#felix ; devin | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yongbbokkie · 1 year ago

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agshsjKnzkaJadfkg yeeessssss I neeeeddd moooooore!! I am so in love with this world already and the idea of the kingsguard and what they stand for!!! I can not wait for the rest!! but holy shit I am so scared for jisung!!! and felix! I hope he never gets found!! I need the king dead.

blossoming ; jisung x reader ; part 2/4

part one | part two | part three | final part

pairing: han jisung/reader author's note: all right i decided four parts, the rest this weekend. smut starts next chapter. for now i torture everyone with slow burn build up. yummy.

content info: reader is described with curly hair.

content warnings: previously established warnings from part one plus this chapter has an additional content warning for emetophobia.

word count: 5100 words.

Morning dawns with a cool, clear light, but it fades as quickly, dissolving in the burning sunshine. Every hand is at work, preparing the royal retinue for its return journey to the capital.

You watch as the last of your trunks are loaded onto a wagon. Each click and latch echoes inside you. You stand helpless as your life is locked in iron.

You walk to exert the worst of your nerves, fluttering inside you like a thousand frantic butterflies. You lift your gaze to the sky, willing those butterflies to carry you away, but then you see your family waving from a balcony.

You cannot let them see your pain. It is too late to do anything about the marriage, even if your parents expressed some regret for the arrangement. That regret was tentatively posed to avoid treasonous speech, but they were undoubtedly taken aback by the king’s poor behaviour.

Your mother insisted on dressing you this morning. She was teary-eyed the entire time, so you faked your best and brightest smile. There was no sense in you both suffering.

The child in you wants to fling yourself at your family. The woman you are, the queen you have become, forces a smile and waves back.

You continue your walk. Your mother dressed you finely but comfortably, a long, loose gown with flowing sleeves, your curly hair pinned in a twisting up-do, a flower behind your ear in lieu of a crown.

Heads turn towards you, for there are courtiers milling about. Some are travelling with the king’s party while others will divert course to visit their own lands. Judgemental eyes trail the sweep of your hem across the earthen path. You feign indifference as you weave in-and-out of the bustling bodies.

The courtyard has never been so busy. The clamour of trunks, the stomping of horses, and the din of busy chatter blend into cacophony.

Distantly, you hear a guitar.

Han Jisung. The first name you associate with music.

You are flushed with embarrassment, remembering last night’s sorry return to your room. Jisung escorted you back, a silent trek that agitated your frayed anxiety at the time. In the light of day, you realize just how much he did for you. You would not have survived the journey, at least not in one piece, and if anyone else had caught you, your life would have been equally forfeit.

He committed an offense against the crown, a sin in his faith, one that would have demanded a great deal of reconciliation. You have heard stories of kingsguards self-flagellate in the pursuit of forgiveness for even meagre transgressions. The fact Jisung understood your betrayal, the fact he forgave it, the fact he saved you, is not insubstantial.

You wonder who this man is, to wear the cloth but help his friend first, to keep secrets for a woman he hardly knew because he sympathized with her pain. To have a sword at his hip and a song on his lips.

You follow the guitar. It leads you to the royal carriages and a circle of kingsguards in a hushed argument. Jisung is playing a comically frantic tune while they debate.

“What’s going on?” another kingsguard approaches. It is the short and stocky one from the ceremony. You learned the names of the all kingsguards at the evening festivities. You recognize this one as Seo Changbin, an undoubted force of brute strength, striding up to his brethren with a hand on his sword hilt.

“Felix disappeared,” Jisung trills, fingers dancing over the guitar strings, “and the kingsguard is afeared, because the king is not too dear—”

“What?” Changbin interrupts, looking at the others. “Felix is gone?”

“Not just Felix,” a brown-haired guard, Lee Minho, says. His brow is pinched. “The king’s mistress is missing too.”

Your eyes widen, your careful mask cracking under the assault of shock.

The woman who ran off with Felix was the king’s mistress?

It does not take much knowledge of the inner circle to deduce that does not bode well for anyone. A kingsguard breaking his oath is one thing, a kingsguard running off with a woman is another still, but a kingsguard conducting an affair with the king’s mistress is a personal betrayal heaped on top of sin. The only worse crime would be if he pursued the king’s wife.

Jisung looks at you.

He spots you across the crowd and strums a foul note, fingers clumsy with surprise. The bad note draws attention to him, so the other guards follow his line of sight. They all straighten when they see you, their strong shoulders tense with anxiety.

Minho and Changbin immediately duck into a bow. The other two, Kim Seungmin and Yang Jeongin, exchange a glance before following suit. Hwang Hyunjin, the preposterously beautiful one, bows but not before he grimaces with discomfort at their conversation being overheard by the queen.

Jisung is still staring, his eyes darting from your face to the flower behind your ear. He meets your eyes and, for a long moment, sinks into your gaze where he loses himself. The events of the previous evening seem to play in the space between you, every panicked whisper and solemn glance.

Then he abruptly notices the rest are bowing. With a yelp, he swings down into a bow.

You take a breath to steady your voice. “What’s this about a missing person?” you ask.

They straighten, one by one, sharing uncertain looks. Minho and Jisung seem to have a mute conversation, Minho clenching his jaw and lifting his brows as if mutely scolding Jisung. Jisung stares back with furrowed brows as if challenging it.

In the end, it’s the youngest one who speaks. Jeongin is a shaggy-haired youth and his whole face is scrunched with worry.

“A kingsguard is missing,” he blurts. “But he’s not a bad guard,” he adds frantically, waving his hands around. “Really. We don’t know what happened. It’s not like him. And the king’s mistress is missing too, but that doesn’t make sense. No, it doesn’t make any sense at all. Felix wouldn’t do that. It’s not like Felix. It’s really very strange, your Majesty. We don’t understand, Your Majesty. Your Majesty.” He dips into a bow every time he utters your title.

Seungmin kicks him.

“Stop talking, dummy,” Seungmin says out of the side of his mouth.

“Right, I’m sorry,” Jeongin says, bowing again. “We’re all very loyal. We’re the kingsguard. You know that. Of course you do.”

As if anyone could mistake the cluster of black-robed soldiers, looking very austere among the courtiers and servants.

You say nothing more, simply cast your gaze around the assembled soldiers, doing your utmost not to look at Jisung lest you betray too much secret knowledge.

“There is no cause for concern,” Minho says, drawing your attention. “Everyone is just… surprised.”

“Yeah,” Seungmin mutters, “Surprised it wasn’t Hyunjin.”

Jeongin snorts, though he looks remorseful after. Hyunjin whips around to glare at Seungmin who is now snickering to himself.

“Excuse me,” Hyunjin says, catty in tone, “I let them look, but I don’t touch.”

“And what do they touch?” Seungmin retorts. Jeongin laughs again and looks even more chagrined, covering his mouth and closing his eyes.

“Yah, knock it off,” Changbin says, waving them apart.

“We’ll fix it,” Minho says to you. “You don’t need to concern yourself, your Majesty.”

You do not say that you are very concerned. You worry the king’s attentions will return to you sooner than he threatened. And if that was his conduct when he had a mistress for pleasure, you are loathe to imagine how he might behave in her absence.

But that is not an admittance you can make to the holy order sworn to enforce the will of the gods-blessed crown.

The king is wearing that crown as he storms over. He is already ranting and raving, barking at the leader of kingsguard. Chan follows him, hand on the hilt of his sword, stoic face not betraying a hint of anxiety. He nods patiently at the king’s ranting.

When they reach the guards, a single look from Chan compels them all to stand in formation and bow before the king.

“I want them found!” the king hollers. “I want their heads on pikes outside my window! And if I find any conspirators in this fucking plot—” He shoves a passing servant, a man in the wrong place at the wrong time. The servant spills to the ground, cowering when the king looms over him. “Then they too shall pay the price of treason.”

The servant crawls into full obeisance, prostrate on the ground. The king just snarls and steps over him.

“Sire,” Chan says curtly, a vague acknowledgement before he helps the servant up and sends him on his way.

The king has already moved on, still ranting to himself as he storms across the courtyard. He starts shouting about his wife, evidently missing you in the crowd. You swallow down the choking terror in your throat and follow him.

“If that whore ran off too—” he starts, turning around and finally seeing you. He snarls. “It would have been preferable,” he says.

You say nothing. You dip into a respectful bow and keep your eyes down. It conceals your fear, your frustration. You hope it just looks submissive.

“It is not necessary we overindulge in company,” he says. “You will ride in the carriage behind mine. The kingsguard will surround us. You will not bother them. You will not be a grievance to me. You will be quiet. You will be obedient. You will do as told and move only when bid.” He does not wait for a reply, turning to look at the guards. “We depart. Now. I want to leave this disgusting territory behind me.”

He spits. Ostensibly, it is just on the ground, a slight against the land, but it falls close to your feet. It is abundantly obvious what he is actually spitting on.

You take another steadying breath, staring at that spot on the ground. When you find the strength to lift your gaze, the guards are staring at you. Their expressions run the range of pity and malcontent. You suppose they would be offended by the king slighting you so outright. Though his blood is divine by birthright, they believe the gods control the fates of men, so if you are queen it is because the gods will it so. You have also been chosen by the gods and it is not appropriate for the king to conduct himself thusly.

They are visibly disgruntled, Chan most of all, his brow furrowed as he stares after the king. The shake of his head is nearly imperceptible; you would have missed it if you were not looking at that precise moment.

The king leaves an awkward silence in his retreat. It is broken when Jisung strums a melodramatic chord on his guitar.

Chan shoots him an unimpressed look. Jisung giggles nervously.

“Put it away,” Chan says.

“Heh, right,” Jisung says, spinning on his heel. He putters towards his horse where he packs his guitar with his saddlebags.

In spite of yourself, you feel the tug of a smile, very small but very real. Your eyes follow Jisung until Chan steps forward, his hand over his heart as he bows politely.

“Your Majesty,” he says. “I’ll escort you to the carriage.”

You start to follow, casting a final glance back at your home. When you do, you catch sight of something across the courtyard. It roots you to the spot. Your heart weighs you down like a lead weight.

“Your Majesty?” Chan says, tilting his head. He holds out his hand.

“I’m sorry,” you say. It comes out on a breath. You clear your throat but your voice is still shaking when you say, “Can you give me just one more moment? I’ll be fast.”

His squints, perplexed, but he nods.

You gather your skirts so you can run quickly over the courtyard bricks. You hurry to the cluster of household servants who are gathered in a teary-eyed throng by the palace. When they see you coming, they all rush forward. You meet them halfway, throwing your arms around the woman directly in your path.

Your tears nearly escape, but you manage to restrain them, enveloped in the friendly embrace of the household that raised you. You spent more time among these people than anyone else, always respectful of their important duties, cherishing their friendships as dearly as any noblesse.

You know it is inappropriate as a queen, standing there hugging the servants one-by-one, but you suspect you will draw ire regardless. So you hug and thank them, wiping a few teary faces as they wish you well.

“You’ll come back and visit right?” a little girl asks, the daughter of a handmaiden your own age, a woman you consider a friend. You spent many hours entertaining her daughter, helping with chores, giving gifts, seeing her grow.

You crouch down to her level, holding back tears as you nod. You know it’s not true, that the king will undoubtedly forbid it given his contempt for this place. But you say, “Of course I will. This is my home. I’d miss you all too much.”

“We’ll miss you too,” her mother says, hugging you next. When she does, she slips something into your hand, a small phial of a dark liquid. “Sleeping draft,” she whispers in your ear. “For the nights the king needs his rest so you may have yours.”

You laugh through your tears, kiss her temple and a mouth a thank you as you withdraw. You tuck the phial into a pocket pouch inside your gown.

After a few more goodbyes, you stand before them and bow. You offer a smile as they return it. It carries a very different respect than the terrified cowering of the servant before the king.

You are not the only one who thinks so. When you turn, you find the guards all staring at you, their faces a wall of blinking surprise. Jisung is the worst at hiding his thoughts, his brown eyes the widest. Chan is the best, but even he cannot hide his contemplation.

“I’m ready,” you say gently.

You lift your hem and walk onward. You do not look back. You wait until the carriage door is closed behind you, then you bury your face in your hands and cry.

Your sorrow passes, bleeding into frustration, then fury. Alone in the carriage, you have time to stew in a myriad of emotions as you deliberate on your circumstances. You resolve to stand firm before the king, to not crumple beneath his cruel sneers, to bear his wickedness with grace. You will make him ridiculous in comparison to your obvious virtue.

This commitment falters very quickly.

For the first hour of travel, you are passing through your family’s property, then the village. The roads are paved and the passage is smooth. When you reach the forest path, it is a different matter entirely. Though there is a road that cuts through the great woods, it is a trail of gravel and packed, uneven dirt. The carriage jostles constantly, bouncing up and down at inconsistent intervals.

You last three hours. By the end of that third hour, you are so queasy that the scarlet interior of the carriage turns to a murky green. Your spotted vision swims through that grime even with your eyes closed. You do everything you can to ease the discomfort, taking down your hair pin-by-pin until every curl is loose, the flower discarded because its scent was too strong. You sit in every possible position, craning towards the window and fresh air, but the nausea only worsens as the trail gets bumpier.

You try to distract yourself, listening to the aimless chatter and laughter from the kingsguards. Their horses trot along at an unhurried canter, far smoother than the carriage wheels jumping over rocks and earth.

After a particularly violent jostle, you give up. You are going to be sick and you would rather not do it in the carriage.

“Excuse me,” you say, waving to the first guard you see. Minho is not far from the window. “I’m sorry but I need to stop. Right now.” You want to elaborate but your stomach rolls and your voice catches.

You must look sufficiently ill because Minho clicks his boots and quickens his pace, riding up to Chan near the king’s carriage. You slump against your seat while they have a quick discussion.

Chan lifts a hand and the whole train comes to a halt.

You do not wait for them to open the door. You burst out of the carriage in a clumsy frenzy, running to the treeline where you fall to your knees and promptly empty the contents of your stomach.

You feel hot and frantic, heaving as you struggle to hold your hair off your face. You sputter, lips quivering as another wave rises inside you.

Someone jumps off their horse and lands beside you. You spare a brief glance up at Minho, his brow pinched with concern, but then the king shouts in aggravations and you throw yourself forward to vomit some more.

Minho helps, bending over you, gathering you hair as best he can and holding it out of the way. The next closest soldier, Hyunjin, also dismounts and approaches.

Vomiting is not exactly dignified. It feels even worse to have every single person in the royal retinue watch you spew your breakfast over the forest floor.

You lift your head, turning to offer an apology but your voice is shot. Minho still looms rather protectively, Hyunjin nearby. You look around for Chan to address him, but your eyes find Jisung first. He is the farthest away, perched on horseback, fidgeting with the reins.

The king shouts again. It’s a block of noise to your ringing ears, but you suspect he is angry at the delay. He told you not to be a grievance.

You try to stand but your knees wobble. You use a rock for balance, then Minho when he takes your arm. Hyunjin steps in and takes your other arm. Together, they get you back on your feet.

“I don’t think she can continue yet, sire,” Chan says, riding into view. “Maybe we should rest here for a bit.”

“We are stopping to rest in an hour,” the king snaps. “I will not be delayed so near to our schedule.”

“What made you sick?” Minho asks.

“The carriage,” you say, groaning as you wipe your mouth. You are certain you make a ravaged sight. At least your stomach is empty now, the worst of the nausea passed, but you cannot imagine climbing back inside that rattling monstrosity.

You step forward, away from Minho and Hyunjin. Your legs quiver but you steady yourself.

“I’ve never ridden a carriage so far,” you say. “I’m very sorry, I am. The terrain is just so uneven. I’ve only ever ventured to the village and back.” Even then, you usually travelled on horseback. Sometimes you would sit on the back on a wagon or two, but it never went farther than the ends of the property.

“Why doesn’t she travel on horseback?” That sounds like Seungmin, speaking somewhere behind you.

“Can you ride a horse?” Hyunjin asks, to which you nod emphatically.

“It might be less intense at this pace,” Minho agrees.

They look at Chan. You are certain there is something significant about the fact the guards always seek instructions from Chan and not the king, but you are too unsettled to contemplate anything too deeply.

Chan is the one who looks at the king, lifting a questioning brow.

“There’s no horses to spare,” the king says. “If one of you wants to deal with the brat, then take her.”

Hyunjin steps towards you.

“Not you,” the king says.

Hyunjin steps back again.

The king, who is still in his carriage, cranes his neck to look around the gathered guards. He snaps his fingers.

“Bard boy,” he calls. “Take the queen.”

“Jisung,” Chan says, waving him forward. “Come here.”

You look at Jisung who is visibly startled at his selection. His black hair is a bit windswept, the longer tufts curling up at his nape. Wide, brown eyes find yours, slowly blinking to attention. With a shake of his head, he picks up the reins and rides over to you.

You step back, staring up at him on his perch. He says nothing but extends his open hand, blinking those captivating eyes at you. You are not sure why they ensnare you so, nor why your heart skips a beat when you delicately place your hand in his. That beat pounds a quick stacatto when his sword-calloused fingers grip yours tightly.

Minho and Hyunjin help you onto the horse. You seat yourself side-saddle in front of Jisung, ramrod straight so you are not pressed against him. His arms circle you to take the reins and you pointedly do not look at his hands.

Despite the king’s presumption, you would have been less bothered by Hyunjin. Yes, he is irrevocably handsome, his own black hair tied back, sleek and pristine, but it does not affect you. A handsome face has never much moved you. You always thought yourself logical, your heart oddly shaped next to others.

But now you are looking at Jisung’s dark-painted nails, his soldier’s hands on the reins; now you are feeling his breath at your nape, the warmth that emanates from his body, hot from wearing black in the summer sun; now you think of him helping his friend, helping you, and that makes him more than a handsome face. it makes your stomach twist in a very different way than before.

That feeling is exacerbated when he reaches into a saddlebag and retrieves a waterskin.

“Here,” he says in a soft voice. “Drink. Go on.” He puts it in your hand.

You take a deep drink, purging your mouth of the foul residue of sickness. You thank him just as softly and hand the waterskin back.

Once settled, the train resumes course. Chan waves and everyone marches on.

Jisung spurs the horse into motion. Despite your best effort, the movement knocks you into his chest. Jisung sputters and you realize your undone hair is flying into face.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, desperately smoothing it down. It does not work, but all your pins are in the carriage and you suspect the king will not be too enchanted if you stop the train to fetch them.

“It’s okay,” Jisung says. “One second.” He lays the reins down, his thigh muscles firm behind you as he squeezes to maintain leverage.

Then you feel the brush of his fingertips on your bare neck. It sends an immediate cascade of shivers shooting down your spine. He gathers your hair carefully in his hands, guiding it over your shoulder, away from his face.

Minho also pulled back your hair, but that was a very different sensation.

This you… feel.

He takes up the reins again, arms circled around you. You pull yourself upright as the horse moves along.

You think this ride might be stiff and uncomfortable, but then he begins to hum to himself. You find the gentle melody placates your nerves. Your frantic energy simmers to a cooler calm.

After a while, the conversations resume around you. Jisung tells some jokes to the other guards and you smile, though it is weak. Their camaraderie makes you miss your own friends already.

Jisung hums again, almost like he can sense your discomfort. It is most likely a coincidence, but you still find yourself sighing pleasantly.

With the worst of your anxiety tempered, at least for now, you ask him, “Where did you learn to play?”

“Sorry?” The question catches him off guard.

“Sorry,” you say. “I don’t mean to pry. I’m just curious.”

Though there is often a bard-like character in the kingsguard, it is nonetheless an intriguing amalgamation of skills. They do not let just anyone into the kingsguard service, even if they are willing to take the vow of chastity and surrender their earthly goods. Jisung must be an exceptionally skilled swordsman to be admitted, an interesting background for such a talented musician. Though he was joking with his music earlier, he is very capable of composing melodic poetry.

“Music and swordplay just seem an odd match,” you say.

“Maybe,” he replies. “Maybe not. They both require dedication. Time. Practice.”

“You are a devout man, I suppose,” you say.

“Of course,” he answers confidently. “I am absolutely the most devout and most impressive one here—ow.” Someone, probably Seungmin, chucks a coin at his head.

You laugh, glancing at Jisung over your shoulder. His eyes dart briefly to your mouth, his own face brightening at your smile. He laughs back and nods.

“Honestly, I grew up with music first,” he says. “I didn’t, uh… I didn’t exactly grow up in a palace. To say the least. But, yeah, definitely palace-adjacent and not a hovel on a street in the capital,” he jokes. As he talks, you picture a little boy with a guitar, strumming on the busy city streets. “I used to write songs and sing for money. Then I got older. I was looking for work when the war started. I got recruited like a lot of boys, but I was pretty disciplined and a fast learner. After the war, I met Chan. He put in a good word for me, so I was able to put myself forward during the new recruitment season.”

“So you haven’t been there long,” you say. The war only ended a year ago.

“Ten months,” he says cheerily. “But it’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“That’s commendable,” you say. “It’s rewarding, I’m sure, but an intense order nonetheless. I can’t imagine making so many sacrifices.”

“Can’t you?”

The question is posed softly but lands heavily. You suppose Jisung is correct; you have both made sacrifices to be where you are, though the journeys were very different, and your futures more so.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “Fuck, that wasn’t my place. Your Majesty. Oh, fuck, I swore. Fuck, sorry. Ignore that.”

You laugh in spite of yourself, catching the sound in your palm. He laughs behind you. Even with a sliver of distance between you, you can feel his chest shaking.

“Good thing foregoing curses is not one of your oaths,” you say.

“Oh, fuck, no, I’d fail that one for sure. Sorry, ignore that too.”

You are pretty sure he is being funny on purpose now, but you appreciate it, smiling as you move beneath a canopy of trees. It is much cooler in the shade, alleviating the discomfort of the hot sun. You exhale and let your posture slacken, just a bit, just enough your bodies touch on every downward canter.

“Were you ever scared?” you ask. The king’s carriage is ahead of you. You watch the wheels turn and turn.

“Yeah,” he says. “A bit. A lot. Completely. Not about the vows, though. I was just scared I’d let everyone down. Especially Chan. He put his own reputation on the line when he stood for me. I don’t know what he saw in me. Gods only know no one else ever saw it. Me included.”

He laughs at his self-deprecation but you do not. You watch the shadows of the forest roll over the carriages. You think of Jisung in that barn, risking everything for his friend. Your cheek tingles, remembering where he wiped your tear during that lonely ceremony. Your heart still races at the memory of him singing a springtime song, dedicated to you despite the antagonistic crowd.

“I do,” you say.

“You do what?” he asks casually.

“I see something good in you, Han Jisung.”

“Ohh.” He is stupefied for a moment. You are not sure of his expression, too shy to look at him. “Well, I don’t know about that,” he eventually says. “I’m definitely the lowest ranked in the kingsguard. Sorry for that, by the way.”

“Sorry?” Now you look back, meeting his gaze. “Why would you be sorry?”

“Well, uh…” He looks away, to the road ahead, his voice strained with awkwardness. “There’s a reason I was picked for proxy at the ceremony. It’s not because I’m not the best swordsman, or the most pious priest. I’m, uh, well… ‘bard boy’. And the king – His Holy Majesty – he uh… well, I mean… It had to be someone like a kingsguard but he didn’t want… I mean, that is…”

“It’s all right,” you say. “You don’t have to say it. I understand.”

he king was heaping insults on you and your family; of course he chose the lowest ranked kingsguard to stand in as proxy, just like he chose him now.

Irritation creeps up your neck, heating your skin. You glare at the carriage.

You are not even annoyed for yourself. Your insult has been established. You angry that the king would make such a disrespectful insinuation for a member of the elite kingsguard. The kingsguard service is as ancient as the regime. They are a respectable, powerful order. Admission to the order requires a great deal of work, more than simply being born in the right house. The king has no right to insult a soldier like Jisung. Just like he has no right to insult you.

“So yeah,” Jisung says. He clears his throat and tries to sound cheery as he says, “That’s why I’m sorry! Anyway, it all worked out. I’m sure I’m your favourite already, right? I’m everyone’s favourite, obviously.”

He is speaking jokingly but your heart skips a beat anyway. You swallow, hard.

In the next moment, the horse jumps, maneuvering around a ditch in the road. You fall against his chest with a thump, throwing your hands out instinctively. Your hand clasps his, your bodies pressed together.

“Sorry,” you say in unison.

“It’s all right,” he says. “I got ya.”

It is spoken with nonchalance. You still feel it.

“I’m not sorry,” you say. “I’m glad it was you, Jisung.”

You turn, finding your lips close to his face. He stares at you, as surprised as he is rivetted.

Softly, so only he can hear, intimately, a breath away from him, you whisper, “I believe you saved my life even before you found me in that barn. So yes. I’m glad it was you. I’m glad he chose you. I would have chosen you too.”

“Oh,” is all he says, moved to silence.

You remain in his arms, leaning against his chest. You pick up the melody he was humming and hum it yourself, making him laugh on an exhale. You feel the tension leave his arms and his heartbeat skip then resume its normal cadence, steadying your own.

#han jisung x reader #han jisung smut #skz fanfiction #stray kids fanfiction #literally way too excited for the rest #FOUR PARTS!!#WHOOO!!#I haven't the words to express how much I adore your writing #the queen is so lovely too #I adore that she went and hugged the servants and bowed to them #the guard's reactions made me think they were suprised to see a noble woman be so familiar and kind with servants #I also really love how dispute his position Chan's ire with the king is still noticeable #because his loyalty is to the title of King and it's terrible and unfortunate circumstances that makes his King this King #I'm just know chan - and the others - absolutely loathe that their loyalty and protection is in service of this pathetic sack of shit #instead of someone more becoming and deserving of the title and devine right #someone more like the queen #anyway.... I'm looking forward to the part where Chan chops the King's head off and declares that the Gods have made him King instead #coz who would question his sacred words spoken directly by the Gods themselves #yes #and then yn and hanji can ride off into the sunset play guitar and singing #and felix can live #yes.#good.

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furioussheepluminary · 3 months ago

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𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝

Pairing: vampire!Felix x afab!reader, strangers to potential lovers, vampire au

synopsis: to prove that you are once again always the brave one, you take one a dare. But meeting a cursed attractive vampire wasn't part of the deal.

Warnings: blood, angst?, curses, Felix falls in love easily (esp. with blood), but hes a meanie, dead people

A/n: this was a request made a while ago by a beautiful angel that I can't remember..but I know it was a request 😔 I'm sorry love! Please enjoy the story as it's my first time writing a supernatural au even though it's not my type. If you have extra eyes for errors, no you don't.

It all started with a bonfire and a bottle of cheap vodka.

The night was unusually cold for early autumn, and the wind that howled through the trees felt almost like whispers brushing against the skin. The fire cracked in the center of the clearing, surrounded by seven dare-hungry souls seeking thrills in a town where nothing exciting ever happened. Except for the one thing no one dared talk about—except in jest, when the alcohol flowed and the night felt invincible. The abandoned mansion at the edge of Marrow’s Hollow.

“It’s just an old ruin,” one of the boys, Devin, said, passing the bottle. “Creepy? Sure. Haunted? Nah. You’d die of boredom before any ghost got you.”

“But people have died there,” Margo whispered, her voice trembling just enough to sound like a challenge rather than fear. “Five kids from Cresthill went in last year. Never came back.”

“Because they ran off to the city. Typical runaway story,” someone laughed, brushing it off.

Then came the dare. Drunk on adrenaline, firelight, and fermented courage.

“Y/N,” Margo grinned, eyes glittering in the dark. “You’re always bragging about how brave you are. How about you prove it?”

Y/N raised a brow, the fire’s glow casting sharp shadows across her face. “Oh? And how exactly do I do that?”

“Spend the night in the mansion.”

The group erupted in shocked laughter, some clapping, others gasping, but all eyes were now on her.

“You’re kidding,” she scoffed. “That place is sealed off.”

“Nope,” Devin replied, digging into his backpack and pulling out a rusted old key. “Found this in my grandpa’s shed. He was a cop back when the town tried to shut the place down. This opens the back gate.” The air shifted then. Like something had turned to listen.

“The rules are simple,” Margo continued. “Go inside before midnight. Stay until sunrise. No phone. Just you, your flashlight, and whatever you find inside.” Everyone expected her to say no.

But Y/N smirked, heart racing with the thrill of being challenged. “Fine. I’ll go.”

None of them knew she’d return with eyes wide, blood on her leg, and a name carved into her skin.

Felix.

She packed her bag as the sun dipped below the hills, smearing the sky in shades of bruised violet and blood-orange. No phone—part of the dare. They claimed it was cheating, that the spirits “didn’t like tech.” Instead, Y/N grabbed a flashlight, a small notebook, two protein bars, a lighter, a flask of water, and a silver pocketknife she didn’t usually carry. Just in case. Her heart thundered like a drum, but her face remained calm, stoic. She’d accepted the dare. She wasn’t backing out. By the time she reached the edge of Marrow’s Hollow, the sky had turned black, and the wind carried the sharp scent of decaying leaves and something fouler, metallic, damp, like blood soaked into ancient wood. Her boots crunched over dried twigs and gravel as the path narrowed, twisting through skeletal trees that clawed at her jacket like they wanted to drag her back.

The mansion loomed in the distance like a corpse propped upright. Gothic spires stabbed the sky, and its shattered windows stared outward like blind, furious eyes. The iron gates stood crooked, rusted with time and something darker. Moss clung to the stone fence that wrapped around the property like a noose.

That’s when she saw them.

The graves.

Dozens no, hundreds of them. Scattered around the mansion in irregular rows, half-swallowed by the overgrown earth. Some headstones were cracked down the middle, others too weathered to read, and some… disturbingly fresh. The dirt on a few was still unsettled, as if the earth hadn’t finished claiming what was inside. Her breath caught in her throat as she counted at least seven graves marked only by wooden stakes, their surfaces smeared with what looked like dried crimson.

She swallowed.

“Just theatrics,” she muttered to herself. “Someone’s sick idea of a prank.”

The beam of her flashlight trembled as her hand shook, breath shallow, every instinct screaming to turn back—but she forced herself to step further into the mansion. The air inside was colder, as though the house itself had forgotten what warmth felt like. The scent of mildew, rotting wood, and something iron-like clung to her lungs, thick and suffocating.

Her footsteps echoed through the empty, crumbling foyer. A grand staircase loomed ahead, shrouded in shadow, its once-elegant banister now splintered and dark. She panned the flashlight upward, slowly.

That’s when she saw it.

Hanging upside down like some twisted bat from the rafters, a figure motionless. Pale skin, platinum-blond hair matted with streaks of red, arms hanging limp, face partially obscured by the tangled mess of bloodstained mesh fabric. At first, she thought it was a corpse strung up in some sick ritual. But then—the light caught his face.

She didn’t scream.

Not yet.

His eyes snapped open.

Crimson.

Not the dull, dead kind of red, but burning like fire and fury trapped behind his irises. Y/N gasped, the sound too loud in the dead silence of the house. Then he moved. In one fluid, inhumanly fast motion, the figure dropped from the ceiling—landing directly in front of her with a soundless grace that chilled her blood.

She screamed and fell backward, scrambling on the cold, dusty floor. Her flashlight clattered away, spinning wild beams of light across the walls. Her hands scraped against jagged floorboards as she kicked herself back until her spine slammed into the wall behind her.

Trapped. Frozen. He was crouched in front of her now, head tilted slightly, hair casting jagged shadows across his face. His mouth curled slowly into a smirk, fangs glinting in the dim light, and he leaned in—too close.

“Why did you come here?” he whispered, voice like velvet dipped in danger.

And Y/N… couldn’t speak. He was crouched in front of her like a predator—still, coiled, every inch of him humming with danger. His head tilted slowly to the side, platinum hair falling messily across one glowing eye, the other hidden in shadow. His lips curled into something that might have been a smile… if it weren’t so cruel.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low and velvety, but with an edge like a blade dragged across bone. “This place doesn’t welcome the living.”

Y/N’s mouth was dry, her chest heaving. She could barely form words. “I—I was dared… I didn’t think it was real. I didn’t think you were real.” He leaned in, so close now she could see the blood dried along his jawline, the faint twitch of his lip as if the word ‘dare’ had amused him in some feral, irritated way.

“A dare?” His voice deepened, colder. “You risked your life because some idiot told you to? For fun?”

Her breath caught as he rose, standing over her now. “Leave. While you still have your limbs attached,” he growled. “Or stay, and regret it for however long I let you live.”

She stared up at him, trembling but unmoving. Her body was screaming to run—but her heart refused. Something in her, deep and stubborn, latched onto the way his voice wavered on the edge of warning and loneliness. She could’ve crawled away. But she didn’t.

“No,” she whispered.

Silence. The air thickened around them like molasses. His eyes narrowed, burning red. Then—pain. Sharp and sudden. He dug his nails into her thigh, not just pressing but sinking in—deep enough to tear through her jeans and into flesh. She cried out, her back arching from the wall, her hands scrabbling at his wrist in shock and agony.

“Do you want to die?” he snarled, voice close to her ear now. “Or are you just this stupid?”

Tears welled in her eyes from the pain, but still—she shook her head. “I just… I couldn’t leave. Not yet.”

His expression flickered something dangerous, but almost curious. He stared at her a long time, then slowly removed his hand, his fingers now painted in her blood. He brought them up, inspecting the crimson smeared on his skin with idle interest.

“Not yet?” he echoed, voice low, dangerous.

Y/N winced as she sat up straighter against the cold wall, her hands trembling against the floor. “I-I have to stay the night. That was the dare. I can’t leave until sunrise.” At that, the vampire actually chuckled.

A dark, guttural sound slipped from his throat, followed by a slow shake of his head as he crouched again in front of her this time more relaxed, his elbows resting on his knees. “You humans are so entertaining,” he drawled, tone thick with sarcasm. “Stay the night? What is this, some sadistic version of hide-and-seek?”

She didn’t answer.

He leaned in, eyes flicking downward and that’s when he saw it. Blood. A slow, lazy smile stretched across his lips, revealing just a hint of fang. “Oh…” he purred, as if delighted by a surprise dessert, “You're bleeding.”

Y/N followed his gaze in horror to the gash on her thigh—right where he’d dug his nails in earlier. It was deeper than she’d realized. Crimson soaked through the fabric of her pants, trailing in a warm line down her skin.

He didn’t ask permission.

He slid forward smoothly, his hand gripping her injured leg—firm, cold, and possessive. Before she could pull away, his head dipped low. His lips met her thigh, and she gasped—whether in pain or shock, she didn’t know. His tongue traced the blood in a slow, deliberate motion, warm and terrifyingly intimate. A groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating against her skin.

“Sweet,” he murmured. “So very… sweet.”

Y/N’s heart thudded violently in her chest, panic twisting with something else, something she didn’t want to name. She finally found her voice, strained and fragile. “W-Who are you…?”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, licking the remaining blood from his bottom lip, the tip of his fang glinting in the dim light. “You don’t know who I am?” he asked finally, voice hushed, but heavy with something ancient and cruelly patient. His crimson gaze locked with hers.

“Felix,” he said, his voice low, intimate. “The thing that haunts this house. The monster they warned you about.”

He leaned in closer, his lips nearly brushing her ear.

“And darling… you just walked into my cage.”

Felix didn’t pull away completely. He stayed close, crouched like a predator who wasn’t done playing with its prey. “You want to know how I became this?” he asked suddenly, his voice lower, weightier. His eyes didn’t glow as brightly now. There was something old in them—haunted, even.

Y/N swallowed hard but nodded.

He leaned back slightly, hands resting on his thighs. “A curse,” he said simply. “From someone I trusted. Loved.” He tilted his head, lips curling into a bitter smile. “She didn’t like that I left her. So she took everything from me. My soul. My time. My death. Gave me this… thirst instead.” His nails idly traced a line on the dusty wooden floor. “She said I’d rot in this mansion forever—feeding, waiting, watching. Everyone who comes through here ends up in the ground.” He glanced at her then, eyes flicking to the window, to the graves just beyond the overgrown glass.

“I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to come in.”

Y/N kept her face as neutral as she could, though her heart was hammering in her chest.

She breathed in shakily, brushing her hair back from her face. “Well, I didn’t come for you,” she muttered. “I came to explore the house.” Felix blinked, stunned for a second then broke into a low, amused laugh. He stood slowly, fluid and graceful, brushing the dust from his pants. “That so?” he said. “And here I thought I was the main attraction.”

He stepped back, letting the distance grow between them. “Go on then,” he said, voice still rich with mocking humor. “Explore.”

Y/N’s leg throbbed, the cut still fresh. She gathered her bag and stood, wincing as she tested her weight on the wounded limb. The stairs loomed ahead, worn and shadowed. She took a step. Felix’s voice drifted behind her, casual. “Need help limping, sweetheart?”

“No,” she bit out, without looking back.

Her hand gripped the railing, jaw clenched as she pulled herself up step by step, trying not to let him see the pain with every movement. She was determined, stubborn, stupid she knew all of it. But she wasn’t going to run. Not yet. The stairs creaked under her weight. She could hear his footsteps below but when she turned, he wasn’t there. She took another step.

He was suddenly behind her—no sound, no warning—his breath ghosting the back of her neck. She spun around, startled, but he had already vanished again.

“Ghosts aren’t the only ones who haunt,” his voice echoed faintly from the upstairs corridor.

She gritted her teeth and kept walking. Room after room stretched out before her each one dust-covered, untouched by time yet heavy with it. Cobwebs swayed in the cold air. Mirrors were cracked and warped. A child's doll sat in a corner, its porcelain face fractured like it had screamed too long.

And every time she stepped into a room… he was there. By the window. On the ceiling. In the reflection of a broken mirror. Watching and following.

She tried to pretend she didn’t see him. Tried to act like the shadows weren’t moving with him. But her fingers trembled on the edge of the doorframe as she entered the master bedroom. She whispered to herself, more for courage than belief.

“I’m just here to explore the house…”

A deep chuckle echoed from the wall.

“Keep telling yourself that, little lamb.”

The room she finally settled in was at the end of a long corridor its once grand double doors hung slightly ajar, one barely hanging onto its hinges. The air inside was thick, still, like it hadn’t been stirred in decades. Dust swirled in lazy circles through the beam of her flashlight as she hobbled in, limping more heavily now. She didn’t care. Her thigh burned with each step, but her body was too exhausted to keep moving.

The room had a tattered armchair near the fireplace, a velvet couch that had long since given in to mold, and faded wallpaper that peeled at the corners. Moonlight filtered in through shattered glass, casting silver puddles across the wooden floor.

Y/N slumped into the armchair with a pained sigh, letting her head fall back. Her fingers grazed the torn fabric of her jeans where his nails had sliced her earlier. It was still bleeding. Dull, hot pain flared through her nerves, but she welcomed it. It meant she was still alive.

Still human.

She didn’t hear him enter, but she knew. The air shifted. Warmer. Closer. She opened her eyes, and sure enough Felix was there, lounging across the arm of the ruined couch like he’d been waiting for her all along. His boots were kicked up, his dark eyes locked onto her, lazy but alert.

“Done exploring already?” he teased.

“Shut up,” she muttered, leaning her head against the chair’s backrest. “I’m bleeding and tired.”

He smirked. “You should’ve left when you had the chance.”

“I already told you. I’m not going anywhere.”

A beat passed. Silence, except for the ticking of an old grandfather clock down the hall.

“Do you ever get bored?” she asked suddenly. Her voice was softer now, tired but curious. “I mean… being here. Alone.” His smirk faded just slightly. “Sometimes.”

“You have friends?” she asked, tilting her head to look at him. Felix’s gaze shifted to the ceiling, then back to her. “I did. Once. But time… time isn’t kind. Not to mortals. Not to memories.”

There was something sad beneath his words something that slipped between the cracks of his usual sarcasm. Y/N let the silence stretch again before speaking. “I had a brother,” she said quietly. “He used to dare me into dumb things like this. Climb towers. Break into abandoned schools. He died a few years ago.”

Felix didn’t say anything. He just watched her, expression unreadable now.

“I guess I kept doing it. The dares. The exploring. Because I didn’t want to forget the rush.”

He leaned forward slightly, interested now, his elbows resting on his knees. “And vampires,” she said, a breath of a laugh in her voice, “I always thought they were… I don’t know. Lonely. Tragic. Kind of romantic in a twisted way.”

His head tilted slowly. “Romantic?” he echoed, something sharp glittering in his eyes. She nodded. “Yeah. There’s something sad and beautiful about someone who can live forever but never really live again. Always hungry. Always chasing something they can’t have.”

Felix didn’t move for a long moment. Then he rose slowly, his movements fluid, predatory.

“You’re strange,” he said quietly, stepping toward her. “Most people scream. Cry. Beg me not to kill them. And you… sit here bleeding, talking about tragic romance.” She watched him approach, heart thudding loud in her chest, but she didn’t flinch. Not this time. He crouched in front of her, his face close to hers again.

“Careful,” he whispered. “You’re starting to sound like someone I might like.” And though every instinct told her to be terrified, something in her stirred drawn in, caught in the storm of his presence.

She didn’t look away. “Maybe that’s the problem,” she whispered back.

The silence between them grew heavier. Not awkward—no, something more dangerous than that. It pulsed in the air like a heartbeat, slow and charged. Y/N shifted in the armchair, the dull ache in her thigh impossible to ignore, but what really unsettled her was the way Felix was watching her now. His eyes weren’t just curious anymore they were hungry.

His tongue ran along the sharp edge of his teeth, deliberate and slow. “Do you want me to take care of that wound?” Her breath hitched. The question lingered in the air, heavy with implication.

“You mean like… disinfect it?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

He tilted his head, a crooked smirk playing on his lips. “Not exactly.” There was a long pause. Her heart pounded against her ribs, but then she nodded small, cautious. “Okay.”

His smile deepened, something dark and pleased glinting in his crimson gaze. “You’re brave. Or reckless.” He crossed the room with a smooth, predatory grace and knelt before her. Without asking, his fingers ghosted over her torn jeans. Then, with a soft rip, he tugged at the fabric, exposing more of her thigh. The skin was slick with blood, the wound still fresh and tender. She winced, but didn’t pull away.

His lips hovered above the gash.

“This might sting,” he murmured, almost like a tease. Then his tongue touched her skin.

It was warm. Slow. Precise. He licked up the blood in gentle, deliberate strokes like he was savoring every drop. His hands anchored her leg, firm but not painful. And when he moaned softly against her flesh, she shivered. “God,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to look up at her. “You taste sweet. Like dusk and danger.”

Her breath caught in her throat. His eyes were glowing brighter now, pupils blown wide with something that looked disturbingly close to desire. And still, he didn’t move away.

He stared at her, lips stained crimson. Then his voice dropped, lower, almost pained. “You should stay away from me, you know.” She blinked, lips parting to ask why, but he spoke first—his voice raw, quiet, like a confession.

“Because if you don’t… I’m going to fall in love with you.”

Y/N’s heart stopped.

Before she could say a word, Felix stood, licking the last trace of blood from his thumb. His eyes lingered on her for a second longer searching, maybe hoping she’d stop him. But she didn’t. And he was gone. The door creaked shut behind him, and she was left alone, her wound clean, her pulse racing, and her mind echoing with the words she hadn’t expected to hear from the monster in the mansion.

…

The room was warm when Y/N stirred, the kind of warmth that only sunlight could bring the soft kind that seeps through worn-out curtains and brushes against the skin like a memory. She blinked slowly, her lashes fluttering, head heavy and sore. For a moment, she forgot where she was. Then the dull pain in her thigh reminded her.

She sat up, realizing she was no longer in the chair from last night. She was on a bed now, tucked beneath a thick, dusty quilt that smelled faintly of old wood and faint cologne. Her eyes darted around the room. The lamp was off. Her bag was still against the wall. But the window to the side was cracked open, golden light pouring in. The sun had risen.

She gasped and threw the covers off, adrenaline kicking in.

“I overslept—damn it,” she muttered, quickly limping to her things and throwing everything into her backpack with shaky hands. Her heart was racing not just from panic, but from everything that had happened. The wound on her leg was bandaged now—probably by him—and she didn’t know how to process the fact that a vampire had basically confessed to her hours ago.

As she zipped her bag shut, a voice from the darkest corner of the room, cloaked in shadow, interrupted her.

“You’re in a rush,” Felix said softly.

She startled, turning to the voice. The far corner was untouched by the sun’s rays, but his silhouette was unmistakable leaning against the wall, arms crossed, as if he’d been standing there for a while.

“How long have you been there?” she asked, breath catching.

He shrugged lazily, one brow lifted. “Since before you started dreaming. You talk in your sleep, you know.” Her cheeks flushed despite herself. “I didn’t mean to sleep in,” she said quickly, strapping her bag on. “I need to get going.” She turned to leave, but something about his silence made her pause. She glanced back and that’s when she noticed it.

He looked… sad. Not dramatically so. Just the subtle downturn of his lips, the slight slump of his shoulders, the way his eyes didn’t quite meet hers. It was the kind of sadness that came quietly, like a bruise blooming under the skin.

“I was just starting to love you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

She froze. It wasn’t said with charm or seduction. It was said like it hurt to admit like every time he let himself feel, the wound from his past reopened. She turned fully, letting her bag fall from her shoulder, and stepped closer into the shade.

He looked different in the dark. The edge to him was softer, the menace stripped away. She hadn’t seen him fully before not like this. His skin was pale but not lifeless, like marble kissed with moonlight. His hair, tousled and shadow-drenched, framed his face like a halo of ink. And his eyes—those haunting red eyes—weren’t glowing now. They were watching her quietly, searching. She reached out, touching the sleeve of his shirt gently. “You say that like it’s a curse,” she said.

He gave a dry smile. “That’s because it is.”

Her breath hitched. Her fingers brushed his wrist, just barely, and still he didn’t pull away. He looked down at where she touched him, then back up at her face—taking her in like he was trying to memorize her.

“You really have to leave?” he asked, voice low.

She hated herself for saying it. The words slipped past her lips before she could stop them, fragile and foolish and far too human.

“I’ll come visit,” she whispered, eyes not quite meeting his. “Every other day… if you want.”

Felix didn’t answer at first. His red eyes remained unreadable, shadowed by the darkness of the corner he stood in. But the silence stretched, heavy and uncertain. Finally, he let out a low, dry laugh—one that barely sounded amused.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” she insisted, taking a step closer, heart hammering painfully in her chest. “I don’t break promises.” His eyes narrowed slightly, scanning her face for a hint of insincerity. Whatever he found, it seemed to shake him a little. His shoulders relaxed. Just a bit.

“I never got your name,” he said, quietly.

She blinked, realizing she never told him. “It’s Y/N.”

He repeated it softly under his breath, like tasting it on his tongue. Then he moved slow, deliberate, and with the kind of grace that didn’t belong to anything human. He stepped out of the shadows, careful not to touch the spill of sunlight on the floor. When he reached her, he stopped just a breath away. His hand came up, ghosting against her cheek before he leaned in and pressed his lips to it. A kiss; soft and fleeting but it lingered like heat.

When he pulled back, he hovered there, his lips close to hers. Close enough to feel her breath stutter against his mouth. His gaze dropped to her lips, then lifted back to her eyes, searching.

He didn’t want to overstep. Not after everything. Not when he wasn’t sure if she truly meant what she said.

So, he leaned in… slowly. Hesitant. Shy. A boy hiding beneath a monster’s skin.

And Y/N… Y/N closed the distance. Their lips met gently, mouths molding together like they were made for this one moment in time. It was cautious at first, full of question and fear, but it didn’t stay that way. Her hands gripped the fabric of his shirt, and he angled his head slightly, deepening the kiss with a hunger that had nothing to do with blood.

When he kissed her jaw, she tilted her head, giving him space. His lips found her neck.

She gasped softly as he trailed slow, reverent kisses down the side of her throat, each one more possessive than the last. When he found the spot just above her pulse, her breath hitched, and his lips paused there.

He inhaled sharply, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. Her blood sang to him.

His fangs throbbed with temptation. His hands tightened on her hips. But he pulled away just in time. He turned his face from her neck, lips parted, a shiver of restraint trembling through him.

“You need to go,” he said hoarsely, his voice thick with longing. “Now… before I forget how to be gentle.”

His eyes glowed faintly, raw with emotion and desire. And he stepped back into the safety of the shadows, watching her like a secret he was too afraid to keep.

“I’ll come back,” she promised again, softer this time, as if saying it any louder might break whatever fragile thing had just formed between them.

Felix didn’t respond right away. He stood a few steps behind her in the dim shadows of the mansion’s doorway, the place where the light ended and he could no longer follow. His red eyes were softer now, less hungry, less dangerous just… quietly watching her like he didn’t want to forget what she looked like. Y/N adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, her fingers trembling slightly as she turned away from him. Her legs still ached, the memory of pain clinging to her thigh, but she didn’t look back just yet. She didn’t trust herself to.

The wooden door creaked as she pushed it open, a harsh contrast to the soft silence behind her. Sunlight greeted her like a slap—too bright, too warm—reminding her she was back in the world that made sense. She stepped outside and paused on the stone steps of the mansion, the cold air brushing against her skin. Then slowly so slowly she turned around.

The building loomed behind her, still and ancient, its windows like tired, sun-dulled eyes. The vines clinging to the stone looked like veins frozen in place, and the old wood creaked under the wind’s touch. And there he was. Felix stood in the shadows, just behind the doorway, his form half-ghosted by the dark. He didn’t speak. He didn’t wave. He just watched her his head tilted ever so slightly, as if he was memorizing her all over again. There was something vulnerable in his stillness, like a statue that longed to move.

She offered him one last look, her eyes lingering on his, before finally, reluctantly, turning away.

Her footsteps were slow at first, each one echoing against the cracked stone path that led back to the world. Then, quicker. Further. Her heart pulled back with every step, but she didn’t stop.

And Felix… he stayed at the threshold, his fingers curled around the edge of the doorframe like he wanted to follow but couldn’t.

Not yet. Not in the sunlight. Not in the world she belonged to.

…

When YN finally reached the edge of town and stumbled through the gates of her dorm, the weight of the mansion still heavy on her, she was immediately met with wide eyes and frantic voices.

“YN?! Oh my God—what the hell—where were you?”

“You actually went through with it?”

“Are you okay? You’re bleeding!”

The voices of her friends swirled around her like a whirlwind. Arms guided her inside, and she was gently eased onto the common room couch, blankets thrown over her shoulders, questions raining down before she could even catch her breath.

She winced. “Guys, I’m fine—seriously.”

“Fine? You look like you just crawled out of a horror movie,” one of them said, pointing at the tear in her pants and bandaged wound. They demanded answers.

“What did you see in there?”

“Was the mansion really haunted?”

“Did something attack you?”

Y/N’s lips parted, her throat dry. She could still feel Felix’s lips brushing her neck, the ghost of his voice in her ear, the aching sweetness of his presence. But she couldn’t tell them that. They’d never believe her.

So she lied, believably.

“There were... graves,” she started, voice low and steady. “Dozens of them, some old, some more recent. The place is completely overgrown. Windows shattered, furniture still inside, like everyone left in a hurry.” Her friends leaned in.

“I think I tripped on one of the broken floorboards. It was dark I didn’t have a good flashlight. I cut my leg on something… maybe glass or rusted wood. I panicked, stayed in one of the rooms till sunrise, then came back.” They stared at her, wide-eyed.

“You stayed the night there alone?” Margo whispered, half in awe, half in horror.

She gave a small shrug, eyes lowered. “I didn’t really have a choice.”

None of them questioned her further not about the wound, not about the strange tiredness in her eyes, not about the way she kept glancing toward the window as if expecting someone or something to be there, watching.

She never mentioned Felix. Not his name. Not his eyes. Not his curse. That part... was hers alone.

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