance reports: descriptions of people entering and leaving the Mayfair establishment, luxury cars parked nearby, lists of suspicious bets with figures that bordered on the ridiculous. Nothing out of the ordinary for this type of business. However, between the lines, she could see the pattern: the same faces appeared too often, the same names repeated, the amounts were too precise. This wasn't just an illegal business—it was a perfectly calculated network.

She frowned and flipped to the next pages when a noise in the hallway pulled her from her concentration. Quick footsteps, almost impatient, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of crinkling packaging.

She didn't need to look to know who it was.

The intruder appeared at the door without knocking, as usual. Slim and of average height, wearing a gray hoodie and worn-out jeans, Niall Horan leaned against the doorway with an easy smile and a juice cup in one hand. His blond hair was messy, as if he had run his fingers through it multiple times in the past few hours, and his pale skin betrayed a lack of sunlight.

The fingers of his other hand held an open box of donuts.

— Are you caught up in a case you're not supposed to be involved in again?

Tina looked up with an impassive expression.

— Back again, sticking your nose in other people's business without leaving the safety of your screen?

The hacker let out a low chuckle and entered without waiting for an invitation. He walked over to her desk, nudging one of the nearby chairs with his foot, and plopped down into it with the same carelessness with which he breathed.

— It's not my fault if the information finds me first.

Tina tilted her head.

— Yeah, sure. Because it's totally normal for emails to leak on their own, for security systems to magically disable, and for bank records to pop up on your monitor.

Niall smiled with fake modesty and lifted the box of donuts.

— You're right, I'm a genius.

She rolled her eyes, but he had already taken one of the sugar-coated donuts and placed it on her desk.

— For you. Before you turn into a walking corpse.

Tina eyed the gift with some suspicion. Since they first met, Niall and she had maintained that ongoing competition of "who's more annoying."

— Since when are you charitable?

— Since I found out we're going to be stuck in the same case.

That caught her attention.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk, and raised an eyebrow.

— So they pulled you into this too?

— Barker came to see me a little while ago. Apparently, they want me to track any digital movement from the betting house. Frequent bettors, suspicious transactions, connections to other businesses. The usual.

She nodded slowly, processing the information.

— So you track from your cave, and I do the dirty work on the street.

Niall made a nonchalant gesture.

— Like always, though this time you'll be able to talk to me every once in a while.

Tina took the donut without saying anything and took a bite. The sugar stuck to her lips, and the sweet taste mixed with the bitterness of the cold coffee still on the table.

The hacker looked at the folder in front of her and nodded toward it.

— Found anything interesting yet?

She swallowed and wiped the sugar off her fingers on her pants before answering.

— A lot of money moving in circles, names repeating too much, and an owner who doesn't exist in any records.

Niall clicked his tongue.

— Those are the best ones.

Tina took the folder and closed it with a sharp snap.

— This is going to be a nightmare.

The blonde smiled, resting his feet on the edge of her desk.

— Then it'll be fun.

Niall stayed a little longer, with his usual laid-back attitude, moving his feet over Tina's desk while checking his phone. He didn't need to say it out loud, but she knew he was already snooping through databases, looking for patterns, connections, any loose thread that could unravel the case before they even set foot on the ground.

She finished her donut in silence, flipping through the reports one more time, until her partner broke the quiet with a yawn.

— Well, as far as I'm concerned, I've got enough to get started.

The hacker lowered his feet to the floor and stood up with the same laziness with which he had arrived. He stretched his arms above his head, making his back crack, and grabbed the remainder of his coffee.

— I'll send you everything I find. But don't call me before ten in the morning, you know that late nights are sacred.

Tina looked at him with irony.

— And if I need you earlier?

— Then good luck with that.

He waved goodbye with a nonchalant gesture and left the office, leaving behind only the faint smell of coffee and sugar.

She waited a few seconds, making sure the door was closed, before standing up with a sigh.

There was nothing left tying her to the police department.

The night air of London was cool when she stepped out onto the street. Despite the time, traffic still slithered between the buildings, illuminating the asphalt with red and yellow lights.

Her apartment was a few blocks away, just enough to walk without trouble.

The soles of her boots echoed on the sidewalk as she moved through the sparse crowd. On every corner, anonymous faces passed without paying her any attention, some absorbed in their phones, others whispering in low voices. London was like that: a place full of noise, and yet, terribly lonely.

Tina turned down a less busy street, her steps now quieter, and within minutes reached the door of her building.

It was a modest apartment complex, comfortable enough for someone like her, who spent more time at the office than at home.

She took the key from her thigh holster and entered without hesitation.

The elevator was under maintenance, again, so she took the stairs. Upon reaching her door, she pushed it open with her shoulder and stepped into the familiar dimness.

Her home was a small but functional space. A living room with a black leather sofa, a low table stacked with papers, and a floor lamp that barely lit the room. In one corner, a small kitchen with just the necessary appliances. There wasn't much decoration; she had never been interested in making the place feel cozier.

The first thing she did was head to her bedroom closet.

If she was going to temporarily move to Mayfair, she needed to bring only the essentials.

With mechanical movements, she grabbed a canvas backpack and began to fill it. Clothes discreet enough to blend in, her folding knife, a blank notebook, a small flashlight, and a box of ammunition in case things went sideways.

She closed the backpack, slung it over her shoulder, and took one last look at her home. She didn't know how long she'd be gone.

She sighed and turned off the light.

The trip to Mayfair was quiet.

She took a taxi on one of the main avenues and sank into the back seat, watching the city lights flicker through the window. The driver didn't ask questions, and she had no intention of starting a conversation.

As the vehicle moved through the streets, Tina mentally reviewed what she knew about the case.

Mayfair wasn't just any neighborhood. It was one of the most exclusive areas in London, filled with luxury buildings, five-star hotels, and private clubs where the elite gathered away from the rest of the world's gaze. An illegal betting operation fit too well in that environment.

It wasn't some rundown dive bar. It wasn't a poorly lit basement where guys in leather jackets bet their paychecks on underground fights.

It was a well-oiled system, with powerful people pulling the strings.

And now, her mission was to dismantle it.

The taxi stopped on a quiet street, flanked by stone buildings with lit windows. Tina paid without saying a word and got out, immediately feeling the change in the atmosphere.

There was no noise here. Everything was neatly organized, from the cobblestones to the cars parked in perfect alignment.

She looked up at the building where she would be staying.

It was an apartment rented through the department, a discreet place, without unnecessary luxuries, but well-located enough to move around without raising suspicion.

She climbed the stairs, opened the door, and entered.

The space was almost empty. A gray sofa in the living room, a small kitchen, a bedroom with a single bed. Just enough to survive, but luxuriously decorated to avoid suspicion if anyone were to burst in.

She locked the door and set the backpack on the table.

She took a deep breath.

From now on, her life would revolve around this mission.

And, as much as she hated to admit it, there was something about the uncertainty of the case that made her heart race.

The apartment had the same impersonal coldness as a luxury hotel. Everything was functional, without personality or details that made it feel cozy but strangely expensive. Exactly what she expected from a temporary place.

She dropped her backpack on the small living room table and moved toward the bedroom. She pushed the door open and turned on the light.

The first thing she saw was the bed with immaculate white sheets, not a wrinkle in sight. A window with thick beige curtains and a dark wood dresser with a mirror above it. Everything seemed in order, except for a door on the side, slightly ajar.

She frowned and approached.

She pushed the door open carefully, and as the light from the bedroom illuminated the interior, she felt as though she had stepped into another world.

The room was completely different from the rest of the apartment.

The walls were covered with golden-toned wallpaper, and every corner was decorated with a luxury that took her by surprise. An open wardrobe revealed a collection of designer dresses, hung in perfect order, each more elegant than the last. Next to them, a row of high-heeled shoes, some with rhinestone details, others with shiny patent leather.

In one corner, a shiny wooden vanity was covered with an arsenal of makeup, brushes in glass jars, lipsticks in golden cases, perfume bottles with names she barely recognized.

Beyond that, a display case filled with jewelry.

Diamond necklaces, gemstone rings, delicate strap watches. All arranged as if it were a private boutique.

Then, on a marble table in the center of the room, stacks of cash carelessly piled. Pounds, euros, dollars. Cash, ready to be used.

Tina blinked a couple of times, processing what was in front of her.

She wasn't the type to be impressed by luxury, but this was something else.

A disguise.

A suit made of expensive fabrics and shiny adornments.

She had understood that she needed to blend in with Mayfair, but she hadn't expected them to give her an entire damn character to play.

She walked over to the display case and ran the tips of her fingers over the glass surface.

If this was part of the job, she would accept it.

She wasn't one to criticize women who enjoyed dressing up, but she had never had the time or interest to do it constantly. Except for her hair.

That was her only indulgence.

She had lost count of how many times she had changed her color in recent years, but now she had settled on a pure white, almost silver. She wore it long, down to her waist, with a sleekness that fell perfectly over her back.

Her eyebrows, the same shade, framed gray eyes that often seemed almost transparent under certain lights. Her skin, porcelain pale, gave her an ethereal air, as if she didn't quite belong to this world.

And perhaps she didn't.

She looked at herself in the vanity mirror, leaning slightly to examine her reflection.

With the right makeup, the proper attire, and the appropriate jewelry, she could become whoever she needed to be.

She sighed and picked up one of the soft-bristled brushes.

If she was going to dive into this role, she better do it well.

[monstersdownthepath]

Monster Spotlight: Danthienne

CR 5

Chaotic Neutral Tiny Fey

Bestiary 6, pg. 80

These doll-sized, courtly Fey adore the trappings of mortal nobility.. but they couldn't care less for the politics that come with it. These creatures are also known as Gossip Pixies, and for good reason; they care about the gossip, the dirt, the drama, the choicest bits of he-said-she-said that can only be found when mingling with the upper class. Able to turn invisible at will and having a +14 to Sleight of Hand checks, Danthienne spend most of their days drifting through academies, noble courts, and guildhouses, pilfering whatever they believe will make them look more noble and affluent than their peers, prizing magic items above all else, but not for the reason you may think. Yes, a magic item could be quite a potent source of power, but the vain faeries really only care that such items automatically resize to fit their tiny bodies. Any added functionality is a pleasant secondary prize.

While Danthienne spend most of their time floating invisibly among the chatting populace, they quickly grow bored if things begin to stagnate and the drama dries up. Thus, they're able to use Detect Desires at will to sniff out potentially interesting targets they can bend or break, and such unfortunates find out that these tiny fey have a suite of mind-bending magics to make drama whenever they need. They CAN be deadly threats with an at-will Shocking Grasp for 5d6 damage, as nothing whips up drama like a sudden murder, but they're not murderers and prefer to run rather than fight, using their offensive magic (which includes a 1/day Shout) only as a last resort. They're more likely to be an indirect obstacle to peace and normalcy as they cause phantom conversations with an at-will Auditory Hallucination or place destructive Suggestions into victim's minds, eroding trust and bonds between people that were once friends. Their goal is to make things interesting, and what's interesting to a Fey is often dangerous for everyone involved; you can bet a party that gets involved will have a hell of a time figuring out why no one in a particular room can seem to get along, tensions raising with each passing day as the mischievous pixies concoct new rumors and falsify overheard conversations until no one can trust what they hear.

Speaking of rumors, Danthienne can cast Rumormonger 3/day to either craft a web they can follow to someone willing to listen, or follow a juicy nugget of information back to its source in the hopes of finding a like-minded soul. Neither option is good for a given organization, because a Danthienne that finds a partner is infinitely more dangerous than one working alone. Appearing to such souls in the guise of a wish-granter and dream-maker (with a +17 to Bluff that's often augmented by their 1/day Glibness to make it unbeatable), Danthienne offer them the chance to become the belle of the ball, as it were, elevating them above the common masses and into the upper echelons of whatever organization the fey has decided to parasitize. Any creature that accepts this bargain becomes "blessed" by Fool's Inspiration, allowing the pixie to know everything about them at all times as if using Status... and so long as the Diath remains within 5ft of them (even while invisible), the target can use the pixie's considerable +5 Cha modifier in place of theirs when making Bluff, Diplomacy, or Intimidation checks. Any inspired fool may also receive the benefits of any of the Diath's spells, as all of them can either be cast through the fey's new best friend as if they were her familiar, or cast on because they're within arm's reach.

Inspired fools not only enjoy the benefits of their enhanced Charisma, but may be protected from social faux pas by Deflect Blame, an amusing spell that causes all listeners to believe a failed Diplomacy, Bluff, or Intimidate check came from someone else. They also enjoy the benefits of the fey's 3/day Charm Person and Suggestion aimed to make their lives better by causing everyone around them to bend to their whims... provided the Diath doesn't think it's funnier if they don't. With the fey in their ear constantly whispering advice on how to take over any room they're in, they may never once consider the possibility that they're under a charm, especially since--again--the masterful liars are willing and able to use Glibness-enhanced Bluff to mold them into perfect little servants.

What do they pay for this artificial popularity? Oh, nothing. A bit of treasure here and there, possibly some food now and again, and of course a fancy little dollhouse for their new fairy friend... and 1 point of Charisma drain every day as their new fairy friend feeds on their soul. This drain ticks every day they're under the effects of Fool's Inspiration, an effect that can only be ended by the Diath's will or by its death, and though a creature may break the bond on their own by succeeding a DC 18 Will save (which they can attempt 1/day), they may be completely unable to work up the guts to do it even if they're free of her charms and her alluring bluffs. They wouldn't want to give up everything they've earned, would they? Not after everything their new best friend has done to help them! Why, it'd be a terrible loss if they just abandoned her and were left with nothing!

Or less than nothing, if she instead perches on the shoulder of someone else in the court, promising her new partner the throne her former victim once sat upon if only they do what she says and say what she says to the people she points out. Diath don't tend to make long-term plans or have any big goals in mind, and that can make them FAR more dangerous to a settlement's stability than a literal devil on a politician's shoulder.

You can read more about them here.

[deimos-awaits]

Sister Mercy's orgin

A Sneak at a woman appearing in chapter ten of Pleasure and Pain

All that there was was ripping and rending and tearing. The sounds of a chain sword against flesh and web suits and a bolter going off rang in her ears. Blood ran like wine in the enclosed space and gore was splattered on every surface. There were screams maybe underneath all the other sounds but if they were they fell onto deaf ears.

The Sister of the Argent Shroud was operating off of the instincts that her Order had instilled in her. Battle was paramount. Martyrdom was holy and righteous. This Sister was ensuring all of her sisters would have the same martyrdom as her beloved Sister Himeros. Sister Himeros of the Beautiful Eyes and Supple Lips whose brown eyes would shine no more and whose lips would sing praises to the Emperor no more. The Cannoness’s blood still stained her power armor. On their drop pod, the Sister had been seated next to Himeros. The Cannoness had been doing the usual predrop inspections. Once they had begun to drop the Cannoness pulled her bolter on Sister Himeros and declared her a heretic and degenerate.

A bolter round detonated near inches from the other Sister’s head and pulverized Himeros’s. At that moment the only thing the Sister could hear was the ringing and the sound of the Cannoness far off preaching about the Emperor’s mercy, such that sinners and heretics through death might find redemption. Mercy. That was what the Abbes had spoken about, as the headless corpse of her beloved friend lay there slack.

The Sister had grabbed her bolter and chainsword after that, still able to taste her beloved Himeros’s blood on her tongue. It had splattered into her mouth agape. Mercy. She still could not hear anything well. Argent Shroud transports were usually silent of voices. The rest of the transport was silent but unlike the normal reverence that filled the air there was a tension.

Seconds dragged on into minutes and then into hours. The Sister closed her mouth and swallowed, feeling bits of the gore and viscera descending down her throat. She shut her eyes and took a breath. Then hours collapsed back into minutes back into seconds into millionths of a second as the Sister’s scream broke the silence and her chainsword wired to life. With a practiced ease but no grace she brings it down onto the Cannoness’s shoulder. Someone there roars the word Mercy. MERCY. The Sister is unsure who but she does not see any of the other’s mouths move so it must be her.

The Cannoness’s blood mixes with the other splattered already on her armor. The mighty Abbess, her mother, the mother to them all crumpled as easily as Himeros had. The Sister could not keep track of what happened after that. All she could remember was the ripping and rending and tearing.

When the drop cathedral landed on the battlefield, and its ramps lowered automatically, only the Sister Mercy stumbled out, already soaked in the blood of the Emperor’s faithful. She was in a daze. She did not understand what was happening but knew, but she knew there was a battle to be had. Mercy to dispense.

[keepsdeathhiscourt]

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Original Female Character

Rating: Mature (18+ Only)

Story Summary: It's been ten years since Lucie LeMarche last set foot in New Orleans. But when she's forced to return to bury the woman who raised her, she finds herself pulled into the midst of rising supernatural tensions in the city. Entangled in a web of intrigue and seeking answers, Lucie must learn to navigate a powder keg of warring factions, family secrets, and old wounds if she hopes to survive.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Language, Death, Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Family Drama, Gore, Depictions of Violence, Death

Series Masterlist

Read on AO3

Chapter 20: To Sow, To Reap (Part 1)

Davina sits motionless on the back porch, much as she has for the last hour since dawn broke over the withered garden. Her shoulders hunch the knit blanket still wrapped around her—Lucie’s only concession to her early morning vigil. Her blue eyes fall on her as soon as Lucie steps out, closing the door gently behind her, but she can tell she doesn’t really see her. Sometime in the middle of the sleepless night, the sobbing had abated and been replaced by a cold despondency. It brings with it a helplessness that Lucie isn’t sure how to deal with.

So she does the only thing she knows to do; she stands by and offers her a mug of tea. Pressing the ceramic into Davina’s hands, she doesn’t dare let go until her pale fingers grip the handle. Davina doesn’t drink, doesn’t do anything but stare at it like it’s a foreign object. Not that Lucie expected anything else. At least maybe the warmth will keep the chill at bay.

Lucie turns from the girl to rifle through a nearby storage bin, triumphantly fishing out some worn work gloves and a trowel after some difficulty. She spares Davina one more assessing look and, satisfied that she’s done all she can for her for the time being; she moves to a patch of dead vines, settles on the flagstones, and gets to work. 

Overgrown thistles prick at her fingers through the fabric of her gloves. The crabgrass makes her skin itch, and the effort of bending over the dead foliage makes her backaches. It’s exactly why she’d resigned herself to the endeavor. The effort keeps her body busy and her mind occupied, diverted from any thoughts of last night’s disaster.

She isn’t sure how long she works, mostly in silence, with the odd comment to Davina that gets no response, only that the sun is just starting to light the garden in earnest when she hears a faint rustling behind her. Lucie brushes the sweat from her brow and glances over her shoulder to find Davina slowly making her way towards her, the blanket still enveloping her like a shield. Her steps are hesitant, an almost automatic quality to them, like her body is responding to something her mind isn’t yet aware of. 

Lucie scoots, patting a stack of bricks beside her. Compliant as a little doll, Davina sinks down onto the makeshift. As Lucie retrieves the trowel and returns to her task, she feels her eyes on her, watching with detached curiosity as she works. Casually, she leaves a spare spade beside her, within arm’s reach.

“I never knew so many weeds could exist,” Davina huffs an hour later, rubbing the back of a gloved hand across her brow. Dirt streaks her flushed cheeks, and she leans back on her heels to survey the growing pile of dead thistles beside her. Slowly, as they’ve worked side by side, Lucie’s watched some life return to her and it brings a faint smile to her lips.

“No kidding,” she replies through clenched teeth, giving a victorious snort when the root she’s been struggling with finally comes free in a shower of dirt. 

“This place is a mess. Why are we bothering again?” Davina asks, curiosity belying her exasperation.

“Because dirt and sunshine are good for you,” Lucie says simply, brushing her palms against her pants. “At least that’s what my aunt used to tell us when she woke us up at the ass crack of dawn to help out here.”

“Sounds like she just wanted free labor,” Davina mutters, unimpressed. The signs of grief still hang heavy around her frame, but she’s more alert than she’s been since Rebekah brought her here. 

Lucie thanks whatever power is listening for small victories and chuckles, leaning back onto her wrists. “You have no idea.”

For a while, they fall into a companionable silence, the only sounds are the rustling of leaves and the occasional bird chirping from the nearby trees. Lucie had nearly forgotten how peaceful the garden can be, the subtle, comforting energy that thrums from every corner.

“I like it here,” Davina eventually declares, mirroring Lucie’s own thoughts. Her voice is soft, a small, sad smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “This place is full of good magic. I can feel it—it feel warm…safe.”

Lucie turns to look at her, masking the sudden swirl of emotions springing up from within. 

Safe.

When was the last time Davina had felt safe? Was it hidden away in the attic at St. Ann’s? Before the Harvest? 

She bites the inside of her lip, swallowing down the familiar fury that surges whenever she thinks about the Elders and their warped sense of justice. Davina should be out with friends, worrying about missed curfews, not hiding away in some dead witch’s garden, mourning a friend. 

With no one left to hold to account, Lucie channels the impotent rage into ripping out a stubborn patch of crabgrass with renewed fervor, the roots giving way under her merciless onslaught.

“Hey, Lucie,” Davina says quietly. Something in her voice draws Lucie’s attention, halts her ministrations. There’s a softness there, uncharacteristic uncertainty that makes her inexplicably nervous.

“What is it?” she asks carefully, setting down her trowel and turning to face Davina fully. Then, in a half-hearted attempt to defray the tension, she adds with a weak smile, “I can hear you thinking from here.”

“It’s…well…it’s about your magic,” Davina begins, and Lucie immediately freezes. “When you were helping me in the attic, I felt something…off.”

“You know I’m cut off from the Ancestral Well,” Lucie says levelly and a little guarded. “Strange how?”

“I don’t really know how to describe it,” she admits, her brow furrowing in thought. “At first, I thought maybe it was just me, but it was there again the other night when you helped me with Cami. And I was thinking…maybe I could try something if you let me?”

Unbidden, Lucie’s heart skips a beat. She isn’t sure why the offer sets her mind racing. She knows what she’ll find—the severed link and the atrophied, withered pieces of the magic that’s still left to her. It feels vulnerable, accompanied by a reluctance to be so exposed. But there’s a determination in Davina’s eyes, a fire that she hasn’t seen since Tim gasped his last breath.

And so she asks, resigned, “What do you want to try?”

Davina hesitates, clearly sensing Lucie’s apprehension. “I want to see if there’s something more to your magic, to feel out the severed tied to the Ancestors. Call it an experiment.”

“Okay,” Lucie finally says, her voice steady despite her growing anxiety. “Let’s try it.”

They rise to their feet, Davina leading her to a quieter part of the garden assuming a spot on the stones before the empty fountain. Lucie sits across from her as she takes her hands in her own. The touch is warm and the skin of her palms is soft. 

There’s a shift in the air as Davina’s eyes drift closed and Lucie shuts her own eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on her skin, the chill of the autumn breeze, the earth beneath them. 

For a moment, she feels nothing else. Then, slowly, she notices a strange sensation beneath her, a humming, gentle energy pulsing below the surface, growing like a building fire in a hearth. It’s faint, almost imperceptible, but there.

“Do you feel that?” Davina asks, somewhat breathless. There’s an exhilarated quality to her tone and she delves deeper.

The sound of distant knocking cuts through the stupor, shattering the fragile intensity of the moment as the wards make Lucie’s skin tingle.

Eyes snapping open, they lock on Davina’s alarmed stare. 

“Who could that be?” Davina whispers, apprehensive.

Lucie shakes her head, pushing herself up from the ground. “I don’t know. Stay here, I’ll check it out.”

Lucie wrenches the door open just after the thunderous knocking picks up again only to find an unwelcome sight standing amongst the chipped columns of the front porch.

“Hello,” Klaus Mikaelson says, lips curving into an amused smirk as he peers down at her.

Immediately, she moves to close the door, but he catches the edge before she can slam it in his face.

“Don’t worry, love. I’m not here for you,” he says casually, wedging a foot as close as he can to the threshold without crossing the barrier. “I thought Davina and I could have a little chat. Is she in?”

Here to force her onto your side with more murder?” Lucie replies, “That worked so well for you last time.”

Some of the amusement fades from his eyes and Lucie takes a step back, careful to stay on the safe side of the entrance.

“Call me old fashioned.” He steps closer, hand resting on the door frame. “ but I recall it’s impolite to leave a guest standing out in the cold. Now, be a dear and invite me in.”

“Guest implies that you’re welcome—which you’re not.”

Any trace of his grin vanishes, replaced by something far colder, and his eyes narrow.

The sound of a car door slamming breaks their standoff. Lucie peers around Klaus to find Elijah crossing the lawn with Hayley on his heels.

“Good morning, Lucretia,” he says, ascending the porch steps. “Niklaus.”

“What are you doing here, Elijah?” Klaus snaps, pushing away from the door to glare at his brother, then noticing Hayley, “And you, you’re not supposed to leave the compound.”

Hayley bristles, shooting him a look that can only be described as derisive. Elijah steps between the pair. “It happens I have a matter of some importance to discuss with Lucretia and Miss Clare, if you don’t mind.”

“Get in line, brother. I have my own business with the little witch. In fact,” his smile widens, “Maybe I’ll just pop round back and find her myself.”

“You try to set foot in the garden and the wards will melt the skin off your face before you can say ‘sorry, love,’” Lucie hisses, but the threat in undercut by the sound of a phone buzzing.

Niklaus doesn’t react, fishing the phone out of his pocket as the others watch on. The others watch on as his fingers tap away at the screen.

“I’m sorry,” Elijah says dryly, arching a brow. “Are we interrupting something?”

“That was Sophie Deveraux,” he says finally, putting the device away and looking at his brother. “You seem to forget, Elijah, that you’re not the only one with a witch in their pocket. And mine has just let me know that she’s taken care of the wards.”

As if on cue, an enraged scream cuts through the tension. Lucie, Hayley, and Elijah exchange glances. Meanwhile, Klaus watches them with satisfaction.

Then Lucie’s running for the backdoor, Elijah and Hayley on her heels. The hinges groan when she wrenches it open.

“Go. Away,” Davina cries.

Lucie skids to a stop on the front porch just in time to watch Marcel Girard sail through the air and crash against the back fence with bone-rattling force.

A chuckle to her left tells her Klaus has gone around the side and already beat her there. She would be amused if it were anyone else. But it’s Klaus and he’s still solidly on her shit list. All she feels is a flicker of annoyance, shooting him a look before turning back to the situation at hand.

“Davina,” Marcel pants, struggling to his feet in a cloud of dust. “Come on. You’ve gotta talk to me. I haven’t heard a word since—”

“Since your best friend killed my best friend?” Davina stands in the center of the garden, hands curled into claws and eyes blazing with fury.

Her arms raise, but before she can knock him back again, he raises a palm in surrender. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened to this kid Tim—”

“I’m sorry you don’t hate Klaus for what he did,” she fires back, “and that you don’t want to make him pay.”

All Lucie can do is watch on, until, a pressure on her shoulder diverts her attention away from the scene. She looks up to find Elijah staring down at her.

“It seems Miss Clare has the situation well in hand. Can we speak inside?” he asks and then, “Perhaps Davina can join us when she’s less…occupied.”

She gives the unfolding scene on last, long look and, satisfied that Davina is alright—that she and Elijah are in earshot should something happen— she follows him inside.

“I must apologize for showing up unannounced,” he starts when they’re situated in the kitchen.

Leaning against the counter, Lucie fights a smile because it’s just…such an Elijah thing to say.

“You know you’re welcome here, Elijah,” She doesn’t mention that on her list of today’s annoying drop-ins, he doesn’t even rank.

He smiles softly, but it’s strained at the edges. “Not long ago, Hayley and I made an…unsettling discovery.”

He reaches inside his suit jacket, retrieving a folded stack of papers. With a jerk of his head, he ushers her towards the living room. She pads after him, pulling her cardigan tighter around herself as she watches him lay each one out on the coffee table with precision.

“Elijah, I don’t…,” she says and then stops because the arrangement clearly makes up a woman’s face. Once she’s seen before. Lucie shakes her head in disbelief. “Is that—”

“Celeste? Yes, a splitting image,” he says gravely, stepping back to inspect his work. His eyes dart to Lucie. “These were retrieved from amongst Miss Clare’s belongings. According to Marcel, she’s been drawing her for months. I had hoped to ask her about them in person.”

At the mention of Celeste’s name, Lucie hears movement nearby. Turning her head toward it, she finds Hayley hovering in the doorway, radiating discomfort.

She opens her mouth to speak when the back door swings wide. Davina spills into the kitchen, Marcel stuck at the door, with their argument playing out in the space between.

“Davina, come on! Can someone invite me in, dammit?” He calls through the open door, hand slamming against the frame hard enough that Lucie hears the wood splinter.

She winces, giving Elijah an apologetic look. “I’m sorry,” she says, backing towards the noise. “I should step in before they level the house.” When he nods in understanding, she turns and races for the backdoor. “Hey—don’t break my fucking door.”

Elijah turns in the opposite direction, letting himself out into the shady recess of the front porch, scanning the sunlit world beyond with apprehension. A crash sounds from somewhere inside.

“Well, that’s going well,” Klaus says, appearing at his side.

Elijah hums in response. “If you were trying to win the girl’s trust, perhaps poisoning her one true love wasn’t the most splendid idea.”

“Oh, are there any more inopportune deaths you’d like to wave in my face?” Klaus asks mockingly, but Elijah knows him well enough to hear the uncertainty behind his tone. If he’s looking for absolution for all that’s passed between them in the past months, he’s not ready to give it.

He gives him a steely look, voice tinged with sarcasm as he replies, “Give me a month. I’ll get you a list.”

He had intended to come out here to clear his head, to make sense of the drawings and their implications while he waited for events to settle down enough to carry on the conversation with Lucie. Now, unwilling to spend another moment wallowing in brotherly discord, he steps back inside, leaving an uninvited Klaus to his thoughts.

Hayley, it would seem has been waiting for him.

“Hey, Elijah,” she says, at his elbow the second he enters. There’s something in her voice that gives him pause, an urgency that has him diverting all his attention to her at once. “There’s something I need to tell you—“

“Davina!” Marcel cries, echoed by Lucie, their voices full of such alarm that he and Hayley both turn to the sound.

Through the doorway from the living room, he spies the girl doubled over, Marcel and Lucie huddled around her. Elijah is with them in an instant, standing a few paces back as not to crowd Davina, but close enough to glimpse what has them so frantic.

Davina is slouched over, shoulders shuddering. She coughs, once and again, each more violent than the last. She groans, a little whimper and that’s when he sees it—the dirt escaping from her mouth and littering the tiles.

He has all of a second to step out of the way because Lucie is whispering something urgent to Marcel and then he has Davina in his arms, sweeping through the doorway and depositing her onto the couch in the living room. Elijah watches him crouch at her side, brushing the hair away from her damp forehead while Lucie makes quick work on her shoes.

“Easy, D,” he murmurs. “You’re going to be all right. Deep breaths, okay?”

“What’s all the racket?” Klaus demands from outside. “If someone doesn’t invite me in this bloody instant, I’m going to tear the place apart board by board.”

Lucie looks up from Davina to scowl at him through the screen. “Fine, come in, Klaus. But don’t forget there’s enough magic in this room to rip you apart if you step a toe out of line.”

He smirks in satisfaction, letting himself in. By the time he reaches the living room, his good mood is gone. His eyes flick to the pile of dirt at Davina’s feet, the remnants on her chin. “Bloody hell.”

“Lucie, what’s happening?” Hayley asks, keeping a safe distance.

Lucie shakes her head helplessly. “I have no idea.” She squeezes Davina’s leg, rising to her feet. “I’m going to get you some water.”

But she’s only taken a single step when the house begins to shake. Frames rattle on the walls, the floorboards groan. It’s as if the foundations themselves are quaking.

Lucie staggers to the side as the ground shifts beneath them. Elijah flashes across the room, catching her about the elbow and holding her steady.

It’s then that the last member of the Mikaelson family makes her appearance.

“What the hell is going on here?” Rebekah demands, appearing at the other side of the living room.

Her breath hitches when she sees the somber tableau; Davina stretched out on the couch, face contorted in pain, Marcel kneeling at her side while the rest watch on in trepidation.

Klaus steps forward, features grim. “Davina.”

No one dares speak. Not until Davina is situated in Lucie’s room, tucked soundly between the covers. The soft hum of voices floats down the hall, Rebekah keeping her company while the rest gather in the living room.

“This is madness,” Klaus hisses, assuming a place beside the fireplace. “How can a 16-year-old girl shake the entire Garden District?”

Marcel standing just inside the doorway, situated near the hall, presumably to reach Davina should she need him, shifts anxiously on his feet. “I’ve seen her rock the church, but I’ve never seen anything like this?”

“How did you control her when she was in the attic?” Klaus asks, earning him a pointed look from Marcel.

“I didn’t have to. But then, I never killed her boyfriend.”

“Yes, yes. We’ve been over this part already,” he waves him off, turning to address the room at large. “The point is, in her present state she’s useless as a tool against the witches.”

Lucie rounds on him with a huff of disbelief.

Marcel beats her to it. “She’s not a tool.”

“Something is wrong with her.”

Beside her, Elijah shifts. She watches him cross the room, retrieving his coat and moving for the door with a singular focus.

“Where are you going?”

“This business impacts us all,” he says simply. “I think we should bring in every resource at our disposal. I’d like a word with Sophie Deveraux.”

And with that, he lets himself out the front door. Lucie gives Hayley a questioning look when moves to follow him, but she only gets a little shake of her head in response before she joins him out on the porch, whispering to him in a tone too low for Lucie to understand.

Hayley reaches out for him, but he tugs his arm out of reach and murmurs something to her, jaw tight before marching off, leaving her alone on the porch.

“What was that?” Lucie whispers in a low tone when Hayley resumes a spot at her side.

Hayley swallows hard, eyes glossy with unshed tears. “I fucked up, Lucie. I really, really fucked up.”

Barely half an hour passes when Elijah returns with Sophie Deveraux in tow.

From her place against the far wall, Lucie watches with increasing dread as Sophie explains her plans for Celeste DuBois, grave robbing and all.

“So you’ve stolen the remains of the very person that Davina’s been drawing for months,” Elijah says when they’ve settled into the living room with the others and filled them in on both the drawings and the consecration attempts. “Would you care to explain this starling coincidence?”

Sophie’s eyes dark nervously about the room, into a sea of faces ranging from suspicious to overtly hostile. “I can’t. I didn’t even know who Celeste Dubois was until I—“

The windows rattle, glass threatening to shatter as another earthquake cuts their conversation short.

“Was that Davina?” she asks in a stunned whisper when the ground settles.

“Charming little habit she’s developed,” Klaus replies.

“And the earthquake I felt today?”

This time Rebekah answers, returning from the back bedroom, “Also Davina. And, she’s taken to vomiting dirt.”

Lucie watches Sophie closely, noting the way her eyes go round as saucers and her posture stiffens as she says, “Oh, we have a huge problem. I thought we had more time, but we need to complete the Harvest now.”

Klaus snorts. “Said the desperate witch, conveniently.”

“I’m serious!” Sophie insists, all the while anger roils in Lucie’s belly. “That earthquake you just felt is a preview of the disaster movie that is about to hit us.”

For once, Lucie is on Klaus’ side. And before another word can be said, she’s rounding on Sophie, tone loaded with vitriol. “You so much as lay a finger on Davina and I’ll make you regret it.”

“Give it a rest, Lucie,” she retorts coming to her feet. “You’ve met Davina, you know her story. For months now, she’s been holding all the power of the three girls sacrificed in the Harvest ritual. A force that was meant to flow through her and back into the earth. One person was never meant to hold that much power. It’s tearing her apart, and it will take us down with it.”

For a moment, no one says a word. Lucie stares down Sophie in barely concealed disdain. Marcel radiates malice from his spot near the window, and Klaus and Rebekah exchange a meaningful look.

Then, Elijah steps forward from the fringes of the living room, expression impassive though his eyes are cold.

“You may have convinced my siblings. But you have yet you convince us,” he says, gesturing towards Lucie and Marcel in turn.”

Sophie huffs in exasperation. “We don’t have time to waste. The first sign’s already come and gone—“

“So fix her!” Marcel snaps, voice razored by desperation.”

“I told you; she can’t be fixed.”

Moments later, the ground rumbles once more, violent as if an outside for plucked the Earth between its hands and shook it with maximum force.

“I’ll check on her,” Rebekah says with a sigh, excusing herself and disappearing down the hallway.

“Convinced now?” Sophie rounds on them, the moment everything stabilizes.

“Alright, you’ve made your point,” Klaus says, eyes following Elijah as he paces the length of the room. “Davina must be sacrificed. The sooner the better. There’s no need to let her blow the roof off our heads in the meantime.”

“No way.” In an instant, Marcel is in his face, teeth bared. “You’re not touching her!”

There’s a flurry of motion, a flash of color too quick to catch. The sound of bone colliding with bone erupts and Klaus reels back, eyes blazing and a spectacular red mark on his jaw.

He rubs at the spot gingerly, annoyed. “Given the circumstances, I’ll let you have that one.”

“Marcel,” Elijah begins, ceasing his vigil to face him. “No one wishes to see Davina come to harm less than I, but there is no scenario here in which we simply wait this out.” His expression softens, then, “She’s going to die.”

Lucie, who had been staring down at the wood grain, lost in the whirl of her thoughts, snaps up to look at him, incredulous.

Then Marcel challenges, “According to Sophie, the witch who screwed over everybody here.”

“The Harvest was working before it was stopped,” Elijah explains evenly. “If a nonbeliever like Sophie can come to have faith that these girls will be resurrected, then I, also am a believer.”

Lucie’s ears are ringing now and she doesn’t miss the pointed way in which he avoids her eyes.

“I saved Davina from the Harvest, and now you want me to just hand her over?”

“Do you think I’m happy about this?” Klaus cuts in. “If the witches complete the Harvest, not only do they regain their power, we lose our weapon against them. The earthquake I was willing to chalk up to hideous coincidence, but these winds? If Davina is not sacrificed, then every inch of earth that shook, everything blowing about now will soon be drenched in water and consumed by fire—“

“Oh, now you care about this city.” Marcel’s posture straightens, squaring up to the Mikaelson brothers.

The room spins, making Lucie dizzy as she watches them argue amongst themselves. Suddenly she’s a scared girl of eighteen, sitting in the vestibule of the Lycee as she waits for the Elders to decide how they’re going to get rid of her.

“We ought to,” Elijah counters. “We built it.”

All at once, Lucie pushes away from the wall, interjecting before she has to listen to another word of this. “I can’t believe we’re discussing this. I expected this from Klaus, but the rest of you?”

Marcel trembles with barely concealed rage, visibly restraining himself from attacking Klaus again. Rebekah shuffles uncomfortably from her spot on the couch, and Elijah—Elijah just stares at her with something pained in his eyes.

Sophie, visibly frustrated, is the first to respond. “We don’t have a choice. If we don’t complete the Harvest, Davina will die anyway, and she’ll take the rest of us with her.”

Lucie’s jaw tightens, swallowing the hot coal in an attempt to find her voice. “You talk about her like she’s a problem that needs fixing, Sophie. She’s not a threat to be neutralized—she’s sixteen, for fucks sake A child who’s been let down by the people who were supposed to protect her, over and over. And now, you’re all ready to do it again?”

Rebekah took a step forward, trying to soften the blow. “Lucie, this isn’t about convenience. It’s about survival—hers, ours, the entire city’s. If we don’t act, the power inside Davina will destroy her and everything around her.”

“You were there in the Garden,” she rounds on Rebekah. “She trusts you. Are you ready to look her in the eye and tell her she has to die because a witch from the coven that killed her friends in front of her decided she’s expendable?”

Her eyes land on each of them in turn, some hardened, others conflicted, but each filled with grim resolution. She doesn’t wait for a response, stealing from the room before anyone can say another word.

She hears the front door slam seconds later and knows Marcel has made his own exit.

Lucie doesn’t seek out the refuge of the garden nor the back bedroom where Davina now dozes, sleeping through the sedative coursing through her system. Instead, she makes for the first door on the right, shutting it behind her with finality—as if she might be able to shut out the problem at hand.

Even under a layer of dust, Violette’s room is familiar as an extension of herself. From the ancient headboard of the bed, carved with flowers, to the heavy curtains framing the windows, the space is like a balm to her aching chest. It’s no wonder she sought this space out, reaching out for the comfort of her aunt’s presence on instinct.

She closes her eyes, sinking down onto the patterned quilt stretched over the mattress, and marvels at the way the little bedroom still smells like her. Lucie remembers being a girl, and only recently come to live with Violette. She doesn’t recall the reason, but she can vividly picture burying her face in her aunt’s gray-streaked curls, the hair soft and red as a fox. The way it smelled of rosemary and wisteria—the way the room smells now.

The creak of the door opening pulls her from her thoughts. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Lucie doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.

“Lucretia,” Elijah says softly. When a minute passes with no answer, he pleads, “Lucie, look at me.”

And, reluctantly, she does. He’s hovering near the door, carefully closed behind him. His posture is straight, his steps smooth as he draws near, but she doesn’t mix the conflict written plain across his face.

“Did they send you in here to convince me?” she says, eyes fixed on the worn quilt as she picks at a loose thread. “Last I knew, no one of you needed my permission.”

The bitterness in her voice is apparent, even to her. From the other side of the room, she hears him sigh.

“Is it so hard to believe that I came to check on you?”

When she doesn’t say anything, he crosses over to her and in an instant, drops down to crouch in front of her, making it impossible to do anything but meet his serious expression.

“Think of all you know of me, all we’ve been through,” he implores. “If there was any other way, don’t you think I would see it done?”

She doesn’t say anything for a long time. All the while, she feels his stare against her skin and does her best to ignore it. But when she finally looks up, his eyes are imploring and so earnest, she feels herself soften—if only a fraction.

“I can’t bury someone else in that cemetery,” she whispers fiercely, her hands balling up at her side. “I can’t. “

Despite her best efforts, a tear escapes, rolling down her cheek.

There’s a rustling of fabric and in an instant, she’s guided to her feet. His palms are warm as they cradle her face, urging it up to look at him. She feels the fan of his breath, can smell the spiced notes of his cologne. When another tear falls, following the trail of the last, Elijah interrupts its journey with a swipe of his thumb.

“I don’t begrudge you your convictions, Lucie,” he says, so softly it makes her chest ache and she fights the urge to look away. “In fact, they’re a part of why I… admire you so greatly.” His lips curve into the ghost smile, though his eyes are sad. “But right now, we’re backed into a corner with two impossible choices left to us. It’s our responsibility to make the one that spares the most innocent lives, no matter how reprehensible we may find it.”

She exhales, a shuddering, tremulous noise. Barely trusting her voice, she whispers, “Don’t ask me to be okay with this.”

“I’d ask nothing of you, Lucie, except that if you trust nothing else, trust me.”

---

Elijah parts with Lucie with reluctance sometime later. The house is quiet, though tension still lingers in the air, potent as a loaded gun. Usually unaffected by the moods of others, even he finds himself eager to create some distance from the turmoil.

“I was just on my way out,” Niklaus says by way of greeting, falling into step beside him on the way to the door. “Figured I ought to warn a couple of prominent faction members in case the weather gets out of hand. If you fancy yourself as a plus diplomatique, perhaps you’d like to come along?”

Elijah looks at his brother, even in his weariness, he recognizes the olive branch. He smiles softly, clapping him on the shoulder. “Not this time. Soon Sophie Deveraux shall be consecrating Celeste’s remains, and though her actions are abominable, still I should pay me respects.”

Something like understanding flickers in Klaus’ eyes, and they part with a nod.

But before Elijah can make his own exit, Hayley catches his stare.

“Hey, do you have a minute?” she asks, a tremor in her voice.

He blinks at her, torn between anger and understanding until the former wins out. “Just on my way out.”

---

“You don’t have to be here for this,” Sabine says softly, coming to stand at Elijah’s side. All the while, he watches on as Sophie arranges the bones in preparation for the consecration—the bones of a woman he once loved. “It’s going to take Sophie some time to finish preparations.”

He breaks his silent vigil long enough to glance at her and then, with a resolute shake of his head, he replies, “I have time. I owe her this.”

His ears are keen enough to catch the little hitch in her breath and imagines the surprised look that must be on her face. “Care to explain why?”

Sophie is still hard at work and under Elijah’s watchful gaze, showing the utmost care and respect for her charge. Reluctantly, he turns away with a sigh and meets Sabine’s eyes. “Have you ever experienced something so profound and wonderful that when it was taken from you, your life felt unbearable?”

She considers a moment, wrapping her arms around her middle. “Yes, I’ve felt that. And I’ve got the scars to prove it.”

He scans her face, the planes and curves of her handsome features, perhaps surprised to find a kindred spirit—at least in this. Maybe that’s why he says, “I believe that when you love someone and that person loves you in return, you’re uniquely vulnerable. They have a power to hurt you that’s like nothing else.”

Unbidden, he thinks of the pain in Lucie’s eyes when he’d sided against her earlier today, the feel of her skin beneath his hands. Before he can examine the thought further, his phone rings.

He excuses himself with a nod of his head, stepping away from the witches. “Rebekah.”

“He’s taken the girl,” she says in a harried rush.

His brow furrows. “Who has?”

“Bloody, bloody Marcel!”

There’s another voice in the background, one he immediately identifies as belonging to Niklaus. “And you wanted to run off and start a life with this backstabber.”

“Says the man who was shacking up with him not two seconds before this all went down.” Elijah sighs, waiting for his siblings to finish their bickering so they can get back to the issue at hand. Finally, Rebekah says, “Okay. We need to divide and conquer if we’re going to stand a chance. He could have gone anywhere.”

“Well, I’m here with Sabine.” He feels her gaze on him at the mention of her name. “We could try a locator spell.”

“Lucie already tried one,” Rebekah says. “But I suppose another couldn’t hurt.”

“I’ll talk to the priest,” Klaus offers. “They might even be at the church. It’s the last place we’d think to look for them, right?”

“Okay, you check the church. I’ll check…everywhere else.” Rebekah sighs in annoyance and the two return to their squabbling as Elijah hangs up the phone.

When he returns, Sophie is done with her preparations and already engaged in the ritual. He watches with morbid curiosity as she picks up Celeste’s skull and holds it to the sky.

“I consecrate these bones to the earth,” she cries. “Ancestors hear me.”

The words stir a hazy sort of recollection within Elijah and when she repeats them, he recognizes them as the same one Lucie had told him about the night she’d accepted his deal. And though he struggles to understand why, a vague uneasiness washes over him.

With one last look at Sophie, he turns and heads for where he had seen Sabine disappear into the mausoleum. To his great relief, she’s gracious enough to accept his request for help without much convincing. And soon, he’s watching on anxiously as she scries over a map, deep in the concentration of a locator spell.

“This isn’t working,” she says finally, eyes fluttering open.

He arches a brow. “She’s nowhere to be found?”

“No, it’s more like she’s everywhere. She’s hemorrhaging magic. Which means we have less time than we thought.” Her voice wavers with frustration as she sets down the scrying crystal. “I have no clue where she is.”

He grasps her hand, imploring. “Please concentrate. Try again.”

The crypt descends into silence and Elijah isn’t sure how long he watches her focused features but after a time, she pulls out of it with a relieved smile.

“Okay. Okay. She’s somewhere near the river. I can’t be more specific.”

“It’s something,” he assures her. “It’s a start.”

But before he can leave to join the search, Sophie appears in the doorway, framed in the moonlight and looking panicked.

“It didn’t work,” she says without preamble. “I tried to consecrate her and absorb her magic, but there’s nothing there.”

“I don’t understand,” he replies with a shake of his head. “A witch’s magic is infused in her bones until consecrated.”

“Well, then someone’s already taken it because there’s nothing there.”

His thoughts turn again to Lucie, to the implications that are starting to press in on him from all sides, and he insists, “There has to be some other way.”

Sabine’s expression is calm, belied by a tick in her jaw. “There is no other way.”

Sophie rakes a hand through her hair, strands sticking up like she’s repeated the action a million times. “Unless you know of some super-powerful dead witch whose bones were never consecrated, it’s over.”

Elijah goes rigid, face a carefully guarded mask even as he says, “No. I’m sorry. I know of no one else.”

He turns his back and sweeps out of the mausoleum, missing the calculating look from Sabine as he goes.

“What do we do, Sabine?” Sophie groans, eyes pleading, when Elijah is long gone. “Do we try again?”

“No, I think I might know where we can find someone else,” she says slowly. “Sophie, do you still have those photocopies Hayley gave you from Elijah’s journal?”

---

Beyond the beating of the rain against the roof, the compound is utterly bereft of all life. Hayley lingers in the courtyard, her back turned to the stairs as she packs the last of the canned food on the table into a cardboard box.

The material is rough beneath her hands and they move mechanically, led by muscle memory and tactile sense. Meanwhile, her mind is far away. Her stomach has been doing sick little flip-flops under her ribcage since she and Klaus left Lucie’s—since Elijah brushed her off. She pictures the hurt on his face when she’d told him what she’d done, the betrayal written plain as day, and knows the rebuff was well deserved.

She bites down on her lower lips, trying to stifle the fresh wave of tears. Despite her best efforts, a sniffle escapes. Angry, she bats the droplet away with her sleeve just as footsteps echo behind her.

“What are you doing?” Klaus asks, coming to stand at her shoulder. His tone is soft and she knows he must have noticed her moment of weakness.

She stiffens, wiping away the last remnants of her tears and disguising it as clearing off some of the dust from beneath her nose. If Klaus picks up on it, he pretends not to notice. “I was gonna take these to the—“

“If you say, ‘Bayou,’ I will find a nice comfy dungeon and throw you in it,” he interrupts, irritation curbed by the underlying concern in his tone. “This is not the night to be out there—“

“—For anyone,” Hayley cuts in. Since the original outbreak of earthquakes, the situation in the city has only grown more dire. Sheets of rain crash over the buildings with the force of tidal waves while hurricane-force winds threaten to shatter windows and bring with it a miserable chill. All she’s been able to think about since is the werewolves —her people— left to the elements somewhere in the wilderness. It drives her to add, “Some people don’t have a choice.”

To her surprise, Klaus pauses, watching with a strange look that tells her he might actually be weighing her words. His expression softens and without another word, he bends down a plucks up the box she’d just folded closed.

“Right,” he sighed, resigned but resolute. “Grab that lot and come with me.”

Hayley can only balk, blinking at him in surprise. And then, she scrambles to grab the nearest box and follows him out of the courtyard.

It’s only a short while later that they make it through the gauntlet of soaked streets to the quiet corner where St. Ann’s rests. The dim lights inside cast long shadows over the crowded space, but it’s a blessing to be out of the rain. Hayley isn’t the only one to think so, judging by the people milled about. Some huddle together in pew, and others form lines to receive food. The atmosphere is full of energy, but one of relief.

They find Father Kieran near the pulpit, speaking to a refugee in soft tones. The conversation comes to an abrupt end when he spots Klaus and Hayley near the doorway, making his excuses and rushing to meet them.

“We still haven’t gone through all that you’ve already provided, Klaus,” Kieran says.

Klaus smiles, ignoring the baffled look from Hayley, save a fleeting glance. “Well, this newest bit isn’t from me.”

Father Kieran’s placid gaze rakes over her face, leaving Hayley feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Oh? That’s very kind of you…?”

“Hayley,” she supplies, hiding her shyness behind a polite smile and diverting her eyes to look around the church. “And these people are…?”

“I asked Father Kieran to give them shelter,” Klaus says with a hint of pride and a crooked smile. “He suffers from an incessant desire to do good. But now, I need you to be useful,” he turns to the priest, all business, “Marcel and Davina have disappeared. I assume from the stupefied look on your face they haven’t sought refuge in your attic.”

Kieran only shakes his head. “No. Those days are gone.”

“Elijah is seeking out a locator spell. But you must energize your resources,” Klaus orders, not missing a beat. “I don’t need to remind you how important it is they be found.”

The priest nods grimly, excusing himself to make some calls and leaving Hayley to turn her attention back to the people in the church. Finally, realization dawns.

“These people…they’re werewolves,” she whispers, unable to keep the confused awe out of her voice. Her eyes dart to Klaus. “And the priest, he said you donated the food. You’re helping them?”

Her head is spinning, disbelief a tangible thing. Yet Klaus only tilts his head, giving her a knowing smile. “They’re not your werewolves. They’re my clan. From very far back. They’ve fallen upon hard times, and their plight has brought out the philanthropist in me. What can I say? Must be Elijah’s influence.”

He shrugs, but Hayley swears she catches a glimmer of self-consciousness in his blue eyes. “What do you mean your clan?”

He shifts his weight, arms crossing over his chest. “The blood that runs in their veins runs in mine. And in our child’s.”

Hayley’s breath hitches, the enormity of what he’s saying crashing over her like the rain outside and she mutters, “This family gets more complicated by the second.”

Klaus draws closer and she can feel his eyes on her face. “Listen, Hayley. A word of advice when dealing with Elijah?” His voice was gentle, almost familial in its sincerity. “Don’t do as I do. Just apologize. He’s accomplished in many things, but he is a master of forgiveness.”

---

It’s a small miracle the glass hasn’t shattered yet. Beneath the fury of the mounting storm, the windows groan and the shutters slam against the side of the LeMarche home as if possessed. From her spot on the couch, Lucie watches sheets of rain explode against the pavement, threatening to wash away the world outside until nothing remains. The fire will come soon and then there will be little they can do.

Her eyes are heavy, puffy from crying, the salt leaving the skin on her cheeks raw. She hates the helpless, hollow feeling in her stomach, the gnawing dread that took hold from the second Sophie proposed completing the Harvest and has only grown tenfold in the tense hours since Marcel disappeared with Davina.

A fire crackles in the hearth. The warmth does little to ease the chill in her bones and the inviting orange glow seems wrong to her in the face of all that’s happened—all that still has to happen.

The floorboards creak and she knows the movements are exaggerated for her benefit, to avoid startling her. Seconds later, Rebekah appears at her side, face pale with worry and eyes resolute.

“Lucie,” she says with a sharpness that tells her that it’s not the first time Rebekah called her name. “Lucie, we have to go. Now.”

The intensity jolts something in her, like a crossing of wires that urges her back to the realm of the living. “What? What’s going on?”

“Davina’s at the docks. Marcel says she’s asking for you.”

There’s no time for questions, no time to process much of anything. She grabs her coat and follows Rebekah out into the storm, cold rain soaking them through almost instantly as they raced out onto the darkened streets.

The air at the docks is thick with petrichor and tension from the moment they arrive. The atmosphere crackles, a surge not unlike static electricity that makes Lucie’s hair on end. Something inside her responds, reaching out to it with invisible hands and she gives a watching Rebekah a grim nod. Davina is here.

She senses her even as they step inside and make their way noiselessly down the hall where voices carry to them from the other end.

“If I can just wait it out a few more weeks,” she hears Davina’s voice say, rough from exhaustion. “Marcel, help me. Please?”

“I will,” Marcel’s voice replies and Lucie doesn’t miss the underlying strain. “And when it’s over, I’ll do what I should have done—get you out of town.”

They round the corner, where the hallway opens up into a wide, open warehouse. Davina is settled against a cot, skin colorless and sweating beading on her forehead. “I had a dream that Tim wasn’t dead,” she murmurs, voice carrying to where Rebekah and Lucie stand unnoticed in the doorway. “He played a song and he kissed me, and we were just normal.”

Lucie glances at Rebekah, ignoring her constricting chest as she watches her step out into the open. “That sounds like a beautiful dream.”

Marcel’s eyes are sharp, angry as they narrow on her. “What are you doing here?”

Rebekah ignores him, her gaze soft where it falls on Davina. “But it was just a dream, wasn’t it darling?”

Lucie’s head snaps towards her, wondering what exactly she’s trying to do. Marcel beats her to it.

“Get out!” he bellows, rising to his feet. Every inch of him radiates with an unspoken threat.

“This is killing her, Marcel,” Rebekah says, undeterred. Though they’re biologically not far off in age, right now she’s every bit the eight hundred years his senior. “Your stubbornness will mean her death.”

The truth of it is apparent. Still, it smarts and Lucie still licks tenderly at the wounds of the group's earlier argument.

Marcel’s jaw ticks. “I promised I’d fight for her. I’m not breaking that promise.”

“No one is asking you not to fight,” Rebekah says for both is benefit and Lucie’s, her expression softening. She turns to Marcel, “But you’re the only family this girl has left. You owe it her to fight for her to live.”

Lucie watches the exchange, observes the ensuing standoff. All the while, she wonders exactly where she falls on the battle lines. It still feels like a gamble, betting Davina’s life on the word of the witches. But she remembers Elijah’s gentle voice, the earnestness in his gaze as he held her face and begged him to trust her. She eases a little. She may not trust Sophie, but she can trust Elijah. And Rebekah.

A rustling noise breaks the stalemate and three sets of eyes watch Davina force herself into a seated position with great effort. Marcel is beside her in an instant, adjusting the pillows to support her. “Take it easy, D. You need to rest.”

She only shakes her head, tendrils of lank hair rippling around her shoulders. “No,” she rasps and her eyes lock on Lucie. “I asked you here. There’s something important. Something you have to know.”

Lucie releases her hold on the door frame, coming closer to Davina despite the knot in her gut. There’s a seriousness in her blue eyes, it almost gives them an unearthly luminosity in the shadowed room.

She waits until Lucie settles on the edge of the cot before she speaks. “When I did the spell in the garden earlier, I confirmed something I suspected back in the attic. Lucie,” she takes Lucie’s hand between her palms, “Your connection to the Ancestral Well was never severed. I felt it. It was faint, but definitely still there. Like music through a wall.”

Each word lands like a physical blow, forcing all the air from Lucie’s lungs until she can only manage a breathless, “I…I don’t understand. I felt it. I felt it disappear when Violette performed the rite.”

Davina’s face crumples with sympathy, her grip tightening. “Violette lied to you. She performed a spell, but not one that severed you from the Ancestors. Lucie, she put a block on your magic.”

[hritiksahu]

All You Need to Know about Spider Glazing

As an elegant glass installation technique architects prefer, spider glazing has been the talk of the town recently. It uses a series of stainless-steel tension rods to fix glass panels. Of course, spider fittings are used to keep it together and to make visually stunning and functional façades.

Contrary to what one might presume just by looking at them, these tiny fittings are strong and durable. These very features improve the transparency and give the viewer the illusion of a floating glass façade. This article will provide an overview of spider glazing, its benefits, applications, and recent developments in the industry.

Benefits of Spider Glazing

Now that you know what spider glazing is, it's time to learn why people prefer it.

Transparency: Maximum visibility and scope of more natural light while providing a sleek look is something spider glazing can promise.

Heat Transfer: It provides excellent thermal simulation. Further, it reduces the heat transfer between the exterior and interior of the building.

Strength: The structural strength of spider glazing cannot be underestimated. They can handle significant loads, and building security is ensured when we use laminated or toughened glass.

Aesthetics: In situations where 'aesthetically pleasing' is the requirement, spider glazing would be the top choice for the looks.

Flexibility & Affordability: What makes it more special is its flexibility in design and its usefulness even in curved or angled structures. In addition to all the benefits mentioned above, it is also a cost-effective solution for large expanses of glass.

How Maintenance Contributes to Durability?

Durability, safety, and aesthetics can all be managed by experts, but maintenance ensures durability. While the material itself does not cause problems, factors like the structure and time frame can make a difference. It is safe to book maintenance sessions and discuss them with the expert as the installation is happening.

Recent Developments in Spider Glazing

Spider glazing has become the fancy word in the world of modern architecture. What it adds to both commercial and residential buildings make it one of the preferred developments.

Usage

From airports to shopping centers and other high-rise buildings, architects bring in the magic of spider glazing. It adds to the look and brings a wealth of benefits. Some homeowners also look forward to adding spider glazing to the list. They prefer it for large villas and guest houses.

Improves Functionality and Designs

As one can imagine, spider glazing is a rapidly growing development. Research on how technology inclusion can improve functionality and safety is ongoing. There has also been a significant increase in the usage of digital printing technology in spider glazing. It helps the designer develop patterns or images that can be printed onto the glass panels, giving them a creative look.

Dynamic Glass Inclusion

The discussion about the developments related to spider glazing cannot end without the word dynamic glass. With the ability to change the tint automatically based on the external environment, dynamic glass is a brilliant addition. As such, it reduces the need to find the perfect curtain. Speaking of benefits, dynamic glass enhances energy efficiency. It also reduces the carbon footprint of the building.

Conclusion

Spider glazing is an architectural technique that mimics the strength and durability of spider webs. It enhances the aesthetic appeal of buildings and provides excellent insulation. Also, it offers protection against harsh weather conditions. Spider glazing has revolutionized modern construction and opened up endless possibilities for architects. They can now create functional and visually stunning structures. With spider glazing, we are moving towards a more sustainable and eco-friendly future in architecture. The next time you come across a spider web, take a moment to appreciate this natural wonder's intricate beauty. Remember how the functionality has inspired one of the most innovative building techniques in the world.

[makemywebsite1]

Design Handoff: How to Work Smoothly With Developers

Web design is only half the battle. The handoff? That’s the real test. Designers often pour soul and sweat into pixel-perfect layouts, only to watch the final product fall short in development. Why, because design handoff is where harmony either thrives or dies.

This critical transition from design to code needs more than an email with an attachment. It requires strategy, clarity, and communication. Think of it like passing the baton in a relay. A flawless pass keeps the race alive. A sloppy one? Disaster.

So, let’s dive in and learn how to ensure efficient design handoff for your web design in Melbourne.

Table of Contents

What Is a Design Handoff?

Design handoff refers to the point where the creative torch is passed from the designer to the developer. It involves sharing all visual assets, documentation, specifications, and design intent with the person responsible for building the actual website or app.

This moment marks the shift from idea to implementation, and it often determines how accurately the final product matches the original vision.

Why Design Handoff Matters

A poor handoff causes friction. Designs break. Features don’t behave. Deadlines slip. Tensions rise.

But when done right, developers understand the vision. They build faster, cleaner., and more accurately. The experience becomes seamless for the team and the users.

Start With Collaboration, Not a File Transfer

Don’t vanish after the design is complete. Involve developers early. Sit together in the same (real or virtual) room. Discuss the goals. Understand constraints. Ask questions and be curious.

Designers and developers are not rivals. They are allies. One paints the picture. The other brings it to life. Communication bridges the gap between intention and execution.

Use the Right Tools for the Job

Clunky PDFs and disorganised folders belong in the past. Use tools that make the handoff intuitive and interactive.

– Figma: Offers real-time collaboration. Inspect tools for developers. Easy export of assets.

– Zeplin: Bridges design and development. It allows commenting, measurements, and code snippets.

– Adobe XD: Includes developer handoff features like specifications and styles.

Choose a tool that speaks the language of both worlds—design and code. It should reduce ambiguity, not add to it.

Be Ruthlessly Organised

Chaos kills momentum. Deliver design files that are squeaky clean.

– Name every layer clearly.

– Group components logically.

– Label buttons, icons, images, and text fields.

– Remove unused elements and clutter.

Treat your design file like a workspace someone else needs to enter. Clean desks inspire productivity, so do tidy design files.

Provide a Style Guide or Design System

Consistency is key. A developer shouldn’t have to guess what shade of blue to use or which button hover style applies. Create a style guide that includes:

– Fonts and sizes

– Colors and their hex/RGB codes

– Button states (normal, hover, active)

– Spacing and padding values

– Grid structure

Better yet, build a full design system. Developers will thank you.

Include Functional Annotations

Designs often speak in visuals. But visuals don’t speak for everything. So, explain interactions and describe behaviour. Does this card expand? Does this button animate? Should this menu slide or fade?

Add notes directly within the design tool. Point to the element. Explain its function. Developers aren’t mind-readers.

Define Responsive Behaviour

A desktop layout doesn’t automatically translate to mobile. Spell it out. Show how the design adapts to smaller screens.

Indicate breakpoints.

Provide mobile mockups.

Clarify what collapses, what hides, and what reflows.

Responsiveness is not an afterthought. It’s a requirement. Communicate it.

Clarify the Flow, Not Just the Frames

Individual screens are snapshots. Developers need the movie.

Map out the user journey. Use arrows, flows, or prototypes. Show how one screen leads to another. How does the user move from sign-in to the dashboard? What happens after a failed form submission?

Clear flows reduce assumptions. They boost accuracy and protect the experience.

Don’t Assume—Explain Everything

If you think “they’ll figure it out,” you’re gambling. Don’t bet on assumptions. Be explicit. If spacing matters, specify it. If icons change on hover, state it. If the form uses input masks, note it.

Details matter. Vague handoffs waste time.

Schedule a Walkthrough

Files are good, but conversations are better. So, hold a handoff meeting. Walk through the design. Explain goals, highlight tricky spots, invite questions, and welcome feedback. Face-to-face, voice-to-voice, or screen-to-screen—it doesn’t matter. A real-time walkthrough clears fog like nothing else.

Be Available Post-Handoff

Your role doesn’t end after the handoff. Be ready to clarify and answer follow-up questions. More importantly, adjust designs if necessary.

Developers may uncover edge cases or might need additional assets. So, stay accessible. Keep the flow alive.

Test Together, Improve Together

Once the design is live, join the testing phase. Compare design vs. build. Check spacing, typography, colour usage, and interaction states. Give constructive feedback. Spot bugs early. Suggest fixes.

Celebrate what works. Fix what doesn’t.

Testing isn’t just QA’s job. Designers own the experience, too.

Final Thoughts

Design handoff is not a file drop. It’s a conversation. A process. A partnership. It demands clarity, empathy, and precision.

Designers and developers speak different dialects, but they share the same goal—a brilliant product. When that baton is passed with care, the result is seamless, elegant, and cohesive. So, take the time and build the bridge. The space between design and code lies the magic of digital creation.

For more help with your web design in Melbourne, contact Make My Website (MMW). You will find their assistance vastly helpful.

[nursingwriter]

Stress What does Stress actually mean and connote? Stress is a state of tension and mental strain or suspense, and it is also a force that is responsible for producing a certain amount of strain on the physical body. Some sort of disturbance or anguish in the mind could cause it, and stress is generally accompanied by a whole lot of worries and anxieties and constant doubts and fears, and also, at times, suspicions and doubts. (Definition of Stress on the Web) Stress is found everywhere and is so widespread a phenomenon that it is almost impossible to read a newspaper or a magazine without seeing some sort of reference to the word 'Stress'. What is the reason for the obsession and fascination with the term, because it is a fact that stress has been in existence from the time when life on earth must have started? Is it true that contemporary stress is somehow greater than the stress of the years gone by, or is because there is simply more stress today than there was before, or is it because scientists are now conducting more and more researches into the matter, and are discovering the vital role that stress plays in the modern world of today, and the fact that it has now been confirmed that stress can not only cause a number of disorders in a human being but can also aggravate certain existing conditions in man. It must be remembered that stress is an important part of life today, and as Hans Selye stated, "Without Stress, there would be no life." However, there does seem to be a redeeming factor, and that is the fact that just as there is bad stress that can actually cause certain disorders in a human being, there is 'good stress' too, and this type of stress can promote wellness and a feeling of well-being, and the trick that each and every individual must learn is how to find a good balance between the bad stress and the good stress of life so that he would essentially be able to perform and live life as it is meant to be lived. (Dedicated to Advancing Our Understanding of: The Role of Stress in Health and Illness: The Nature and Importance of Mind-Body Relationships Our Inherent) Stress can actually be extremely overwhelming, and when an individual is suffering from stress, he would often forget the fact that help is just a phone call away, and that it is possible to get rid of stress. More often than not, stress can take a toll on the physical body, and this means that as an inevitable result, the body will become more susceptible to infections than ever before, and if, by unfortunate chance, the patient already has some sort of chronic condition, then the symptoms of that particular condition will become even more aggravated because of stress. (Who can help you manage stress?) The physical impact of stress, however, is different from one individual to the next, and the various types of emotional and physical responses that a person has to stress of any kind are actually set in motion by a set of chemical releases and actions. For example, when the individual has been stuck in a traffic jam for more than an hour, and there is a cacophony of car horns and there is too much noise and pollution and heat everywhere, then the person would automatically react with a certain amount of stress at least. When the danger or the stress-causing incident is over, the human body that is well equipped with the appropriate chemicals that combat stress, will initiate a reverse course of action that in fact will serve to release a different range of chemicals into the body and will bring the body into the balance that it is used and accustomed to. This phenomenon is referred to as 'homeostasis', and this is the elusive state of balance and equilibrium that is maintained in the stimulating forces of the body and in the tranquilizing forces of the body. (Renew - Stress on the Brain) However, the fact is that when the body is not able to cope well and as a result is not able to maintain this delicate balance between the stimulating forces and the depressing forces of the body, and then there will be stress, which can also be defined as a state of internal imbalance. The stimulating and the relaxing and tranquilizing forces within the body are created by the 'sympathetic nervous system', which produces the 'fight or flight response', and the 'parasympathetic nervous system' that produces the 'relaxation response', all with a number of endocrinal glands. The hormones that are produced by the endocrine glands will in fact travel through the entire blood stream and serve to either suppress or to speeden up and accelerate the various metabolic functions of the body. The problem with these hormone-producing glands is that they often do not stop at any particular point in time, and this means that the stress that may be caused by any sort of imbalance in the chemicals would result in a prolonged existence of stress within the body. Therefore, an individual would have to consciously learn the various relaxing techniques that are taught by Doctors today in order to better combat the stress. Sometimes, it is even possible for the human brain, or in other words, prolonged stress may affect the area of the brain that is used for memory and learning, the 'hippocampus'. (Renew - Stress on the Brain) How are High-level College Students generally affected by Stress? What can be done to lessen the stress for these individuals? It is a fact that college life can at times become extremely traumatic and stressful. Most of the time, parents and friends and the faculty idealize the time that they had spent in college in their yesteryears, when they had no real worries and no real responsibilities. The student who enters College however, finds that college life is not as idyllic as his parents had made it sound. There are many factors that may cause stress in the student's life, and some of these are the stiff competition for grades, the ever-present fear of AIDS, the need to perform at their best, each and every time, the career choices that they would have to inevitably make for their futures, the stress that may exist in the relationships that they form in college, and so on. (Stress and College Students) However, as stated earlier, stress is only harmful and dangerous if it is excessive, and it may actually be beneficial to the college student as it would serve an entirely different purpose of stimulating and exciting the student into performing better and therefore would actually help him in his college life. There are many challenges in the life of a student, and these challenges would inevitably create stress in some form or another. What must be remembered is that the college student generally thrives on this type of stress as it stimulates him to some extent, and the fact is that, if there were no stress, then there would be no challenge in life, and what is life without stress and excitement? Life may become too boring and unexciting for the student. However, excessive stress must be strictly avoided. Most common forms of stress can be easily managed, though some may be so very severe that it may need some form of counseling and, in some cases, medication. Some self-help techniques for effective stress management generally work well for the college student. The first step is for the student to recognize his own role in the reaction to any particular form of stress. (Stress and College Students) The second step would be for him to take steps towards organizing his personal life in a better manner so that he would be able to achieve and maintain a better balance in life and also in all his various different activities as a college student. The next step would be to make a serious attempt to learn the various relaxation techniques that experts teach. If he learns these techniques and utilizes them in an appropriate manner, then he would be able to handle his stresses better. If the student finds that he has more problems than he can handle effectively all by himself, then he must feel free to discuss these problems or at least a part of them with a specific group of people, and they may be professionals or his peers or his teachers. Often, the mere discussion of a problem with another problem will provide a perspective to the problem that may not have occurred to him earlier, and if he follows up the problem with this particular perspective, then he may even be able to sort out the problem by himself without much outside interference. The main sources of stress that are faced by a college student are the environment, which may actually serve to induce stress in a person. This may be because the environment may be either polluted, or too noisy, or too crowded, or there may be too much crowding, or it may be too cold, or too warm. The weather too plays an important part in creating stress in an individual, especially when the individual happens to be already stressed due to some reason or the other. Another main source of stress may be physiological, like for example, any type of illness that the student is or had suffered from, any sort of injuries in his person, insufficient sleep, and inadequate nutrition, and also in some cases, the hormonal fluctuations that are a natural occurrence for this particular age group of individuals. The very thought processes of the college student may also become a major stress inducer in him. For example, when he expects perfectionism in everything that he does, but finds that he is not able to achieve this with ease, then he automatically becomes stressed. In a similar manner, when the student thinks too many negative thoughts and is quite pessimistic in his thinking, then too he becomes stressed. In addition to all this, there are certain social stressors that induce stress. These may be financial problems and constraints that he may be experiencing at the present time, or the demands that he course is making on him, or the death of a loved one, or the culmination of any social event. (Stress and College Students) However, though it is simple enough to tackle all these forms of stressors and stresses, it is important to understand the fact that if these stresses are left to escalate, then the student may have to face psychological problems as a result, and his college work will suffer. if, however, others learn to recognize the various symptoms of stress, then it would be easier to deal with it and treat it before it escalates into an unforeseen problem. Some forms of stress affect only the person who is stressed, while other forms may affect all the others around him, like for example, when the student is in a relationship, and then his loved one would be able to point it out to him. The obvious physical symptoms of stress are the following, and many individuals may have experienced all or some of these symptoms at some time or the other during their lives. Muscular tension, an elevated blood pressure, a frequent cold or a cough, constant indigestion, and ulcers in a mild form, permanent fatigue and also sleeplessness, tiredness, frequent and constant headaches, as well as backaches. The stressed out college student may experience most of these symptoms during the course of his college life. Apart from all the physical symptoms that are caused by stress, there are certain emotional or psychological symptoms that are also caused by stress. These are that the student may experience unprecedented anger and a high temper, with absolutely no real provocation, or he may be constantly irritable and easily irritated, or he may experience a mild or a severe depression, or he may feel that he is overwhelmed by the activities and by the course or by the events in the college. He may also exhibit mood swings, and theses may become dangerous to himself as well as to those around him. Stress also causes certain cognitive symptoms like for example, forgetfulness, extreme difficulty in concentrating, and a constant recurrence of all sorts of unwanted and repetitive thoughts that he feels that he cannot adequately control. (Stress and College Students) The trick lies in effective control and, if possible, the elimination of the factors that are causing the stress in the college student. The first step to take would be to improve the health of the student, since it is an undeniable fact that the more healthy individuals who make it a point to eat well, sleep well, and also indulge in a moderate amount of physical exercises would be better equipped at any time to deal with stress factors than those student who do not eat or sleep well, and have no time for exercise. It is these students who generally feel overwhelmed by the events of the college and all its activities, and therefore feel more stressed out than others. It is also this type of student, who feels unable to cope, and often relapses into a mild or at times a severe depression. These students need to be taught the best and most effective way with which to deal with stress by paying more attention to his personal well being, like for example, getting more sleep, eating better, and so on. The trick is to find and achieve the right balance between the various factors that make up a college student's life, that are: sleep, food, relaxation and recreational activities, work, school and course work, and so on. There are some other students who find that they are constantly rushed, and they find themselves running against the clock most of the time, trying to keep up with all the numerous activities that college life has to offer them. Finally, they feel that they have absolutely no time at all to catch up, and find that they are now lagging behind because of the lack of time. Teaching them the essentials of 'time management' techniques, however, can effectively help these students, and this would help them to cope better with college life. If the student were also encouraged to share his problems with others and discuss them in some detail with them, then a part of his problem would be solved. This is because it is in fact extremely easy to get virtually stuck or completely caught up in a problem so that the student's view becomes very narrow and constrained, and then he would inevitably lose his correct perspective, and then finally, he would feel that a small and minute failure is actually a great insurmountable problem. When the problem is discussed with a strong friend or a teacher or anybody, then it is possible that he would be able to see it for what it actually is a small problem that can be easily sorted out. The student would also feel that he has now gained a sense of control, and he can now take whatever action he desires to take to sort it out. (Stress and College Students) It is indeed possible to reduce and control stress to a large extent, provided the student is aware of the problem and seeks advice or remedies for it. It must be remembered that stress is capable of affecting an individual in a holistic manner, which in other words means that it can affect the person physically, mentally, emotionally, as well as spiritually. Sleeplessness may lead to not only poor performance in college but also to a real vulnerability to road accidents, and can cause anxiety and depression and a total lack of concentration, which also leads to poor performance in his studies and school work. Stress may also cause the student to effectively abandon healthy and good habits such as eating well; sleeping well, and exercising well, and this in turn will definitely lead to other types of health problems. In the long run, these will affect the student severely. Heart problems, high blood pressure, arthritis, menstrual problems in girls, and constant headaches and backaches are all classic symptoms of stress, and in the long run, it can affect the student very badly. (Stress: University of North Dakota) Short-term stress can be dealt with effectively by teaching time management methods that would help him balance time with the number of activities that he would have to perform in the college. He can also learn how to modify the environment in which he is functioning, so that he would find it easier to work. Where long-term stress is concerned, the college student would do better if he were to seek and find his own stress level, so that he would be not only able to manage his time and activities effectively, but would also be able to choose his own goals and see to it that he achieves them. He would also be able to make his own decisions so that they would suit his purposes better, and this would also help him to keep his expectations and ideals at a more realistic level instead of expecting something higher than what he can hope to achieve and then feeling depressed about it. This would ensure that the student would be able to accept the things that he cannot hope to change and live with them so that he is not affected by the stress factor in the issue. The student would also be prepared to actually anticipate stressful situations and be well prepared for them well in advance so that when the stress were to occur, he would deal with it in the manner in which he saw fit. This means that he would live in the present reality rather than in some high expectations from the past. (Stress: University of North Dakota) In Law School, stress can manifest itself in the same ways as it does in other settings, and the students of Law School must be taught the essentials of stress management techniques so that they would be better able to cope with it. The student may find that he is falling ill more and more often, with severe headaches, loss of appetite, frequent backaches, anger and temper tantrums, a general lack of control in all activities, and so on. He may want to run away from the situation, and he may feel that the best way in which to manage stress is to drink himself into a stupor, or consume more coffee, or use drugs, and so on. All these methods must be discussed and discouraged by the faculty, in addition to the strict warning that the student will not be accepted by the Board of Bar Examiners in the application to the Bar. Therefore, the Law Student must be taught the best way in which to manage stress, and some of these methods must be discussed within the college so that the student does not feel that he is all alone in his problems. (Law School and Stress) As far as job stress is concerned, it is a very difficult issue to tackle effectively, because of the fact that unlike chemical or physical dangers and hazards at the workplace, stress cannot be quantified or defined, and most corporations and organizations define stress as an innately personal reaction to the various events in the organization, and most often, it is the symptoms that are treated and not the causes of the stressful situation. There have been several objections to this type of stress management, because of the fact that in this method, it is the victim who is blamed, and not the workplace that has resulted in the stress in the individual. The need for intervention techniques for the effective management of stress in the workplace has been largely ignored, and this has resulted in the increase of stress and stress related ailments in the employees of the organization. (Job Stress and Heart Disease: Evidence and Strategies for Prevention) 'Stress Management Intervention' is a technique or a plan or a strategy that teaches an individual who is affected by stress in his daily life, either as a student, or as an employee, or as an employer, and so on, so that he would be able to overcome the stress and all the associated disorders and symptoms that are making his life more stressful and traumatic. Read the full article

[sleeps-au-bag]

samantha "sammy" thilkes is a strange girl.

she's the new girl in the grade, one of the very few who managed to get into the theater program specifically. that automatically made her a curious figure, considering how strange the theater students were compared to everyone else. how strange it was that none of them had gone missing.

she was a quiet girl, meek and naive. always willing to go along with what her classmates wanted as long as she didn't get any attention. it's clear she had a talent in acting but her shy personality was keeping her from progressing her talent. she's often seen with her fellow theater program members as they accompany her around the school. no one ever sees a member of the theater program alone.

sammy does have a few friends from other programs, two girls from the art program and one from the music program. it's rare to see them together, as core classes only happen three times a week and not for long.

speaking of core classes, there's always some type of tension between her and the chemistry teacher. some say they hate each other while others say there's some type of rivalry going on between them. whatever it is, people are aware of it.

samantha "sammy" thilkes is possibly the strangest girl in the academy.

--

tsukasa was not expecting being labeled as the strangest girl in the academy but it's something she can roll with. she didn't make up one half of the weirdo wombo combo for no reason, after all. she'll just have to tone down the weirdo part.

school was... fine, she guesses. nothing like the school back in resembool. less explosions. the theater classes were absolutely her favorite part of the day. the challenge of acting out a role while already acting out a role was exhilarating. she'd definitely be taking back these tips and putting them to use the next time she's with her troupe.

that being said, the teachers were strange. they're definitely hiding something. they're good making sure nobody knew since mustang has said nothing about the teachers. in fact, the only teachers that weren't weird were mustang and the theater teacher who was also new to the school.

speaking of mustang, he's an ass as usual. always picking on him during class time and even outside of class whenever they passed by each other in the hallways. he's in for the verbal beatdown of a lifetime the moment they get back to east city. curse those thin walls of the rooming house, she needs to yell at a bastard.

the kids in the theater program were probably his best bet at finding out just what is going on. they're a tight knit community and they can easily find out everything about a person. the theater program is also one of the only programs to let both boy and girls interact with each other which gives tsukasa the unique opportunity of creating an information web disguised as a gossip one. it helps to be a gossip sometimes.

he just prays this mission will be over soon, he's wasting time when it comes to finding leads about the stone.

...

hold on.

are those toya's brothers?

IS THAT SAKI???? wait, hold on, this is a good opportunity. a very, very good opportunity. has tsukasa mentioned how much she loves her sister?

[psatalk]

Kolkata's AB Polypacks adds a new rotogravure press 

AB Polypacks, a West Bengal-headquartered one-stop shop for a wide range of flexible packaging solutions, recently added a 9-color Solomark ELS 6450 rotogravure press from Pelican Rotoflex to its portfolio. The company had earlier added a turret slitter from Pelican.

With its manufacturing facility spread over 1.5 lakh square feet of land in Howrah near Kolkata, the company, which started its journey in 2006, provides a wide range of flexible packaging solutions, including collation shrink films, shrink labels, wrap-around labels, laminates, and all kinds of pouches, under one roof.

The Solomark 6450 has a maximum web width of up to 1300 mm, with a web tension range of 60 to 400N and a reel diameter of 1000 mm. Chinmay Kumar, co-founder of AB Polypacks, emphasized its high energy efficiency with lower power consumption and less waste. “It is user-friendly with better operational ease with better print quality and higher productivity,” he said.

According to Kumar, the machines present in the plant's arsenal for printing, lamination, blown films, shrink labels, and pouching are what set the company apart from its counterparts.

The printing unit, apart from the new Solomark 6450, is equipped with four more high-speed rotogravure printing presses. It has expertise in a diverse range of materials, ranging from polyester and PVC to PET-G, shrink film, BOPP film, foil, and paper.

The blown polyethylene film unit at the plant has a production capacity of 10,000 metric tonnes per annum. The company says it takes pride in manufacturing the best quality three-layer collation shrink film and poly films of a wide variety for lamination.

Speaking about the blown film unit, Kumar said, “Our W&H Optimex extruder provides excellent mechanical strength, and a completely automated machine provides precise operations. The thickness controller ensures easy downgauging and reduces micron variation with minimum wastage.” The major suppliers of plastic granules to the plant are HPL, IOCL, Dow Chemicals, and Borouge.

To provide high-quality packaging material, the manufacturing unit is equipped with fully automatic corona treatment machines such as Nordmeccanica. It is a combi line in which simultaneously solventless and base facility can be utilized.

The pouching unit manufactures various types such as three-sided sealed pouches, central seal pouches, stand-up pouches, pillow pouches, spout pouches, shaped pouches, and various customized pouches as per requirements.

With the entire gamut of flexible packaging solutions under one roof, the company offers its products to the food packaging, liquid packaging, healthcare, and agriculture sectors, the household and personal care sectors, and the spices industry as well.

“High barrier properties along with high aroma retention properties of our packaging material make us the supplier of choice to most of the spices brands in the country,” he said. Multinational brands such as Coca-Cola, Pepsico, Hindustan Unilever, Britannia, Parle Agro, Haldiram’s, Pidilite Industries, etc., form part of the company's key client portfolio.

On the sustainability front, Kumar aims to make solar power the primary renewable source of energy for AB Polypacks by the year 2025. “Through the integration of new technology and machinery, we are wholeheartedly embracing sustainability.” According to Kumar, the company works to reduce waste and energy consumption in the manufacturing process, thereby doing its bit to produce more responsible packaging solutions.