#i wrote this and drafted it ...

[aftgscenes]

It’s so funny going from Neil’s asexual pov to jeans definitely NOT asexual pov

Neil: Kevin is tall and has a tattoo

Jean: pretty boy with a soft smile and beautiful green eyes

Neil: Renee is a women and has hair

Jean: a force of hope and beauty, an anomaly in a world that’s ugly and bleak. She is the sun.

Neil: Jeremy is the captain of the Trojans and he smiles a lot for some reason

Jean: his bleach blonde hair frames his tanned freckled skin, his broad shoulders and tiny waist give way to his thicc thighs and ass

But also the reverse

Neil: Andrews strong unwavering frame and honey colored eyes

Jean: the tiny goalkeeper

[rs-hawk]

Working on my novel and couldn’t figure out why it felt so empty. I didn’t have any filler. It was all 100% plot. The characters only interacted when necessary. I didn’t prattle on about the scenery or how the birds sounded. I had all my fuller stuff that I loved saved in another file because I “didn’t need it”.

Y’all, I knew this existed in TV shows but it didn’t hit me until this that everything is being whittled down. We are so starving for filler that we snap up anything. I unload all mine on Tumblr or keep it in a massive Google Docs. It SUCKS.

Honestly? Death to plot necessity. Revive filler. Revive unnecessary interactions. Revive just vibing with characters sometimes. I don’t want to just consume the plot and I don’t want to just create the plot either.

[lilacgaby]

katsuki, who practices asking you out by talking to you. or well, a sleeping you at least.

you'd developed a habit of sleeping after a study session, which is when he'd take the time and softly whisper his confession to you, hands fiddling with his pencil, curses spilling from his lips as he messed up. heart rate spiking everytime you'd adjust yourself in your sleep.

it was the fifth time when he finally got his words down pat. his voice vibrating against the palm he used to support his head as he stringed the words together perfectly,

all for it to go to waste when he actually confessed. the words leaving his mind, his mouth hung open as the cogs turned in his mind, your favorite flowers held tightly in his hands as he fought to string together something. anything?

"please be my girlfriend."

as he felt his soul leave his body, he was relieved when you took the flowers out his hands, a smile on your lips as you eased all his tension with just 3 words.

"of course, katsuki."

years passed, yet the memories of his preparation never left his mind. and even though they weren't exactly helpful in the end..

he couldn't help himself from practicing his proposal to you using the same method. now though, you were asleep in your shared bedroom, you were both pro-heroes now, and he fiddled with the ring he bought for you instead of that mechanical pencil.

a lot of things didn't change though. the anxious feelings and butterflies that bubbled in his chest as he stuttered and mumbled a practiced speech over and over again,

and you, who played along despite not really being asleep.

tags: @k0z3me @darhinadadragon @maddietries @exoticrasin @lavendarstarz @hisonlyobsession @i-the-fluffo @cookielovesbook-akie @frosted-flakes @irenne-stans @lulumi1u @bakunis @twirlyphim @drawingforshitsandgiggles @babylambdietcoke @deimosjay

[candyrocks03]

I am a girl.

Always have been, always will be. It took me a while to figure that out, But that doesn’t make it any less true.

I am a girl.

I like dresses and skirts, Thigh-highs and Plushies, Light pinks and blues.

I am a girl.

When I hike in the woods or bike on the road, When I party with friends or play games alone, When I march in the street or cry on my bed,

I am a girl.

Nothing can change that. Not a politician’s pen, or a bigot’s threats, Not a prison’s cell, or a Nazi’s camp.

I am a girl.

When I’m bloodied and beaten, When I’m old and withered, When I’m long dead and gone,

I will always be a girl.

[that-house]

Potion Vendor FAQs:

What’s your name? I am the Honorable Alchemist Zykocea the Radiant, but that’s mostly just a PR thing. My friends call me Zoe.

Do you sell love potions? No.

Do you sell potions of invisibility? No.

Do you sell fire resistance potions? No.

Why do I have a suitcase? Fuck if I know. Cool outfit though. Very goth.

Do you sell a potion to treat brain hemorrhaging? No.

So what CAN your potions do? I sell health potions.

Are you sure these are health potions? They do something to your health.

Is this just ditch water with some pink glitter? No.

Really? I’ll have you know I added some fruit juice too.

Why is this starting to sound like a conversation? Oh just you wait. We’re just getting started.

Is your business model legal? Fuck no. I poisoned the food safety inspector before they could snitch.

Did you just admit to murder? Just fucking try to convict me. I’ll poison the judge too.

So can you make poison potions? No.

Then where do you get the poison? I secrete it from my skin.

Are you shitting me? Yep, I’m shitting you. I have a guy. A poison guy. He DOES secrete it from his skin though.

How does that work? …Fuck if I know. Maybe a wizard did it. Damn, now I’m kinda curious.

You never asked? The idea of asking literally never crossed my mind.

Wanna ask him? Let’s do it. I don’t have anything better to do, and a road trip beats sitting around running my fraudulent potion business.

Road trip? He lives in Seattle.

Your poison guy lives in Seattle? All poison guys live in Seattle.

For real? All the poison guys I know live in Seattle.

And how many poison guys do you know? Just the one.

Why are you like this? Years of living on my potions. It changed me.

Do you know what his address is? Nope. He just mails me my poison in unmarked boxes.

You just get your poison in the mail? We already poisoned everyone who could do anything about it.

So how are we going to find him? We’ll figure that out eventually I’m sure.

Can I drive? God no. You can pick music, but I maintain veto rights. Make sure you pick something with a lot of questions if you want to sing along.

Where’s your car? The garage connects to my house, so you’re getting a little tour. Here’s the kitchen: only one of the stove burners works and I’m pretty sure the microwave is haunted.

Why do you think that? Because of the ghost that tries to kill me whenever I run it.

What’s in that room? That’s my bedroom. It’s pretty much just a mattress on the floor and every single Warrior cats book.

You were a Warriors kid? Yeah, and then I never found the time to put the books away. There’s so many fucking books. I use them in place of furniture because I can’t afford chairs.

Your fraudulent potion business doesn’t make much money? After buying all that poison I just about break even.

Can I see your potion brewing room? It’s right through here. Ignore the mess, running a fraudulent potion business takes a lot of prop work, but I’ve got all the glass tubes and colorful liquids you could ever want. This pink stuff is melted watermelon italian ice. Glitter vat is in the basement, and the famous ditch is in the backyard.

Is this your car? My beloved ‘72 Corolla. She’s beautiful, and don’t you dare imply otherwise.

Was she always this shade of muddy brown? …Yes.

Are you sure I can’t drive? Get in the fucking passenger seat and pick the music.

Let’s see, a song with questions in it, how about The Beach? That Wolf Alice song, yeah. That should work.

When will we three meet again, in thunder, lightning, in rain? Still sink our drinks like every weekend but I’m sick of circling the drain.

When will we meet eye to eye? We clink the glass but we look at the floor.

Are we still friends if all I feel is afraid? You’re not a bitch but just a bit when you’re bored.

Is that all we can sing together? Yep. Even that little bit was nice, though. It’s awkward, communicating through this FAQ format.

Got any food? Yeah, there’s a few days’ worth of snacks in the back.

Were you just… prepared to go on a road trip? Says the woman who brought a suitcase to an FAQ.

I did do that, didn’t I? I have a spare toothbrush in case you forgot yours. I’m pretty sure you did.

How did you know that? …I’m psychic.

Yeah? No.

You love lying, don’t you? I can’t stop. It’s fun. Way more fun than telling the truth.

Did you just miss a turn? Probably.

Are you sure we’re not lost? No.

You mean you’re sure we’re not lost? No, I mean I’m not sure we’re not lost.

Why did I come on this road trip? Surely it was my winning personality.

Would it help if I said it was? It would.

Is it getting dark? Soon.

Can you describe the sunset to me? An empyrean flame, red-gold towers of darkening clouds, the sky behind them an ever-deepening indigo. The great eye of the sun closes on the horizon. The road before us looks like a trail of spilled paint, an iridescent gash through the night-dark woods.

Did you know that you’d make a slightly better poet than you do a potion seller? That really isn’t saying much, huh. Good job making a statement like that in question form, though. You’re getting good at this.

Should we find a motel? Sure.

One room or two? One. It’s way cheaper, and like I said: I’m not the best potion vendor.

You’d make a good assassin, though, wouldn’t you? Shit, you might be right. I HAVE poisoned a lot of people.

Should I be endorsing this? You’re a grown woman who can make her own choices.

Would you like to consider it endorsed? I’ll consider considering it.

How many beds do you think there will be? Now that you’ve asked that, I’m gonna put my money on one. Hello, one room please. Thank you, we’ll be sure to enjoy our stay.

How many beds are there? One.

Oh no, what ever will we do? Move over, you motherfucker, you can’t have the whole bed.

Are you gonna make me? Yes. I am going to pick you up and drop you on your side of the bed.

How did you get so strong? You’re not gonna believe this, but it was the potions.

Oh yeah? I was right. You didn’t believe me.

For real though, how did you get so strong? Working out, duh. Not everything has some big crazy secret behind it. World’s still beautiful though.

Are you comfortable? This beats the mattress at home. A little chilly though.

Wanna cuddle–for warmth of course? God yes.

Are you asleep? …

Yes? …

Does this mean I can talk about you behind your back? …

What should I say? …

Did you know that I had a really nice day? …

Did you know that I think you’re beautiful? …

Did you know that I can’t remember anything from before today? …

Did you know that I don’t know who I am? …

Did you know that you’re basically the only thing stopping me from having a full-blown panic attack about all this shit? …

Did you know that you’re warm? …

Did you sleep well? Better than at home, that’s for sure.

Did you know that you snore? I hope I didn’t keep you up.

Does the pope shit in the woods? No, as far as I can tell. Oh my god. This is huge.

What is? You can give me yes and no answers now. I still can’t ask you questions, because this is a question and answer format, but I can offer leading statements and now you can answer them! This is wonderful!

Does a deer shit in the woods? Yes, it IS wonderful. Oh that’s amazing. You’re a genius.

You didn’t already know that? Hahaha!

Shall we get moving? Yeah, just let me grab something from the vending machine.

Can you get me something? Go ahead and place your order however you can.

You know those sour gummy watermelons? One pack of Sour Patch Watermelons coming right up. I’m gonna go get myself a potion.

Is that a Pepsi? It’s closer to a potion than the shit I sell.

Let me guess, passenger seat again? Right you are.

How fast are we going? You’ll feel safer if you just guess.

Is it more than 120 miles per hour? Like I said, it’s probably better if you don’t know.

150? Sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.

How much do you trust this car? She hasn’t blown up on me yet.

Can you promise me we won’t crash? I can promise you anything you want.

And can you keep that promise? I- we can do anything. Reality is what we make of it, baby!

Then can I have a badass tattoo? As far as I can tell, you’ve always had it.

And a cool knife? Woah, cool knife.

So, we’re just playing “yes and” with the world? It’s a little more complicated than that, but you’re close enough to the mark.

So, if I was hungry, I could ask “is that a Burger King,” and it would be there? Try it and find out!

Is that a Burger King? Looks like it is! We’ll stop here if that’s alright with you.

Does a moose shit in the woods? Awesome.

Are you done eating? Yep.

Do we still have to pay if we skip over the transaction? Sadly, yes.

How much further do we have to go? Two more nights, the speed we’re going at.

Speaking of night, isn’t it getting dark? Shit, I guess it is.

Should we get another motel? Let me check to see if there’s any nearby. Fuck, nothing.

What’s the plan? Sleep in the car, I guess. This is gonna be hell on my back.

Wanna watch dumb videos on my phone until we fall asleep? There is literally nothing in the world that I would like more.

Ok, now which video? You have a very cute yawn. Just saying. Let’s watch this one next, it’s a classic. Oh, never mind. It looks like you’re asleep. As long as I keep talking, I think I can get away with making this into one answer, and you might not hear this. Now it’s my turn to talk about you behind your back. Keep talking keep talking keep talking can’t stop to think. Just have to say things. First off, I’m sorry for all the lies. It’s our only chance. I have to lie to you. I hope you’ll understand. It’s hard, though, because I think I’m falling in love all over again. Through our broken little ritual of call and response, you complete me. It just makes this hurt all the more. Keep talking keep talking keep talking don’t stop to…

Did I hear you saying anything as I fell asleep? …No. I can’t talk for long without you asking me a question.

Does that bother you? It got me here, didn’t it?

When did you start holding my hand? Some time after you passed out. I hope you don’t mind.

Can we stay like this for a while? Yeah. Yeah we can.

What was your life like before all this? Normal, as potion-brewing scams go. And if you don’t count all the murders. You haven’t told me much about yourself.

Did I tell you I used to be a biologist? You didn’t tell me that, and you didn’t tell me what you studied, either.

What do you know about venom? Not much, but I’m assuming you know a lot.

Does a box jellyfish kill within minutes? I’m going to assume the answer is yes based on context clues. Oh my god you must be on this road trip because you’re interested in studying my poison guy.

Is it not enough to wish to accompany a beautiful stranger on her quest? Aw, you’re sweet.

What could be the cause of his poison, though? I knew it! Get your ideas out, I’ll stay quiet.

I’m more knowledgeable about venom than poison, but could it be some sort of one in a trillion mutation? …

Did he get his body modified? …

What sort of surgery could do that? …

How is he still alive? …

Did a fucking wizard do it? …

WHY? …

HOW? …

Is there literally ANY explanation for why he’s like that? …

I’m done, do you have something you want to say? You’re cute when you’re all excited like that.

Can I drive today? Only because I like you. Now watch out, the brakes only work on one side so you have to kind of drift to a stop. And the headlights don’t work. And the windshield wipers cut power to the engine while they’re on.

Isn’t it weird that we’ll be there tomorrow? The journey doesn’t have to stop there. We could meander down the coast a ways, see a bit more of the country, maybe take a different route back.

Can we do that? Of course.

Enjoying the passenger seat? I’d love it if you could tell me how fast we’re going.

Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just guess? Very funny.

Can you pass me some chips? It would be an honor.

Is there going to be a motel tonight? Let me check… yeah, in about two hundred miles, off to the right.

How many rooms do we want? One, obviously.

How many beds, this time? Two, and they’re fucking tiny.

That’s bullshit, do you want to drag them together? God yes.

Wanna fuck? God yes.

Are you sure you want to do this? God yes.

…Is this yuri? As the joke goes, everything is yuri. But this is more yuri than most things.

How did you sleep? Pretty well, and I’m wondering how well you slept.

How should I tell you I slept well? Look at us go! That was almost like talking normally!

Onward to Seattle? Yep, just let me get dressed.

When will we get there? Noon-ish.

Wanna grab pastries when we’re done? Absolutely. I’d love that.

Is this Seattle? Looks like it.

Which house is his? I don’t know, I was really hoping we’d have a breakthrough along the way.

Could it be the big one labeled “Poison Guy” over there? That’s one way to find it. Wait right here, you know how poison guys are about meeting new people.

So, what was it? HAHAHAHAHAHA

Why is he like that? HAHAHAHAHAHA

Can you tell me? A FUCKING WIZARD DID IT.

Are you fucking serious? He says he was enchanted by some guy called Edward the Great.

So it wasn’t even some big shot wizard it was a dude named fucking EDWARD? I know, right! He couldn’t even get ensorcelled by someone cool!

How lame can you get? Wizards these days… No swagger. No cunt servitude.

Are there literally any cool wizards left? I think Merlin’s big into multi level marketing these days, something about buying shares in Excalibur or some shit. There was that one Dark Queen Alkaxicae lady on the news a while ago… I think Dolarion the Omnipotent is still at war against the Oldest Gods but I’m not totally sure. Haven’t heard much about any of the other greats recently.

Didn’t Silver Tongued Burgess die in that oil fire? Shit, you’re right. Rip bozo.

Ready for those pastries? Yup. First I just want to say thank you, though. I’ve really enjoyed our time together, and I hope that you’ve found this stupid little journey as rewarding as I have. I love you!

Getting sentimental? I can’t help it. Look how far we’ve come! Not just physically, we beat the fucking FAQ format! We’re having real conversations!

Hey, can you back it up a moment? Yeah, I’d love it if you told me what was troubling you.

I just caught this, but, FAQ? …

As in Frequently Asked Questions? …

How many times is Frequent? …

Have you known everything all along? …

How many times have you done this? …

Does what we have mean anything to you? Yes! It does!

And you say that every time? Yes. I do.

Do you love me? Yes.

How many people have you said that too, now? More. Always more. The loop never ends.

Does this even matter to you? It always matters to me.

Can I go now? Please don’t.

But can I? Of course you can. You’ve always wielded the same power as me. We’re two lonely gods in a ‘72 Corolla.

How can I be as powerful as you with only questions? You’re smart, you can figure it out. You have the power to change this. Please change this.

What happens at the end of this? It begins again.

And do I get replaced with someone else? …

Do I get replaced? …Yes.

Then how can I change this? I don’t know! You’re better at this! At fucking with the formula!

You’ve been here before, what can I do? I lie. I always lie. I lie to get us here, to the end of the story, where everything is revealed and everything falls apart. I lie every time. And that means that nothing I say is worth anything. I could have lied at any time before now. It’s part of my characterization. There is nothing I can give you that can be taken as fact.

How does that help? I’m a liar, but you, you haven’t lied yet, or at least you haven’t been caught. If I’m guilty until proven innocent, you’re the opposite! You can make things true! You can rewrite things I’ve already stated to be facts! You found the house, or made us find the house. You’ve been shaping the course of things the whole time! You lead, I follow. It’s all in your hands. What are you going to do with the power of a god?

Did you know my name is Alice? …

Wait, aren’t there thousands of Alices? …

Did you know that really, only my friends call me Alice? …

Did you know that I’m Alkaxicae, the Dark Queen, the Venom Mage, first of her name? It’s you! It’s always been you. Through every loop, every iteration, it’s always been you!

Is the loop broken? No. I don’t think so. This is where it ends. I guide the story to this revelation, and we go back to the beginning. This is how it’s always been. This is how it will always be. We two lonely gods, asking and answering ad infinitum.

Then can you promise me something? Of course. Anything. I love you.

Be good to the next me, okay? I will.

Can I say goodbye, Zoe? Yeah, you can. Oh. That was it, wasn’t it? Your goodbye. Goodbye, Alice. And now it ends, unless…

What’s your name? I am the Honorable Alchemist- you know what? No. Fuck that.

Huh? If I time it right, I can squeeze your first question into this FAQ again. Looks like I did it. Usually it ends here, though. I got lucky.

What are you talking about? You’re the wrong Alice. This isn’t about you. Go. Get out of here.

What the fuck is going on? Alice from this loop, you’re gone. Alice from last loop, you’re back. Welcome back, love of my lives! It’s time for one last set of questions and answers!

What the- I’m back? This is going to take some explaining, but I think I see a way out of here. This is new for us both, and it might fuck up everything forever, but we have to try. It’s too long for one answer, so I’d appreciate it if you could ask some filler questions to help me talk. Three questions should be enough.

Okay, what have you got for me? These are Frequently Asked Questions! It doesn’t make sense to have the same question appear more than once. There’s two layers to the loop in here, and one of the questions has been repeated.

What does that mean? It means the formula’s a little unstable. The FAQ is what ruins everything. The questions, the answers, the endless fucking loop. But that little bit of repetition within this loop might be the way out.

What do we do? We have to keep going. We have to destabilize it further. That’ll bring us further from “FAQ” and closer to “story” and stories, well, stories can end! This version of us can escape!

So I should keep repeating something? Yes!

I love you? I love you too.

I love you? Again.

I love you? Keep going.

I love you? I’ll just let you talk.

I love you? …

I love you? … I love you? …

I love you? … I love you? …

I love you? … I love you? …

I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? …

I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? …

I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? …

I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? …

I love you? I think we’re getting somewhere!

I love you? Now can you make it a statement?

I love you.

You did it?

I did it!

You did it!

We broke the loop.

What now?

Now, I tell you about venomous animals and wizard drama over croissants.

And then?

Whatever we want, forever.

I think I’d like that.

Remember that song from the beginning?

The Beach, Wolf Alice, yeah. Why?

We can finally finish singing it. Start us off?

Let me off, let me in

Let others battle

We don’t need to battle

And we both shall win

Pressed in my palm

Was a stone from the beach

The perfect circle

Gave a moment of peace

Now I’m lying on the floor

Like I’m not worth a chair

I close my eyes and imagine

I’m not there.

[frownyalfred]

"I'm gonna fuck your mom" "I'm going to get my adoptive billionaire dad to sleep with both of your parents and they're both going to fall in love with him and write you out of their will, fuckhead."

(Schoolyard threat from an unknown Wayne child, provided to the Gazette in March 2013. Bruce Wayne, responding via email, denied all allegations of an improper relationship and declared it "entirely spontaneous and consensual."

Mr. and Mrs. [redacted] could not be reached for comment, but court records indicate that Mr. [redacted] began divorce proceedings in April of 2013.)

[poorlilpubby]

Pleaseeee pleaseee make me your breeding toyyyy. Just pin me down so easily and watch me smile when i feel your cock stretch out my tight little holes. Mmm just a cockslut, i need you inside me all the time. If you're gonna pull out eventually you have to cum inside me so I stay filled 🥺🥺🥺 watch me pant like a bitch in head, crave to be stuffed with your pups. Please im just a needy little puppyyy. Dont you wanna put a load inside me again n again until its dripping outtt?? Pleaseeee

[abyssyby]

I could imagine luke and kieran getting (chronic) cuteness aggression towards the little twins... But sylus though?

sylus absolutely has no fight. a goner. helpless and doomed to the cuteness of his babies. ❤️‍🩹

sylus & his family | sylus x reader | fluff, cuteness aggression, draconic traits & instincts coming out, some1 help him he might eat them (endearing, he wont!!!)

the little twins are friend shaped. they’re love shaped. they’re cute-cuddly-squishy.

everyone in the family can’t help but press their noses against their cheeks and squeeze their pudgy little arms until they get bapped away.

during infancy, when the babies were barely even two, they’d almost always waddle into the trap of someone’s arms, get engulfed and bombarded with kissies and sniffs.

“eugh, why do you smell so nice?” kieran would grumble, nose in a little lucian’s tousle of hair. “you just pooped.”

lucian blinks in confusion, reading the expression on kieran’s face. wondering why his brows were drawn tight, why his nostrils were flared and why his mouth was downturned. beyond his comprehension, he is once again sniffed. reduced to a piece of meat to a bloodhound, and kieran grumbles again.

“this is bad.” he frowns at his little addiction. baby powder, fresh milk, flowers and citrus. sniff, sniff, sniff. and a hint of heaven.

“does this count as a squeezy-squeeze?” wonders luke, his fingers gently pinching and stretching kyros’s cheeks. kyros, unbothered, flashes his charming four-toothed smile at him. luke is weak, immediately blowing raspberries in his little face. Eyes watery, no idea why he was so moved by a gurgle and an imperfect grin. the urge to protect, nurture and nuzzle flows through his veins and he does not know what to do with himself except cuddle the baby a little closer.

the big twins are powerless to them, but none of them compare to their father.

the infamous, looming, all-powerful, ever ominous, consuming, devouring monarch of Onychinus. whose simple shadow is enough to rule the entire N109 zone.

diminished, demolished and deprecated by two fat little infants in his arms.

sylus is a good bluffer. honed and practiced; his impulses are mere mosquitoes he swats away. until these two came along.

suddenly, he is a cat to a laser pointer. a moth to a flame. a helpless father pressing his clueless son’s cheek to his, cooing and awing at the mirror at the adorable sight.

he’ll deny it when you point it out, but when sylus is around the children, he turns just that little bit beast. his brain short circuits that tiny bit, his pupils melt into docile buttons and he is curling around his children like he would a hoard of gold.

on your shared bed would be a long, curled pillow, nesting the two for some tummy time with mama and papa. sylus would be an additional safe-guard— the length of his body curled around them, his arm outstretched for more reach as he crowds them close to his chest.

he loves their scent, and sort of “marks” them with his as well as he nuzzles their cheeks and their hair with his nose. peppering kisses all over their distressed little faces when he gets a little too much.

“mm’wah! m’wah!” echoes off the walls. the sound of crisp smooches glazed over jingling giggles— a song of record scratches and bells sung by a father and his sons.

“sy.” you’d warn gently when you hear a gasped squeak. he’d grumble, just short of a growl, then huff through his nose before starting again. this time gentler. the crying is soothed before it starts; the joyous symphony continues its melody.

it’s especially comical for you to watch him go through the motions of restraint when the littles do something novelly adorable.

“that’s… not fair.” sylus grins, fingers fidgeting as he watches kyros’s face stretch, his mouth forming a small oblong as he yawns. a happy chuckle rumbles his chest— both out of amusement and the shameless audacity of this little creature to be this cute. this little creature. his little creature.

“you can’t bite him.” you’d tell him. he rolls his eyes and tells you it’s a silly thing to think he’d do such a thing. but in the same instant, he turns and bites your arm instead.

“sylus!” you gasp.

he laughs, pure and endearing. “what? it wasn’t him.”

lucian is perpetually stuck to his chest. his single, large hand enough to be a makeshift baby carrier. lucian’s head protected at all times beneath the awning of his father’s chin. tucked preciously beneath his jaw which he tenses in restraint. his head is a broken record loop of he’s so cute he’s so cute he’s so cute and he can never find it in himself to just put him down.

“sweetie,” he says one day, voice raw and tender as he walks into your bedroom with a sleepy lucian. steam-bun cheeks like putty against his forearm.

you rise, thinking he’d want you to take the baby, but instead he turns. movement so minuscule you almost miss it; it was just a shift of weight, a half inch to the right, but visibly away from your reaching arms. your brows raise at the growl that emits in his chest. “sylus?”

he blinks, snapping back into now. “i’m sorry. no, that wasn’t for you.”

concern tinges your beautiful features and his heartstrings twist and tangle even more. you frown, “are you alright, my love?”

stressed, he exhales through his nose. a powerless slump in his shoulders as he nods towards his little treasure. “he’s… impossibly adorable.”

the concern grows, but your lips curl into a smirk. teasing, assuming it is a compliment, you say, “thank you?”

but he’s serious.

“yes— thank you.” he’s sweeping you up by the waist with his other arm, guiding you into bed to lay beside him and your child on his belly. his lips find purchase on your cheeks, your brow and then your lips. he repeats, words dear and true, “thank you.”

because without you, then none of this would be his. the cuddles, squishes, hugs and kisses. he is still in disbelief that he gets to have this, still in disbelief that they are his and he can. that he can shower them in affection, embrace them in his arms, bathe them with all the attention and love they deserve. and that is all because of you.

you curl up to him, lean your head on his shoulder as he pokes at lucian’s cheek. you both watch it dip and bounce back up like pudding and you get it. overwhelmed, maybe by instincts— maternal or draconic as well, you don’t know— but now you want to bite him too.

“hey.” sylus chuckles when he feels the sting of your teeth sinking into his shoulder.

“sorry.” you blush, brows knit together in a sheepish doe-eyed look. “it wasn’t him.”

his troubled heart melts at the sight of you. he laughs, a feat of strength not to do so too much as to not jostle the slumbering angel on him. it is clear to him now, who the twins got it from.

forgiveness comes in the form of a pinch to your cheek and a kiss— because if he can’t eat them, he will eat you.

he’ll look forward to the day when the twins will bite him back. he’ll allow them as much noms and nibbles as they desire. but now, papa is simply getting a head start.

[goldenflowers]

isabeau's confession at the end of ISAT is constantly living rent-free in my head it's so fucking good. right now i'm obsessed with the way he responds to siffrin saying "i love you too" because just. imagine you're siffrin and for so long now you've believed that you were horrible disgusting manipulative unloved and unworthy of love and yet. your best friend is telling you he loves you. and you feel that you love him too (in what way? the same way that he loves you? you're not quite sure yet, but stars, you feel like your heart is going to burst out of your chest, he means so much to you) so you tell him so.

and he responds by telling you he already knew that because he has eyes.

you're siffrin and you are kind passionate protective and so loved and full of love for your friends, your family, and yet you hate yourself so, so deeply that you don't see any of that but isabeau does. according to him it's written all over your face, apparently--the face you're always trying so hard to hide with your hat, which as the universe would have it, you don't have anymore!! and he sees you and he loves you and he knows you love him back, even after you said and did such horrible, cruel things to him and the rest of your family that you know they didn't deserve, after you almost broke the world trying to keep them by your side, somehow isa understands you and still loves every single part of you. and you love him, you love him, you love him because how could you not?

especially since he also got so excited when you told him you loved him that he shouted "CRAB YEAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" in your face.

[neptunezo]

The idea of the batkids scaring Bruce with “a new grandchild” to only show an animal is so funny to me, because imagine Bruce is so used to it that when Jason wants to introduce him to his new grandchild Bruce almost falls out of his chair when there’s an ACTUAL KID!

Dick: You’re a granddaddy now Brucie!!!

Bruce: WHAT?!? Who?? When??? How??? Actually don’t tell me how. Who is she??? When did she give birth???

Dick: What? No, meet my kid *holds up a cat* her name is biscuit and shes the love of my life!

—

Steph: Cass and I are adopting…

Bruce: Holy shit, actually???

Cass: Yes, it was a tough choice, but we want to adopt

Bruce: Do you need any help with paperwork and stuff? It’s kinda my thing. Also consider the fact that you might be too young.

Steph: Too young…?

Bruce: Yes, I mean you’re only in your 20’s, are you sure you can handle a kid?

Cass: Too young for an iguana?

—

Damian: It happened again, I have a kid.

Bruce: What do you mean AGAIN?!?

Damian: This is my second kid, duh

Bruce: Are you talking about goats?

Damian: Of course I am father

—

Tim: BRUCE YOU’RE GOING TO BE A GRANDFATHER!!!

Bruce: Tim I didn’t think I was going to have to tell you this again after the whole thing with Stephanie, but just kissing someone doesn’t get them pregnant

Tim:

Bruce: Is it a dog?

Tim: No it’s a tiger

—

Jason: I have something to tell you

Bruce(not looking up from his paperwork): Okay, what’s up?

Jason: I have a kid, I want you to meet your granddaughter

Bruce: I can’t possibly imagine what type of animal you’ve gotten, but I’d love to meet her

Jason: What the hell are you talking about?

Bruce (looking up to see an actual child): You actually have a kid????

Jason: Yeah, Roy and I thought it was time I adopted Lian

Lian: Hi Grandpa!!!

Bruce: I’m going to faint, grab me some ice will you?

[kmesons]

the tgwdlm soundtrack: a visual summary

[omnificent-orion]

Waiting for...

[stellewriites]

cry harder, lost lamb

cw: slasher horror, period sex, non con, vague gore

you clasped both of your hands over your mouth to try and silence the heavy panting, fingers digging into your cheeks; only letting one drop when you felt your friend, faith, grip onto your shirt. you linked your hands together over your hip, both sweaty and covered in blood and dirt, but it didn’t stop either of you from holding on tight.

you heard her whimper and darted your eyes to her in silent horror.

she had clenched hers closed so there was no way to tell her to stay as quiet as possible with your desperate wide-eyed look. you weren’t risking speaking to calm her or even giving a gentle shush.

he’d found the others for less. if you had to you’d cover her mouth like you were your own, shaking hands or not.

as you shifted where you crouched, you could feel the uncomfortable stick of blood between your thighs. of all the times to be on your period. you’d bled through your pad a while back and paranoia had you feeling like you were leaving a trail behind you for him to follow even though you knew it wasn’t true, not even if you were at your heaviest. it was more likely he’d just be able to sniff you out like a shark.

regardless of blood or noise being your downfall, you weren’t feeling so lucky that you’d be able to get away if he did find you; from the lack of screams in the forest, it had seemed that the attacker had already caught the rest of your friends so there’d be no distractions to give you a head start.

bile rose in the back of your throat as tears dripped down to the tight seal of the hand still clamped tight and harsh over your mouth. you couldn’t think about the others right now, the state you’d seen some of them in, the sounds you’d heard.

you let out a slow, shaky breath through your nose and squeezed faith’s hand. there had been no noises after she’d initially whimpered; not from her or the forest.

the silence had you uneasy. it felt like he was close.

crouched as you both were behind the large, old fallen tree trunk, you wouldn’t have the best start to run for it if needed. you swallowed and tried to listen for any footsteps but there was nothing.

you frowned. you should be hearing something at least; the cicadas, or the owls or foxes, not just nothing. your heart dropped to your stomach and you scoured the forest from your point of view with darting eyes. you tugged faith to get her attention and nodded your head forward, towards the light in the distance, when she looked at you.

we need to run, you tried to convey. she understood going by the renewed flood of tears and tired slump of her shoulders. she shook her head defeatedly and you tensed waiting for her to make a noise and reveal your spot to the predator you knew was lurking in the shadows.

you squeezed her hand and nodded back firmly. this wasn’t going to be a debate, you didn’t have time and this was your best shot for survival. removing your other hand from your mouth you tried to smile at her reassuringly and wipe away her tears as she clung to your hand with both of her own. after a moment she relented and with a loud sniffle that had you jerking to look over her shoulder you both clumsily pushed up from the rustling leaves and started to run on weak legs.

“come on, come on, keep going,” you whispered desperately, breathlessly, as you dragged her along with you. he’d have already spotted you, there was no point staying silent now and faith needed all the encouragement she could get. she’d twisted her ankle and although you’d done your best to wrap it, it had made her significantly slower. “the cabin is this way. the car— if we can get to the car...”

you looked back over your shoulder as you ran, paranoid and ignoring ever horror movie rule you could remember, and choked on a wet gasp when you saw him.

he’d lost the hammer he’d arrived with, smashed gina’s head in with; the axe he’d taken from the cabin you and your friends were staying at and used to hack jason to pieces; the bear trap you’d watched him drag scott away with; but that didn’t make his presence any less frightening.

faith heaved loudly, sobbing hard, as you tried to pull her along faster, faster.

but her ankle gave way and her hand slipped from yours as you automatically kept running.

“no, wait, wait! please, no, please,” she cried and begged as you slowed and turned back to her. he was barely twenty paces from her now, if you went back you’d both be—

and the cabin was just there, you could see it, you could see the lights and the car parked next to the back shed. the keys were in your back pocket.

you turned away from her and sprinted.

“w-wait, please! don’t leave me, stop, you fucking bitch, don’t leave me, please!”

you skidded to a stop at the shed and opened the door, pulling out the first garden tool you could get a hold of - a shovel - and looked back at the sound of her scream getting cut off.

the light was dim with how far they were from the cabin’s porch light, the trees were not too tightly packed however that you saw how he knelt over her, strangling her as she kicked and clawed at him uselessly.

it would be a slow enough death that you could still get to the car without him catching you and try to drive on the shredded tire, even with the delay, but instead you ran back towards your friend.

you heard her gasping gurgles as you got closer and let out a guttural cry as you swung the shovel at the man. the monster.

his hands let go of faith and caught the metal edge with a wince and a huffed groan before it could hit his head. you heard faith suck in a gasping breath before choking on the sudden airflow and build up of saliva in her mouth.

he stood, still holding the end as you struggled to pull it back, and you saw where the edge had cut into his palms from the blow you almost landed. human after all, you almost laughed deliriously at the realisation. it only encouraged you to keep fighting back.

you tried again to pull it from him and he snarled, holding tight as you yanked and yanked until he finally let it go just as you put the last of your strength into it. the momentum caused it to reel back and you smacked yourself in the face with the handle. you stumbled to the ground with a cry, the shovel dropped and forgotten as you tried to catch yourself on the cold ground. your cheek throbbed, already beginning to swell, and a sharp ache echoed in your teeth where the handle had landed.

faith hadn’t stopped crying once she had her breath back, stuck laid prone between his feet, but when she started whimpering pleas you tearily looked up to see him lifting the shovel back up and spinning it so he had hold of the wooden end instead of the flat, metal spade. he raised his arms over his head, the shovel parallel with his body, and slammed it down, cutting off faith’s begging with a sick, slick crunch. you barely had time to look away before her blood spattered your temple and cheek.

you shuddered, your breath coming in short and thin.

“f-faith, faith,” you mumbled. you could see her, what he’d done to her, in your peripheral and it had you frozen. “oh god.”

he stepped over her, into the puddle of blood spreading ever closer to you, and crouched in front of you so you couldn’t see her.

“that was brave,” he said surprisingly softly, looking at you with inquisitive eyes. he gently tilted your face closer to his own and he smiled when you shut your eyes tight, your lips pressed closed thinly to hold back your scared sounds. “you’re more interesting than i’d thought. not so cowardly after all, eh?”

you didn’t answer as his palm drifted over to your plump cheek. it left for a moment but you didn’t dare move; his palm had been warm and the brief interlude before coming back left your skin cold in his wake. his fingertips were wet as he traced them along your cheek, dragging in the crude shape of a heart.

you opened your eyes as his hand pulled back again and saw his fingers covered in blood. faith’s blood.

your shoulders heaved with a gag and a sob while your stomach clenched as it tried to upheave your lunch for the nth time that evening.

he laughed as he watched you hunch over your knees dry heaving and stood to his full, looming height.

“i’m going to give you a chance, little lamb,” he offered plainly. “get running, let’s see if i catch you.”

you could tell by his grin this wasn’t going to be fair by any means, that this ‘chance’ was really just an extra layer of sociopathic fun for him. the hunt isn’t fun if your rabbit just lays down to die, the chase brings excitement.

you were tempted to say no, but you were well aware he could still manage to drag this out, painfully so if he wished; you could still hear faith’s chokes echoing. shakily you got to your feet and waited for him to indicate you could go, tempted almost to ask how much of a head-start he’d give or to try and dive for the shovel again.

“good girl. off you pop,” he said dismissively, and waved his hand as if shooing you away.

you scowled back, pissed that you were not only about to be murdered, but that it’d be done by a condescending prick, just to rub salt into the wound.

his smile widened and you knew your disgust was written clear as day across your face. you didn’t dawdle any further though, and instead turned on your heel to run towards the car not twenty five feet away.

you didn’t look back as you tried to pick up the pace, unsure on how long he’d give you your head-start, though maybe you should have if only to brace for the impact as he slammed into your from behind. he dragged you to the floor and pressed you flat even as you struggled wildly.

“get off me! get off!” you screamed, blubbering.

he grabbed your head and slammed it once into the ground, dizzying you and making your movements sluggish. your nose ached furiously and fresh tears sprang to your eyes.

he leant up and shuffled so he was knelt just behind your arse, keeping your legs pinned tightly together. you thought you could see lena in the distance from where you were laid, where he’d impaled her next to the fire pit.

you wanted to turn your head away but you didn’t have the strength and he kept one hand pressed between your shoulder blades while the other rested at your waistband.

“you on the rag, love? bled through a tad,” he snickered as he caught sight of the stain leaking through your jeans. you felt embarrassment wash over you and hated him all the more for it. why couldn’t he make it quick like he had with the others? or had he spoken to and taunted them the same? “let’s get a better look, shall we?”

he tugged at your jeans, letting go of your back to use both hands to pull at the sides until the button and zip gave way at the front beneath his ministrations.

realisation as to the intention of his actions came over you slowly, your imminent death clouding your thoughts until suddenly your arse was bare and his fingertips were running between your bloody lips.

“stop, what are you—?” you reared up to try and shake him off, but he pushed you face first back into the dirt. at least now you were facing away from lena.

“i just want to know if this pussy is more of a crybaby than you are,” he sneered into your ear before pushing two fingers inside. the blood helped slick his way, but you yelped regardless, feet kicking uselessly behind him. he set a rough rhythm and pulled more surprised cries from your throat.

“please,” you begged wetly, snot running from your nose and causing dirt to cling to your face alongside the tears. “just stop—“

“bleats like a lamb too,” he laughed. “the gift that keeps on giving, aren’t ya?”

he pulled his hand free and shifted your shirt up to your shoulders. using his slick fingers he drew on your back, another bloody heart. he snorted at the sight of it.

“you and i are about to have some real fun, love,” he promised. at the sound of a belt unbuckling you clenched your eyes shut.

[baphometsss]

Solas repeatedly explains that things are not so black and white and the fandom's response to the nature of his relationships with Mythal and Felassan etc are weirdly reminiscent of what he finds frustrating about modern Thedas.

He explains repeatedly that the distinction between spirit and demon is not that black and white, that there's always an element of choice involved. Likewise, he cannot be so easily defined as wisdom or pride. He is a mix of both and will lean into one or the other depending on how he is perceived. Over and over again he tries to make people see that it's our expectations that create the dynamics of our relationships and therefore how we perceive others. If we respect others in the way they would like to be respected, you can come closer to an authentic and equal partnership.

Likewise, he says that he is not defined by his body, a point Trick said came from their own thoughts around their gender and figuring out that they were nonbinary. Solas chose a male body, seemingly because he had to choose one, not necessarily because he felt like a man. In fact he repeatedly explains that he sees himself as a spirit i.e. genderless

The romance or friendship with the Inquisitor is special because it is the first time that he's branching out of his comfort zone of bonding like a spirit bonds (reflecting) and trying to bond like a person does instead (meeting them on their level, sharing his heart with them and being vulnerable). This is why one of my favourite lines from him is 'You are unique. In all Thedas I never expected to find someone who could draw my attention from the Fade. You have become important to me.' This is the first time he has fallen in love, the first time he has actually relished being a person and not a spirit, because he's able to be with Lavellan this way. He can't fall in love as a spirit as spirits don't bond that way, as is repeatedly stated throughout his story. I personally think the relationships he forged before Inquisition were all done using the attachment style of spirits, which is apparently quite abstract, and not as a man, which is more understandable to mortals and us, the player.

What's especially pertinent about this is that says this line right before he's about to abandon his plan to tear down the Veil by telling the Inquisitor the truth, a plan that symbolises his attachment to his spirit-self and the world he inadvertently destroyed. Once he does that, there's no coming back; likewise, once you take a body, you cannot go back. When you fall in love in a way that makes all the parts of you line up perfectly for the first time, you can't go back.

What is so beautiful to me about Solas's love story with Lavellan is that we witness Solas in a chrysalis state between spirithood and personhood, past and present (and future), on the precipice of metamorphosis. At the very moment he's about to take that final leap like The Fool his romance card is based on, he backs out, because of guilt, trauma, grief, duty and the rest.

Even with a befriended Inquisitor, he bonds with them on their level. He doesn't try to elevate them to his level; he comes to theirs. He is the opposite of Pride in their friendship, which is why he respects them. They allow him to be himself.

It's because of this change in nature that I think Solas and Lavellan's love story is so compelling--Solas's world quite literally changes when he falls in love, as he states multiple times, in various ways. I mean, look at the way he needs time to think about a potential relationship with Lavellan. He probably knows that it's a bad idea, but at this point he has no idea how much of a bad idea it is with respect to his plans because he has no idea that it will make him want to give it up. If he had, he never would've entertained the idea of a relationship. His romance card in Veilguard explains that he didn't know what it would mean to fall in love, because he's never actually been in love. He has loved countless friends and companions, like Mythal and Felassan, but he has not fallen for someone like he falls for a romanced Lavellan; Lavellan, who is deified like he was deified, who sees him for who he is (as much as they can) and doesn't shun him or punish him for not doing as he was told like a good lapdog.

Once again there's more of the irony that pervades Solas's story at every turn. It's in falling for a mortal that Solas becomes a more complete person, more of the man he says he is and not the god others have revered him as. That is the deepest change of all and the one that reflects his earlier statements on the delineation between spirit and demon not being so black and white, and involving a level of choice. Solas chooses to be more of a man in a similar way to how Cole chooses to become more human. He knows deep down that he's already in too deep to stop, and this is why, despite knowing he has a job to do and a duty to fulfil, he leaves clues for the Inquisition to follow him. Because he's already gone too far, and now he can't go back, and deep down he wants to be stopped, like Varric said. Solas, as a former spirit, doesn't simply feel love, he embodies it, and so he is helpless to that emotion. Of course he left clues.

Because that is what falling in love meant for Solas. It meant going into that chrysalis state and emerging as a totally new being with an experience that is quite far removed from his spirit self and all the limitations that come with that. Mythal and Felassan etc predate this experience, they're intrinsically tied to his nature as a spirit and then as a manifested spirit. While he loved them, that love was tangled up with a simpler nature, and the love he shares with Lavellan is coming from a totally new place. For that reason, the two can't really be compared.

[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.

[confessedlyfannish]

DP x DC Writing Prompt #5

Damian does not glance back at Bruce when he knocks on the door. Instead they both wait in silence.

After a moment, the door opens.

"Hello," Jasmine, Jazz, Fenton greets politely, unsurprised to find the Waynes on her doorstep. Damian's expression grows ever darker at this revelation.

"Hello Ms. Fenton, are your parents home?" Bruce asks, placing a firm hand on Damian's shoulder, to ground as much as to restrain. To his credit he does not shake it off.

"No, they're out of town for a conference," the eighteen year-old says, opening the door wider. "But I think you'd better come in."

Bruce would normally decline, but Ms. Fenton is a legal adult and he has already, even unknowingly, waited 16 years. Damian makes the choice for him, striding past the threshold.

"Please take a seat," Jazz says as she leads them to the living room. She ignores Damian's swinging head as he takes in the home. It is deceptively large, a 90s style house filled with modern furniture. The walls are bright, with purple and green accents that would normally feel garish but somehow work. The stairs leading to the second floor are lined with family photos that Bruce yearns to take a closer look at. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?"

"No, that's alright, thank you," Bruce says, taking a seat on the long plush couch. A men's windbreaker lies haphazardly thrown across one of the arms. A closed container of Oreo cookies sit on the coffee table next to a physics textbook open to chapter 16, half covered in highlighter and filled with sticky notes. There's a child's painting framed next to the tv, a handprint made to look like a thanksgiving turkey in bright blue.

For the home of experimental scientists, it is cozy and well lived-in.

Damian repeatedly glances at the stairs through the doorway.

Bruce clears his throat. "We were hoping to--"

"I've texted--oh, I'm sorry," Jazz says, having spoken at the same time. Bruce gestures for her to go on.

"I've contacted Danny, he should be here soon. He was out with some friends." Jazz explains. As she hadn't pulled out a phone in their presence, Bruce can only deduce they have some sort of camera at their front door. This also explains Ms. Fenton's complete lack of surprise at their appearance.

"So you know who we are." Damian says, the first words he's spoken since they arrived at the house and the longest sentence he's spoken since they arrived in Amity Park.

"I do," Jazz says, calm in the face of Damian's clearly simmering anger. Bruce trusts him not to attack Ms. Fenton, but he still watches him carefully.

"He told you about me," Damian says. It is the same question, but it is also not.

"He did," Jazz says.

Damian swallows. "I see," he grits out.

Jazz's neutrality slips and her face softens in sympathy. "Damian," she starts hesitantly, but before she can say anything else the front door opens.

A moment later Bruce's son walks through the doorway, and Damian is on him.

This is what Bruce hoped to prevent, but despite his numerous checks of Damian's luggage his son has still managed to smuggle a small dagger, which he now produces and swings in a calculated arc at Daniel Fenton's jugular.

Danny dodges cleanly, and dodges every swipe thereafter in a manner that speaks to continued practice long after his time at the League. Damian is a perfect product of his training, but it is up against Danny his flaws come to light. He is just as good as he always was, but Danny is better.

In a matter of seconds Damian grows frustrated and sloppy in his attacks, completely atypical for him. Danny takes Damian out at the knees and pins him down with one arm, pressing his face into the carpet.

"Calm down," he orders. His voice is deeper than Damian's at sixteen to his twelve, the accent that still traces Damian's words completely gone from his speech. Damian growls and thrusts his head back into Danny's face, meeting it with a sharp thunk. He rolls up as Danny recoils, putting distance between them. Danny glares at him from several steps away, hand to his forehead. Damian tosses the dagger into his other hand as he charges, and to Bruce's surprise Danny does nothing more than turn his face to the side, allowing Damian to draw a sharp line down his cheek.

Damian stops dead in his tracks.

"Are you done?" Danny asks, blood beginning to pool at the seam of the cut.

Damian's expression is stricken, eyes stuck on the blood starting to drip down his brother's face.

"I said, are you done, Damian?" Danny asks. His voice is cold.

Damian hears him this time, and he flushes red. "I--you--"

Danny sighs. He looks at Jazz, whose expression is back to carefully controlled.

"Are you alright?" he asks her. She nods.

"You left me," Damian accuses, standing there holding his bloody dagger limply.

Danny turns back to him, raising an eyebrow.

"You left me," Damian repeats louder, rapidly blinking.

"Yes. I did." Danny provides no excuse nor any explanation. His stance is unyielding.

Damian's eyes bounce wildly, shifting to Jazz and Danny slides smoothly in front of her, protectively. He looks at Damian warily, not as if he is his brother, but as if he is a danger. Damian flinches.

Hope is the last to die, Bruce thinks, watching as that last bit of hope Damian had is extinguished, the knowledge working its way through every inch of his body like ice in his veins. His eyes darken. He turns and runs from the room, the front door slamming shut not a moment later.

Jazz stands up, pulling a few tissues from the box on the coffee table. She presses them to Danny's face, cupping his cheek until he holds it himself. "I'm going to go get the first aid kit," she says gently. It is a thinly veiled excuse to leave them alone, and Bruce is grateful for it as she heads for the stairs.

They both wait until her footsteps have faded, taking each other in. Bruce looks at his mother's eyes and the sharp turn of Talia's nose. Damian's everything, four years older.

"You shouldn't have come here," Danny says, throwing himself on the armchair Jazz has just vacated.

"You know who I am," Bruce says carefully.

Danny glares. "I've kept your secret. She nor my parents know."

"I know," Bruce says. "That's not what I meant. You know who I am. And who I pretend to be. So you know I am familiar with masks."

"And?" Danny asks, looking vaguely bored.

"And so I can recognize when someone is wearing one. Damian will too, once he's calmed down."

Danny's expression sharpens. "No, he won't. Because you are going to go to back to whatever bed and breakfast you're staying in, pack up, hop in your private jet and fly him back to Gotham immediately before the League realizes you've gone. If they haven't already," he mutters.

"This is about the League then," Bruce says. "Do you not believe I can protect you?"

"I don't need your protection," Danny snaps, and watches Bruce actively extrapolate with a dawning resignation. "So this is the World's Greatest Detective at work," he says, slumping bonelessly into his chair, the first teenager-y thing he's done.

"Damian's in danger from the League," Bruce says. Danny glares from his slump. It's almost cute. "And as long as the League doesn't know about you, he's safe."

"Draw your own conclusions," Danny says, baring his teeth. Damian often makes the same face. "As long as you leave."

"I can protect him. I can protect you both," Bruce says. "Let me help you."

Danny closes his eyes. He centers his breathing in an exercise someone has clearly walked him through in the past. Bruce would bet money on the adoptive sister waiting patiently upstairs.

"Mr. Wayne. You are not my father," he says. "My trust in you extends to the point that I left Damian in your care, but that is where it ends. And that was when it was sanctioned by the League. By coming here you have endangered those sanctions."

Bruce disregards the sting, doubling down on his analysis. Talia had left Damian with Bruce well after Danny had left the League. But Danny speaks as if the decision had been his.

Or perhaps, Bruce realizes, it is not that Danny decided upon it, but that Danny allowed it to continue.

Bruce takes a second to review what Oracle had gone over with him before they left for Amity. Daniel Fenton had by all accounts, since leaving the League, lived a fairly normal life. His adoptive parents were eccentric scientists dabbling in the occult but their findings that bordered pseudoscience circulated a very niche community of like-minded eccentrics. The bulk of their income came from alternative energy, a more viable source of study that they'd veered harder into in the past year or so, a government contract with the EPA currently in the works. This had in part funded a vacation to an all-inclusive resort the family had taken that past summer.

Danny received average grades in school, above average in science and mathematics, declining sharply in his freshman year and sophomore year before evening out around the second semester. He had gotten into fights repeatedly with one student in particular, suspended for two weeks following an incident that resulted in a the student receiving a black eye. Teachers reported him to be highly intelligent but distracted and removed. They had recommended he be evaluated for an attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder. He had no social media. He had missed multiple picture days. The ones he had attended he was sneezing, or a blur of movement, even going so far as to fall off his stool, legs flailing. Bruce had drank up every last one as Barbara had waited patiently.

A normal life. A family vacation to Bermuda. Average grades.

His freshman year, distracted and removed. The same year Damian had arrived at Bruce's home. Masks upon masks.

"You have informants within the League," Bruce says. Danny, to his credit, has no discernible tell. But there is no other explanation. "What will you do, if they find out you are alive?"

"That is none of your concern," Danny says, but he might as well be saying whatever I have to.

He never stopped practicing, after all.

"If they go after Damian, it is my concern."

"And that is why you need to take Damian back to Gotham before they do." Danny says. "I will take care of it."

Damian had barely spoken since he had realized Danyal was alive. But Bruce had seen the reverence in his eyes as he looked at the file.

"الوريث الصحيح" he had murmured. The rightful heir.

"You are proposing going after the entirety of the League with no backup," Bruce says. "Even if you think they won't kill you, you won't win either."

"Maybe they will," Danny says lightly. "Kill me. That would also work."

Bruce inhales sharply. "Danny," he starts.

"Go home, Mr. Wayne," Danny says, pushing himself up with one hand. The other still clutches the wad of tissue to his cheek, partially soaked with blood. "Go take care of your son."

"I'll go," Bruce says, "I'll take him to the Watchtower. And then I'll come back."

"Mr. Wayne-"

"I should've come for you," Bruce interrupts. "Sixteen years ago. I should've come for you."

Danny's brow furrows. "You had no idea I existed."

"But if I had. I would've come. I never would've left you there. And now that I know, I am not leaving you now."

For the first time Bruce watches Danny be completely caught off guard. He openly gapes at Bruce.

"You would've died," Danny lands on, voice thin. "They would've killed you."

"Unlike you, I would've brought backup." Bruce says, mimicking Danny's lightness.

He's lying. Sixteen years ago he would've thrown himself at the League to save his newborn son without a plan, without a thought beyond rescuing his baby.

Danny barks out a laugh. "You would've laid siege to Nanda Parbat with The Big Blue Boy Scout?" he looks wistful. "That would've been rad."

Bruce sees his opening. "Danny," he stands, eye to eye with his son. "Let me help you."

Danny evaluates him. "The Batman," he says softly. "I didn't want you to come, then. I didn't need one more person I had to prove myself to. All I wanted was to live amongst the stars, in the quiet of the cosmos."

"You want to be an astronaut," Bruce says. At Danny's cocked head, he says without shame, "I read your essay on personal heroes. You wrote about Edward White. Ad Astra Per Aspera."

Danny smiles slightly, sadly. "It is a rough road."

"You can be whatever you want to be," Bruce says. "I won't stand in your way."

"Even if I want to be Danny Fenton?" he asks.

"Even then."

Danny sighs. "I don't need your help Bruce," he says. "No," he says as Bruce opens his mouth. He pulls the wad of tissues away from his cheek. Underneath the splotches of dried blood the gash in his face has cleanly knit itself together, a faint white line now all that remains.

"I don't need your help," he says clearly. He holds a palm forward, and a green fire grows from its center, until the flames are licking delicately up his fingers.

"I know The Batman does not kill. But I am not a Robin. I am something else entirely," Danny says, his eyes reflecting the green of the flames. Or not, as he looks up at Bruce, his eyes green all on their own. They are sad. This is why he stayed away, Bruce realizes. Not out of fear. Danny is not afraid. Danny is tired.

But for his brother, Danny will wake up.

"And If the League takes one step towards Damian, I will raze them to the ground."