#(actually in the notes here a lot of it does)

[fragranticareviewers]

As someone who doesn't know a thing about perfumes, reading what you have to say about them is so unbelievably cool!

If I may ask something, what would a magical girl use, but not the pink main one, maybe the orange/yellow one?

ive been sitting with this for a little bit rotating it in my head... this will be a long one

so im putting my answers into two different categories:

one is for the Orange Magical Girl Archetype, which is how i was thinking of the first one. in my head, the orange ones are usually sporty, energetic, and have a sun or fire theme going on, while still maintaining a lot of that youthful sparkly fun vibe. (i also personally associate them with citrus, because, well, orange) so i was thinking of that. this will be my first category of answers.

olympea solar by rabanne - yummy! white florals and mandarin orange.

h&m sunray - golden warmth by h&m - straight up smells like summer. sunscreen, coconut, slightly floral?

orange ice cream by colornoise - i have no idea if this one is good or not to be honest. but it looks like it should fit. i trust it. i believe in it.

dr. botica poção da criatividade by o boticário - ok pause. i have never seen this mentioned before by anyone and found it by accident. what is this. this is ridiculously cute. how do i get my hands on it? the bottle is so cute! it has a star for god's sake

sundrunk by imaginary authors - "oh noo it's so linear" "it doesn't smell like a city on fire or bull's blood" i don't care. smells like artificial orange flavoring followed by neroli. yummy

...so this was my first thought.

then i started thinking: what about the actual orange magical girls from things i've watched? what do i associate with them?

and then i realized: WHERE ARE ALL THE ORANGE MAGICAL GIRLS?? i can think of, like, 5 total! all of them have completely different personalities! everyone's always like "ohh toei hates making green magical girls, we're starving, please feed us more green magical girls please" as if there is not currently a CRISIS of MAGICAL GIRLS WHO WEAR ORANGE in their series even greater than this...

with that said: the 5 magical girls i can think of who are primarily orange all have completely different associations for me, so i figured it'd be fun to pick a perfume or two for each of them.

cure soleil from star twinkle precure - i think they technically classify her as yellow so she might not even count. that's stupid. she's orange. being blonde does not change the color of her outfit.

for her, i pick aqua allegoria nettare di sole by guerlain. it has solar notes, which are critical for her IMO, along with beautiful white florals, which i think matches with her association with flowers.

hazuki from ojamajo doremi - ah, i'm struggling with this a bit.. she's very shy, naive, and studious, with an interest in things like violin and ballet. i was hoping i could find something with maybe a light varnish accord, but no luck. instead, i looked for things with an old book/paper smell without being overly dark or old, and i'm stuck between these 2...

gion by fantome - powdery rose tea with honey and books. light and cute.

morning room by solstice scents - you thought i was gonna do a recommendation post without mentioning solstice scents huh? huh?? *beats you up* this is another powdery and light floral, this time mostly based on violet instead of rose. and, of course, there's a paper note in here.

cure sunny from smile precure - i'm realizing that, in my head, she is the prototypical orange magical girl. i may be biased because she's also my favorite. i want to find something that evokes fire without being overly smoky or autumnal.

beach bonfire by alchemic muse - a firey gourmand with a little bit of nice sandalwood and amber, nice!

fire opal (orange 2; natural) by dsh perfumes - planning on getting a sample of this. bitter orange that people are complaining is "too masculine"

sailor venus from sailor moon - oh god. is she orange? anyways, i think i'd associate her with like, makeup accords, like the way lipstick smells. but fun and silly. it'd be cool if i could find a light and fun fragrance with a hot iron accord because she has a chain attack and all that, but no such thing seems to exist

iris crush by jimmy choo - powdery floral lipstick. yay!

nagisa momoe from puella magi madoka magica - is this even a question?

cheesecake by arcana wildcraft.

anyways, to be transparent, a lot of the time i don't answer fandom/character requests because it's always things i've never watched/read/played/etc. before. but mahou shoujo... well i've heard of it

[lynxgriffin]

You know, in retrospect, the Cattenheimers possibly being important in the future would line up with how the significance of cat-related stuff has increased dramatically now.

Starting with Chapter 2 and the hiatus after it’s release, the Spamton Sweepstakes Q&A had Spamton bring up the elemental pairing of [Puppet/Cat] among other examples. This can be seen in the hidden elemental property system that is sometimes assigned to attacks and armors - which has been more clearly seen with the Shadow Mantle’s effects against attacks from the Titan and some of Gerson’s. In particular, some attacks from Spamton NEO, Tasque Manager, and Tasques all share the same element ID which most likely is [Puppet/Cat].

Alongside that, there is the enigmatic IMAGE_FRIEND/DEVICE_FRIEND:

It initially appeared in Queen’s Basement with a random chance of appearing where the teacups rise up to take you down to the barrier generator. Obviously, it contains the now recurring motif of pink and yellow, which back then we could only connect to Spamton’s glasses. But then in the second round of Spamton Sweepstakes ARG stuff back in May, “FRIEND” was confirmed to explicitly be a cat from the image files of the rarecats game page. And as you have seen, FRIEND became openly prominent in the game as the face of the Endogeny-shaped Darkner during Ralsei’s Ch 3 explanation about the Dark World, as well as the enemies ERAM summons against us during the Sword Route boss fight.

Interestingly, you can even see FRIEND during the first board of the Sword Route. With a maxed out sword, not only can you reach a hidden path to a room with ERAM in it, but you can also cut down the trees to the left and right of the pyramid to find two caves that each have a half of FRIEND’s face appear after moving long enough. And they appear as a pitch black silhouette in the 3rd Sanctuary room with a Waferguard in it, meaning they’re only visible via the sound waves.

The hidden Mike fight and minigames certainly have a lot of cats, with Battat’s minigames directly taking from rarecats and Pluey being based on the fan theory that FRIEND was Mike, but it’s a bit harder to gauge how important this in particular is.

Moving on from FRIEND, I’ve brought up the pink and white cats in the Sword Route, which brings the topic back to the Cattenheimers. And Chapter 4 has a bunch of really odd details surrounding them.

Their cat flap is noted to have a lock that “requires 3 codes” - the flavor text really does have this color - in a clear parallel to the shelter door, but is treated as a joke as ‘useless information.’ Sans’ teleporting shenanigans make an appearance for the first time with him going between his store and the Cattenheimers’ grill between screens. Not only that, he fixes/upgrades the grill to now be capable of also smelling of dogfood, not just catfood, and cooks his “hot dog/cattail” prank on it. And then there’s Catty being the one who is picked to give the sermon about the prophecy behind Deltarune.

A sermon that explicitly confirms one of the heroes to have horns and is he/him - which fits Ralsei AND probably Asriel given Toriel and Asgore’s dark world/prophecy crowns. A sermon that brings up Catti is currently still into summoning/communing with demons. And a sermon that has Catty keep the church guessing about whether or not she’s secretly “actually a Hero” (the capitalization is part of the quote) or that she’s been keeping a secret from everyone - which I presume is in general.

That’s not even bringing up how the dad calls Catty his “genius daughter” in yellow text, which in the church is otherwise reserved for referring to Alphys, Noelle, or Noelle being locked out. Catty acts like she misunderstood what Kris was talking about and points them to Noelle and indirectly to Alphys, but still.

Heck, during Catty’s sermon, it is the only place you can get the Ancient Sweet, which is a bizarre healing item worthy of its own tangent. Really, the most relevant part here is that if you fulfill the conditions required to get it, Kris’ interaction with Susie changes to her finding an undelivered letter in Asriel’s church clothes from Asriel to Catty about their upcoming junior dance together. The same dance that Catty brings up very fondly in Chapter 1 and calls Asriel a “cutie pie” for, not too dissimilar to how much she imagines the horned hero to be “SO cute” for reasons she says she doesn’t know.

Even the other option, the option to pay attention to service, has Susie provide a similar expansion upon another part of Catty’s sermon. Namely, bringing up how Catti and Kris are rumored to have tried to summon demons back when they were kids, which much more openly brings up that plot point about Kris and Catti’s history.

But yeah, there seems to be something really, really weird going down with cats in Deltarune. And more likely than not, the Cattenheimers or at least the sisters will be important to it.

(Not gonna lie, Sans’ modifications to their grill has me lowkey looking suspiciously at the explicitly cattish FRIEND being paired with an Endogeny-like body. That, and also at how it seems to establish some kind of close connection between Sans and the Cattenheimers in general. I mean, he just upgrades and starts using their grill while the family is away without any apparent permission. I hadn’t even realized that last part with the grill until the moment of writing this. )

I'm just gonna stick all of these asks together because...MMMFFGH. I feel like my brain is just absolutely overloaded on cats now and I don't quite know what to make of all of it!

I still don't know what to make of FRIEND, ultimately. The mentions of Friend in the Mike Room honestly almost seem to be teasing players about getting too Pepe Silvia-brained about Friend, but at the same time, there's all these weird little connections with ERAM and Spamton and man it's all a lot. Best I can work out is that, whatever Friend is supposed to be, they're adept at jumping between the layers of reality that the game presents (the game-within-games of the dark world, the dark world itself, the light world, the device layer, etc.)

Catti's got connections with Kris in regards to the demon summoning (which I still maintain could be US all along)

Catti has got serious tension with Susie over Noelle, who are supposed to go to the festival tomorrow together. "Raging inferno of jealousy" could apply to Catti as much as it does Asgore.

Catti's also got tension with an older sibling the same way Kris might have mixed feelings about Asriel. Asriel is likely coming home next chapter for the festival.

There's SOME kind of big cat fight we've got coming in the future but I'll be damned if I can figure out how it will happen or ultimately shake out.

The primary conclusion I draw from this: Undertale is the dog universe, and Deltarune is the cat universe. I don't know how on earth to explain what that means, but it's a conclusion I've got nonetheless.

[calypsocolada]

LOSER HAS TO FALL | hero x

(this is part two! click here for part one!) synopsis: maybe the top hero isn't as bad at flirting as you previously thought... authors note: helllooooo! second and final part to this lil series. i think i'm gonna write some more sometime soon about other characters. mainly lin ling <3, old e-soul, queen???? we'll see. hope you guys enjoy this! it turned out a bit longer than I previously thought and i'm sure there could be another part but... idk. we'll see how this one does! enjoy!!! wc: 4.6k cw: spoilers!, fem reader, use of y/n, angst, slightly suggestive, super duper brief mention of sewerslide, not proofread forgive me

click here for my masterlist!

It��d been just over a week since you heard from your father. He’d meant what he said. He was a lot of things but he wasn’t a liar. And you didn’t bother trying to reason with him. He was done with you. 

He had said many times before he only had a place beside him if you were a winner. And you weren’t one anymore. You lost. Pretty damn hard and pretty damn publicly. So you were dropped from your father’s hero association and quickly, a little too quickly to not be calculated, replaced by the next up and comer. 

You on the other hand had actually managed to get signed rather quickly. All thanks to Queen, who had taken pity on you after seeing you sat in the parking lot of the stadium way past when the tournament ended. You’d never really been left on your own. Every single step of your life was puppeteered by your father. You didn’t exactly know how to stand on your own just yet. 

But nevertheless Queen brought you to DOS and after less than a three minute talk you were asked to join the agency. It startled you a bit. Seeing as you were conditioned to think people who lost gained nothing in return. But you were still the top third hero and apparently MIckey, the head of DOS, saw that as a great achievement. 

“Oh, and before you go, Winner?” Mickey called, your hand paused as you turned. Mickey was sitting back at his desk, his hand reaching for his coffee cup. “Our surveillance system wasn’t able to pick up you and Hero X’s conversation.” He starts, you furrow your brow, turning fully to face him. 

“Our conversation?”

“During the tournament.” He supplies. You slowly nod your head. “That man he’s… a mysterious one. I haven’t been able to get a hold of him even for a moment.” Mickey tries to laugh off his words but it’s too hollow, too stressed sounding. “I even visited his floor but… it’s vacant. I’m just curious… since he didn’t speak a single word to anyone else the entire tournament, before and after. But he spoke to you… seemed like he said a lot.” 

“Well he…” You cleared your throat, trying to recall the short conversation. “He mocked me mostly. Then he…” You stopped yourself. He had asked you to dinner and for some reason that embarrassed you. “Yeah… he just mocked me. My hero name.” You averted your eyes. You felt Mickey’s eyes burn into you, you forced yourself to meet his eyes. It was clear he only half believed you, which was fine because you were telling a half truth.

“That’s all?” He asked. You nodded your head. Mickey swallows, nodding head head. 

“Well alright then, welcome to DOS, Winner.”

And welcomed you were. And marketed to. Though this time around you had a lot more say in the kinds of sponsorships and brand deals you took. You had asked a few times to change your hero name but it was always met with a resounding ‘no’. 

“If you change it now, it’s like starting all over!” Mickey had said to you over the phone as you were chauffeured back to the hero tower. 

“What’s so wrong with starting over?” You asked and felt disheartened when you heard Mickey’s laugh over the line. 

“Winner is a beloved hero and a household name. Everyone knows Winner. Millions of people have put their trust in Winner. Winners in the top three leaderboard of heroes. You can’t start over now.” Mickey listened as your car pulled up and your door was opened. 

“It doesn’t feel like me.”

“What does? Winner is a persona… she isn’t supposed to be you.” Mickey says and you can hear the exasperation in his voice and that part of you that never really got out of the habits your father instilled in you rolled over. 

“Alright,” You conceded. “I won’t ask again.” You said, stepping out of the car into the blinding sun, you shielded your eyes as Mickey over the phone all but cheered.

“Good girl.” He hangs up the phone, that familiar click turning your blood hot. You shoved your phone in your pocket and strutted towards the elevator. It dinged, the white doors pulling apart as you stepped inside and let it carry you up to your floor. It slowed to a stop and pulled apart again as you stepped out, something shining and catching your attention. The familiar sound of a coin slicing through the air as it flips onto a hand. The doors to the elevator pulled shut behind you as your eyes met X’s. He leaned against your kitchen island looking exactly as he had the day he beat you. The same tailored suit, slicked back hair and shit eating grin, although he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

“Busy day?” He asked nonchalantly, pocketing the coin he was fiddling with. You stared at him, mouth slightly agape. He raised his brows slightly, tilting his head. “Well?” He encouraged. You cleared your throat, there was something about him. Something like a demand for your attention. 

“Yes. It was busy.” You said. X snapped, two glasses materializing in his hands. 

“Share a drink?” He asks. 

“I… don’t have any wine-” He snaps again and a bottle clatters on the top of your counter. He turns, reaching for the bottle, popping the cork and pouring you both a glass. You hesitantly make your way towards him. He slid your glass to your side of the kitchen island and raised his glass towards you. Your fingers slid around the cold glass, slowly raising it to meet his. His eyes caress your face as your glasses clink. 

“To signing to a new association.” He says, tilting the glass towards you before pulling it towards his lips. 

“How did you-”

“I know alot about you.” he interrupts. “Also it’s all over the news.” He adds as you pull your own glass to your lips. You two meet eyes, taking sips. The third floor of the hero tower had never felt smaller than in this moment.

“What’s… your deal?” You asked as X leaned back, gulping down his glass, snapping as it refills itself. 

“My deal?” He echoes your words, smirking at you. 

“Yes,” You affirmed, setting your glass down. “Your deal.”

“You’re not still mad at me, are you?” He asks and you're glad you set your glass down because you probably would’ve sent it careening towards his head. 

“That implies that I even think about you.” You countered. X perked up at your words, he almost looked… thrilled at your sharp tone. 

“You don’t?” He asks, his voice… soft, almost lilting. You shook your head. 

“My boss does. He’s curious about the top hero.” You said, reaching for your glass again, taking a sip. X purses his lips slightly. 

“And you?” He asks, your eyes cut to his.

“And me?”

“Mhm.” He hums. “You're not the least bit curious about me?” If you could choose a hero name for this man, you would’ve gladly and quickly chosen shameless. 

“Who’re you? What’s your name?”

“X.” He answers simply. 

“You’ll call me by my real name but you won’t tell me your real name?” You asked. X took another long sip. 

“It’s better this way.” He shrugs. “Any other questions for me?”

“Why’re you here? In my home?”

“Well you know… you never answered me.” He runs his finger over the rim of his glass. 

“Hm?” You hummed before taking another sip of the wine. It was good wine, a familiar taste. 

“Dinner?” He grins over his glass. Your eyes cut to his again. Right… guess you never answered him. 

“No.” You said and X’s grin faltered for a moment before he smoothly recovered. 

“No? Just like that?” He dips his head, a strand of his hair falling in his face.

“Just like that.” You affirmed. X rose to his feet, he reached up, smoothing his hair back, he raised his hands in mock surrender. 

“I know how to take ‘no’ for an answer.” He smiles, the first genuine thing you’d seen from him. It was… actually a good look on him. He looked sly when he smirked. He looked down right handsome when he smiled. You walked him to the door, his hand reached out, clicking the elevator button as the cables came to life, pulling it up to your floor. The doors slide open and X steps in. 

“You know, I pegged you as someone who would barter just a bit for dinner.” You said, smirking yourself. X’s eyes snapped to yours. “I must not know you very well.” You waved, he parted his lips to speak just as the doors slid to a close. You stepped back, alone and overwhelmed. You… you had never flirted before. It wasn’t something you thought would come easy but… it came easy just now. It felt good to smile, to tease and argue with someone who didn’t anger easily. It was like he drew out a different side to you. A side of you that wasn’t marred down by lessons learned the hard way.

X sent over a thousand roses a week later. You came home from a mission, exhausted and staggering in pain and tripped up on them, almost sent sprawling on your tile flooring. You straightened, powers extending to hit the light switch. Every color rose imaginable littered the entirety of your apartment, every single surface had a vase with tens of roses inside. Your mouth dropped open in surprise as you winded your way through the apartment. Your landline rings, echoing through your apartment. You trip your way to the phone, yanking it up. 

“Am I pushing my luck?” X asks, you could hear the smirk in his voice. You swallowed hard, thinking about the clean up, about what the hell you were going to do with all these roses. 

“Twenty would have been too many.” You remarked. X laughed, his laugh was warm and amused. You heard his fingers snap and suddenly all but one rose was gone, right on the table next to the phone.

“Better?” He asked, as you reached for it, thinking the moment you got close enough it would disappear but you picked it up, turning it over in your hands. 

“I don’t understand your powers.” You said, tucking the phone between your cheek and shoulder as you walk the rose towards the kitchen.

“Yeah, no one does.” He says, his voice almost warm against your ear. You reach into the cupboard, grabbing a glass, half filling it with water.

“Tell me about them.” You say, placing the rose in the water. 

“You wanna know more about me? Let me take you out to dinner.”

“We’re back on that, huh?” You ask, feeling something warm spread through your body.

“Well, here I am… bartering for dinner.” He says and that warmth goes a bit hot. You swallow. 

“I don't get it. You’re an enigma. Everyones talking about you, about X. No one knows a damn thing, you don’t talk to anyone else in the association. What’s your fascination with me?” You ask, sliding onto the counter. It’s quiet for a moment. 

“You’re fascinating.” He answers simply, voice serious. 

“You never answer any of my questions.” You sigh, leaning back on your hand, looking back towards the skyline outside your apartment window. 

“I think… it’s pretty clear.”

“What?”

“My intentions, Y/n.” X says and your heart actually flips in your chest. You clear your throat. 

“Make them clear for me.” You say, voice soft. It’s quiet for another moment. What’re you getting yourself into?

“I want to take you on a date. I find you… alluring. Always have. I told you at the end of our fight I was a big fan.”

“Of Winner.” He was a fan of Winner, that wasn’t you. 

“No. Not the hero you pretend to be on commercials and tv shows. The one I see on the news smiling as she saves the day. The one that still introduces herself as if she’s not a top hero.” You swallow dryly at his words. Did he understand you? Was he seeing past the manufactured ‘you’?

“It’s… only polite to introduce yourself.” You covered, trying not to sound as affected as you felt. Even you didn’t entirely know who you were yet. There definitely still was a part of you, probably a part you could never entirely rid yourself of, that was still competitive. You wanted to be the top hero and you wanted that title to be something only you accomplished. To show your father you weren’t useless and still had worth.

“I have a feeling you're going to turn me down again.” X’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts as you purse your lips.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why’s that?” He asks, you think it’s pretty obvious. 

“I want to be the top hero. I could’ve been the top hero.” You start, glancing over at the rose on your countertop. “I’m going to spend a lot of my time this year training up so I can wipe the floor with you at the next competition.”

“Ah. So it’s like that, huh?” He asks, that smirk coming back, you could practically see it. 

“Enjoy it while you can.”

“Y/n, are you thinking this declaration of war will deter me in any way? Because… Quite frankly, now I want that date with you more than anything. I like a woman who knows what she wants.” Your brows shoot up in surprise. You were sure your words would put an end to the chase X was running.

“You’re insatiable.” You half laugh, half scoff in surprise. 

“Satiate me then. It’s one date.” He bartered quite well. When did just dinner turn into a date? And it was just one date. Something you’d never been on. Plus this could be your one and only chance to get actual answers about him. Everyone has a weakness, and you needed to find out what that was if you wanted a fair fight.

“Alright. One date.”

“Be ready in an hour.” X answered smoothly, you shot up. 

“Now?”

“Mhm. I’ll be there in an hour.” He hummed and the line went dead. You hopped off the counter and for an hour you rushed around. You took a shower and blow dried and styled your hair. You pulled on a dress that Queen let you borrow for a gala a few weeks ago and stopped in the kitchen, taking two shots to calm your nerves. Just as you set the shot glass down the elevator doors dinged and X stepped inside your apartment. 

“You didn’t give me much time, asshole.” You called out to him as he rounded the corner, he stopped in his tracks and so did you. He wasn’t wearing a white suit, nor did he have white hair. You didn’t know who this man was. “Who the hell-“

“It’s me.” He says, reaching up to push his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose. He had clean black hair, pushed sideways out of his face, black rimmed glasses and a fitted black salaryman suit. He looked like an office job worker, someone that would bump into on the street in a hurry to get back to the office. You furrowed your brows. He snaps his fingers and in a blink of an eye the white suit materializes, his black hair smoothing into white. He snaps again and he’s back to normal. “Most hero’s need a disguise to hide behind.” He reaches up, running a hand through his black hair. You realized you hadn’t said a word and cleared your throat. “Oh no… did I lose my appeal?”

“So this is who you are?” You ask and his face softens slightly, he nods his head. “You’ll show me this but won’t tell me your real name.”

“I’ll save that for the second date.” He smirks and that smirk was enough to make you realize it really was him, the two could coexist in your mind purely by the way he smiled. You relax slightly, your creased brow calming. 

“I really don’t get you.” You said but your voice wasn’t sharp or annoyed.

“Figured maybe you had a thing for brunettes.” His words draw a laugh out of you as you roll your eyes. 

“I don’t know what my thing is.” 

“Well I hope you like sushi.” He raises his arm. You hadn’t even noticed he was holding a take out bag. 

“I thought you knew a place?”

“Mhm. Your place.” He smirks, crossing the floor to the kitchen island, ripping open the bag to start pulling out the food. “I wouldn't get a moment of peace with you out in the public.”

“Why's that?” You asked, crossing the floor to lean on the kitchen island, his hands, once smoothly removing the food, shakes a bit at your closeness. He clears his throat. 

“You’re a top hero… everyone will know you. Not to mention you’d be on a date… looking like that.” His eyes drag down your body then back up to your face. You glare at him. “Pushing my luck again?” You nod your head and he laughs, snapping as two glasses and a bottle of wine appear on the table. 

“If I had known we’d be staying in I wouldn’t have bothered with this dress.”

“I’m glad you bothered. And I’m glad I’m the only one to see you in it.”

“I wore it to a gala. A lot of people saw me in it.” You remarked, reaching for the wine but he’s quicker than you. He grabs it, pouring you a glass. 

“You hate being flirted with, don’t you?” He asks, pouring his own drink. You thought about that for a moment. It’s not that you didn’t like to be flirted with, it was more so there was still a part of you that hated that he beat you. And sometimes being antagonistic to his flirting seemed to be a small payback. You shrugged, taking a drink. 

“I wouldn’t say I hate it. Maybe you’re not as slick as you think.” You say and find yourself smirking into your glass. X cocks his head slightly, eyes devouring your expression. You flush under the scrutiny of his gaze and wonder if your words pushed him to try harder.

“See this is why I bartered for dinner. What other woman would tear me down at every given opportunity?” He asks, his face all amusement and light. You bite your lip, hiding a smile.

“I guess… maybe I am a bit mad at you.” You say as he starts dividing out the food.

“Why’s that?”

“You beat me.” You say and feel a bit out in the open at your response. You couldn’t hide the vulnerability and you’d never been good at keeping secrets and for some reason you felt disarmed by him. He showed a side of himself to you that no one else knew about. 

“I did.” He smirks and you glare at him. He laughs it off and reaches for his glass. “But that’s because you didn’t want to win for yourself, right? You wanted to win for your father.” Your mouth goes dry. “Look, it's not hard to see how hard he pushed you. When you first became a hero you were everywhere. In every tournament and talk show. You were in movies and on cereal boxes. Everyone knew who you were purely because of how much you worked. There’s not a single other hero, aside from Nice, that worked as hard as you. And we all know what happened to him.” That’s right. You remember seeing that on the news. The hero Nice killed himself because of the pressures placed on his shoulders. You remember your father laughing at the tv. Claiming not every hero can take the pressure. It made you angry. You pop some sushi into your mouth. 

“It… it wasn’t all bad.” You say, avoid eye contact. “I wouldn’t be where I am today if my father hadn’t pushed me.”

“Your father shoved you. Not pushed. And no one thinks about your father when they think about Winner. They just see you.”

“They see the persona he created.”

“Sure. He may have created Winner but what’s an empty persona without someone to fill it?” He asks. You swallow, slowly meeting his eyes. “Your success is yours alone. Your father never fought against villains or in tournaments. You did.” 

“You really do sound like a fan.” You try to lighten the moment, the tension between you two has gotten a bit thicker. 

“I’m a big fan. I already told you that.” He smiles. You blow out a laugh. “And if your heart is really in it, I think maybe you could beat me.” 

“I don’t know about that.” You laugh, gulping down the rest of your glass. “You snap your fingers and stuff appears like magic. You beat most everyone in the tournament in mere seconds. I could put up a fight but I don’t think I’ll win.” You say as X snaps his fingers and his other persona walks around the kitchen island to stand in your space. You turn, looking up at him.

“You wanna know my weakness?” He asks, somehow he was even closer. You swallowed dryly, tried to push down the heat rising within you, failing miserably as your cheeks warm up. You nod your head and watch a ghost of a smirk on his face form. He reaches for your hand, warmer than your own as he guides your hand to his chest, holding it right over his heart. “I’m still human. You pierce right here and that crown is yours.” Your heart skipped a beat, his hand enveloped yours, he towered over you. You couldn’t find words, your eyes were locked with his. There was so much confusion. Your head and heart were at war. Nothing winning over lust. Because you’d never met someone so invested in you. Not Winner. You. “Did I push my luck again?” He asked for final time. 

Your hand shot to his tie and yanked him down forcibly against your lips. He made a surprised grunt of a noise, probably due to your strength. Sometimes you forget the extent of your powers. X didn’t waste much time in reveling in surprise though, he recovered swiftly. His hands are on you in seconds, sliding down to your hips, pulling you closer.

This was a horrible idea. You’d be facing this man in a tournament for top hero. 

Your hand ran through, messing up his hair, the other sliding against his cheek as his hand reached out, knocking things off the counter out of the way as his arm wrapped around your hip. He easily pulled you up onto the counter, parting your knees with his hand as he stood between them, body pressed against yours. Your dress rode up dangerously high on your thighs, his hand sliding up your thigh.

You wanted to be top hero. You wanted to be top hero. You wanted to-

He trailed his lips away from your own, kissing down your jaw to your neck. You sucked in a breath. You felt as though someone set you on fire. You supposed it was X.

He wouldn’t even tell you his real name. He was trying to get into your head. This is how he’d win again. 

“God… you wreck me..” He murmured against your neck. Who knew four words could make any shred of doubt about this moment completely evaporate. That little voice in your head had shut right up. You melted against him, hands yanking his lips back onto your own. You kissed him hard enough to bruise because your frustrations had passed into lust and you had to one up him in some way. Your hand slid beneath the shoulders of his suit jacket and pushed it off. He didn’t protest and even smiled against your lips. You fumbled with his tie, huffing as you pulled away from his lips to get a better look at the damn thing as it gave you trouble. He raised a brow watching you struggle. 

“What the hell?” You mumbled, he didn’t take his hands off you to help. “What kind of knot is this?”

“The regular one.” He answered with an amused expression. You shot him a glare, letting go. 

“Take off your tie.” You demanded and at your tone his hands flew to his tie, unknotting it with sly ease. You took over, whipping it off him. You blew out a sharp breath. 

“This is a new side of you.” X said, voice breathy and you met his eyes. 

Sometimes you got frustrated and angry. When you worked for your father your frustrations were seen as a weakness and what anger you had, your father had a whole reserve of. So usually you were able to take it out on the training dummies or run around the gym until you collapsed. You weren’t entirely sure what was making you angry here. Maybe the lack of control, your feelings of inferiority against X. 

You close your eyes, shaking your head. He’d done nothing wrong that you could see and you were misplacing your frustration. This just wasn’t something you were ready for. 

“This isn’t going to work.” You said after a moment. X’s thumb gently moved against your thigh. You couldn’t get out of your own head about all of this. About whether he was using you. “What… do you have to gain from this?” You ask and X’s hands pause on your skin. 

“I have nothing to gain but your time.”

“Bullshit.” You scoff. 

“Not everyone’s out for blood.” He says, reaching up and tucking your hair gently behind your ear. You met his eyes. “I think we both want similar things, judging by the way you kissed me.” You flushed at the memory. “I’m at your mercy, Y/n. What you say goes.” 

“If you're using me to— to get something I’ll kill you.” X smiles at your words, he drags his thumb gently across your cheek and leans in. “I mean it-,” He cuts you off, pressing a kiss to your lips. He kisses you tenderly, trying to make you forget those pesky worries. 

“I’ve been warned.” He whispers against your mouth. You breathed out shakily, flexing your hands tightly to keep from yanking him on top of you. He slowly pulled back, eyes looking over your flushed face. His hands slid onto your hips, easing you off the counter. “Walk me to the door?” He asks.

“You… you can stay. We can eat.”

“I don’t think we’ll do much eating if I stay.” He answers, his eyes eating up your face. You slowly nod your head, quickly fixing your dress, leading him to the door. You ruined the night, you felt it deep in your bones. You weren’t ready so you ruined things. He reaches for the elevator button. 

“Sorry.” You intone, a few steps behind him. His hand pauses, he doesn’t press the button. You look guiltily at the ground. “I ruined the date.”

“You didn’t.” He laughs and your eyes shoot up to him. “On the contrary, I had fun. Can we do this again?”

“You’re joking.” You respond tonelessly, bordering on surprise. 

“Nope. I’ve fallen quite hard. I think I need another night like this with you.” You can’t help but blush. “I’ll call you.” He presses the button and it dings, the doors sliding open. He turns and meets your eyes. You walk a few steps to the door, hand shooting out to grab his tie once more. You pull him to your lips again, a silent confirmation that you wanted to do this again too. You pulled away and let go of his tie just as the doors slid closed. You wouldn’t say you fell because only losers fall, but… it was sure something close to it. 

[whetstonefires]

Second thing is Wei Wuxian's self worth issues, the extent to which he does view himself as disposable.

I've seen a lot, and a few times already in the notes on this post, that the main reason he's like this is the Jiang family. They raised him, they had some serious toxicity in there, one of them hated him, etc. Obvious! We can all relate!

And I mean. That didn't help. The issues in that family certainly can be considered a major reason he didn't get past that idea as much as might be hoped!

But I really, really don't think they're the source of it--of his compulsion to be useful; of his deep seated belief that relationships and homes are things that can always be taken away if you fail to deserve them, and so forth.

I think that's because he had a formative experience of being disposable.

Of being a trash person. Someone already thrown away b society. Of knowing for a fact that he was the only person in the world who cared if he lived or died; that no one had any use for him and therefore he, a small child, had no value. Of living on anyway.

He internalized at a profoundly formative age that he was owed nothing, that being alive was something to work for and earn moment by moment.

And that most people placed in that position would die before long, and that he was unusually capable of surviving.

He was six tops when he was orphaned. Lan Wangji, whose life was otherwise stable if somewhat oppressive, was fucked up a bit for life just by losing his mom at that age and not being given the support he needed to process it.

Being homeless is not like. A self-contained Trauma Event. It's not separate from, or to the side of his life. It's foundational. It was formative. It was his life, at the exact age when people are learning to have abstract thoughts about the world in a systematic way.

He developed his identity to a considerable degree in the context of being given nothing without earning it, and having to seek out the opportunities even to do the earning, because no one was interested in offering them.

The Dogs Thing is not a traumatic event. It's part of the outcome of an entire lifestyle that was fundamentally traumatic. Years as a small child of contriving to get by in a world that was hostile to his existence, by default. Of having to earn every mouthful.

The thing about Wei Wuxian when we see him as a teenager is that he doesn't take this shit seriously because he knows it's not that serious. Not worth stressing about. Everything in his life as a prominent disciple of a major sect is fantastic.

Especially because his master spoils him! He doesn't have to earn his food. They just give it to him. They just...give it to him.

There aren't no strings, and on some level he takes those strings deadly seriously even more than is actually necessary, but his understanding of his position in the Jiang, after a certain point we don't see him arrive at because the time between the first night and the Cloud Recesses is not given to us in detail, is that he is safe.

And that this is an unbelievable luxury worth indulging in.

Having a problem like 'someone who isn't allowed to maim him trying to make him feel bad' might piss him off if he thinks they're being unjust about it, but for the most part it's a fun problem to have.

(This is a huge part of his and lwj's initial failure to connect; he seems as though he's frivolous because he's shallow, but he's actually like this because he thinks most of this surface-level stuff the cultivation world takes so seriously is what's frivolous.)

He's like this because, even after half a lifetime with the Jiang, his baseline for 'a problem' is set so high. The Abyss sequence in Caiyi isn't a serious situation because they could always just leave.

Sure they could die here, sure something has to be done about this by somebody, but they are all on flying swords and the problem is localized to a lake. If they wanted they could just leave, which means it's...not that bad.

A dangerous night hunt is like. It's a play-pretend at a traumatic situation, to him. It's like...it's almost exactly like how kink is rendered safe by the existence of safewords, of being able to stop, of the fact that you are in this situation on an ongoing basis of your own free will.

This is a huge part of why he's such a larger-than-life figure who's able to act so forcefully, and so on. But it is also the result of trauma, and if triggered correctly results in counterproductive behaviors, which is in some ways what gets him killed.

Madam Yu is being given way too much credit when centered in interpretations of Wei Wuxian's issues. She had a definite influence on him, but as a stressor she had nothing on just, like. Being alive in a world that was aggressively and unanimously indifferent to your desire for basic necessities, at the age of seven.

Jiang Cheng is the one she traumatized.

Post I just saw made me think of this again: Wei Wuxian does not have self-esteem issues.

He thinks he's amazing, because he is.

His sense of his own value is a little fucked up, and tied up in demonstrating how amazing he is by fixing all serious problems and mocking all stupid ones, and when his methods stop working and he can no longer prove this to his own satisfaction he has a profound crisis about it, which he's still shaking off when we meet him.

But self-esteem is super very much not a thing he struggles with. He is a genius who received regular validation about his excellence in a form that satisfied him both as very a small child and from the ages of ~8 to ~17. He has a clear system of ethics which he is most of the time able and willing to act on; he feels really good about himself as a person whenever severe trauma is not actively making that very hard to do.

His default state is obnoxiously high self-esteem.

In-story accusations of arrogance are strictly speaking correct, it's just that most of the inferences about the rest of his character people draw from this trait are deeply wrong.

His willingness to self-destruct is at least as heavily wrapped up in his conviction that because he's so awesome and tough and clever he can handle things other people can't, as it is in the idea that he's disposable.

So yeah the thing is. He really genuinely actually did sacrifice himself for Jiang Cheng in part because he thinks he's better than Jiang Cheng. Stronger, braver, smarter. More adaptable.

And he was right! And Jiang Cheng knows he was right!

Which I love because like. That's not a relationship conflict you can fix, exactly. You really do have to just...get over it, or don't. And one of the things Wei Wuxian was demonstrating his (well-founded) lack of faith in Jiang Cheng's ability to do was. Getting Over Things.

[scarfacemarston]

RDR LGBT History Reading List

I meant to post this earlier, but life happened, but at least it's before the end of pride month! Notes: Why are there so few books? Well, that's almost everything I could find. I researched two university libraries, my public library, and Amazon. People began writing about this subject in the 1990s. A lot of people are NOT receiving funding to write about these topics, so that's another reason. I'm sorry there aren't more accessible books, but this is likely all you'll find. These books are almost all MLM because historians believe that they are more prevalent in the archives and society. Notice how there is only one book about lesbians and it only has about 30 pages that pertain to RDR. That's it. The "Re-dressing" book contains some lesbian scholarship, but it's next to none. It's very disappointing. There are literally people who have written about how difficult it is to write about lesbians, but the fact that there is basically NOTHING really bothers me. I think some of it is sexism and some of it is laziness.

Love Stories: Sex between Men before Homosexuality by Jonathan Ned Katz

Amazon: Here Archive: Here

I actually own this book so that’s a good sign right there. Unfortunately, I can’t find the book so I had to rely on the previews. It starts off with pretty early history with Abraham Lincoln and his alleged lover. I really like this author’s writing style. It’s professionally written, but doesn’t talk above the reader. I would say he’s very approachable. I love how many quotes and other primary sources he included like the plethora of pictures, portraits and related media. I found the book to be a quick read and I think it’s a good start for beginning history readers.Yes, the book does cover the West and the different love stories that pertain to that era, so yes, it will fit Vandermatthews and later Charthur or similar ships.

2. Loving: A Photographic History of Men in Love 1850s-1950s by Hugh Nini and Neal Treadwell

Amazon: Here. Archive: Sorry, not uploaded here yet. Might have to sail the seven seas for this.

This is a newer book and newer books aren’t usually uploaded to archive.org yet. This is definitely a book I would get at the library, unless you like “coffee table books” and conversation pieces. The book itself is lovely from what I can tell and it’s obvious how passionate the authors are and the diligent work they did to produce the book. As a historian, I’ve only had a taste of how terribly difficult archival work. I’ve worked with archives for six years. It’s HARD work, especially having to find hidden histories like this. It’s a lot of luck. So the book itself is amazing in what it contains, but  you wouldn’t know that by the preface. Skip it. It’s the most pretentious thing I’ve ever read. Of course, this will scratch the Vandermatthews itch and it does contain later history that would relate to John, Arthur, etc. But overall, definitely a book worth checking out at the library/or other archives. 3. Queer Cowboys: And Other Erotic Male Friendships in Nineteenth-Century American Literature by C. Packard.

Amazon: Here. Archive: Here.

This book is difficult to review because the previews are so short. Just about 7 pages for one link and 12 for the other. I wasn’t able to check out the book either so my review is kind of worthless here. From what I can tell, this is a good book and that many people seem to enjoy it.From what I can tell, it covers a wide berth of history and the “West”. It seems to be one of the “Must reads” in the history field, but to be fair, we also don’t have many LGBT+ “Old West” books in the field. From what I read of the previews, they write in an easy fashion and I liked the pictures that were included in the GoogleBooks preview. The author also stresses the importance of including Native American, African American and Mexican voices. This is the first book that has been so blunt about inclusivity, so I consider that a big win. I’d say the book is worth checking out.

4. Re-Dressing America's Frontier Past by Peter G. Boag

Amazon: Here. Archive: Here. Sadly, it needs a university/college/high school library connection.

This is a really good book. I included it because of Sadie Adler, but some could use it for Charles Chaterney. This is very inclusive for transgender people and nonbinary, but it also covers Cis women who feel that it is most convenient or enjoy dressing up as men. However, there is the element of the stereotypical “Who plays the man in the relationship” dynamic instead of talking about how these relationships can be a step towards equality. However, at the same time, the male identity was important to some people so it makes sense in a way in order to “legitimize” the identity for the person who is cross dressing or trans. It’s entirely possible that my idea of equality is just too new of a concept, though. (At least, in terms of white society.) The book is extremely easy to follow and has so many primary sources. I loved reading so many of the quotes from the individuals themselves instead of just from those around them. There are also tons of pictures, ads, newspapers, and other ephemera. Highly recommend this book. 

5. Frontier Comrades: From the Fur Trade to the Ford Car by Jim Wilke.

Amazon. Here. No archive. This book hasn’t been released yet, but I have high hopes for it, especially given the diversity of the case studies. This is one of the few books that seems to feature lesbians of different background, but I’m also intrigued by the differences in case studies featuring men.

6. Odd Girls and Twilight Lovers: A History of Lesbian Life in Twentieth-Century America by Lilian Faderman

Amazon: Here. Archive: Here.

I used this book for my LGBT history for Marvel list. I own this book. Lillian Fadermen is literally the premiere historian of lesbian history. Like, there may be only ONE other historian that rivals her. If you want lesbian history, especially inclusive to transgender women, this is where you go. Don’t let the age of the book fool you. This book is actually on two of my LGBT lists because of the span it covers. This book covers everything, I swear. With all that said, her writing can be a bit dry. Some parts of the book were a bit of a slog, but she does use a lot of primary resources and that livens it up a bit. Her book’s later chapters definitely has diversity in it, especially covering Harlem.However, for Sadie and Abigail (and co) I would recommend chapter 1 for Boston Marriages, even though they focus more on Upper class women, and chapter 2 gives more of a view of “Everyday women” in this time period. Interestingly, they included sex workers.

[astrae4]

UNTOLD CONFESSIONS BENEATH THE STORM | Han Dongmin

pairings — boynextdoor’s taesan x reader (non idol au)

genre — exes to lovers, heavy angst, romance (wc. 998)

warnings — big angst, miscommunication, swearing, and suggestive bc they make out

note — this one’s requested from this anon! whoever u are tysm for this <3 also lowkey i’m on a writing rollll rn so expect a lot of posts from me these months HAHA

more works: navigation | bnd!masterlist

YOU DON’T KNOW WHY you’re here.

It’s embarrassing.

Still. You don’t turn back.

Your skin pricks from the cold, the uncomfortable feeling of clothes sticking to your flesh hugs your entire body like a burden, weighing you down. You’d rather take this burden than the burden swarming in your mind, however.

It consumes you—the pain swelling in your heart; the tears that rain down your face.

To be broken up with over text while you were on vacation?

Is your worth that low to not even deserve a person-to-person break up?

Your head feels heavy as you see his house’s porch, his jacket drenched and unable to provide you the comfort you felt when you were with him. Maybe it actually felt heavy because of the weight of the rain and not the overwhelming heartbreak you feel, but the tears in your peripheral vision blurs your thoughts, blending what’s rational and what’s unreal.

You step onto the familiar white plank, ringing the golden bell which echoed the songs of happy memories. Even covered by blue and misery, your mind connects the bell’s ring with the unanticipated emotion of joy.

The door opens.

Your ex-boyfriend stands in front of you; red rimmed eyes, puffed up with tears and looking like a mess as if he wasn’t the one who ended the relationship.

As if you aren’t about to get sick physically and mentally from the rain.

“[reader]—“

You cut him off, your voice raspy and ladened with anger and grief. “Why?”

Taesan freezes.

Maybe it’s the look on your face. Or the fact that your fists are clenched at your sides. Or that you’re standing there like a ghost of the girl who used to sit with him on that porch and laugh about stupid things—like whether strawberry milk or banana milk tasted more like love. But something in him cracks.

He whispers your name again, softer. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“Tae, you broke up with me over text,” you continue, your throat raw and vulnerable and so, so hurt. “You didn’t even call. I was gone for two weeks and you—” your voice breaks, “you didn’t even give me the decency of telling it to my face.”

He says nothing. Just looks at you like he’s drowning too—as if it’s too late to save both of you.

You shake your head, water flicking from your hair. “If you didn’t want to be with me anymore, you could’ve just said that. But don’t pretend like you were doing it for my sake.”

That makes him look up sharply.

“I was,” he says, the words snapping out like thunder.

You stare.

He steps back, opens the door wider. “Come in. Please. Before you actually get hypothermia.”

You hesitate. The logical part of you screams to turn around. But your heart’s already halfway across the threshold.

So you walk in. Soaked socks and all.

The warmth hits you instantly, but it doesn’t sink into your skin. Not yet. He disappears down the hallway and returns with a towel, placing it gently over your shoulders without a word. You hate how you heart still flutters and how natural the gesture feels. How familiar.

You sit on the couch you’ve sat on a hundred times before, and he sits across from you like there’s an ocean between you instead of a coffee table.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Taesan says quietly, after a long pause. “Someone told me… things. About how I wasn’t good for you. That I was dragging you down. That you’d be better off without someone like me.”

You stiffen. “Who?”

He hesitates. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

A beat.

“My cousin,” he says finally. “He said—he said I was making you soft. That you were starting to turn down things for me. That you were too bright for someone like me.”

You scoff. “So you just believed him?”

“No. I—” he exhales shakily. “I saw how hard you worked. And I thought maybe he was right. So I tried to let go before I ruined you more.”

“That wasn’t your choice to make,” you say quietly.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

Silence again. Except for the rain knocking against the windows like it’s impatient for something to happen.

“I cried the day I messaged you even when it was my fault,” he says suddenly. “And the day after. And last week. And… basically every day since.”

“Then why didn’t you text back? Why did you let your cousin get in your head?”

He looks at you, helpless. “Because I didn’t think I deserved you.”

You’re quiet. The words are bitter in your mouth, but you taste truth in them.

You look at him. Really look.

He’s still the boy you fell for. Still your favorite color in human form. Still the person who remembered how you liked your toast and tied your shoelaces when your fingers were too cold.

And you still love him. You never stopped.

You stand.

He watches you like you might walk out, his hands trembling with vulnerability that you know he usually hides away.

But instead, you take a step closer.

“Do you want to fix this?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.

His answer is instant, “Yes.”

Another step.

“Even if it’s messy?”

He nods, desperate.

“Even if I get mad sometimes?”

He stands now too, so close you could count the raindrops still clinging to his eyelashes.

“I’ll take messy,” he breathes, “Fuck—I’m so sorry. I’ll take anything, [reader]..”

You kiss him.

It’s desperate, speaking a thousand words unsaid. His hands clutch your arms, holding it so tight it slightly hurts. But he’s afraid you’d go; you feel his hands tremble. His mouth encases yours needily like he’s trying to make you forget everything but him. You kiss him back with much vigor, hand going to his face to reassure him in all the right ways.

The rain keeps pouring outside.

But here, beneath the storm, there’s something that’s finally calm.

TAGLIST: @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @lonewolfjinji @teddywonss @taerae-verse @bbangbies @Ize325 @hyeinsveil

NETWORKS: @k-films @k-labels @onedoornet

© astrae4 2025 — please don't copy, translate, or plagiarize my works on all platforms!

[bleue-flora]

can you explain why you're so obsessed with diminishing the abuse and torture cdream faced in the prison? you come off as if you don't think he's valid as victim.

[context]

Heh?… have you read my other posts? Or my fanfiction lol? cuz uhhh……. if you actually think that is what I was doing versus just revealing some interesting lore details then you are very mistaken. I mean the [post] I literally put up before reading this I hope alone highlights that.

Honestly, I was just annoyed the other night while making a fun prison arc montage when I noticed how I had way more clips of Techno being hurt by Quackity then I did of Dream.

(this is all of Dream’s & around half of Techno’s)

I mean I hope you’re new around here because I’ve literally done analysis on which tools Quackity used [post] [post] [post] [post], I’ve compared the length of prison vs other big events [post] to point out how truly awful it was, I’ve compared visitors of exile and prison [post] to point out his isolation, I’ve written essays on the cruelty of prison here’s just one [post], I’ve put together a summary sheet and title detailing Dream’s stay in prison [post], I’ve looked at how many times Sam might have hit Dream [post], I’ve highlighted how abusive the cell in itself was [post] [post] especially for someone who’s autistic [post], I’ve noted how potions may not have been used [post], I even have a 15 chapter fanfiction [fic] dedicated to what I think could be plausible canon (and unhinged) torture visits, and I’ve posted a total of 28 prison arc torture scenes in my various works and on here... I mean I feel like the most blatant takeaway from my blog and fanfiction is that prison was such utter unjust cruelty.

And yes I do love looking at the lore and streams and finding cool details, but just because I’m pointing out interesting things from the few visits we get doesn’t mean I’m diminishing his torture or abuse. I’m just looking at the lore and sharing something I found while making a fun video. Now, I do think that Dream was stronger willed and such than is often portrayed [post], but that doesn’t mean I don’t think he hasn’t suffered. I’m just looking at the facts and they highlight how Dream tried to take weapons, accused, hit, shouted, and argued with his torturer from visit 1 to visit 83. So, just because he faces immense abuse and torture does not mean I think he is pathetic and I think that’s a fair assessment considering the lore we get, even if it is an unpopular one. But also, as I’ve pointed out before, we only get 3 scenes (2 of which are impartial), a few images, a montage, a few descriptions in dialogue of what happened in those 83 torture visits, not to mention what could have happened in the whole 314 days of the prison arc. So there are a lot of unknowns and a lot of implications and assumptions we can make…. anyways I digress…

I’d hardly say I’m obsessed with diminishing his abuse and torture, if anything I’d hope it’s obvious that I’m really obsessed with pointing out how horrible it was and noting ways how it was even worse than we realize. Of course, I see him as a valid victim, I’d even argue he is The victim. That to quote Techno:

“No man has ever suffered as much as Dream.” [clip]

[basically-neroland]

nero's depression headcanons‼️

i've got two requests sitting in my inbox but i'm too lazy to work on em rn (sorry 🥀), i wanna get something out for today (it's like 10:30pm) and this one's been sitting in my notes app so here you go lolz

g/n!reader, tw for dark thoughts (obviously). feel free to skip this one, take care of yourself 💙 this is a long one bc i think about it a LOT so buckle up!

most of it comes from bullied, neglected and rumoured about as a kid and as a teenager, but it also stems from survivor's guilt.

in deadly fortune, he talks about how kyrie and credo's parents died in a demon attack and says that it would've made more sense if it had been him and not saints like them. he was only 17 or 18 in deadly fortune.

nero really, REALLY hates talking about his feelings. he'll say he's fine when you ask him if he's okay. PLEASE call his bluff.

he struggles to be vulnerable, even with his partner because he's used to being the supportive one. it's honestly what he prefers.

he prefers to deal with his emotions on his own, mostly inwardly (despite his violent outbursts with demons and tiny crashouts that would suggest otherwise)

he might handle his anger outwardly, but not his sadness. never his sadness.

to be honest, all you can really do is give him extra physical affection and listen if he starts talking because sometimes he will. it's just rare and takes a while for him to start opening up

most of his tells are extremely quiet. not getting out of bed as early as he usually does, being extra quiet, spacing out more, stuff like that.

he still does stuff to make you happy, he's still cuddly (sometimes he even gets clingier), that doesn't change, but when he smiles back it won't quite reach his eyes. his laughs are more subdued and quiet

he doesn't like talking about his feelings, but the best way to support him is to just hold him and make sure he knows he can talk to you. he just needs you to make him feel safe, comforted and cared for

he also likes when you tell him that you appreciate him, love him, want him around and would be upset if he disappeared, even if he doesn't plan on actually disappearing. he just needs to hear that he's wanted.

when he does open up, he pauses a lot, just trying to gather his words

he gets teary, but tries not to cry. sometimes he fails, and he just leans into your hands when you wipe his tears

he'll talk about how he feels like it should've been him, or about something he experienced or had to do that haunted him, but he'll never ever tell you about how he sometimes just wants to disappear

he's happy you love him, but sometimes he wishes you didn't. he feels like he'll inevitably disappoint you or hurt you somehow, and it scares him.

to be honest, he is probably passively suicidal at times. he'd never want to leave you, but if he died fighting a demon, oh well y'know? that's his mindset some days. this translates into recklessness during fights

it's usually nico that berates him for it, she does worry a lot, but if you're also a devil hunter and you're along to see it, she'll stay quiet and let you do the fearful berating no matter how stressed she is about it

if nero gets reckless, nico always tells you just in case you didn't notice other quiet signs (if they were even there to notice)

if you notice signs, sometimes you tell nico so she'll go a little easier on him. as much as bantering and arguing is their love language, it isn't always good for him. if she makes any jokes about him "letting demons knock him around so much", he sometimes genuinely wonders if he's weak or just not good enough.

sometimes he gets genuinely angry during what's supposed to be playful banter and shuts down and it's just best to avoid that.

his coping mechanisms tend to consist of video games, sleeping more whenever he can, cuddling you and distracting himself with red queen and blue rose, even if he'd already done the routine maintenance. whatever got his mind off his sadness was good enough for him, he didn't really care what exactly it was.

you're honestly the only thing keeping him sane

he'd rather die than live without you. if you die, he'll be dead inside until he actually dies because of recklessness

[tommi3boy]

“Hey cutie how can I help you?” I {Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd x Male! reader}

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: alcohol use

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd (Top Gun) x Male! Reader

A/N: y/n used, no reader description, slow burn with lots of fluff, part 2 coming soon!!

Summary: You’re an aircraft mechanic stationed at Top Gun when you first met Bob during his training for the uranium enrichment plant mission. What started as simple drunk flirting later becomes an unexpectedly romance between Bob and you.

The Hard Deck was a bar right off the naval air station,Top Gun; tonight it was beaming with life. Top of their class Pilots flooded the building after being called to train for a mission. You could tell who was a pilot because they all proudly wore their uniforms. You however, were not a pilot but an aircraft mechanic stationed at Top Gun. You and your fellow mechanics could be found in jeans and a t-shirt, throwing back beers most nights at the bar. You found yourself sizing up the new faces that appeared in the bar, one of which took your fancy. He was sitting off to the side of the pool tables, snacking on what looked to be peanuts. Slicked back dirty blonde hair and big ol glasses. ‘Tonight’s mission was to crack this peanut’ you thought to yourself. You watched and waited for your pilot to distance himself from the others before approaching him, which didn’t take long at all because it looked like he decided to switch out his peanuts for a beer.

You sat next to the mystery pilot at the bar, ordered yourself a draft and struck up a conversation.

“I’m seeing a lot of uniforms tonight, what’s that all about?” You’ve found it fun in the past to pretend to be a civilian.

“Oh- ,just some training at the academy is all.”

“Training huh, I guess that means you’re a pilot?”

The blonde made a small attempt at a friendly smile, “No, no I’m a weapon systems officer actually.”

“Fancy, does this weapon systems officer have a name?” Internally you noted that this has been your 5th drink of the night.

“My names Bob”, this peanut was a tough one to crack but you like a challenge.

“My names Y/N, it’s nice to meet you Bob.”

As the night went on you hounded Bob with miscellaneous questions and even convinced him to let you buy him a drink. He was smitten in the fact that some stranger had taken such a liking to him, normally Bob struggles with first meetings and the conversations fall dry. It was clear though that the alcohol you consumed was helping carry the conversation. You threw in a few subtle flirts here and there, ones which you thought were going over Bob’s head until you noticed his ears were becoming a blushed red.

You both turned from the bar when the jukebox got unplugged and one of the pilots started belting away on the piano, singing a common bar anthem. It was only appropriate to get up and sing along, Bob stuck by your side in this event. After the song died down and one of the pilots plugged the jukebox back in, most of the usual bar patrons left for the night on that high note. Your mechanic buddies were still lingering in the bar, but you weren’t sure for how long so you decided to ask the big question to your new found eye candy.

“So hey, what’s say you and I get out of here cutie.”

Bob had to do a double take and fixed his glasses like they’d help him hear better.

“Uh- well, I don’t know if that’d be such a good idea.” Bob nervously itched behind his ear.

“Aw why not, am I not pretty enough or d’you just not swing that way.?” You spoke in a joking tone to let him know you took the rejection lightly.

“Neither actually, I’d just prefer it if I knew you were moderately sober.”

This was not a loss in your book, you smiled at the handsome man and took your exit “Understood, well I’ll be seeing you around then cutie.” You gave Bob a wink and shimmed over to your coworkers, throwing one of them your keys.

-

At the Top Gun base, you were often found in the aircraft shop or hangers, as well as the designated crew offices. You were assigned the role of head supervisor for the aircraft mechanics, which came with its fair share of work. Lots of back and forth communication was involved on your part so you walked the base several times a day. This meant you crossed paths with the pilots often when they weren’t actively on drills. Including Bob, which you’ve noticed a time or two but you understand this is not the bar and you take your position relatively serious to ensure the safely of the pilots and their aircraft.

The first time Bob saw you walking through the base he almost didn’t register it was the same man from the bar who was smooth talking him all night. You wore a navy blue jumpsuit and steel toe work boots, holding a stern and professional atmosphere to your character. You walked past him on several occasions and it silently wounded Bob a little, coming to the conclusion that he was most likely a forgotten drunk memory.

And yes, you had been ignoring Bob. The internal reasoning being that you were busy and meant to keep professional while at work, but a part of it was also the rejection that night put a small hindrance on your normal outgoing energy. The hindrance didn’t last long though and Bob wasn’t going to vanish in thin air anytime soon.

After filing your reports with Cyclone for the day you began to head out of the main office. As you exited, you spotting a group of spirited pilots heading inside. When you noticed Bob walking in the back of the group you planned the steps of intentionally turned your head towards his direction while passing him, getting his attention; then you shot him a quick wink and a cheeky smirk.

This had Bob internally doing a 360, so you did remember him, were you perhaps toying with him or did you just never notice him till then? The big emotion Bob was feeling however, was relief, relief that the events at the bar were a conscious memory for both of you. And that you still seemed interested in him.

-

After a long week of work you and your coworkers found comfort in the energy of the Hard Deck at night. On this particular night, a woman name Hailey had been enjoying your company. The enjoyment wasn’t really mutual but it wasn’t unwanted either. Hailey was good friends with the bar owner, Penny, and was telling you how she sometimes does mini performances here at the bar.

She went on to explain how her dream is to be a successful singer. Her story telling was captivating and you got roped into telling her your own past with music exploration. Basically you said you played guitar sometimes on your free time and she lit off like a fire cracker begging you to play with her.

Her insistent request continued throughout the entire night. Eventually Bob and the other pilots made an appearance at the bar but you could not for the life of you shake Hailey from you. You didn’t find her annoying until she started unintentionally cock blocked you. Finally you gave in to her request as people began to dissipate from the bar.

“If you get me a beer and find me a guitar then sure I’ll play with you alright, damn”

Hailey had an evil smile like she was about to summon a guitar from the heavens, “See that’s all you had to say, wasn’t so hard”

You felt like you’d just been swindled by a younger siblings scheme.

She ran off and got an acoustic guitar from who knows where. Then led you to the same piano that pilot; who you learned was called Rooster, had played on the first night you met Bob. You roughly tuned the guitar while sharing a side of the piano bench, facing opposite from Hailey. The tuning of instruments hushed the small crowd in the bar and Penny went to unplug the jukebox. Hailey asked if you knew the riff to the song ‘Indigo’ by Sam Barber, and thank god you did or this would have been a mildly embarrassing night. You spotted Bob watching you attentively with his other colleagues. You started the song, which Hailey swiftly joined in and surprisingly fit each other’s sound well. The song was mellow and helped close the night out for people. In the aviators corner, the pilot Hangman was especially interested in Hailey and Y/N’s performance. Hangman patted Bob on the shoulder and leaned in, drunkly exclaiming that he think he’s in love. Bob snapped out of his trance and agreed, then paused for a moment to realize Hangman meant he was in love with the Hailey girl, whilst Bob agreed but not for that same exact thought.

Once the song finished the small crowd had applauded and a few whistles were given.

Your coworkers were hootin and hollering for you as you gave Hailey the guitar back and she thanked you for indulging her. On that note you exchanged a few more words with your coworkers knowing they won’t let you live that little performance down. Exiting the bar swiftly with your dignity and a sense of unaccomplishment on the Bob mission.

-

6:34 AM at the Top Gun base was a time when the early bird employees began to arrive, including yourself. One of the aircraft’s used in yesterday’s training exercise managed to gain a loose piece of sheet metal on its body. You set up some scaffolding and went up to weld it back together before too many workers filled the shop. You had on hefty gloves and a welding mask getting to work on the aircraft. Once you began welding, to your surprise you heard someone announce themselves in the shop with a polite “excuse me’”. Looking down from the scaffolding you saw Bob in his flight suit. “Hi I’m sorry to bother you I was wondering if you know where I can find Y/N, he’s a mechanic, I think, working here?” Bob was looking at you, asking for you, it was adorable. You flipping up your mask to reveal your smug face to Bob. His expression went from timid to chipper when he saw you were right in front of him, or above him sort of.

“Hey cutie how can I help you?” This was a pleasant surprise for you, you never pegged Bob as the kind to approach first.

“I just wanted to come by and let you know there’s going to be a Drive-Thru Movie night at the Hard Deck,, wanted to see if maybe you’d wanna go together,?”

“Ah hell yeah do you know what movie?”

“U- I’m pretty sure it’s gonna be Ferris Bueller, I only glanced at the flyer before heading by.”

“I haven’t seen that movie in a hot minute, how’s about you write down my number and we can text details later”

“Okay”, Bob had to pat a few of his pockets before finding which one had his phone tucked away.

“Alright it’s xxx-xxx-xxxx, got it?”

“xx..x. yep, I got it! I’ll text you once I’m done with drills tonight, I’ll let you get back to work now y/n,”

Bob was beaming from ear to ear, it was such an innocent form of happiness it made your heart ping a little with, envy? You quickly brushed away that feeling however and watched as Bob left the shop. In the past you’ve always been the go-getter in the relationships so being on the receiving end of such exchange, had you biting back a genuine smile.

-

PART 2 COMING SOON

[painted-bees]

does each of them have an aspect you find hardest to portray, something you know to be true about them that doesn't find space often enough, things like that?

this is all amazing to read through btw, i've seen a lot of your art and have been meaning to catch up on the actual lore and what's going on (but, you know... life. always happening)

Tess, I just want to depict more in general. But she's what you call a "static" character [does not undergo character development but facilitates the development of other characters around her] and so my brain doesn't really insist on microwaving her nearly as much as it does with thr other two. Even though, in terms of aesthetic theming, she is the most interesting by far haha

For Raf, I microwave him the -most- and there are some really truly ugly aspects of his character that I am very soft on depicting because it is very easy to erode audience trust/empathy for a character like him. Even when I depict his struggles with his mental illness, we're only really see the battles he's able to win or overcome, and not the ones he loses--or is even completely unaware of. [Actually, we ARE seeing one such battle--but it hasn't been identified yet thanks to some unreliable narration hahaha] But I wish I had the balls--or finess--to depict his more unlikeable moments outside of the context of like...an ex or something where he has had time to look back on and reflect upon his behavior. Because he does have...more than his fair share of 'em. But I don't want that to be what he is to the reader.

For Margie, I feel like her struggles and interpersonal relationships play second fiddle to Rafs just because they're a lot more "mundane" and echo a lot of our own lived experiences, so I'm a little less inclined to go into big deep dives abt her because like...it's nothing new to most folks on this website. This website is FULL of people just like Margie. I think that's also why she's so popular on here. But she's got some really deep scars, too, that I'm only just finally starting to unpack properly--after leaving the clearly labled box out for so long wrt her haha So we'll be getting that soon enough.

Also with Margie, I would love to just kinda--show her relationships with her friends and family outside of Raf and Cortes, she actually HAS friends and such that she'll spend weekends and go on outings with!! I just haven't had the interest/motivation to depict any of that [because there are so many OTHER things that are more interesting to me that I'd rather spend the time writing and drawing abt wrt hi-note] haha but I genuinely wish I did.

[emodrstan]

Some of you have probably seen anonymous asks that I've received for the past few weeks, sending me nothing but harassment and bullying. Consider this my response and statement about my truth about the situation. I have backup to my claims cursory of @barnesprosecutor who's been here since the beginning of this. Also my friends @chaoticcreative14 @snake-cutie @buckyytorres and @greek-freak101 have received similar asks.

Please note that while I'm not fond of this individual, I won't be posting her current username so she remains anonymous and does not receive any other attention. This is my truth. She is more than welcome to post her own response. This is all hearsay as well because my screenshots have been deleted since because I assumed it was over with before the anon hate started.

Back in March, I was invited to join a Danny Ramirez group chat on Instagram and accepted due to being a huge fan of his and wanting to connect with other fans. This group chat was created after I created the Danny Ramirez community and before I created the Danny Ramirez discord server.

Rinie was already a member of the group chat and we followed each other (I had followed everyone in the group chat) and all was fine.

When the Last of Us season two had it's premiere, a friend of mine @retro-rezz-the-est went to the premiere and took a picture with Danny. I asked her if I could send it in the group chat and post it to my community and Rezzy gave permission. When I sent it to the group chat, Rinie claimed that she already had it. Which was weird because Rezzy and Rinie did not follow each other and Rezzy had sent her picture with Danny to me before she even posted it.

Our first major fight in the chat happened when I asked if anyone had a video of Danny from BTS of Top Gun Maverick. Rinie said she had it but immediately said she wasn't going to send it because it was "her's"

I was annoyed and confused and let her know it by sarcastically thanking everybody but her.

Rinie proceeded to call me a bitch and yell that she didn't have to share "her videos" if she didn't want it. She then goaded the chat by saying she had videos of Danny dancing but wouldn't be sending them.

The next day I assumed it would be a one time thing as Rinie asked for some pics I had and she sent some videos in return.

I was an idiot to assume that.

With Danny's role as Manny in the Last of Us incoming, I decided not to say what happens to Manny in the game as to not spoil anyone. Rinie immediately got mad and I offered to privately DM her so I could tell her there. She requested to follow me (I had removed her as a follower before) and then spent three hours refusing to accept my own request. I got frustrated and refused to tell her anything.

When the premiere finally aired, I found a picture of Manny on Twitter and sent it to the chat in excitement. Rinie however immediately complained about the quality and demanded high quality pics of Manny. I tried to explain to her it was all I had at the time and she had a crash out but actually apologized *after* I sent better pictures of Manny.

Episode two was the last time that there was any real peace. Manny had a lot of screentime in episode two and Rinie and I traded our Manny content. She had high quality videos of the episode and I had high quality pics.

Danny appeared in a cameo in episode three and Rinie assumed he'd be in episode four. I tried to explain to her that Danny was a guest actor and would probably not appear again until the finale and she yelled at me. When I did not have Manny content from episode four as he wasn't in it, she accused me of hoarding Manny stuff.

Hypocrite.

Now we get to the big moment. The moment that started all of this. Rinie boldly claimed that she was in constant contact with Danny and even claimed that she was going to date him. This later changed to her saying they were dating. I immediately called bullshit and asked @buckyytorres if Danny had ever reached out to anyone.

She told me that while Danny would respond to fans sometimes, he never reached out first. I called Rinie out further and asked for proof of her non-existent conversations.

She doubled and tripled down saying it was private. I then said that if she didn't give any proof, that I would screenshot what she was saying and tag Danny in stories about it. Rinie all but dared me as you can see in this

Danny did in fact see it. Both times.

Rinie lost her fucking mind.

She spammed over and over again how much Danny said he hated us all and that we were immature and blah blah blah crazy.

At this point we were all done with her. She deleted her crazy shit and went silent. She wouldn't respond when we tagged her. She just kept quiet.

Part 2 coming in a bit

[zyxoxox]

Salted caramel + pudding + 😩🐥🐻

syn: the king of curses finds himself wrapped into a scheme- a marriage?!

ryomen sukuna x reader // reader is a little shit and we are here for it. we love a girl who knows what she wants. tw. descriptions of pain, lowkey torture? sukuna is mean

note: i spent a lot of time thinking who to match you with, somehow completely missing your pfp and blog, and eventually went with sukuna. it was only after i started writing this did i open your blog- so just know y'all are a match from heaven okay!!

"best you watch your words, mortal."

sukuna sat on his throne of skulls, gazing down upon you. it was a miracle he hadn't finished you off yet, but you'd managed to intrigue him quite a bit.

"or what? you'll kill me? i wouldn't mind that, actually-"

before you could finish your sentence, you felt a sharp pain stab through you like a needle, forcing you to kneel.

"i said, watch your words." sukuna's gaze had narrowed, but his stance hadn't changed an inch. almost unbothered, even. "you are lucky that i'm feeling benevolent today."

you smiled through grit teeth, meeting his eyes. "then, allow me to be so bold as to make a deal."

the pain flared again, all but face planting you to the ground. it filled your blood, paralyzing your limbs, warning you of the dangerous game you were playing- but you still hadn't had enough.

"you should remember that you are not on the offense, mortal," he reminded, looking at your cowered form. "but, considering i haven't killed you thus far, i'll give you a last wish. before you die, that is."

just what you'd hoped. with some strength, you managed to lift your head high enough to meet his eyes again.

"it's just my soul you want, not my life, right? i'll give it to you, willingly-"

"oh? i've never met a mortal so suicidal. maybe that explains your cheekiness."

"-on one condition: you don't kill me. you marry me instead."

the room filled with a deafening silence.

a marriage? was the mortal before him utterly delusional?

the force holding you down lifted, and you got back to your feet. you dusted your knees, as if not just in debilitating pain, and gave him a mischevious grin.

"and how does that benefit you?" he asked, almost in disbelief. "i am not hiding some kinder alter ego underneath. i would not treat you well, if that's what you're hoping."

you laughed "you needn't worry, i'll take care of that! think about it, if you kill me now, my soul is yours once. but if i'm alive, then i can offer it to you willingly, however many times you want. tempting, no?"

not at all, sukuna wanted to say, but then he'd be lying. you clearly had some ulterior motive, and if he killed you now, he'd never find out what it was.

but considering how you seemed to welcome the notion of death, torturing you for answers didn't seem quite effective either. you seemed to have a worst case i die, best case i'm married mindset, and the only way to get what he wanted was to indulge you further.

he was frustrated, but at a stalemate.

just for answers. after i get them, i'll kill this mortal off and teach them the lesson they deserve.

yes, that was what he was telling himself. answers. he just needed an explanation. there was no other intent for his actions. and no other inexplicable reason for him to say,

"very well, mortal. the wedding's on the next new moon. you best be prepared, it won't be fun."

[twistedwonderlandshenanigans]

Walking Across That Stage

It was my convocation today (whoot whoot) so here are just some quick headcanons about the cast when they get to graduate from NRC ^^ -----------------------------------------------------------------

Heartslaybul

Riddle: By his fourth year, he's started to embrace a little bit more of his rebellious spirit - while he would never be rude or rowdy in front of his instructors, he had fun customizing his cap and gown (and in my oc's canon, he would have done it with his recently re-connected big sister and dad's help ^^). He's also the type to have brought a gift for each of his instructors with a handwritten note thanking them for their guidance over the past four years.

Trey: He wants to get across that stage as soon as possible OTL my mans doesn't do so much as look at the audience, his eyes are on Crowley and Crowley alone to shake his hand and get the fuck off of the stage. It's the after celebration events he enjoys more, especially the photobooth areas he can get pictures taken with his siblings.

Cater: He's livestreaming babe you already know this, he hypes up the crowd as he crosses, and poses with the faculty in the background as he livestreams and takes a few selfies. He manages to sneak a few extra photos with the headmage and has major party plans for after the ceremony.

Deuce: He's so nervous bless his heart OTL he's wiping his hands on his gown over and over again because he doesn't want the headmage to think he has sweaty gross hands. Once he starts walking and his mom is cheering for him, his nerves melt away a little and he's able to get a good picture with Crowley.

Ace: He put in a good word with the sound tech to play himself a theme song for his walk across the stage. It was going to be epic but then his brother kinda drowned out the song by blowing an airhorn and cheering for him from the very back. It still put a HUGE smile on Ace's face, he waves to everyone but mostly he's waving to his brother in the very back.

Savannaclaw

Leona: Only there because his sister in law said he had to LMAO There is a LOT of cheering when his name is called, and it honestly....feels really good. Even if it's not a feeling that lasts a long time, there are people other than his blood family rooting for him, proud of him, and in that moment he can actually let himself feel it. He even graces the headmage with a smile. He does not sit in for the rest of the ceremony, he sneaks out to avoid having to talk to his family after and getting caught in the crowd.

Ruggie: He is SO proud of himself, and rightfully so. He takes up a photo of his grandma to show off while he walks across the stage, (and the back of his gown is signed by all his siblings, which he shows off), the room filling with little yips and yelps from the little kids that his grandma managed to wrangle to come see him. He ends up crying that night because he heard some of the kids saying they want to be like him when they grow up; meaning he had provided them the hope that his grandma had for him. It means the world to him.

Jack: He's a little less strict with himself come forth year. As one of the best athletes in school there's a lot of cheering for him too. He does a classic chest thump into a fist pump as acknowledgement, but the Coolness Factor he felt he has is downplayed a little bit by just how fast his tail is wagging under his gown.

Octavinelle

Azul: He will take longer to grow into himself than just two years, but that's okay! He's very classy, offering a wave to his loved ones before focusing on his handshake with the headmage - during which he slips him his new, updated business card. He's a young entrepreneur, the grind never stops, having connections in high places is important, okay???

Jade: He did not want to go. Honestly. The bright lights, the crowds, the waiting around, all of it seemed a complete waste of time, save for the fact that his classmates were all going; and making connections, fostering them, means having shared memories. Once he does walk he finds it's not so bad, but at no point does he dare look into the audience while he's on stage. His favourite part is the swag bag at the end, where all the clubs are featured via stickers.

Floyd: HE'S SO EXCITED BRO he bought brand new light up shoes and he shoes them off as he like. Half dances half walks across the stage. Yes, he does make Crowley catch him in a dip. Everyone agrees its the best photo any student has gotten during graduation, simply because of how baffled Crowley looks. And...well....nobody can prove which student threw their cap at Crowley rather than into the air but there is one really strong suspicion...

Scarabia

Kalim: He honestly didn't think he would make it LOL when he goes on stage he has a flag of the Scalding Sands he carries with him on his back, showing it off with pride as he dances over to Crowley. He shakes his hand so hard Crowley thinks it's going to fall off. He's not mic'd but he yells a thank you out to everybody before he the next person is announced.

Jamil: He debated not going, but by fourth year he has stopped living in Kalim's shadow to the same extent he used to. The wave of pride that washes over him when his name is announced, followed by 'with Honours' is almost overwhelming. His sister is the sole person who cheers for him among the applause, causing him to break out into a genuine, slightly embarrassed smile just in time for the photo.

Pomefiore

Vil: (she/her pronouns used as JPN would indicate for post chapter 5) She crosses the stage with the same poise and grace as she would for any other type of awards show, only the prop she carries is a bouquet of flowers from her father. She didn't want him to come to the ceremony itself to avoid any other schoolmates finding out about their relationship to each other, so the roses she carries is her way of keeping him with her as she walks across, though she knows he's watching the live stream of the entire ceremony. Once it's done she'll get the best gift of all; some quality time with her dad.

Rook: He doesn't cross the stage. He would rather take pictures of everyone, and that way he doesn't have to face the fact nobody would have come to cheer for him anyways...not that he put an invitation out.

Epel: His meemaw embroidered his gown to have his last name along the bottom edge, but also custom apple designs. Even though she's the only one who was able to make it out to come see him cross the stage, her cheer drowns out everyone else. Nobody understands what Epel yells back, but it's clear he's ELATED, and maybe something about how his grandma is better than yours as he shows off her work.

Ignihyde

Idia: Lol yeah he's not going, he's at home having a gaming party with his family to celebrate, 72 hours straight of non stop gaming marathon, followed by a week of no human interaction. It's perfect. He's happy. He is proud of himself though; once his diploma is mailed to him he puts it up on his wall.

Ortho: He's SO excited. Idia has dragged himself out to come support him, but he also has a custom build for graduation. His party canons go off while he's shaking the headmage's hand, overtaking Floyd's 'best picture ever', as it scared the living daylights out of Crowley. (Unfortunately because he is slightly younger than everyone else my brain is saying he does. he does hit the griddy as he crosses the stage. You guys can have that mental image with me you're welcome).

Diasomnia

Malleus: Everyone expects him to be as serious as usual, but because Cater is before him he does wanna be a little silly. He can't think of anything right off the bat, but when he steps out he uses his magic to project a giant 'thank you' above the audience. (He almost used fire but remembered the sprinklers at the last second). However when he goes to shake the headmage's hand, he takes the opportunity to threaten him should Yuu be put in danger again. :)

Lilia: He spends the entirety of fourth year to build up the belief that he needs a cane, that his hearing and sight is declining, etc. Everything he can think of to make himself seem old. Just so that when his name is called he can bust a move on stage like a one man flash mob OTL he ends up actually tweaking something but he doesn't show it, he just floats across to alleviate it. Baul makes fun of him after because he knows EXACTLY what happened.

Silver: His last name puts him near the very end of his graduating class, so he is exceptionally worried about falling asleep and not being able to wake up to walk the stage, especially as strong emotions like excitement and stress trigger his narcolepsy (yes I HC him with type 1 narcolepsy). His classmates take plenty of photos and videos for him, but it's Riddle who ends up pulling through by quietly playing an audio clip of Silver's horse from when it had been startled, which woke him up immediately. He has a HUGE smile as he walks across the stage because he did it, against all odds, he made it.

Sebek: He's super superstitious to me, the hours leading up to grad, he was stuffing his sock, his cap, his gown, his pockets, everything with good luck charms. As the very last person to cross the stage in his grade, he just wants to make the best impression he can on the faculty, on the audience, and on Malleus. However, he is That Guy when he ends up tripping on his own feet. He recovers easily, but he's embarrassed still. He lights up again when he sees Malleus smiling, only for his cheeks to go pink once more as he shakes Crowley's hand and his dad calls out how proud he is of him.

Sorry if this got repetitive lol I have been in a creative block for a while and this is also kind of a way for me to try and break out of it. If you guys have requests for headcanons or scenarios please don't be shy to send them in.

Taglist: @tixdixl @theleechyskrunkly @galacticstationsblog @sunsmilu @starry-night-rose @thehollowwriter @nemisisnemi @fluffle-writes @my-cursed-brain @elenauaurs

As always, lmk if you wanna be added/removed

Love y'all ^^

[too-antigonish]

Lots to talk about here. You bring up so many good points. For the sake of length and sanity, I'll only respond to a few of them!

1. <<…Every time I start thinking about it, I feel the need to launch a separate monograph, so I'll just stick to what's churning the most. Caveat lector.>>

I think it took me a year to fully process the final season as a whole and Exeunt in particular. Even now I'm still up in the air about some aspects.

2. <<Fred Thursday is not a murderer.>> 

I absolutely agree. I think if Fred had been in his right mind, *he* would have agreed. But instead, as you point out, he is ill and under an immense amount of stress.  All of that is in addition to his untreated PTSD/CPTSD. I'd also throw in that much of his stress is related to his belief (in my opinion *very* misguided) that he needs to keep his son's addictions and the fact that he is a victim of blackmail completely hidden from trustworthy friends who have his back. All of these things play into the panicked decision to completely cover up the killing. 

It's possible that Thursday may have been worried about the possibility of reprisals against Sam or the impossibility of a fair trial for himself with so many corrupt cops pulling strings. That to me seems all the more reason to turn to Morse or Bright or Strange or even all three. To someone who is ill, traumatized yet again, not thinking clearly, and who knows that his tendency towards violence has already been seen as problematic in the past, I find his decision plausible. It's *clearly* not murder, but in his muddled state, I'm not so sure that Fred really knows that.

That brings me to Morse. His take-down of Thursday in the final pub scene is still painful to watch, but perhaps I've made it more palatable for myself by analyzing it to death. Morse notes that Sam was in no fit state to defend himself and he specifically talks about killing, not murder. His strongest words are for Thursday's behavior after the killing, how he was, "Someone who came home that night unrecognizable as the captain I would've followed into hell." Of course he was unrecognizable. He was a traumatized and panicking and the one man who probably knows him best in the world just showed up at his door. The "I know thee not, old man," that follows is famous in and of itself for its ambiguity. Is it a total rejection or does the use of the intimate "thee" imply that the rebuke is somehow softened?

At this point I think it's important to bring up the fact that Morse ultimately has no idea what actually happened between Thursday and Tomahawk! He's guessed that Thursday is the killer, but that's *all* he knows. We are shown the actual event through Fred's eyes via flashbacks, but Morse does not see what we see. He knows nothing and Fred doesn't tell him. It's at that point that we come to the really disturbing part of their exchange:

THURSDAY: Instinct. One minute he was there, the next he wasn't. He'd have done for Sam. I don't regret it. I'd do it again in an instant. That type. He was nothing. He was...

MORSE: He was someone's son.

THURSDAY: But not mine. Not mine. 

Morse knows nothing about what actually happened behind that pub, but Thursday's first words to him after being confronted about it had to have been shocking. In my mind I see Thursday guilty and panicking—and so, so tired— and just reaching for the nearest, easiest excuses he can make. For Morse though, I see someone who has just put himself in an incredibly vulnerable position with the most important person in his life only to be met with words that are…what? In one sense, they betray everything Thursday and Morse have stood for. In another way, they're just flippant. I don't think Thursday truly believes them—but again, he's emotional and tired and scared.

3. <<Yes, the Requiem, Morse closing his heart forever, everyone is dead to him, etc etc.>> 

For me the "Morse. Just Morse," was more of the closing his heart forever moment—but I say that with a caveat because I completely agree with you. The Morse of IM has a rich set of relationships and is constantly searching for connection. He's prickly, but certainly not closed off. That said, however, Morse sees his life in dramatic terms and I have no problem imagining that a young Endeavour, having just said goodbye to Thursday (and the "Dream of the Thursdays") forever, would in that moment slam the door of his heart shut with a resounding bang and resolve never to love again. That resolve would last…a week? Two weeks? Maybe? 

For me, the Faure Requiem scene is more about creating a sort of transition between the narrative of Endeavour and the narrative of IM. You have the Requiem itself connecting the "death" of Endeavour to the later death of Morse in IM. You have the flashbacks of all of the major characters with the Tempest monologue providing a bookend for Endeavour as a series. What delights me most about it though is that when Endeavour and IM pass each other in their respective Jags, we know IM is headed to Blenheim Palace. But Endeavour? Who knows? In a sense, it leaves a space for the two narratives to diverge…

endeavour musings xix

featuring: Exeunt i

MORSE: "Is that it?" CONDUCTOR: "That's it."

1. I just watched this last night, and the rest of the season in the last week or so. This is probably not the only thing I'll write on this (and the show as a whole), but I had to write something because, well, that's it. So, you can call this a bit of a first impressions post, reacting in the cooldown of the moment. And honestly? I'm a bit disappointed. And hurt -- if I'm allowed to be such a thing about a fictional show with made-up characters. One of the lessons you learn as a musician is that what the audience remembers is the beginning and the end: those are the two bits you have to land and land well. And Exeunt? Well, it's a bit of a mess isn't it? Every time I start thinking about it, I feel the need to launch a separate monograph, so I'll just stick to what's churning the most. Caveat lector.

2. Fred Thursday is not a murderer. He absolutely killed Tomahawk, but what is clearly depicted on screen is self defence. Tomahawk has verbally threatened Sam, he has a knife out, Thursday tells him to be "on [his] way" and Tomahawk replies he'll "do for the pair of them," and tries to stab Thursday. Thursday at this moment is unarmed, has not provoked him or threatened him--he has no intention of killing him. We later learn that Tomahawk in particular has two convictions for GBH, and is wanted for attempted murder. Thursday is more than twice his age, clearly ill, and under an immense amount of stress. Thursday even calls it "instinct." What little we are shown is absolutely self defence. The fact that even TvTropes lists Thursday as having "murdered" Tomahawk ! There are a lot of other unvoiced problems I have with this scenario, but the fact that the show managed to leave this ambiguous for viewers really bugs me. Laying everything else about Thursday aside, I don't think Morse would ever cover up an actual murder or attempted murder. Even for Thursday.  

3. Yes, the Requiem, Morse closing his heart forever, everyone is dead to him, etc etc. I'm not trying to be trivial, I did think it was a beautiful fitting meta ending, but also, I do think it doesn't really work. Do I think it's a lovely mirror action of the Pilot? Absolutely. Do I think it works as a last scene? Yes. Is it beautiful? Yes. But does it wooooork to cast off Endeavour for IM? For me? No. The man who is IM tries over and over to let people in; to the point where his desperation blinds him to people who are murderers (should I say especially murderesses?). His old university professors, his old friends, random drunks he meets in pubs, the old guy around the corner with his car, Adele, Strange, Lewis. He still loves Joyce, and eventually his niece / nephew. He has an extended correspondence all over the world. Whatever he thinks of Gwen (you know, the stepmother who drove him to think about suicide as a teenager, and contributed to his serious drinking problem in Scherzo), he still helps take care of her in a nursing home. This is not a man who's closed his heart forever. 

4. The way the show treats Morse's alcoholism and Sam's alcoholism / drug problem or dealing. I'm sorry, but what? Magical wand waved, and Morse has managed to get sober, go back to drinking but only in an as-needed way as the plot demands? The same thing with Sam, he's been wandering around in a drunken stupor for three episodes but now magically, at the end, he's bright-eyed, cleaned up and going to join the police. I do think this is a serious flaw of this season, and of the show as a whole, standing in the shadow of both Book!Morse and Thaw!Morse, where alcoholism is treated in a much more realistic and sophisticated way. 

5. Justice and redemption: these have been our key motifs throughout the seasons. I do think part of the issue with Exeunt for me on a philosophical level is the loss of exactly what thrilled and consoled me about Deguello. Which is that Morse finally has to face up to the fact that ideal justice isn't possible. It's not just the dilemma with Thursday either. We have Jakes too, who shows up at BV because " It's like half of me has always been here.  Half of me never left," and wanting to know about Peter Williams. And Morse (we assume) can't tell him for the same reason he can't tell Thursday: because Peter Williams was dead a long time ago. He can never "find" him for Jakes. He can never get justice for either Peter. Half of Peter Jakes will always be at BV. In some sense, it's just like Morse all over: justice for the dead is an answer that can be gotten because the dead no longer have questions, or change, or live. They are a book to be read, a puzzle to be solved. But in Deguello, into that gap -- which is always there, in justice-- stepped mercy and the hope of redemption.  Box: "The world is bent.  Always has been. We can't fix it." Thursday:  "We can try." We don't get that hope here -- and that's what feels like a kick in the teeth about this ending. Justice, suum cuique, is impossible, and thus drives away Morse. There is no redemption; this death is the end. 

6. Morse is once again saved by the narrative. Those bikers just neatly showed up so Morse never has to kill anyone. I don't know how many times I've pointed this out over the course of 36 episodes, but unlike Thursday, Morse is never faced with that final dilemma: it's always taken away from him by deus ex machina.  Even in this episode: Lott shoots at Thursday, and he has to defend his brother and himself. There's no one to save him. Tomahawk tries to stab him and Sam, and he has to defend himself. There's no one to save him. And yet, Morse is saved here just like every other single time Morse is saved by the narrative. 

7. The Joan / Morse plotline and wedding fantasy. I didn't think they put in the work to show us a happy Joan/Strange wedding but making it Morse-centric really is something else.

8.  One of the themes about this episode / season in particular is straight out of 1850 and I Do Not Like It. We've learned, over the course of 9 seasons, that Thursday's background is the worst in the show (save perhaps Jakes). His father was an abusive alcoholic, he grew up in extreme poverty in the East End (an outside privy, "one for every eight houses. 20 families." Quartet), and as a result of that he is personally known to many of the villains who come from the East End: Vic Kasper, Eddie Nero, Ken Drury, Mickey Flood. Arthur Lott, the Big Bad, is his former bagman. Charlie, his brother, is responsible for involving him in a long term fraud ("My whole life. Everything I've worked for. You've dragged me into the sewer." Icarus), which as of Exeunt was revealed to be a blind, just so Lott would have something on Thursday--we're not actually sure how much Charlie is involved but he clearly has serious connections to Lott ( Lott: "It's only being Charlie's brother that's kept you above ground.") Thursday is betrayed and stolen from by Charlie btw s5-s9, and Sam in s9; his life savings are all gone. This giant messy web of corruption eventually sucks Thursday in: he's trapped by it and as a result, shuts down BV and also covers up Tomahawk's death. It's that old Victorian favorite: Poor People Have No Moral Fiber. Perhaps it's not on purpose? But there's a definite correlation between working class poverty and corruption here with a fatalism that I don't like.  9. I promise there are things I liked, even loved about this final show: I just need to wait out the frustrated heartsickness of it first. And I have no doubt I'm going to write more about it. And I will absolutely defend that every single actor in this was magnificent, but particular shout-outs to James Bradshaw, Sara Vickers, Anton Lesser, Roger Allam and Shaun Evans. 

[kwilquib]

Driving you Mad

Series: Promised 9

Chapter - 3

Chapter 0 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4

Lee Chaeyeoung (Fromis_9) X Male reader (ft. Seoyeon)

Word Count: 21.8k+

a/n: See tags...

Recap:

What started as an ordinary weekend after a night with Chaeyoung unraveled into dread when you discovered Jiheon had woven false memories into your mind—crafting a counterfeit love story you’d lived as if it were real.

You wake up, gasping, the weight of two lives clawing at your chest, crushing the air from your lungs. The memories Jiheon shoved into your skull haven’t just buried the real ones—they’ve fused with them, a grotesque snarl of half-truths and lies bleeding into each other like ink dumped in water. You can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, and the chaos is eating you alive.

You see it all at once—her fabricated love story etched in vivid, nauseating detail, every fake touch branded into your skin, every whispered promise echoing in your ears. But the truth screeches behind it, clawing at the edges of your mind, a faint, ragged whisper you can’t ignore. The two don’t even fight—they coil together, mocking you, daring you to pick which one’s real. First dates you never lived, her lips brushing yours in a ghost of a kiss that never landed, vows you swore to nothing but air. Then the jagged reality: Jiheon’s cold, surgical hands slicing into your past, rewriting you like some lab experiment gone wrong.

Your phone buzzes, a violent jolt against your nerves. Friday, 6 AM.

You stare at it, eyes burning, body locked in place. The last thing you can grab onto—Sunday night—slips through your fingers like sand. A whole week, gone. Vanished. Just a black void where your mind used to be, a gaping hole that laughs at you.

You don’t move. Can’t. The sheets cling to your sweat-soaked skin, the cold air biting at your face, and exhaustion sinks its teeth into you, dragging you down. You’re awake, but your head’s trapped, spinning in the wreckage of memory and madness, begging for something—anything—to claw its way out of the mess and make sense.

The morning light slashes across the walls, slow and cruel, but time’s lost its grip on you. In one twisted version of your head, this is her room—yours and hers—the faint stench of her perfume choking the pillow next to you. In the real world, she was here once, just one night, but it’s enough to make you gag on the lie. Your shaking fingers graze your phone, itching to dig through it—messages, photos, something to tether you to the ground. But dread coils in your gut. What if it’s all fake too? Doctored pictures of a life you never lived, texts spelling out a love story you never wrote—proof of her fingerprints all over your soul, even now.

The faucet drips. One drop. Another. Uneven, unhinged, a stuttering pulse drilling into your skull. Drip. Drip. Drip. It’s alive, taunting you, unraveling you. Each sound rips another shred loose: her laugh ringing in a café you’ve never seen, her fingers locked in yours on a beach you’ve never touched, her sobs choking the air in a fight that never fucking happened. The emotions hit harder than the images—warmth that burns, tension that strangles, the gut-punch of losing something you never had. She didn’t just plant memories; she stitched them into you, thread by thread, so you’d feel every cut she made.

Your heart slams against your ribs, erratic, too fast.

You slam your hands against your eyes, grinding until white-hot sparks explode behind your lids, desperate to shove it all out—her lies, your life, the whole damn mess. But it’s a flood now, a screaming torrent of fake and real smashing together, and you’re drowning in it.

Drip.

Your teeth grind, a low growl building in your throat.

Drip.

Your nails dig into the sheets, clawing at the fabric like it’s her skin.

Drip.

Something molten erupts in your chest—rage, raw and jagged, clawing up your spine.

She did this. She broke you. She tore you apart and stitched you back together wrong, left you like this—this twitching, fractured thing.

The faucet drips again, and you shatter.

Fury floods your veins, a wildfire scorching everything it touches. At Jiheon. At them. At the pathetic, trembling mess staring back at you from the void. You let them in—you let their whispers and their twisted games sink their hooks into you, and now you’re coming apart, thread by thread, a puppet with its strings slashed.

Your mind spins, a frantic loop of blame—them, with their cryptic bullshit and their memory-warping tricks, then you, for being too stupid, too weak to see it coming, then back to them, because they’re the ones who lit the match and watched you burn. Your fists ball up, knuckles white. You suck in a breath, ragged and sharp. Let it go. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps.

The anger doesn’t fade—it festers, throbbing behind your ribs, thick and suffocating. You need to do something—scream, smash, find her and make her undo it. Anything to stop the buzzing in your head, the war tearing you in half.

Your phone sits beside you, a cold, mocking weight. You don’t think—you can’t think. Your hand lunges for it, fingers trembling like they’re about to snap, unlocking the screen with a swipe that feels too violent. The glare stabs into your eyes, cutting through the dim haze of the room, and everything’s wrong—the air buzzes with static, your memories twist and writhe like snakes, and your skull feels ready to split open. Rage floods your veins, too much, too fast, a feral thing clawing to get out, and you’re not sure if you’re holding it in or if it’s already tearing you apart.

You scroll past Jiheon’s name—her cursed fucking name—and your stomach lurches. Not her. Not now. You’d scream, you’d break something, you’d lose what little grip you’ve got left if you heard her voice. Your thumb jerks, hesitates, then slams down on Gyuri’s name like it’s a trigger.

It rings once. Twice. Then—

“Hey.” Her voice slides through, calm, steady, unfazed. Like nothing’s wrong. Like the world isn’t collapsing.

The sound of it—her casual, unshaken tone—snaps something deep inside you, a brittle thread you didn’t know was still holding you together.

“You knew.” The words rip out of you, jagged and dripping with venom, barely human.

She doesn’t answer right away. You hear something on her end—rustling, faint, deliberate. Papers? Fabric? You see her in your head, pristine and smug, perched in some sterile office, legs crossed, barely paying attention, already three steps ahead while you’re choking on the wreckage she helped make.

“You fucking knew, didn’t you?” Your grip on the phone tightens, knuckles bleaching, the plastic creaking under your fingers. “That Jiheon was—” You choke on it, the words tangling in your throat, too heavy, too real.

Gyuri sighs—a slow, deliberate hiss, not defensive, not sorry, just tired. “Of course I knew.”

The silence hits like a punch.

Then the rage explodes.

“And you didn’t stop her?!” You’re out of bed now, stumbling, pacing like a caged animal, your voice shaking with something unhinged. “You just fucking—let her do this to me? To my fucking head?!”

“I couldn’t risk it.” Her voice stays level, but there’s a crack beneath it, a wire pulled too tight.

“Risk?” Your laugh is a mangled, vicious thing, scraping out of you like broken glass. “Risk what? What was so fucking precious that you let her shred me apart? Too scared to cross your little psycho queen Jiheon? Or was it just easier—huh?—to sit there and watch while she turned my brain into her fucking playground?”

A pause. You feel it—the way she hesitates, calculating, deciding how much of you is worth her breath.

Then: “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it!” It’s a scream now, desperate, wild, clawing out of you. You need something—anything—to aim this fire at before it burns you alive.

She hums, slow, deliberate, and then she drops it: “You think you were the only one affected?”

Your breath catches, sharp and painful.

“What?”

“You act like you’re the only one suffering,” she says, voice still smooth but slicing deeper now, an edge creeping in. “Like Jiheon walked away clean. Like we’re all just laughing while you fall apart. Do you really think that?”

You stumble, your pulse hammering unevenly, tripping over itself. Because no—you hadn’t thought about it. You’d been drowning in your own splintered mind, your own violation, your own rage, and it never crossed your fractured skull to wonder—

Jiheon’s face flashes behind your eyes. Hollow. Guilty. A ghost of herself, crumbling under what she’d done.

Your fingers twitch, your jaw locks. No. Fuck that. You won’t let her haunt you with pity. You won’t let this twist back into your fault.

“Don’t you fucking—” Your voice shakes, splintering with fury. “Don’t you dare try to make me feel sorry for her!”

“I’m not.” Gyuri’s tone hardens, the polish cracking at the seams. “I’m saying it’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple!” You’re roaring now, throat raw, words slamming against the walls. “I didn’t ask for this—I didn’t fucking deserve this!”

And then—

“Neither did she.”

The silence is a void, swallowing you whole.

Your breaths come hard and fast, ragged gasps that scrape your lungs. Your nails are carving bloody crescents into your palm, and Gyuri’s not saying a damn thing, and that’s worse—it’s worse—because it leaves you alone with the storm in your head.

You feel it shift now, the ground tilting beneath you.

She’s slipping too.

You hear her exhale, sharp and unsteady, like she’s clawing herself back from a ledge, but she’s already falling.

“Do you think I wanted this?” Her voice drops, low and taut, trembling at the edges. “You should’ve asked me for help.”

Your mouth opens—no sound comes out, just a hollow wheeze.

“Do you think I enjoy watching this implode? You think I wanted you tangled up in our shit? You think I don’t—” She stops herself, her breath hitching, and for the first time, she’s shaking.

And it hits you.

She’s burning too.

Not just at you—at Jiheon, at the Promised 9, at the whole rotting mess. At herself. The heat in her words, the tremor behind them—it’s the same feral, helpless rage that’s been gnawing you alive.

Click.

The line dies.

You stare at the phone, hands quaking, heart slamming against your ribs like it’s trying to break free. The rage is still there, a living thing coiled in your chest, but now it’s got nowhere to go—no target, no release.

Gyuri was supposed to be the wall you’d smash it against. But she’s not a wall—she’s a mirror, cracking under the same fire that’s torching you.

And that only makes it worse. The flames climb higher, hotter, feeding on themselves, and you’re running out of things to burn.

You call her again. Once. Twice. Ten fucking times. Each unanswered ring is a blade twisting in your gut, your pulse slamming so hard it’s rattling your skull.

No answer.

The screen glares back at you, a harsh, mocking light. She’s ignoring me. You knew she’d do this after hanging up—Gyuri, with her calculated little sigh, abandoning you to choke on your own chaos—but the silence gnaws, relentless, a living thing sinking its teeth into you.

You rake a hand through your sweaty, matted hair, about to smash the call button again when something slams into focus—something off.

Your phone’s… stuck.

No new notifications. No new calls. No new texts.

You squint, heart lurching. That’s not right. That’s not fucking right.

You swipe to your messages. The old threads are there—random chats, group texts, stupid memes from weeks ago—but nothing fresh. Not a single new word since… when?

Emails? Same deal. Professor nagging about deadlines, pinned lecture notes—all frozen, timestamped days back. No updates, no reminders, no org newsletters clogging your inbox like they should.

A cold, greasy panic slithers up your spine.

You fumble to the call log, stabbing at a name—some guy from class, a nobody, someone too boring to be tangled in their web.

It rings. And rings. No pickup. No voicemail. Just… dead air.

You try again, fingers trembling, jabbing harder like it’ll force a connection. Nothing.

Your breath comes fast, shallow, scraping your throat raw. No. No way.

You stagger to the window, nearly tripping, and mash your face against the glass. Outside, the world’s still turning—students drifting past, cars nosing into the lot, everything mocking you with its normalcy.

You unlock the latch with stiff fingers and shove the window open. Cold air rushes in, biting against your skin.

Then—you yell.

"Hey!"

Your voice cuts through the air, sharp and desperate. A few people pass directly below, their heads tilted in conversation.

No one looks up.

You grip the windowsill, knuckles white. Your breath shakes.

"Can anyone hear me?!"

Nothing. Not even a glance.

It’s like you’re not even there.

Your stomach flips, sour and tight.

You stumble into the hall, the dorm stretching out too quiet, too long. It’s the same as ever—chipped walls, scuffed floors—except every door’s plastered with flyers, loud and garish. Every single one.

Except yours.

Yours is blank, a void in the noise, like you’re not even here.

Rent was due days ago. Your landlord’s a bloodsucker—should’ve been hammering your door down, blowing up your phone with threats. But nothing. No calls. No texts. No knocks.

You lurch outside, past the entrance, into the open. People brush by—chatting, laughing, breathing—and you’re a phantom, invisible. No eyes catch yours. No heads turn.

It slams into you, a frigid, suffocating wave.

They’ve cut me off.

A laugh tears out of you, sharp and unhinged, bouncing off the emptiness.

Of course. Of fucking course. The Promised 9. Gyuri’s bullshit “I couldn’t risk it”—what a sick, twisted lie. Risk what? Protecting you? No, this was them, flexing their claws, severing every thread tying you to the world. No new messages. No new calls. No rent demands. Like you’ve been paused while everything else keeps spinning.

You stare at the crowd—oblivious, alive, real—and it’s like you’re slamming against a glass cage, unseen, unheard.

It’s impossible. It should be impossible. But they bend reality like it’s their toy, don’t they? Always have.

Your fists clench, nails carving into your palms, blood welling up.

“Fine.” The word growls out, low and shredded.

You storm back inside, kicking the door shut so hard it shakes in the frame. The lock snaps into place—a useless little click against their game. You’re trapped, a rat in their maze, and they’re rewriting the walls while you run.

You gulp air, ragged and desperate, trying to claw your way back to solid ground. But your mind’s splintering—rage and paranoia twisting into a jagged, screaming mess.

Are they watching? Right now? Hiding in the shadows, giggling at your collapse?

Your jaw locks, teeth grinding until they throb. You drop onto the bed, slamming your palms into your thighs, gripping so tight your knuckles bleach, fighting to keep from shattering completely.

But it’s slipping. The anger’s boiling now, a scream clawing up your throat, and if you let it out—if you let go

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

You don’t know what you’ll break. Or who.

Time slips away. You don’t know how much.

Minutes? Hours? Days?

It’s all mush now, a smeared streak of nothing. The silence isn’t just outside anymore—it’s in your head, thick and suffocating, wrapping around your thoughts like damp rot.

It’s just you.

You and the jagged mess clawing inside your skull.

You collapse onto the bed, fingers twisting into your hair, pulling until it stings. Your mind lurches, dragging you down into the undertow—

Jiheon.

A flicker—a memory, or whatever the hell it is.

You’re in the back of a taxi, city lights streaking across her face, sharp and fleeting. She nudges your shoulder with hers, her voice a low murmur, teasing, curling into your ear like smoke. Her hand brushes yours—warm, soft—or did it? Did she ever touch you like that?

Another flash—her laugh, quiet and velvet, a secret carved out just for you, spilling into the dark.

Real? Fake? Does it even matter anymore? You don’t care. You let it roll, let it flood you.

Your eyes flutter shut, and you chase it—her phantom warmth, the shape of her beside you, a lifeline to a past that might be a lie. You breathe it in, greedy, desperate, clinging to the edges of something that could’ve been.

Knock.

Your eyes snap open, wide and wild.

The room’s dead still. Your breath snags in your throat. Then—

Knock. Knock.

It’s sharp, real, slicing through the haze like a blade.

Your heart slams against your ribs, erratic, too loud.

Who—?

You lurch upright, dizzy, palms slick with sweat. You haven’t heard a human sound in—fuck, how long? Days? Weeks? The world’s been a void, and now this—this knock—it’s a lifeline, a threat, a scream in the silence.

Your mind scrambles, tripping over itself. Only one person knows this place. Only one person could find you here, buried in their mess.

“Jiheon.”

The name tears out of you, raw and instinctive, a growl from somewhere deep. Your body’s moving before your brain catches up—stumbling, nearly crashing into the wall, hands shaking as you lunge for the door.

Everything else burns away—the rage, the dread, the memory of her hollow eyes the last time you saw her, the way she broke you. It’s gone, torched in the frantic need to see her, to know, to rip something real out of this nightmare.

Your fingers claw at the handle, slick and fumbling.

You fling the door open, chest heaving, eyes wild—ready to face her, ready to break her, ready for anything—

Eyes lock onto yours through the open door.

Blue.

Not hers. Not Jiheon’s.

Deeper. Mesmerizing. A pull that sinks into you like hooks.

Chaeyoung.

“Missed me?” Her voice slithers out, thick and syrupy, laced with a taunt that makes your skin crawl. You freeze, brain stuttering, but she doesn’t wait—she glides past you, smooth and brazen, like the room’s already hers.

She surveys the chaos—tangled sheets, scattered bottles, the stale reek of too many days alone—and lets out a slow, mocking “Wow.” Her fingertip trails along your desk, collecting dust like it’s evidence, a smirk flickering as she wipes it off. “You live like this?” Her hum is low, teasing, a blade disguised as velvet. “I thought men only crashed this hard after a divorce. But you—” She pivots, those piercing eyes glinting, “you’re shattering over a little heartbreak, aren’t you?”

Your fists ball up, nails biting into your palms, blood prickling under the skin. “What do you want?” The words grind out, rough and unsteady, barely holding back the storm churning inside.

Chaeyoung tilts her head, sizing you up, that knowing smirk sharpening. “Why so tense? You were practically drooling to see who was at the door.” She steps closer—too close—her perfume curling into your lungs, sweet and suffocating. “Did you think I was her?”

Your jaw locks, teeth grinding, and her grin widens, delighted.

She moves past you, slow, unhurried, fingers grazing the door as she swings it shut. The lock clicks into place.

When she turns back, her gaze drips with amusement.

“Poor thing,” she purrs, her hand lifting, fingertips brushing your collarbone—light, deliberate, dragging down slow enough to burn. “Still waiting for Jiheon to crawl back? Begging on her knees, maybe?”

She leans in, her breath hot against your neck, voice dipping low. “Or maybe you wanted something else. Someone else.”

Your exhale is a jagged rasp, and her laugh—sharp and lilting—cuts through you like glass.

“Don’t be shy.” Her fingers dance across your chest, teasing, pressing, stoking something raw. “Locked up in here for days—alone, restless, no one to talk to, no one to touch—” She inches closer, her body brushing yours, “it’s gotta be eating you alive.”

Your muscles coil, heat spiking where it shouldn’t, where you don’t want it to. Your mind’s screaming—trap, trap, trap—but your body’s traitorously still, caught in her pull.

“It’s okay,” she coos, voice softening into something dangerous, something that coils around your throat. “I can make it easier. Just let go. Let me.”

And that’s when it breaks.

Something in you fractures, a dam splitting wide open. Before she can blink—before you can think—your hands lunge.

Fingers clamp around her throat, tight and trembling, and you slam her against the wall with a force that rattles the room. Her head snaps back, breath catching—

But she doesn’t flinch.

No fear. No shock.

Her lips twist upward, a slow, wicked smile blooming under your grip.

“Oh,” she breathes, voice rough but dripping with hunger, eyes blazing dark and wild. “There he is.”

Your grip tightens, pulse pounding in your ears, but her stare—unyielding, pleased—digs into you, unraveling what’s left of your fraying sanity. She’s not scared. She’s thrilled. And that—that—makes the chaos in your head scream louder, teetering on the edge of something you can’t claw back from.

Your grip tightens, fingers digging into her throat, the tendons in your hands straining as rage boils over, uncontainable. Her hands latch onto your wrists, tugging, but it’s weak—halfhearted—like she’s playing at resistance.

“You did this.” Your voice rips out, a guttural growl trembling with fury. “You and the others—you fucking isolated me. Cut me off. Why?!”

Chaeyoung tilts her head against the wall, barely fazed, lips twitching with the ghost of a smile. “Torment?” she tosses back, her tone light, mocking, like it’s a game.

“Don’t act fucking clueless!” Your nails bite into her skin, carving faint crescents, your breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts. “What the hell did I do to deserve this?!”

She exhales, slow and deliberate, a sigh that’s too calm, too unbothered for the pressure crushing her windpipe. Then—her eyes flicker up, locking onto yours.

A smirk curls her lips, sharp and venomous.

“Did you forget?” she murmurs, voice low, dripping with something dark.

“You chose this.”

Her lashes flutter, her gaze slicing through you—cruel, knowing, peeling back layers you didn’t know were there.

“You wished for this.”

Your mind stutters, a jolt of ice cutting through the heat. “Wished for this? Why the fuck would I—when—?” Then it hits—the memory slams into you like a fist. That night with Chaeyoung, her voice teasing, sultry, whispering ‘Be careful what you wish for’ as the room spun and her laughter faded into the dark. “That night? That stupid fucking wish you threw out there? How was I supposed to know—you didn’t even explain it!”

Her smirk deepens, unfazed by your snarl. “Either way, you’re with us now.” Her voice is velvet over steel. “You locked yourself in when you spent that night with me—and oh, so much more with Jiheon.”

One of her hands, still gripping your wrist, shifts—sliding up, slow and deliberate, caressing your cheek. Then it drops, her fingers brushing lower, rubbing against your crotch through your pants, a bold, taunting stroke.

“Why don’t you calm down for now?” she purrs, eyes glinting with mischief. “Or if you prefer this, I wouldn’t mind.”

Your breath hitches, a mix of fury and disbelief choking you.

“You’re fucked in the head,” you spit, voice shaking, incredulous.

Your grip clamps tighter, fingers sinking into Chaeyoung’s throat, your breath heaving, wild and uneven, like something’s clawing out of your chest. Her gasping, broken laugh spills out anyway, her chest shuddering under the strain, defiant even as you crush her windpipe.

“Ironic,” she wheezes, eyes half-lidded, glinting with something mocking, dangerous, her lips twitching despite the chokehold. “Coming from someone who’s losing his mind.”

“Insane?” Your voice cracks like a whip, jagged and unhinged, your grip tightening until your knuckles bleach. “What the fuck do you mean by that?”

She forces a ragged breath, her smile unwavering, predatory. “Haven’t you seen it? Felt it?” she rasps, voice low and cutting. “You’re coming apart. That memory’s eating you alive.”

Then—

A bang at the door—sharp, thunderous, rattling the frame.

“Hey! It’s me—Gyuri!” Her voice slices through, fierce and commanding. “Chaeyoung, open the damn door! I know you’re in there—enough with your fucking games, he doesn’t need this!”

Another bang, harder, the wood groaning under her fist.

“What was that crash earlier?!” Gyuri’s tone spikes, worry twisting into anger. “Open it—NOW!”

Your head jerks toward the sound, but your eyes snap back to Chaeyoung. She meets your stare, her smirk stretching wider, feral and gleeful, like she’s feeding off the chaos.

“What are you gonna do now?” she whispers, voice trembling with delight, strained and taunting under your grip. Her fingers twitch, still clutching your pants, pressing harder against you, shameless. “Unless… you wanna keep going?” Her lips part, a shaky inhale breaking through, her smile teetering on the edge of collapse. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Then—

The world shatters.

The door doesn’t just explode inward—it detonates. A violent eruption of force tears through the room, sending a shockwave rippling outward. The walls groan under the impact, picture frames shattering, glass spraying across the floor. Furniture is upended—your bed slams against the opposite wall with a deafening crack, a dresser topples, scattering papers and broken wood across the floor.

A crimson-red streak of light flares from the splintered remains of the doorway, burning hot, searing bright. The entire building shakes, the foundation trembling under the sheer weight of the force. Dust and debris rain down from the ceiling, the floorboards quivering beneath your feet.

A shard of wood slices past Chaeyoung’s cheek—a thin red line blooms, blood welling up instantly. She barely reacts, eyes locked onto the wreckage, onto her.

Gyuri stands amidst the destruction, breathless, eyes blazing like molten fire. Her silhouette is framed by the carnage—splintered wood, dust still swirling, the faint glow of embers flickering at her fingertips. She takes it all in—one sharp, furious sweep—the trashed dorm, the suffocating tension, the overturned chair, the damp stench of neglect.

And you.

Looming over Chaeyoung. Hand still locked around her throat.

Then—her eyes land on you.

And something shifts.

The raw, furious blaze in her gaze wavers, flickers—just for a moment. The fire dims, softens, but it doesn’t disappear. It settles into something steady, something alive.

She steps forward—slow, deliberate, like you’re a bomb she’s afraid to set off.

“Hey.” Gyuri’s voice cuts through, soft yet insistent, piercing the static screaming in your skull.

Your chest heaves, breaths ripping out in sharp, uneven bursts. You don’t move. Can’t. The world’s a haze of red and shadow, your hands locked, trembling, unrelenting.

Her fingers graze your arm—light, cautious, not forcing, just there, a fragile thread in the storm.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, her hand sliding to your wrist, warm and steady, curling around it like a lifeline. “Look at me.”

Your grip stays iron-tight, nails digging into Chaeyoung’s throat. Her smirk’s vanished—wiped clean. Her lips part, gasping, straining for air that won’t come, her chest jerking faintly. Her eyes meet yours—stripped of taunts, hollowed out, reflecting something shattered.

“Why should I listen to you?” Your voice claws its way out, raw and trembling, thick with rage. “You fucked with my head. You’re fucking with my life. You’re making me disappear.”

Chaeyoung’s gaze holds, unblinking, her wheeze barely audible under your chokehold. No defiance. Just that flat, eerie stillness.

Gyuri exhales—slow, controlled, a thin line of calm threading through your chaos.

“We did that,” she says, her voice deliberate, careful. “And I’m sorry. We could’ve done better—I could’ve done better.” Her fingers tighten around your wrist, not pulling, just grounding. “I should’ve cared for you more. Kept you closer instead of… this.”

Her words hang there, heavy with regret, but they don’t soothe—they sting, like salt in a wound you didn’t know was bleeding.

“We didn’t know how to handle you,” she continues, softer now. “Your mind—it’s fragile. We thought controlling everything, cutting you off, would keep you safe. But I see it now—we fucked up.”

Your vision blurs, red seeping into the edges, the room swaying as your mind teeters on a brittle edge—fury crashing against her confession, tearing you apart.

“Let go. Let’s talk.”

Her hand slides up, cupping your face, her palm pressing firm against your jaw—solid, unyielding, anchoring you. She pulls you in, closer, until her forehead rests against yours, her breath warm, steady, mingling with your ragged gasps.

A faint red glow flickers at the corners of your sight, pulsing faintly, warm and alive.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again, her voice cracking just enough to feel real. Her warmth seeps into you, threading through the tangled mess shredding your head, dulling the sharpest edges.

“Breathe.”

Your fingers twitch, the grip on Chaeyoung’s throat faltering—slowly, haltingly—until your hands drop, heavy and shaking, useless at your sides. She collapses with a choked gasp, air rushing into her lungs, but you don’t look. Can’t.

Gyuri’s hands stay, firm on your face, her forehead pressed to yours, her touch the only thing keeping you from spiraling into the void gnashing at your heels.

Your grip on Chaeyoung slackens, trembling fingers peeling away.

She drops, hitting the floor with a thud, gasping, coughing, hands flying to her throat. She doesn’t speak—doesn’t taunt. Just watches.

Gyuri doesn’t spare her a glance.

Gyuri holds you there, her fingers digging into your skin, a desperate tether dragging you back from the abyss gnashing at your heels. Your pulse thunders, a deafening roar in your ears, your mind spinning—fractured, teetering—but her eyes, steady and unyielding, lock you in place, keeping you from shattering completely.

“You need help. You know it yourself,” she says, her voice firm but laced with a softness that stings deeper than you want. “Let us help you. Me. No more of… this.” Her hand sweeps faintly toward the wreckage—the trashed dorm, the splintered door, the chaos seeping into every corner. “I promise this time.”

Her words dangle there, a lifeline tangled with guilt. You hesitate, chest tight, breath hitching. She’s right—you need help. They broke you, shredded your mind and left you clawing through the debris, but they’re the only ones who can piece you back together. It’s a cruel, twisted punchline, and the bitterness burns your throat.

You nod—just a twitch of your head—too drained, too furious, too lost to fight. Gyuri’s grip eases, her thumb brushing your jaw, a fleeting warmth you hate needing but can’t reject.

Behind you, a faint rustle. Then—Chaeyoung pulls herself up from the floor, slow and stiff, her movements deliberate, like she’s testing if her body still works. Her fingers flex and curl, trembling faintly before she clenches them into fists. “Great. Can we go now?”

Her voice is flat—no teasing lilt, no playful bite. She’s facing Gyuri, her back to you, her tone hollow, drained of its usual spark. You can’t see her face, but the air shifts—something unspoken crackling between them.

Gyuri’s jaw tightens, her eyes flicking to Chaeyoung, then back to you. “I can’t,” she says, quieter, a strain threading her words. “I need to stay. Clean this up.” She nods toward the shattered door, the mess of your dorm, her hands slipping from your face but hovering close, like she’s scared you’ll bolt. “The Mist can only do so much. We shouldn’t strain it more.”

Mist? Your brows knit, confusion spiking through the haze. “I thought we were done with that. Can you just explain—”

She flinches—barely—but doesn’t answer. Her gaze meets yours, heavy with something murky—regret, maybe shame. “Go with Chaeyoung,” she says instead, voice firming up. “She’ll take you to Saerom. She’s waiting. She can… give you answers.”

You scowl, frustration boiling over. “Then why her? Why can’t you do it?” You glance at Chaeyoung, expecting her usual smirk, but she’s still—too still. Her face is blank, no fire, no taunt, just a weary, distant stare. The cut on her cheek gleams, blood still wet, but she doesn’t flinch at it.

Chaeyoung turns to you then, and—like a mask snapping back into place—her smirk flickers on, jagged at the edges. “What’s wrong? Scared to be alone with me after our little dance?” she purrs, her voice dripping with mock sweetness, leaning in just close enough to let her breath graze your ear. “Don’t you trust me, baby? I thought we were getting so… intimate.” Her tone wavers for a split second, a faint crack betraying her, but she covers it with a low, taunting chuckle.

The air thickens, heavy and suffocating, as Gyuri glares at her. A faint red glow pulses at the edges of the room, seeping from Gyuri’s clenched fists, the light flickering like a heartbeat—angry, unsteady. She squeezes her eyes shut, her chest rising and falling too fast, and you feel it—a hum in the air, a crackle of something raw and red bleeding into the space. She’s meditating, or trying to, holding back whatever’s clawing to get out. When her eyes snap open, they’re sharp, glinting with a crimson sheen she can’t fully hide, and she deliberately avoids Chaeyoung’s grin.

“Just go with her for now,” she mutters, her voice tight, strained, like it’s taking everything to keep the red from spilling over. She pulls you aside, her fingers trembling faintly against your arm, and whispers, tense and low, “Chaeyoung acts like teasing’s her only trick, but she’s the one you can trust most. At least you know what she’s after.” The red light flares briefly around her, casting harsh shadows across her face, then dims as she forces it down.

You chew on that, the words sinking in slow and bitter. Gyuri, who seems to care but keeps proving otherwise with every move. Jiheon, who cracked your mind open and left it bleeding. The others, shadows you can’t read. Chaeyoung—at least she’s predictable, her edges sharp but familiar.

“Let’s gooo,” Chaeyoung sing-songs, her lazy grin stretching wide, but her hands fidget at her sides, fingers twitching—a crack in her act she can’t quite hide.

You hesitate. Gyuri’s hand presses lightly to your back, a gentle nudge. “Go,” she says softly, urging you forward.

You step toward the door, but Gyuri’s voice cuts through just as you reach it. “Chaeyoung.”

You both pause. You glance back; Chaeyoung doesn’t.

“I’m serious,” Gyuri says, her voice taut, eyes dark and piercing. “Don’t hurt him.” It’s not a request—it’s a warning, laced with steel.

For a split second, Chaeyoung’s mask slips. Her shoulders stiffen, her breath catches—just a flicker of something raw—before she forces a sharp exhale through her nose, rolling her neck like she’s shrugging it off. When she turns, the teasing glint is back, polished and bright, but her eyes are too tight, her smirk too forced. “I’d do eight other things with him before we get to that kink,” she chirps, voice airy, then leans toward you, dropping it to a mock whisper. “Unless you wanna skip ahead?”

You don’t answer. Don’t look at her. Just step past, out the door, your mind a snarl of rage and exhaustion.

Chaeyoung follows, her footsteps light but uneven, like she’s still steadying herself. For a moment, she’s quiet—too quiet—her breathing shallow, a faint tremor in it she tries to cover with a soft hum. She’s shaken, more than she’ll let on, hiding it behind that brittle grin and barbed words.

You don’t care. You keep walking, and she trails you, the two of you slipping into the unknown, toward Saerom, while Gyuri stays behind in the wreckage—alone with her promises and the mess she can’t undo.

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

The car hums beneath you, a low, steady purr cutting through Seoul’s streets with effortless precision. It’s not Chaeyoung’s usual blue Porsche, all flash and noise. This is subtler—a Lexus, four-seater, sleek and understated, the kind of luxury that doesn’t scream but commands. Familiar. You’ve seen it before, that night you first stumbled into their world, half-blind and reeling.

Chaeyoung doesn’t fill the silence with chatter. Her hands grip the wheel, steady, her eyes fixed ahead—no music, no distractions, just the engine’s rhythmic drone and a heavy, unspoken weight between you. You don’t ask where you’re going. You don’t need to. She’d dropped it once, casual and dismissive—Saerom will explain when it’s time. That time’s now, and it hangs over you like a blade.

The car slows, but not in front of the gleaming glass tower you’d braced for. Chaeyoung veers sharp down a ramp, plunging into an underground lot. Dim fluorescent lights buzz overhead, the hum of ventilation fans swallowing the Lexus’s glide. The world above fades, muffled and far.

She parks with crisp efficiency. Her fingers tap the steering wheel—once, twice—a quick, restless tic before she exhales and unbuckles her seatbelt. “Let’s go.” She’s out before you can blink, not waiting.

The elevator ride is silent, the numbers climbing higher and higher until they stop at the top. When the doors slide open, you step into a space that feels like the crown of the building. Not just an office—Saerom’s office.

The door is heavier than the others, a polished plaque with her name the only marker. Chaeyoung raps her knuckles against it once, sharp, then shoves it open without pause.

Inside, the air thickens—leather, fresh flowers, a ghost of perfume. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate one wall, tinted to hold the city at arm’s length. The space is pristine, curated, every detail deliberate.

At the center, behind a broad desk, sits Saerom. She doesn’t look up right away, her pen scratching across paper with a final, precise flourish before she sets it down. Only then do her eyes lift, locking onto yours. No surprise. No flicker of doubt. She’s been waiting.

“What took you so long?” Her gaze slides past you, pinning Chaeyoung.

Chaeyoung answers with a smile—thin, tight, not quite reaching her eyes.

You tilt your head, a smirk tugging at your lips despite the churn in your gut. “An actress with her own office, signing papers? Bit much, isn’t it? Almost like you run the place.”

Saerom doesn’t bite, doesn’t even blink. Chaeyoung lets out a low chuckle behind you, soft but sharp, like you’ve stumbled over something painfully obvious.

Saerom rises, smooth and unhurried, crossing the room toward you. When she’s close—close enough to feel the weight of her presence—she stops. “What happened to you?” she asks, her voice calm but edged, her eyes flicking to Chaeyoung.

You follow her gaze. The cut on Chaeyoung’s cheek gleams, still wet, but it’s her neck that draws you now—red marks blooming where your fingers dug in, faint bruises tracing the shape of your grip.

Chaeyoung flinches, just a fraction, caught off guard. “Nothing,” she says, too quick, a tiny hitch in her breath. “Just got a little excited.” Her hands land on your shoulders, rubbing them with forced ease, her smile flashing for Saerom—bright, brittle, a shield snapping back into place.

Saerom studies her for a beat, then turns, satisfied or uninterested—you can’t tell. She moves to the center of the room, settling onto a low couch by the coffee table, her eyes locking onto yours again. Waiting.

Chaeyoung’s hands give your shoulders a final tap. “Well, good luck,” she chirps, already retreating. “I’ll be outside.” Before you can say a word, the door clicks shut behind her, the sound sharp in the stillness.

You sit across from Saerom, alone now, her presence a quiet storm filling the room. Her gaze is unrelenting—steady, piercing, drawing you in whether you want it or not. No assistants buzzing around, no flashing cameras, no polished persona. Just her, seated in this private meeting room atop the city, waiting.

She doesn’t bother with pleasantries. Her eyes lock onto yours, unreadable, and she cuts straight to it. “Do you know the myth of the Promised 9?”

You exhale, sharp and bitter. “Yeah. Conveniently, I do.”

Silence. She’s waiting.

You hesitate, then give in. “Nine women, tied to humanity’s extreme emotions.” Your voice feels heavy, like you’re dragging it out of somewhere dark. “The King begged a deity for help, and they sent nine embodiments to carry that burden. But they needed an anchor—someone to keep them from losing it.”

The words hit differently now, tugging at a thread in your mind. Jiheon’s face flashes—tear-streaked, broken—“I wasn’t myself. Please, forgive me.” It clicks, heavy and sickening.

Saerom, as if reading your unraveling thoughts, breaks the quiet. “You’re that anchor. You keep us from spiraling.”

Your jaw locks. “Why me? Why now? Don’t you have someone else?”

She leans back, crossing one leg over the other, unruffled. “We weren’t always like this. Normal, once. Then one night, we woke up… changed. Something shifted, and we had no choice but to carry it.”

Your fingers twitch against your knee. “How long?”

“A few years. Less than ten.” She tilts her head, studying you. “We managed—until we couldn’t. We knew we’d lose control eventually.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “And I’m supposed to just step in? I don’t even know if I can—or how.”

Her lips curve, not quite a smile. “You already have. Twice.”

Your stomach twists. You don’t need to ask. Jiheon. Chaeyoung.

She watches the realization sink in, then adds, “And there’s more.”

You meet her gaze, wary.

“You resist us,” she says, matter-of-fact. “Our influence—our magic—it doesn’t take you fully. That’s why you’re different. Why you’re necessary.”

The words press into you, a weight you can’t shake. “You’re the perfect anchor,” she continues, voice low, steady. “Especially when we lose ourselves. Others would’ve broken by now. You haven’t.”

“And what? I just accept it?” Your voice rises, edged with frustration. “Chaeyoung said I chose this, but no one explained shit. You misled me—dragged me into this without a fucking word.”

Her eyes flicker away for a moment, staring past you, lips moving silently—like she’s cursing someone under her breath. Then she refocuses, unyielding. “I see. But what’s done is done. Doesn’t change that you’re what we need.”

“Why should I help you?” You shove up from your seat, voice cracking with anger. “After everything you’ve done? Jiheon fucked my head, and you—you made the world forget me!”

“Jiheon’s effect was… unfortunate,” she concedes, calm as ever. “But the rest? That was to protect you.”

“Protect me?” You laugh, harsh and hollow. “By cutting me off? Making me a ghost? You’re sociopaths—”

“It’s not just us who needs help,” she cuts in, stopping your spiral cold. “You need us too. That mind of yours—those memories—they’ll drive you insane. We can make it bearable, at least. Normal, even.”

“Convenient as hell for you,” you mutter, sinking back into your seat, defeated. “Might as well say you planned it all.”

“You think this is one-sided,” she says, leaning forward slightly. “That we’re just using you. It’s not that simple.”

Your fingers dig into your knee, but you don’t interrupt.

“We’re tied to you as much as you are to us,” she says, her gaze unflinching. “You anchor us, yes. But we take care of you in return. That’s the deal.”

“Sounds like a fancy cage,” you bite back.

A flicker of amusement crosses her face. “If that’s how you see it, fine. But it’s not cold. Not transactional.” She tilts her head, assessing you. “You’re already changing us—more than you realize.”

She leans back, ticking off names like she’s reading a ledger. “Gyuri—never begs me for anything. She did for you, just to get me here faster.”

“Chaeyoung—doesn’t give a damn about anyone outside us. Now she does.”

“Jiheon—reckless, shameless Jiheon—crippled with guilt over you.”

“Seoyeon—avoids responsibility like it’s a disease. Mentioned your name once, and she stepped up.”

Each name lands like a brick, stacking up in your chest. You don’t know what to say.

Saerom lets the silence settle, then drops it, casual but firm: “You should move in with us.”

Not a question. A statement.

It hits like a slap. “What?”

She doesn’t repeat it. Just watches you wrestle with it.

“That’s insane,” you say, shaking your head. “I barely know you. Why would I—”

“Why not?” she cuts in, smooth and sharp. “What’s stopping you?”

You open your mouth—nothing comes out.

“Your dorm was wrecked. No family waiting,” she says, voice low, relentless. “No career you’re tied to. No friends anchoring you. What’s keeping you out there?”

Your throat tightens, her words slicing too close. “I have a life,” you rasp, but it sounds weak even to you.

“Do you?” She leans forward, piercing. “A shitty dorm. Classes you sleep through. A routine you don’t care about.”

The ache settles into your bones. You can’t argue.

“You’d lose nothing by staying,” she says, softer now. “But you’d gain something.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?” Your voice is rough, brittle.

Her lips twitch—not quite a smile.

“A purpose.”

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

The elevator chime cuts through the haze, a soft ding reverberating in the empty space. The doors slide open, revealing the underground parking lot—dimly lit, shadows pooling under flickering fluorescents.

You don’t move right away. Your hand clenches into a fist at your side, and you draw a slow, deliberate breath. This time, it steadies you.

For the first time in days your mind isn’t a storm of unanswered questions. The weight in your chest hasn’t lifted, but it’s shifted—less a choking fog, more a solid pressure you can finally wrap your hands around. Something real. Something you can face.

Anchor. Necessary. One of us now.

The words echo, but they don’t claw at you anymore. They’ve settled, heavy and certain, like stones in your pocket. It should scare you—shouldn’t it?—but instead, there’s a strange relief in the clarity. A thread to cling to, something to pull you forward when everything else has frayed.

You drag a hand over your face, rough against stubble, and step out.

Then you see her.

Chaeyoung’s leaning against the black Lexus, arms crossed, one boot kicked back against the concrete pillar. The faint light overhead glints in her eyes, sharpening the smirk tugging at her lips—a knowing, waiting curve.

Your gaze locks with hers, and you can tell in an instant.

She thought you’d run.

She thought you’d crack.

Instead, you exhale, a faint shake of your head as you step toward her. For the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel adrift. The ground’s still shaky beneath you, but it’s there—and that’s enough.

“Waiting for me?”

Her smirk widens. “Obviously.” She shifts, stepping toward you, closing the distance with a predator’s grace. “And I’m not done with you yet.”

You scoff under your breath, shoving your hands into your pockets. “I wasn’t planning on running.”

“I know,” she murmurs, her voice dipping, less tease and more weight—something off, something personal. “You won’t… you can’t… not with me.”

It’s not about Saerom or anchors or any of that. It’s her. Just her. Your shoulders stiffen as the words settle, heavy, like a snare you’ve walked into before.

You shake your head, exhaling hard. “She said you care about me.”

Chaeyoung snorts, amused. “Did she now?”

You shouldn’t ask, but it slips out. “Is it true?”

She steps closer, her gaze unwavering. “Does it matter?”

It does. You want it to. Your fingers twitch at your side. “What about Jiheon?”

Her expression flickers—brief, almost imperceptible—lips parting before she glances away, jaw tight. “You’re worried?” she says, sharper now, edged with something raw. “After what she did to you? Worry about her later.”

Your stomach twists. What if Jiheon didn’t mean it? What if she wasn’t herself when she broke you? The thought gnaws, but you don’t have an answer. So you don’t give one.

Instead, you nod toward the car, grasping for anything else. “This ‘anchor’ thing—what does it even mean?”

Chaeyoung exhales, shaking her head with a faint, bitter laugh. “You’re overthinking it.”

“I’d like a straight answer for once,” you snap, teeth gritted.

She leans in, voice low, teasing but barbed. “You keep asking like you don’t already know.”

You don’t. Or maybe you’re terrified you do.

Her smirk sharpens, a finger tapping her lips before she drawls, “Fine. You’re ours, we’re yours… yet.” She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “Happy now?”

Your chest tightens. “And sex—is that really how I help you?”

Her eyes gleam with mischief. “Why?” She steps closer, her breath brushing your skin. “Wanna test it again—see if I’m still worth it?”

Your lips part, but before you can bite back, she moves—quick, fluid, like she’s been waiting. Her hands slam against your chest, shoving you back through the open car door. You hit the backseat with a thud, leather and her perfume flooding your senses.

Then she’s on you, straddling your lap with slow, deliberate grace. Her fingers trail up your jaw, curling into your hair, tilting your head back to lock eyes. “Still undecided?” she murmurs, lips hovering just above yours, teasing the space between. She leans closer, her smile grazing your cheek. “Need me to remind you how good this gets?”

Your pulse spikes. You swallow hard. “Chaeyoung,” you rasp, “this isn’t the time—or place.”

Her lips curl sharper. “Then stop me.”

You hesitate—too long. She sees it, and the glint in her eyes flares, reveling in the edge she’s claimed.

“Chae—”

Your protest barely escapes before she’s on you, her fingers twisting into your shirt, yanking herself closer. Her mouth crashes against yours, fierce and possessive, a hungry edge to it that leaves no room for doubt—she knows what she wants, and it’s you.

Her lips move with bold, teasing confidence, pressing hard, demanding, like she’s playing a game she’s already won. The heat surges when her tongue brushes the seam of your mouth, coaxing you open—an invitation you shouldn’t take but can’t refuse. You part your lips, letting her in, and she dives deep, tasting like danger, sweet and addictive, pulling you under.

Her weight shifts, hips pressing into yours, her body molding against you with a deliberate grind that screams intent. You should stop this—draw a line before it’s too late. You know it’s a distraction for her, a power play, nothing more. But your hands betray you, sliding to her waist, tugging her closer, feeding the fire. You want her, even if it’s just this fleeting burn.

Then it shifts.

The kiss slows—her lips soften, less demanding, more lingering. The hunger doesn’t fade, but it melts into something warmer, something unguarded. Her breath catches, a faint tremor against your mouth, and the tease gives way to a quiet depth you didn’t expect. Her tongue brushes yours again, but it’s tender now, searching rather than claiming.

Your hand twitches, lifting toward her neck. You hesitate—flashes of earlier, your grip too tight, her gasping under your anger flickering in your mind. Guilt stalls you, but the kiss keeps pulling you in, softer still, and you can’t hold back. Your fingers find her neck, resting there—not choking, not controlling, just cradling, gentle and steady, a stark contrast to before.

She doesn’t pull away. Her lips stay on yours, warm and slow, a scrape of her teeth against your lower lip—not playful anymore, but raw, almost aching. When she finally breaks the kiss, it’s too sudden, a soft gasp slipping out as she stares at you. Her eyes widen for a heartbeat, mask slipping—surprise, vulnerability, like she didn’t mean to let it feel this real.

“Chaeyoung,” you murmur, voice rough, your thumb brushing the graze on her cheek—still raw from earlier, a mark you left behind.

She snaps back fast, that smirk curling her lips like armor, her gaze sweeping over you as if she didn’t just bare something unguarded. “What?” she teases, voice steadying too quick, too smooth. “Don’t tell me you’re hooked already.”

But your hand stays on her neck, light and warm, and for a moment, she doesn’t shake it off—the softness lingers between you, unspoken.

“You’ve been acting pathetic long enough,” Chaeyoung murmurs, shifting atop you. She pulls back slowly, settling her weight onto your hips, pinning you in place. “Let me take care of you.”

Her hands, warm and sure, glide from your thighs to your belt, fingers deftly working the buckle loose.

You catch her wrist, halting her. “Chaeyoung, we’re in public—”

“No one’s coming,” she interrupts, voice soft but firm, cutting through your protest. She leans in, her breath teasing your lips. “You need this.”

Her free hand fumbles blindly behind her, pulling the car door shut with a quiet click. She doesn’t say she needs it too, but the way her fingers tighten on you, the way her pupils flare, betrays her.

Your grip slackens.

A slow, wicked smile curls her lips. She shifts lower, unfastening your belt with a tug, sliding your waistband and boxers down in one fluid motion. Your cock springs free, and her eyes widen—just for a heartbeat—before that grin takes over, sharp and hungry.

Her tongue flicks out, tracing a deliberate, languid stripe up your length. A shudder rips through you as she swirls around the tip, savoring you, then takes you into her mouth. She sinks down, lips wrapping tight, the heat of her throat swallowing you inch by inch. A groan claws its way out of your chest, your hips twitching up instinctively.

She hums, the vibration pulsing through you, her tongue flicking against the sensitive underside as she bobs deeper, faster. Her fingers curl around the base, stroking what she can’t take, while her other hand teases your balls with a gentle roll. It’s too much—too good—pleasure coiling tight and fast. You’re close, teetering on the edge, when she pulls off with a wet pop, a thin string of spit bridging her lips to your throbbing tip.

She rises slightly, hands moving to her jeans. With maddening slowness, she unbuttons them, lifting her hips just enough to peel the denim down her thighs. Her dark panties cling to her, barely a barrier, and she kicks the jeans aside, settling back onto your lap.

Before you can catch your breath, she straddles you, grinding her hips down. The thin fabric between you does nothing to hide her heat, her slickness seeping through as she rolls against your aching length. Your hands grip her waist, fingers digging in, body taut with want.

“Mmm, you taste better than I remember,” she purrs, lips brushing your ear, nails raking your shoulders with a sharp thrill. “I want you inside me. Want you to fuck me ‘til I can’t stand.”

Her words ignite you, heat roaring through your veins. The slow drag of her hips has your breath stuttering, your hands itching to pull her closer, to lose yourself in her—

But then she stops.

Not hesitation. Not doubt.

She’s waiting, her focus shifting past you.

A beat hangs.

Then—click.

The car door creaks open, and your blood turns to ice.

“Chaeyoung…?”

The voice isn’t loud, but it slices through the haze, freezing you mid-breath. You don’t recognize it—not instantly—but the weight of that stare burns into you, heavy and unyielding.

“Oh… fuck—” A woman’s voice falters, stammering.

Panic hits like a flood. You jolt upright, scrambling to yank your pants up, fumbling in a clumsy rush. Chaeyoung, unbothered, slides off you with effortless grace, reaching for her jeans like it’s a casual pause in her day.

“Unnie, you’re here,” she says, voice light, almost bored, as she shimmies denim back over her hips.

You look up, heart slamming, and see her—Seoyeon—standing there, wide-eyed, caught in the doorway.

Your breath lodges in your throat, guilt and shock colliding as her gaze flickers between you and Chaeyoung.

Seoyeon freezes, her wide eyes flickering between you and Chaeyoung before dropping to the ground, like she’s trying to unsee what she just walked into. Her fingers tighten around her bag strap, and a faint flush creeps up her neck, barely visible in the parking lot’s dim glow.

That reaction—soft, unguarded—hits you harder than it should. Seoyeon, the quiet beauty you’d watched from a distance, always so composed, so untouchable. She’d had this effortless allure—serene, distant, captivating. And now, she’s flustered, unraveling before you.

Guilt twists in your chest, sharp and unfamiliar. You hardly know her—just fleeting glances, occasional nods—but her seeing you like this, tangled in Chaeyoung’s mess, stings in a way you can’t explain. Her expression, unreadable yet raw, makes it worse.

She shifts, hesitating, like she’s torn between bolting and pretending this never happened.

Then Chaeyoung moves.

Unfazed, she slides out of the car, rolling her shoulders as if shrugging off a minor annoyance. Her lips curl, eyes glinting as she turns from you to Seoyeon. “Seoyeon-ah,” she purrs, stretching the name with relish. “You’re so cute when you blush.”

Seoyeon stiffens. “I—I wasn’t—” she stammers, voice soft, faltering.

Chaeyoung’s laugh cuts through, stepping closer. “What? Didn’t enjoy the show? Or are you mad you missed your chance to play?”

Seoyeon’s breath catches, her grip on her bag whitening her knuckles. She doesn’t retreat, though—rooted there, trapped under Chaeyoung’s gaze.

You watch, a dark thread coiling in your mind. Chaeyoung’s teasing has shifted—no longer aimed at you, it’s sharper now, laced with an edge that feels almost territorial.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, closing the distance, her tone hovering between irritation and something colder.

Seoyeon hesitates. “You… said you’d drive me home.”

“Ah…” Chaeyoung tilts her head, smirk returning, but it’s tighter, meaner. “Right. I did, didn’t I?” She crosses her arms. “So, your little meeting’s done?”

Seoyeon nods, barely.

Chaeyoung spins back to you, her grin wicked. “Hear that? Our shy little puppy just signed a deal—her book’s getting adapted.” Her fingers trail up Seoyeon’s arm as she speaks, possessive, taunting. “Isn’t she incredible?” Her eyes lock on yours, gleaming. “Go on, praise her. She’d love to hear it from you.”

Your throat tightens, brain scrambling. A writer? You’d seen her in the café—alone, lost in thought, typing by her laptop. You’d guessed student, freelancer, anything but this.

“I—” You clear your throat, forcing it out. “Congrats. That’s… really impressive. I always wondered what you were up to.”

Seoyeon fidgets with her strap, eyes down. “I—I could just go home alone. I don’t want to interrupt—”

“Too late,” Chaeyoung cuts in, smooth and biting. Her fingers slide down Seoyeon’s wrist, tugging at her sleeve, and Seoyeon tenses—but doesn’t pull away.

“Join us,” Chaeyoung hums, tilting her head, lips curving sharper. “Unless…” She flicks her gaze to you, then lowers her voice, “you wanted a different kind of invitation?”

Your breath snags. Her hand drifts lower, fingertips brushing Seoyeon’s waist, pressing just enough to draw a faint shudder. It’s blatant, deliberate—performed for you, like she’s daring you to react.

Your jaw clenches.

Seoyeon bites her lip, face flaming, eyes darting away. She’s unrecognizable from the café girl—cozy sweaters swapped for something sleek, her softness sharpened by the moment, helpless under Chaeyoung’s grip.

And you—you’re still hard, the ache a cruel reminder of where this was headed. Chaeyoung catches it, her smirk flashing like she’s won something.

“Don’t go,” she murmurs, leaning closer to Seoyeon, fingers tracing her blouse’s hem. “Especially after crashing our fun.”

Chaeyoung glances at your still bulging pants.

She whispers something in Seoyeon’s ear—too low to catch—and Seoyeon’s breath hitches, her flush deepening.

Then Chaeyoung grins, turning to you. “Besides… don’t you want me to introduce you?” Her voice drops, eyes flicking between you both. “Show you who she really is?”

She tosses you the keys with a flick of her wrist. “Drive us, sweetie. Follow the GPS,” she says, mischief glinting in her stare. She glances at the backseat. “I want Seoyeon’s company back there.”

You slide into the driver’s seat, fingers clamping around the wheel, knuckles whitening. A quick check in the rearview shows Chaeyoung sprawled comfortably, dark hair fanning over the leather, one leg crossed casually. Seoyeon sits beside her, rigid, hands knotted in her lap, staring out the window like it might save her.

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

The car hums softly, the GPS’s faint beeps punctuating the quiet. The silence stretches—not heavy, but taut—until Chaeyoung slices through it.

“So… how much do you actually know about Seoyeon?”

Your fingers flex on the wheel, eyes flicking to the rearview. Chaeyoung’s smirking, amused, while Seoyeon jolts slightly, her gaze snapping from the window to dart between you and Chaeyoung.

You clear your throat. “Uh… I see her at Golden Brew a lot. She’s always there.”

Seoyeon blinks, startled—like she didn’t think you’d noticed her.

Chaeyoung chuckles, low and teasing. “That’s it? Just some café girl?” She slings an arm over Seoyeon’s shoulders, tugging her closer with casual possessiveness. “Come on, you’ve got more than that. Give us an impression.”

You hesitate, Seoyeon’s eyes on you now, soft but searching. What do you say? That she always looked so calm there, tucked in her corner, lost in a book—like the world couldn’t touch her? That she’s nothing like the flustered girl beside Chaeyoung now?

“I don’t know,” you mutter, eyes back on the road. “She just… seemed at peace there. Like nothing else mattered when she was reading.”

Seoyeon shifts, a mix of flattered and uneasy, while Chaeyoung hums, twirling a strand of Seoyeon’s hair. “See? He notices you.” Her voice dances with playful mockery, but it lands—Seoyeon’s cheeks flush pink.

The air shifts, no longer awkward but charged, teetering on something new. Chaeyoung’s either diffusing it or stirring it—you can’t tell.

Then—“So,” she drawls, stretching her legs like she owns the car, “when are you moving in?”

Your grip tightens, knuckles whitening. You knew it was coming—Saerom’s words made it inevitable—but resistance flares anyway, a reflex you can’t kill.

“Gyuri called earlier,” she adds, casual but pointed. “Asked if you’ve got anything sentimental in that dorm.”

The question jars you. Gyuri called her—not you? And moving your stuff herself? Your mind scrambles for something sentimental, but it’s blank—Saerom was right. A week with them, and they’ve already peeled back how empty your life was.

Your silence lingers too long.

Chaeyoung clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Still acting like you’ve got a choice, huh?” She leans forward, propping her chin on Seoyeon’s shoulder, eyes glinting in the mirror. “It’s not just about you crashing with us. It’s that head of yours—we’re keeping it from cracking open.”

Your jaw clenches.

“Your mind’s a mess,” she says, smooth and unrelenting. “It’s not a quick fix, sweetie.”

“We—or someone—” she loops an arm around Seoyeon’s waist, pulling her tighter, “has to stop you from losing it completely.”

Seoyeon stiffens, like she’s just now catching the drift. Chaeyoung doesn’t let her squirm away.

“Meet your minder,” she purrs, nudging Seoyeon forward like a prize on display. “Our best little memory-sorter.”

You catch Seoyeon’s reaction in the mirror—her fingers knot into her dress, lips parting in a half-formed protest she doesn’t voice.

“You,” Chaeyoung continues, dragging a finger up Seoyeon’s arm, making her twitch, “never step up unless you’re forced. But when Saerom asked for someone to help our poor, scrambled boy here, you volunteered fast.”

Seoyeon glances at you—quick, fleeting—then down. “I didn’t—” She swallows, voice thin. “It just made sense.”

Chaeyoung snickers. “Oh, sure. Made sense.” She mocks it, tilting her head. “Not because you’re perfect for untangling his head, but because you wanted to, right?”

“Because I’ve got the most experience,” Seoyeon snaps, face reddening.

“Mhm. Purely professional,” Chaeyoung grins, dripping sarcasm.

You keep your eyes on the road, but it’s sinking in—Seoyeon chose this? You’d figured it was thrust on her, like everything else with you. If she wanted it… why?

Chaeyoung leans closer to Seoyeon, voice dropping, teasing but firm. “Then why’re you blushing, sweetheart?”

You swallow hard, no answer forming. Seoyeon’s a stranger beyond café glimpses, but now—flustered, off-balance—she’s the last one you’d expect to sift through your fractured mind.

The wheel bites into your palms, city lights streaking past. You don’t want to unpack Chaeyoung’s words—or why Seoyeon’s quiet gaze in the mirror unsettles you so much.

Then— A sound. Soft, barely there. But in the thick silence, it cuts through like a blade. A… moan? Your grip tightens. Did you imagine that?

"You interrupted us earlier," Chaeyoung murmurs, voice slow, teasing. "He’s still probably hard from before. Don’t you think you owe him a show?”

You keep your eyes forward. You should keep them forward.

Another noise—fainter, but unmistakable—followed by the rustle of fabric, a shift of weight on leather. Your stomach twists, unease coiling tight. What the hell’s going on back there?

Chaeyoung’s voice breaks through, playful but laced with command. “See, Seoyeon’s brilliant with her spells, but there’s something she’s terrible at.”

You could look. One glance in the mirror would settle it. But with Chaeyoung, looking’s a trap—you know better. Still, your mind spins, torn between shutting it out and the nagging pull to understand. Is this her game again? Or is Seoyeon—? No. You kill the thought fast.

A soft, pleading whimper escapes Seoyeon. “Chaeyoung, please—” she mumbles, voice fragile, but Chaeyoung barrels over it.

“She can’t say no,” she teases, mischief dripping from every word. “Or rather, she’ll do anything but say it.” Another moan—clearer now—punctuates her taunt, leaving no room for doubt. “Such a sweet unnie, always so eager to please… or maybe you just love being used like this?”

Curiosity and dread tug your gaze to the rearview. The dim light barely outlines them, but it’s enough: Seoyeon pressed against Chaeyoung, her body yielding to soft, relentless touches. Chaeyoung’s fingers weave through her hair while another hand traces slow, teasing lines under her skirt. Seoyeon’s trembling grip clings to Chaeyoung’s arm, her gasps spilling out—small, desperate sounds of surrender.

“Mr. Driver, eyes on the road,” Chaeyoung chides, her tone sharp with glee. You snap your focus forward, heat prickling your neck, but the image sticks—burned into your mind.

“Sounds like someone’s enjoying herself,” she murmurs, voice curling with delight. “Seoyeon, why don’t you tell him? Describe every little thing I’m doing to you.”

Seoyeon’s breath hitches, her fingers digging into Chaeyoung’s arm. “Chaeyoung, I—” she stammers, voice a whisper, fraying at the edges.

Chaeyoung hums, feigning consideration, but her hands don’t stop. “What? Want me to stop?” A deliberate pause. “When you’re already this wet?”

Silence—thick, heavy. Then, soft and broken: “No… please don’t… I’ll do it.”

“Good girl,” Chaeyoung purrs, satisfaction dripping from the words.

The air turns stifling, filled with Seoyeon’s shaky breaths and Chaeyoung’s low murmurs. You grip the wheel tighter, fighting the urge to look, to let their game pull you in. The city lights streak by, blurred and distant, drowned out by the pounding in your chest.

Seoyeon’s voice trembles, halting. “I… I feel Chaeyoung’s fingers… sliding under my skirt… touching me…” Each word wavers, forced out between gasps. “She’s tracing circles… slow, then faster… it’s—ah—it’s tingling everywhere…”

Chaeyoung’s eyes flick to you in the mirror, a brief, wicked glint, before she leans closer to Seoyeon. “That’s it,” she coaxes, voice a velvet tease. “Let him hear every sound. Show him how irresistible you are.”

Seoyeon swallows, her breaths short and ragged. “Her fingers… they’re higher now… brushing—oh god—brushing my panties… they’re soaked… it’s too much…” Her voice climbs, desperate, unraveling.

You can’t see it, but you don’t need to—the picture paints itself: Seoyeon squirming, flushed and needy, Chaeyoung’s fingers working her into a frenzy. You force your focus on the road, but it’s useless—the sounds, the heat, the tension—they claw at you.

“Getting excited, Seoyeon?” Chaeyoung whispers, lips grazing her ear. “Does my touch make you all fluttery inside?”

A strangled moan is her only answer, nails biting into Chaeyoung’s arm.

“I think he needs to know,” Chaeyoung murmurs, fingers teasing the damp fabric. “How much you’re loving this. Tell him how wet I’m making you.”

Seoyeon whimpers, her body squirming against the seat. “I… I’m soaking,” she confesses, voice trembling, barely holding together. “Chaeyoung’s fingers… they’re making me drip… my panties are drenched… I want—ah—I want her inside…” Her words break into a fractured moan as Chaeyoung’s fingers slip beneath the damp fabric, stroking her slick, eager folds.

Chaeyoung chuckles, low and dark, her touch unrelenting. “You hear that?” she murmurs, voice a taunting caress. “She’s begging for it.” Her fingers plunge deeper, a slick, rhythmic sound filling the car as she works Seoyeon open, drawing out sharper gasps.

Your grip on the wheel tightens, sweat beading on your brow. You shouldn’t look—you can’t look—but the pull is too strong. Your eyes flick to the rearview, catching them in fragments: Chaeyoung’s hand buried between Seoyeon’s thighs, her fingers curling inside with a slow, deliberate thrust. Seoyeon’s head tips back, lips parted, her chest heaving as soft, needy cries spill out.

“Chaeyoung… please…” Seoyeon’s voice is a broken plea, her hips rocking into the touch, chasing it. Chaeyoung leans closer, her lips brushing Seoyeon’s ear, whispering something too low to catch—but it makes Seoyeon shudder, her nails scraping the leather.

The car feels smaller, the air thick and stifling. Chaeyoung’s fingers move faster, a wet, obscene rhythm that syncs with Seoyeon’s escalating moans. “You’re so close, aren’t you?” Chaeyoung purrs, her free hand sliding up to grip Seoyeon’s waist, holding her steady. “Let him hear how good it feels.”

Seoyeon’s response is a high, desperate whine, her body arching off the seat. You can’t tear your eyes away—her flushed cheeks, the way her thighs tremble, the glistening sheen on Chaeyoung’s fingers as they pump in and out. Your breath catches, pulse hammering, the road blurring at the edges of your vision.

She’s unraveling—fast. Chaeyoung adds another finger, stretching her, and Seoyeon’s cry spikes, raw and unrestrained. “Yes—oh god—Chaeyoung—” Her voice cracks, teetering on the edge, and you’re staring now, fully caught, the wheel forgotten as her climax builds.

“Come on, baby,” Chaeyoung coaxes, voice thick with satisfaction, her thumb flicking over Seoyeon’s clit. “Let go for me—for him.”

Seoyeon’s body tenses, a taut bowstring ready to snap. Her gasps turn sharp, frantic, her hands clawing at Chaeyoung’s arm. You’re locked on her—her glazed eyes, her shuddering frame—watching the wave crest, so close you can almost feel it.

Then—a horn blares, loud and jarring.

Your heart lurches as the car swerves, tires skidding over the line. You jerk the wheel hard, yanking it back into your lane, adrenaline spiking as the world snaps back into focus. Shit—too close. Your eyes snap forward, chest heaving, the climax slipping past you in the chaos.

You miss it—the peak.

But you hear it: Seoyeon’s sharp, broken cry, a sound of pure release that cuts through the roar in your ears. It’s followed by a trembling gasp, then a soft, shuddering exhale as she collapses against the seat. Chaeyoung’s low hum of approval weaves through the aftermath, her fingers slowing, guiding Seoyeon down from the high.

You don’t dare look again. The road demands your focus, but the echoes linger—Seoyeon’s ragged breathing, the faint slick sound as Chaeyoung withdraws her hand. Your knuckles ache from gripping the wheel, your shirt clinging to your back with sweat.

“Look at this mess,” Chaeyoung murmurs, her voice smug, lazy, dripping with triumph. “You really enjoy him hearing how perverted you are, don’t you?” She shifts, and in your peripheral, you catch her wiping her fingers on Seoyeon’s skirt—casual, possessive, like marking her territory.

“You do realize this is Saerom’s car, right?” Chaeyoung adds, a teasing lilt in her tone.

Seoyeon’s too spent to reply, her breath still unsteady, a faint whimper slipping out as she slumps against the seat, boneless and dazed.

Chaeyoung chuckles, low and indulgent, leaning closer to Seoyeon. “Oh, don’t even try to play shy now. You loved every second of him listening—didn’t you, unnie?”

Seoyeon’s lips part, a weak protest forming, but it dies in her throat, replaced by a shaky exhale. Her hands twitch in her lap, like she’s grasping for control she doesn’t have.

“You don’t have to say it,” Chaeyoung continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though loud enough for you to hear. “It’s obvious. You get off on this—being use freely. Anyone can have you, anytime, anywhere, and you just melt for it.”

Your grip tightens on the wheel, the words sinking in. Free use? Your mind stumbles over it, but Chaeyoung doesn’t pause, her tone turning instructional, like she’s savoring the explanation.

“See, that’s her thing,” she says, glancing at you through the rearview with a smirk. “Seoyeon’s too sweet to admit it, but she thrives on being taken—however, whenever. No boundaries, no fuss. Just… available.” She runs a finger along Seoyeon’s thigh, drawing a faint shiver. “Why do you think she didn’t say no back there? She can’t. It’s wired into her.”

Seoyeon’s breath hitches, her head dipping lower, but she doesn’t contradict it. Her silence is louder than words—agreement by default, too overwhelmed to argue.

“Chaeyoung…” Seoyeon mumbles, voice barely audible, a plea or a surrender—you can’t tell.

“What?” Chaeyoung cuts in, grinning. “You’re not denying it, are you? Look at you—still trembling, skirt a mess, all because I decided to play with you in front of him. You didn’t stop me. You wanted it.”

Seoyeon’s fingers curl into the leather, her face flushed, but no rebuttal comes. She’s trapped—caught between exhaustion and the truth Chaeyoung’s laying bare.

The GPS chimes, a soft ping slicing through the charged air, signaling the final turn. The road stretches toward a towering mansion, its dark silhouette carving into the night sky, stark and commanding.

“Great, we’re here,” Chaeyoung says, stretching with a lazy roll of her shoulders, as if this were just another casual drive. “Park by the gate.”

You guide the car to a stop, tires crunching faintly against gravel, your hands still clamped around the wheel. Your mind’s a snarl—reeling from the sounds, the heat, the scene that burned itself into your skull from the rearview.

Chaeyoung slips out first, the door shutting with a crisp thud, her movements fluid, unbothered. You don’t follow. Not yet. Your fingers flex, uncertain, rooted to the seat.

Your gaze flicks to the mirror.

Seoyeon’s still there, slumped against the leather, her chest rising and falling in slow, unsteady breaths. Her skirt’s rucked up, thighs parted just enough to betray the aftermath—tremors still rippling through her, faint and fading. Her eyes are half-lidded, lost in a dazed fog.

You should say something. Move. Anything.

But before you can unstuck yourself, a light tap-tap raps against your window. Chaeyoung leans down, her smirk glinting in the dim light, sharp and knowing.

“Just leave her for now,” she says, voice thick with amusement, like she’s commenting on a spilled drink instead of a trembling wreck. “She’ll be fine.”

The way she says it—casual, dismissive—makes your fingers twitch against the wheel, a spark of something hot and unnamable flaring in your chest.

You exhale, sharp through your nose, and glance back at the mirror.

Seoyeon hasn’t moved. Her breaths are shallow, her body limp, a quiet shadow of the poised girl you’d glimpsed before.

You don’t respond. The silence settles, thick and unresolved, as Chaeyoung straightens and saunters toward the gate, leaving you with the echo of her words and Seoyeon’s heavy stillness in the backseat.

You shove the car door open, stepping out fast, gravel crunching under your boots as you close the distance. Before she reaches the gate, you grab her arm, pulling her to a stop. “What was that about?”

Chaeyoung turns, smirking like she expected this. “What, the show?” She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “Just giving you a front-row seat to Seoyeon’s little quirk. She’s fine—better than fine. She loves it.”

Your grip tightens slightly, jaw clenching. “Loves it? She could barely speak back there.”

“Exactly,” Chaeyoung says, unfazed, twisting her arm free with a casual shrug. “That’s the point. She doesn’t fight it—never will. Free use isn’t just her kink; it’s her nature. You could take her right now, and she’d let you. Hell, she’d probably thank you.”

You stare, the words sinking in, a mix of unease and heat stirring in your chest. “And you’re just… okay with that?”

She laughs, sharp and low. “Okay? Sweetie, I’m telling you to use it. She’s your anchor duty too, you know—keeping us steady means keeping her satisfied. Plus…” Her smirk widens, eyes flicking over you. “Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy hearing her fall apart. Take advantage of it. For her. For you.”

You don’t answer, the weight of her suggestion pressing down, tempting and unsettling all at once. Chaeyoung steps back, grinning, then turns toward the gate, leaving you standing there—caught between her words and the quiet, trembling figure still in the car.

The gates slide open with a low hum, machinery purring softly into the still night. Beyond them, the mansion rises—a sleek, modern sculpture carved against the dark. Sharp angles and clean lines meld glass and concrete into something precise, deliberate. Warm light pours from vast windows, pooling onto the manicured garden and the smooth stone walkway that stretches toward the entrance.

It’s grand but restrained—wealth distilled into control, not extravagance. Every detail feels intentional, a quiet flex of power.

Your shoes crunch faintly on the path as you step forward, the sound crisp in the silence. Chaeyoung strides ahead, unbothered, stretching her arms overhead with a fluid, careless grace.

You glance back—just once—at the car, where Seoyeon lingers. Chaeyoung catches it, peering over her shoulder, her smirk deepening as she reads your pause.

“Relax,” she says, voice smooth, gliding over the tension like silk. “She’ll come in when she’s ready.”

The front doors part before you reach them—automated, or maybe someone’s watching. A rush of cool air greets you, crisp and faintly floral, laced with the scent of something expensive and understated.

You step inside, crossing the threshold into their world. “Might as well show you around,” Chaeyoung says, glancing back with a faint smirk. “Wouldn’t want you lost on your first night.”

The interior gleams—sharp, modern, all polished surfaces and muted tones. Chaeyoung takes the lead, her steps echoing faintly in the cavernous foyer as she gestures with a lazy flick of her wrist.

“We’re barely here,” she says, her tone laced with casual confidence. “Busy as hell—shoots, meetings, all that chaos. The place stays empty most of the time.” She shoots you a sidelong glance, smirk tugging at her lips. “Just us. No staff, no stragglers, no visitors. Keeps it clean—literally and figuratively.”

You follow, shoes tapping against hardwood, the silence amplifying each sound. She veers left toward a small hallway—her lobby. “This is me, Hayoung, and Jiwon,” she says, pointing to three doors clustered together, a sleek bathroom tucked at the end. “Our little corner. Hayoung’s … very territorial—don’t touch her stuff unless you want a lecture. Jiwon’s chill, but she’s hardly around.”

She doesn’t linger, heading up a cold, modern staircase—glass steps, steel railing. You climb behind her, the house’s quiet pressing in. At the top, a long hallway stretches out, doors like sentinels.

“Second floor,” she announces. “This is where you’ll be.” She nods toward a lobby with five rooms—Saerom, Jisun, Seoyeon, Nagyung, and yours—flanked by three bathrooms. “Seoyeon’s is closest to you—she likes her quiet.” She nudges a door open with her hip. “Here’s yours.”

You peer in—dark wood floors, a wide bed with crisp sheets, a desk angled toward a towering window framing the garden. Sparse, sharp-edged, waiting to be claimed.

“Not bad, huh?” Chaeyoung leans against the frame, watching you take it in. “Beats that cramped dorm by a mile.”

You nod faintly, the reality of moving in sinking deeper. She pushes off, strolling down the hall. “Saerom’s got the big office up here—barely uses it unless she’s playing boss. Jisun is a neat freak, don’t let her see any of your mess, Nagyung’s… Nagyung.”

She leads you back downstairs, drifting toward the kitchen—a pristine space with gleaming appliances and an untouched island. “Jisun rules this when she’s here,” she says lazily. “Hates us touching her stuff—knife-throwing threats included.” She pauses by a wall of windows overlooking the garden, night pressing dark against the glass.

The tour stretches—past a living area with a plush sectional and stark art, a sleek bar counter, a lounge with low couches and a massive TV, a small gym with mirrored walls, a tucked-away balcony catching the city’s distant glow. “We don’t use half this stuff,” she admits, shrugging. “Too busy. Keeps it nice for crashing, though.”

She veers toward another small hallway on the first floor, two rooms facing a glass wall to the garden. “Gyuri and Jiheon’s lobby,” she says, pointing. “Gyuri’s closer, Jiheon’s farther.”

You stop, staring at Jiheon’s door. A storm churns in your chest—anger, disappointment, longing, hate, forgiveness, disgust, a twisted ache you can’t name. It’s heavy, bitter, and you don’t know what to do with it.

Chaeyoung leans close, her whisper brushing your ear, breaking the spiral. “Wanna knock?”

“No.”

She smirks faintly but doesn’t push, guiding you back toward the second floor. “Let’s check on our little star—give her time to pull herself together.” Her voice dips with that familiar tease.

When you first saw Seoyeon’s room—just down from yours—it felt normal. Quiet, orderly, a haven of books and lavender. But now, as you return, your steps drag, each one heavier than the last, like the air’s thickened, resisting you. Chaeyoung doesn’t knock—just eases the door open and steps inside, claiming the space.

Seoyeon’s there, perched on her bed, changed into an oversized long-sleeved shirt, the hem brushing her thighs. Her hair’s loose, faintly tousled, a soft flush still on her cheeks. She glances up as you enter, eyes widening briefly before dropping to her lap, fingers twisting into her cuffs.

You pause, the shift in the room undeniable—something sluggish, unseen, pressing down. But Chaeyoung just smirks, oblivious or unconcerned, and you let it pass, chalking it up to the day’s weight.

Seoyeon’s there, sitting on the edge of her bed. She’s changed—swapped the creased skirt for an oversized long-sleeved shirt that drowns her frame, the hem brushing her thighs. Her hair’s loose, still slightly tousled, and the flush on her cheeks has faded to a soft glow. She glances up as you enter, eyes widening for a split second before dropping to her lap, fingers fidgeting with the shirt’s cuffs.

Chaeyoung crosses her arms, smirking. “Look at you, all cozy now. Took you long enough.”

Seoyeon mumbles something under her breath, too quiet to catch, her posture stiff but not defiant. The room fits her—bookshelves packed tight, a cluttered desk with notebooks and pens, a faint lavender scent softening the air. It’s a refuge, even if she doesn’t look entirely at ease in it now.

Chaeyoung tilts her head toward you. “Told you she’d be fine. Didn’t even need a nudge to freshen up.”

You don’t reply, the air between you three thick with unspoken currents—Chaeyoung’s easy control, Seoyeon’s fragile calm, and your own unsettled place in this strange, polished world.

Chaeyoung glances at the sleek clock on Seoyeon’s wall, then back at you, a glint sparking in her eyes. “Still got a couple hours ‘til dinner. Plenty of time for you two to get started.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Started on what?”

“Healing that mess in your head,” she says, smirking as she nods toward Seoyeon. “She’s your little mind-fixer, remember? Might as well dive in now.”

Something nags at the back of your mind. A small, quiet wrongness.

Your gaze flickers to the clock.

The sleek, minimalist hands tick forward, smooth and unhurried. But something feels off. It takes a second to register—the movement isn’t quite… right. The rhythm is steady, but it doesn’t match the weight of the moment, doesn’t line up with the pulse in your veins, the breaths in your lungs.

Seoyeon shifts on the bed, smoothing the oversized long-sleeved shirt over her thighs, her composure steadier now—a stark contrast to the trembling wreck in the car. She doesn’t protest, just nods faintly.

You glance at the time again.

Something feels… off.

The second hand moves, but sluggishly, dragging itself forward in a way that doesn’t match the quiet tension in the room. The tick, usually sharp and precise, stretches—each second stretching just a little longer than it should.

The time is wrong. Not in numbers, but in weight.

Or maybe not. Maybe you’re imagining it. Maybe your mind is more broken than you thought.

“Fine,” you mutter, the weight of it settling in. You’re here, in their world—might as well see what this ‘healing’ actually means.

Chaeyoung steps back, leaning against the doorframe, her smirk widening as she eyes you both. “Perfect. A cozy little session. Just don’t get too distracted, hmm?” She tilts her head toward Seoyeon, voice dipping low and teasing. “Our sweet unnie’s still got that free-use itch, you know. Might be hard to focus when she’s so… available.”

Seoyeon’s cheeks flush faintly, but she doesn’t flinch this time. Her gaze lifts, meeting Chaeyoung’s with a quiet steadiness. “If he needs my help,” she says, voice soft but deliberate, “I’m here.” It’s passive, almost detached—yet the way her eyes flicker to you for a split second carries an anticipating leer, unspoken but undeniable.

Chaeyoung’s grin sharpens, delighted. “See? Always so willing.” She lets out a bright, cutting laugh, pushing off the frame. “You two have fun—I’ll leave you to it.”

With that, she slips out, the door clicking shut behind her, her laughter echoing faintly down the hall.

You’re left alone with Seoyeon, the air in her room thickening—lavender and paper mingling with the weight of her words. She sits there, composed but not entirely closed off, watching you with a quiet intensity that makes your pulse tick faster.

“So,” you say, voice rougher than intended, breaking the quiet. “How does this… healing thing work?”

Seoyeon pats the space beside her, a silent invitation. You don’t move right away, and she shifts, the oversized sleeve slipping past her wrist as she gestures again—patient, expectant, a quiet pull in her motion.

“Come here,” she says, soft but certain. “Lay down.”

You hesitate.

She doesn’t repeat herself, just waits, her gaze steady, unwavering. There’s no push, no command—just a calm assurance, like she knows you’ll come to her.

And somehow, you do.

You ease onto the bed, head settling into the pillow she nudges against her lap. The fabric of her shirt drapes over you, soft and warm, brushing your skin like a whispered promise. Her heat radiates through, steadying you in a way that catches you off guard.

Then she moves.

Her fingertips graze your temple, light as a feather, tracing slow, wandering patterns. Each touch is deliberate, tender—like she’s unraveling you, thread by thread, feeling the knots of tension still coiled beneath your surface.

Your eyes lift to hers.

Her gaze catches you, and something shifts. At first, her eyes are shadowed pools—deep, unreadable—but then they bloom. Color seeps away, melting into a grey that’s alive, liquid silver threaded with dusk, like the tender hush of twilight spilling over a still lake. It’s not stark or cold; it’s a soft veil, a mist kissed by starlight, drawing you into its quiet embrace. Her eyes shimmer with a gentle depth, as if they hold the weight of a thousand unspoken dreams, tender and infinite.

The air thickens—light, hazy, blurring the edges of the world until it’s just you and her in this fragile, suspended moment.

A grey fog unfurls at the corners of your vision, curling like tendrils of smoke. You don’t flinch.

Seoyeon doesn’t blink. “It’s okay,” she murmurs, her fingers still dancing, still grounding. “Just breathe.”

You do.

The pressure against your ribs softens—just a fraction.

“Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Her voice weaves through the haze, a guiding thread—gentle, not pressing, simply offering a space for you to fill.

You swallow. “Too much.”

She hums, a low, knowing sound that resonates in your chest. “Then start small.”

Her fingers press faintly, a quiet nudge, her warmth sinking deeper—sliding into fractures you didn’t know you’d left open.

Your lips part before you mean them to.

And slowly, as the grey haze wraps tighter, pulling you into its tender depths, the words begin to spill out.

You wake to silence.

The room’s dimmer now—not dark, but the warm gold of before has dulled into something softer, hazier, less defined. Your head rests in Seoyeon’s lap, her hand lying still against your hair, a faint warmth lingering in her touch.

You blink, sluggish, piecing together the gap. How long were you out? Something’s… off. Not wrong—just unmoored. Like waking from a dream where the edges don’t align, the fragments slipping through your fingers.

Your eyes drift to the clock on the wall, its sleek hands stark against the muted backdrop. You frown.

The seconds tick—or don’t. The motion’s too slow, a crawl that drags against the rhythm of time, you know. Did it move at all? Or is your mind lagging, stretching moments into something they’re not?

You must’ve been under longer than it felt. That’s it—right?

Your body’s heavy, limbs thick and reluctant, as if they’re wading through molasses. A fog clings to you—not exhaustion, not the ache of sleeplessness, but something stranger, weightless yet suffocating. A spell’s aftereffect, you tell yourself. Just the residue of whatever she did to pull you under, clouding your edges.

Seoyeon shifts beneath you, a faint rustle breaking the stillness. “You’re awake,” she whispers, voice so soft it barely stirs the air.

You swallow, throat dry. “Yeah.”

She studies you, her gaze searching—probing—for something you can’t name. Her fingers lift, returning to your temple, pressing lightly, delicately, like she’s testing a pulse beneath your skin.

You should ask. Should question the sluggish air, the way time feels like it’s pooling instead of flowing. But the words stick, caught in the haze.

Her head tilts, and those eyes—still a quiet, misted grey, like twilight caught in glass—hold you. They shimmer faintly, a silvered depth that seems to stretch too far, too still. “How do you feel?” she asks, voice threading through the fog, gentle but heavy with something unspoken.

You hesitate.

The question lingers, and you realize the room feels softer—too soft. The light bends at odd angles, the shadows too lazy to sharpen. Your thoughts drift, sluggish, curling inward like smoke you can’t grasp. It’s the spell, you think—it has to be. The aftermath of her magic left you dazed and untethered.

But beneath that reasoning, something prickles—a flicker of doubt, a whisper that this isn’t just residue. That the world itself is slowing, sinking, and she’s at the center of it.

You don’t voice it. Can’t.

You shift, pushing yourself upright. The weight lingers, but the room snaps into focus—too quick, too vivid, like a reel jerked back into alignment. For a moment, the air still hums thick, heavy with the promise of something unravelling—but then it steadies, settling into a fragile normalcy.

Seoyeon’s hand hovers near you, hesitating before pulling back. The grey in her eyes lightens, the quiet storm fading into something softer, more contained.

“Ri—right, it’s the first treatment,” she says, voice gentler, a little unsteady. “That was the first time… I’m sorry I couldn’t heal you fully.”

You shake your head, the spell’s residue still fogging your edges. “No, it’s okay. I knew it wouldn’t be instant. But I feel better now.”

And for a fleeting second, you believe it.

Until it strikes.

A flash—too fast, too brutal. Jiheon’s face, warped and sharp, tears streaking her cheeks. Not a memory—a violation, shoved into your skull with searing force. Pain blooms, white-hot, and you clutch your head, breath catching as it digs deeper.

Seoyeon’s eyes widen, concern flashing as she leans in. “Are you okay?” Her fingers graze your wrist, steady and warm. “Tell me—ask if you need anything.”

You force a sharp exhale, the image of Jiheon flickering, unstable, like a signal breaking up. “Actually, there’s something I need your help with.”

She freezes. Then—“Oh—oh…” Her voice lifts, a spark igniting in her tone. Her hand slides from your wrist to your thigh, fingers curling tight, gripping with sudden, eager intent. Her other hand follows, rubbing slow, firm circles higher up your leg, her touch bold and warm through the fabric. Her lips part, breath quickening, eyes glinting with something hungry as they dart to your mouth. “Then… tell me what you need.”

The air charges, her excitement pulsing through her grip, her body shifting closer—too close—her oversized shirt brushing your arm.

You blink, the misunderstanding hitting you late, electric and awkward. “I keep hearing ‘The Mist.’ What is it?”

Her hands stop dead.

“What…?” The word hangs, her eyes widening as the spark snuffs out. Color floods her cheeks, a flush of mortification chasing away the eagerness. She pulls back fast, hands retreating to her lap, pressing her lips tight like she could swallow the moment whole.

“The—The Mist…” she echoes, voice leveling as she forces herself steady.

A breath—shaky, then firm. She exhales, recalibrating, the blush still lingering as she meets your gaze again.

“Think of it as a literal mist or fog,” she begins, voice smoothing into something measured, deliberate. She glances toward the window, eyes tracing the faint glow of the outside lamps before flicking back to you. “Let’s say this morning, Gyuri blew up your door. Shook the entire building. A full-force explosion—undeniably real.”

Her fingers twitch against the fabric of her oversized sleeve. “But what if that wasn’t what really happened?”

Your brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“You saw it with your own eyes, right? But to outsiders? To anyone not meant to understand?” She tilts her head. “The Mist works on their perception. To them, it wouldn’t have been a single woman causing destruction. It would’ve looked like a gas leak. A structural fault. Something explainable—because that’s easier. That’s normal.”

The weight of her words sinks in, slow and unsettling.

“Or…” she hesitates, then leans in slightly. “Have you ever walked into a room and forgotten why you were there? Sworn something was different, but you couldn’t place what?”

She taps a finger against her temple. “That’s The Mist, too. It doesn’t erase things, not exactly—it redirects your thoughts. A missing object, a changed detail, a person who was never supposed to exist…”

Your mind flashes back. “That night at the café—when we first met. It felt wrong going back. Like something had shifted.” Your voice is careful. “Did you use The Mist then?”

She nods. “The Mist doesn’t just hide things. It bends perception, guides thoughts. It makes the impossible seem ordinary, the unnatural seem mundane.”

Her gaze holds yours, steady and unreadable. “It doesn’t just mask the truth.” A pause, the air thick between you. “It replaces it.”

"So you created The Mist?"

Seoyeon shakes her head. "No. It’s always been there—thin, spread out, almost insignificant. What we do is draw from it, shape it, use it as a tool. It helps us hide, keeps us at a distance… while letting us live normally."

Before you can respond, the door swings open.

Chaeyoung steps inside, scanning the room—first you, then Seoyeon. Her wound by her cheek, marks on her neck now gone, as if it never happened. Something flickers across her face, a mix of surprise and… disappointment?

"I leave you two alone, and you did nothing?" she asks, voice lilting with amusement, but her gaze isn’t on you. It’s fixed on Seoyeon.

A beat of silence.

"I hope you know what you’re doing," she murmurs, unreadable.

Then, without waiting for a reply, she turns on her heel. "Come on. Let’s eat."

The dining room hums with a lived-in warmth—familiarity etched into the clink of plates and the quiet rhythm of routine. Gyuri and Hayoung move with seamless precision, setting bowls and dishes across the table, a dance they’ve done countless times. You follow Seoyeon and Chaeyoung to your seats, easing into the house’s unspoken flow.

Gyuri keeps her focus on the task, her movements precise, not sparing you a glance. Hayoung’s eyes snag yours—sharp, fleeting—and without thinking, you start, “I’m—”

“I know who you are,” she snaps, voice cutting like a blade, venom simmering beneath. Her hand hovers over a glass, fingers tightening for a split second before she turns away, dismissing you.

You pause, then press on, undeterred. “—a big fan of yours.”

The words land softer, earnest, and Hayoung freezes mid-motion. Her head snaps back to you, eyes widening just enough to betray her surprise. The sharpness in her stance falters—her grip on the glass loosens, and a faint flush creeps up her neck. She blinks, caught off guard, the bite in her fading as something shy flickers across her face.

She doesn’t respond right away, her lips parting then pressing shut, like she’s unsure what to do with the compliment. The hostility doesn’t vanish entirely, but it’s tempered now, her gaze darting away as she fumbles with the glass, suddenly less certain.

You settle in, the air prickling faintly as the first dish remains untouched. “What about the others?” you ask, glancing around.

Chaeyoung, already pouring herself a drink, answers with a lazy drawl. “Saerom and Jiwon are tied up with work—won’t be back tonight. Jisun’s with Jiheon, eating in her room.”

Jiheon. The name drops like a stone in your chest, dragging up jagged, counterfeit memories—her tears, her touch, a love that never was. Your head throbs, the falseness of it clawing at you, and you force a nod, swallowing the ache.

Something’s missing, though. A gap in the tally nags at you—until the chair at the table’s far end scrapes lightly against the floor.

Nagyung sits.

No one reacts.

It’s not deliberate—no one looks her way, no one adjusts to include her. It’s as if she’d been there all along, or never there at all. Gyuri keeps arranging dishes, Hayoung pours water with a taut grip, Chaeyoung sips her drink. Seoyeon doesn’t flinch.

But you see her.

“Hey.”

The word lands like a glass shattering on tile.

Gyuri freezes mid-reach, her arm suspended. Hayoung’s glass clinks hard against the table, her jaw tightening as her eyes flick to you, narrow and edged with something bitter. Chaeyoung leans forward, smirk blooming with intrigue. Seoyeon’s gaze widens, a quiet shock rippling through her composure.

Nagyung tilts her head—just a fraction—brown eyes locking onto yours, flat and unreadable, like a still pond undisturbed by wind.

“What?” You glance around, unease prickling. “Did I say something weird?”

Chaeyoung’s chuckle cuts the silence, her fingers tapping a slow, amused beat on the table. “Not weird. Just… unexpected.”

Hayoung exhales sharply through her nose, a sound laced with irritation. “We’re not used to someone noticing her first,” she says, her tone cold, barbed. Her gaze lingers on you, heavy with something unspoken, festering under the surface.

Your brows knit. “Noticing—?”

Then it clicks.

The vague itch when you’d asked about the others, the way her entrance slipped past everyone like a shadow dissolving into dusk. She’s not just quiet—she’s apathy, a presence that erases itself, deliberately unseen.

And you broke that.

A faint spark—curiosity, perhaps—flickers in Nagyung’s eyes before she speaks, her voice smooth, detached, like it’s drifting from somewhere far off. “You see me.”

Not a question. A quiet acknowledgment, testing the air.

You hold her stare. “Yeah.”

The silence stretches, too long, too still. Then, without a ripple of reaction, Nagyung picks up her chopsticks and starts eating, as if the exchange never happened.

The clink of chopsticks against porcelain punctuates the quiet after Chaeyoung’s offhand comment.

“Oh right, we haven’t told Jiheon you’ll be living here from now on.”

Your chopsticks freeze above your plate, mid-reach.

“I—”

You don’t get further—if you even meant to argue—because Hayoung chokes across the table. A harsh, ragged cough erupts, her hand fumbling for water. The sound jars the room, but no one flinches. No one moves to help. It’s as if they’re used to her unraveling like this.

You exhale, leaning back, letting your chopsticks settle. “I don’t care.”

You do. Too much.

Hayoung wipes her mouth with a napkin, her gaze snapping to you—razor-sharp, venom simmering. “Of course you don’t.”

The hostility isn’t veiled anymore—it’s a blade, honed and pointed.

You don’t bite back. There’s no point.

But you notice.

Each time your chopsticks hover toward a dish—steamed greens, grilled fish, even the plain rice—Hayoung’s move first. Her motions are swift, precise, cutting you off before you can touch anything. Once might be chance. Twice, impatience. By the third, fourth, it’s a game—a quiet, spiteful claim over every bite, every inch of space you try to take.

You let her have it.

The tension coils tighter, a bowstring pulled taut, thrumming between you. It’s suffocating, unspoken—until Gyuri’s voice slices through.

“I’m leaving first.”

You turn, really seeing her for the first time tonight.

Her eyes catch yours, and for a brief, electric moment, she holds the stare. There’s something there—raw, flickering beneath the polished mask she wears so effortlessly. A storm brews behind her calm, a heat she’s wrestling to bury. Wrath, barely leashed, glints in the tightness of her jaw, the way her fingers flex against the table’s edge.

Then she forces a smile.

It’s thin, brittle—never touching her eyes.

And just like that, she’s gone, chair scraping faintly as she slips away, leaving the air heavier than before.

Dinner winds down, the clatter of dishes fading into a quiet hum. The table’s a battlefield of half-empty bowls and scattered chopsticks, the tension from earlier simmering beneath the surface. You push your chair back, the scrape soft against the hardwood, as the others begin to drift away.

Seoyeon rises without a word, her oversized shirt swaying as she heads straight for her room, steps muted and purposeful. Nagyung’s chair sits empty—you didn’t catch when she left, her absence slipping past like a shadow dissolving into the dark. Chaeyoung lingers, smirking faintly as she watches you, already poised to follow.

Hayoung stays behind, stacking plates with sharp, deliberate movements. Her jaw’s tight, her earlier hostility still clinging to her like a second skin. You hesitate, then step toward her, voice low. “Need a hand?”

She freezes, a bowl half-lifted, her eyes snapping to you—wide, caught off guard. The sharpness in her gaze falters, softening just a fraction, as if your offer punched a hole through her armor. “What?” Her tone’s still edged, but there’s a crack in it—surprise, maybe doubt.

“I can help clean up,” you say, reaching for a stack of dishes. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

For a moment, she doesn’t move, just stares, her grip on the bowl tightening then loosening. The hostility doesn’t vanish, but it dulls—her shoulders easing, her lips pressing into a thin line instead of a scowl. “Fine,” she mutters, turning back to the table, but there’s less bite in it now. A flicker of something—grudging respect, maybe—hints at her guard slipping, your thoughtfulness cutting through her resentment.

You work in silence, clearing plates, brushing past her as she rinses. She doesn’t snap again, doesn’t block you out. It’s not peace, but it’s a truce, fragile and unspoken.

When the last dish is stacked, you turn to leave—and Chaeyoung’s right there, leaning by the stairs , arms crossed, grinning like she’s been waiting. “Aw, look at you, playing nice,” she teases, voice lilting as she falls into step beside you.

You don’t reply, heading for your room, but she follows, undeterred, her presence a persistent hum at your side. Nagyung’s gone—slipped away sometime between bites, unnoticed again—and Seoyeon’s door is already shut when you pass it.

Chaeyoung trails you into your room, flopping onto the bed without invitation, stretching out with a lazy smirk. “So, hero of the night—how’s it feel to crack Hayoung’s shell a little?”

You shrug, the day’s weight sinking into your bones, but her eyes gleam—teasing, daring you to snap back. She’s not going anywhere soon.

You sink onto the unfamiliar bed beside her, the mattress yielding softly beneath you. Turning to Chaeyoung, you let the question drop.

“Hey. What was up with Gyuri earlier?”

She exhales, shifting to lean on one elbow, fingers slipping into your hair, twirling idly. “It’s expected.” Her tone’s light, but there’s a knowing edge lurking underneath.

“Expected?”

“No one told you, huh?” She tilts her head, eyes glinting as her fingers keep playing. “Using our powers nudges us closer to the edge. The more control slips, the less we fight it—a spiral. Gyuri trashing your dorm? That cost her. She’s wrestling it down now.”

You catch her wrist, pulling her hand away. “Then why keep using them?”

She slides her fingers right back, undeterred, smirking faintly. “If you had our gifts, could you really hold back?”

“If it risks my mind, yeah.”

“It’s not madness, exactly.” She tilts her head, considering. “Think of it like drinking. One glass—you’re fine. Two—you feel it, but you’re still sharp. Keep going, and suddenly you’re slurring, drunk on power. Literal power.” She pauses, voice dipping lower. "But we have to. Our powers help us cope with responsibility, make life manageable. So we focus as much as we can on controlling our emotions… ideally.”

“Like The Mist?”

She nods, a flicker of approval in her gaze. “Yeah. Seoyeon told you?” Then, after a beat, “It’s not usually that taxing, though.”

You wait. She’s not done.

“The bigger the cover-up, the more we lean on it, the worse the strain gets. And if someone breaks through?” Her exhale’s sharp, almost a scoff. “Keeping it steady turns into a fight.” She shifts, sitting up straighter, her fingers stilling briefly. “That night at the café, when you cut through The Mist? Seoyeon was holding it. She called it practice—said she’d make sure it never happened again. Since then, she’s been the one volunteering to manage it.”

Her voice drops, tinged with something rare—concern, maybe. “Your seclusion. The dorm explosion. She was probably weaving it together right up until this afternoon. And now?”

Her hand pauses, resting against your scalp, her eyes locking onto yours.

“Now she’s the one piecing your head back together.”

You’re lost in the thought, the weight of it pulling you under—so much so that you don’t notice how close Chaeyoung’s gotten. Her leg’s tangled with yours, her breath warm against your ear, her palm pressing firm on your chest, anchoring you there.

“You’ve yet to explain why you followed me here,” you say, voice low, catching up to her proximity.

“I think you already know why,” she murmurs, her lips brushing your ear, a smirk curling through her words.

“Really, now?” You shift slightly, exhaustion dragging at you. “Chaeyoung, I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

“Is that a no?” Her finger traces a slow, deliberate dance across your chest, then dips lower, her hand sliding to your pants, rubbing your crotch with a teasing pressure that sends a jolt through you.

Her touch lingers, bold and unyielding, her breath steady against your skin as she waits—daring you to push back or give in.

“You really need to stop pretending you don’t love this,” she murmurs, leaning close, her whisper a warm tease in your ear. “I’ll be gentle. Just lie back for me—I’ll make it quick.”

You shift, dragging yourself to the bed’s center, head sinking into the pillow. Chaeyoung stays glued to your side, her leg still brushing yours, her presence inescapable.

“Were you disappointed we got interrupted earlier?”

Before you can answer, she closes the gap, her lips catching yours in a soft, deliberate kiss. She pulls back just enough to flash a smile—teasing, knowing.

“Nothing wild,” she promises, voice low and sultry. “Just one slow fuck…” Her hand moves deftly, unbuckling your belt with a flick, your cock springing free as she grips it, stroking gently, her touch firm but unhurried.

She chuckles, a soft, wicked sound, watching you squirm under her. Leaning in, she pecks your lips—a tease—then lingers, her eyes flicking over your face, drinking in every twitch of pleasure. Her next kiss dives deeper, her tongue slipping past your lips, tangling with yours in a slow, hungry dance.

She tries to pull away, but you’re caught, chasing her lips, entranced, until air runs thin and you both break, breathless.

Her smile doesn’t falter. “Stay,” she commands, voice firm, playful.

She eases back, turning it into a show. Her top peels off slow, revealing smooth skin, then her bra drops, baring her chest. Her pants follow, sliding down her thighs, and when her panties come into view, the damp fabric clings, a dark spot betraying her arousal. She tugs them off, and a glistening thread stretches, refusing to snap, connecting her to the discarded cloth.

“Fuck, Chaeyoung, you’re already wet?”

“Just for you,” she purrs, her eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and hunger. “Always.”

Chaeyoung shifts, climbing atop you with a fluid grace, her hips hovering just above yours. She straddles you, knees pressing into the mattress on either side, caging your body between her legs. Her heat radiates, close but not yet touching, a tantalizing promise hanging in the air. “I can’t wait,” she breathes, voice low, edged with need.

She lowers herself slowly, deliberately, her slick folds brushing against your length. The first contact is electric—warm, wet, a soft glide that coats you in her arousal. She starts to grind, hips rolling with a lazy rhythm, her wetness spreading over you, slick and hot, marking you with every subtle shift. Her breath hitches faintly, a sound that betrays her own want despite the control she wields.

Each motion teases you further, her folds sliding along your cock, dragging from base to tip in a slow, torturous dance. She moves too far sometimes—deliberately or not—and your tip presses against her entrance, nudging just at the edge of her hole. It’s fleeting, a tease of pressure, her warmth pulsing there, inviting but never quite yielding. She pulls back each time, smirking as your hips twitch instinctively, chasing her.

“Fuck,” you mutter, voice rough, the sensation overwhelming—her slickness, the friction, the nearness of sinking into her.

She chuckles, soft and wicked, leaning forward to brace her hands on your chest, her hair spilling over her shoulders to frame her face. “Patience,” she whispers, though her own breath trembles, betraying the effort it takes to hold back. Her hips tilt, adjusting the angle, and the pressure intensifies—your tip catches again, slipping just past her entrance, enough to feel her clench, tight and eager, before she retreats once more.

Her wetness pools, a glossy sheen coating you both now, strands of it stretching between you with each grind, glistening in the dim light. She rocks harder, just a fraction, letting your length slide through her folds, her clit brushing against you with every pass. A low moan slips from her lips, unbidden, and her eyes flutter, but that smirk stays—teasing, daring you to take more.

“You feel that?” she murmurs, voice husky, grinding slower now, savoring it. “That’s all for you.” Her hips circle, dragging you through her heat, your tip nudging her hole again—closer this time, lingering longer, her body trembling as she fights the urge to give in fully.

Your hands grip her thighs, fingers digging into her skin, torn between pulling her down and letting her play this out. The tension’s a live wire, snapping between you, her control fraying at the edges as her own need seeps through.

Her hips circle, dragging you through her slick heat, your tip brushing her entrance again—closer, lingering, her body quivering as she teases the edge of giving in. Your hands tighten on her thighs, fingers sinking into her flesh, caught between restraint and the urge to pull her down.

Chaeyoung catches it—the tension in your grip, the way your breath hitches—and her smirk widens, eyes glinting with wicked delight. “Oh, you’re desperate for it, aren’t you?” she taunts, voice a low purr as she slows her grind even more, torturing you with the barest contact. She shifts, letting your tip press harder against her hole—just enough to feel her tighten around it, a fleeting promise—before lifting away again.

“Chaeyoung—” Your voice cracks, rough with need, the word half a plea, half a growl.

She laughs, soft and cruel, leaning forward until her lips hover near yours, her hair tickling your face. “What? Too much for you?” Her hips tilt, and your cock slides through her folds again, coated anew in her dripping arousal. She rocks once, twice, letting your tip dip just inside—warm, tight, a maddening taste of what’s coming—then pulls back with a sly hum. “Thought you were tired,” she mocks, echoing your earlier protest, her fingers trailing up your chest to pin you with her gaze.

You groan, head sinking deeper into the pillow, hips twitching up instinctively. “Fuck, Chaeyoung, just—”

“Just what?” she cuts in, grinning as she straightens, hovering above you again. Her wetness glistens, strands of it clinging to your length, and she drags her nails lightly down your stomach, watching you squirm. “Say it. Tell me how bad you want it.”

You grit your teeth, the frustration boiling over, but her eyes dare you—playful, unrelenting. “I want you,” you mutter, voice strained, giving her the win.

Her smile turns triumphant, and she finally relents. “Good boy,” she purrs, shifting her hips with agonizing slowness. She aligns you, your tip pressing fully against her entrance now, and pauses—drawing it out one last time, letting you feel her heat, her pulse—before sinking down.

The first inch is torture—tight, wet, her walls gripping you as she takes you in, slow and deliberate. She gasps softly, a rare crack in her control, but keeps going, lowering herself until you’re buried deep, her hips flush against yours. Her warmth envelopes you, pulsing, overwhelming, and she stills there, savoring it, letting you feel every shudder of her body adjusting to you.

“Fuck,” she breathes, a quiet, unguarded sound, her head tilting back as she settles. Her hands brace on your chest, nails digging in just enough to sting, and that smirk creeps back.

Chaeyoung’s hips settle against yours, her warmth gripping you tight, a pulse of heat that steals your breath. She lingers there, savoring the fullness, her nails biting into your chest as she flashes that triumphant smirk. “Told you I’d be gentle,” she murmurs, voice husky with a teasing edge.

Then she moves.

Her first roll is slow, deliberate—a long, languid grind that drags her walls along your length, coating you further in her slick heat. You groan, hands sliding up her thighs to grip her hips, but she swats them away with a playful tsk. “Nuh-uh,” she chides, pinning your wrists above your head. “Let me play.”

She picks up the pace, hips snapping faster, the rhythm sharp and relentless. Her breaths turn shallow, punctuated by soft moans as she rides you, her wetness soaking you with every thrust. The bed creaks faintly beneath her, her control absolute—until she shifts.

She slows abruptly, leaning down, her lips brushing yours in a warm, tender kiss. It’s soft at first, a contrast to the fire she’d stoked, her tongue slipping in to dance with yours, lazy and deep. “You feel so good,” she whispers against your mouth, her tone shedding its tease for something sweeter, her hands loosening on your wrists to cradle your face.

Before you can sink into it, she pulls back, sitting upright again. Her pace ramps up—harder, faster, her hips slamming down with a wet smack that fills the room. She tosses her head back, a low groan spilling out as she chases the edge, her breasts bouncing with each thrust. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” she pants, the affection threading through her voice now, raw and unguarded.

Your hands find her waist again—this time she lets them stay, her own fingers digging into your shoulders for leverage. The heat builds, her movements growing erratic, her walls clenching tighter around you. She leans down once more, kissing you fiercely, all warmth and want, her lips trembling against yours. “Stay with me,” she breathes, a soft plea wrapped in adoration, her teasing gone, replaced by something deeper.

Her rhythm stutters, hips grinding slower now, deeper, as she presses herself flush against you. Each roll is deliberate, drawing out the friction, her moans softening into whimpers. She kisses you again—gentle, lingering—her tongue tracing yours as her body tenses. “I’m yours,” she murmurs, voice breaking with affection, her breath hitching.

Then it hits.

Her hips falter, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat as her climax crashes through her. Her walls pulse hard around you, tight and hot, her body shuddering as she rides it out, grinding slow and deep to milk every wave. She leans into you, forehead pressing against yours, her kisses turning sloppy, warm, her arms wrapping around your neck as she trembles. “Fuck, I—” she starts, but the words dissolve into a soft, breathless moan, her affection spilling out in the afterglow.

Chaeyoung collapses against you, her body still trembling, her breath hot and ragged against your skin. You’re still hard inside her, the heat of her pulsing walls a lingering ache, and she notices—her hips shifting slightly, a soft hum escaping her lips as she feels you.

“You’re not done, are you?” she murmurs, voice soft but laced with a knowing warmth. She doesn’t wait for an answer, sliding off you with a slow, deliberate drag, her slickness trailing as she pulls away. The sudden emptiness makes you groan, but before you can protest, she’s moving—slipping down between your legs, settling there with a glint in her eye.

Her hand wraps around your base, slick with her arousal and yours, stroking once, twice, before she leans in. Her lips brush your tip, teasing, then part to take you in—slowly, her tongue swirling around the head, tasting herself on you. “Can’t leave you like this,” she whispers, breath ghosting over you, sending a shiver up your spine.

She sinks deeper, her mouth warm and tight, sucking with a steady, gentle rhythm. Her cheeks hollow as she works, tongue flicking along the underside, drawing low, guttural sounds from your chest. Your hands fist the sheets, hips twitching up instinctively, but she presses a palm to your thigh—firm, grounding—keeping you still as she takes control.

Her pace quickens slightly, lips sliding down further, taking you to the back of her throat with a soft, muffled moan that vibrates through you. She’s relentless but tender, her eyes flicking up to meet yours, watching your every reaction—your strained breaths, the way your jaw tightens as the pleasure builds too fast.

It doesn’t take long. The heat coils tight, a molten knot deep in your core, her steady suction dragging you relentlessly toward the brink. Her mouth’s a furnace—hot, wet, unyielding—each pull sending jolts up your spine, each swirl of her tongue a spark that ignites the fuse. Your breath turns ragged, chest heaving as the pressure builds, teetering on unbearable.

Then she hits it—her tongue curls just right, a deft, wicked flick against the sensitive head, and you shatter. “Chaeyoung—” Her name rips from your throat, a broken, guttural cry as the climax slams into you, white-hot and blinding. Your hips buck hard, thrusting deeper into her mouth, and she takes it all—lips locked tight, throat flexing as you spill into her in thick, pulsing waves. The pleasure’s savage, shredding through you, every nerve alight as she keeps sucking, drawing out every last shudder, swallowing every drop with a soft, triumphant hum that vibrates through your core.

Your vision blurs, head slamming back against the pillow, a raw groan tearing free as she milks you dry, her tongue still teasing, prolonging the aftershocks until you’re trembling, spent, and gasping for air.

She doesn’t stop there—her lips stay on you, softer now, cleaning you off with slow, deliberate licks, her tongue tracing every inch until you’re spent and twitching from the sensitivity. You both feel it—the pull for more, the raw want still simmering—but she pulls back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

“Keeping my promise,” she says, voice low, a little hoarse. “You’re tired—I said I’d be quick.”

She slides off the bed, legs still shaky, and pads to the bedside drawer. Pulling out a cloth, she cleans herself with quick, practiced motions—wiping her mouth, cleaning away the mess between her thighs, the glistening trails of her own release. You watch, too drained to move, as she tosses the cloth aside and returns, climbing back into bed.

She slips into your arms without hesitation, curling against you, her head nestling into your chest. Her warmth presses close, soft and steady, her breath evening out as she settles into your embrace—a quiet end to the fire she’d stoked.

Chaeyoung breaks the silence, her voice cutting through the soft hum of the room. “I’ll be gone tomorrow morning and for a bit. Overseas work.”

You shift, turning to face her, the weight of her words sinking in. “That’s why you were so eager tonight?” There’s a bite in your tone—disappointment laced with the nagging thought that you’re just a tool for them, a convenient fix. “Needed a refill before you jet off?”

Her eyes lift to meet yours, hesitant, softer than you expect. The look isn’t smug or teasing—it’s unguarded, almost reluctant, like leaving isn’t her choice. It makes you pause, reconsider the venom in your assumption.

“What, did you forget that hotel night?” she says, a faint smirk tugging at her lips, though her voice stays low. “You fucked me so hard I’d have to shatter the moon to lose my mind now.”

You narrow your eyes, not fully buying it. “So it’s just horniness then? You’re always this desperate?” The words slip out sharper than intended, brushing against an insult you don’t fully mean.

Her face shifts—something flickers, hurt flashing behind her eyes, a quiet disappointment dimming her usual spark. “You think I’d just screw anyone, anytime?” Her directness hits you square, catching you off guard, and then that smile creeps back, softer now, teasing but warm. “What’s this—jealousy? I’ve already told you, I’m yours. Always will be. The others too, actually, they just haven’t caught up to that yet.”

She holds your gaze, the reassurance steady, her hand brushing your chest as if to seal it, leaving the sting of your words—and her response—hanging between you.

She leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, warm and fleeting, then pulls back with a small, knowing smile. “Didn’t you say you’re tired?” she murmurs, her voice a gentle tease. “Sleep now—unless you want me to pounce on you again.” Her hand lifts, fingers brushing your face, tracing your jaw with a caress so tender it feels like a whisper against your skin.

No magic flares, no glowing eyes or woven spells—just her, her touch, her words wrapping around you like a quiet lullaby. Your eyelids grow heavy, the weight of the day melting under her steady gaze, and as her fingers linger, you drift—slipping into sleep as if she’d willed it so.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Lan Wangji Goes To Lotus Pier AU: Part 3: Enveloping Feelings.

(Part 1, Part 2, Part 4)