#no commentary use your imaginations

[frogwhoosh]

[muirmarie]

thinking about if tos mccoy had died before romulus was destroyed, tos spock could've been carrying his not-quite-a-katra during the events of the aos movies

[araraito]

A game just like Sims but dark and gloomy would be extremely good... Something like living in a town run by a cult or demons and just trying to live a normal life... Or we could choose to get involved or save the town or make it better or destroy it entirely...

[yeonban]

❛ Unfortunately for that guy, he's not going to get a boyfriend anytime soon if he keeps walking around town with me. ❜ And although his phrasing could be misconstrued as Tobias having had some sort of intentional involvement in Elijah's love life, nothing could be farther from the truth. ❛ What a shame that I'm such a guy magnet, huh? It's getting so bad that it's even destroying others' love lives. ❜ Whether this information is correct or not, someone please put a lid on this man's ego, or at least some tape on his mouth.

[smetterpetter]

audience psychology

I don't know for sure if crowd psychology or audience psychology are actual academic subjects, but - no who am I kidding, as a historian I can confidently guess they are and I noticed something that I just want to spitball out into the void until some social scientist or psychologist on the loose enlightens me.

Why does the audience fail to factor in itself as a factor in a situation? Is this a thing that is studied, i'm guessing yes, please tell me more, (imagine me holding a gun to your head) infofump!

I - autistically - noticed this phenomenon while scrolling the 7th circle of hell (Snapchat story tiles) and it once again revealed to me Justin Bieber is divorcing his wife Hailey Bieber. Before anyone panics or misinforms their nearest and dearest beliebers, they are not. But, at this point in time "the audience" or "the public" or the proverbial "us" has insisted they are divorcing near-continuously since the beginning of their relationship.

Now, the Biebers have not divorced and maybe they will never, but say - for the purpose of science - they do. "Ha! I knew it! I told you so! No one is surprised!!" will be a probable public sentiment, yes? "The public" won't facor in itself as a contributing factor to said hypthetical divorce. "It" won't realize that insisting a couple is going to divorce and feeding them material for conflict and mistrust might have contributed to the divorce. It will completely absolve itself as having influence on these people. And this isn't a Bieber-specific or celebrity-specific phenomenon, I've noticed.

Why does we forget our gaze can be/ is often unbearably heavy ? Is it our incapability to comprehend the sheer number of people that are paying attention and talking about the same thing as ourselves, sending the subject in question our thoughts and opinions en masse? Because, logically speaking, we are capable of knowing that is the case. Idk, this is so interesting to me.

[archaeren]

How I learned to write smarter, not harder

(aka, how to write when you're hella ADHD lol)

A reader commented on my current long fic asking how I write so well. I replied with an essay of my honestly pretty non-standard writing advice (that they probably didn't actually want lol) Now I'm gonna share it with you guys and hopefully there's a few of you out there who will benefit from my past mistakes and find some useful advice in here. XD Since I started doing this stuff, which are all pretty easy changes to absorb into your process if you want to try them, I now almost never get writer's block.

The text of the original reply is indented, and I've added some additional commentary to expand upon and clarify some of the concepts.

As for writing well, I usually attribute it to the fact that I spent roughly four years in my late teens/early 20s writing text roleplay with a friend for hours every single day. Aside from the constant practice that provided, having a live audience immediately reacting to everything I wrote made me think a lot about how to make as many sentences as possible have maximum impact so that I could get that kind of fun reaction. (Which is another reason why comments like yours are so valuable to fanfic writers! <3) The other factors that have improved my writing are thus: 1. Writing nonlinearly. I used to write a whole story in order, from the first sentence onward. If there was a part I was excited to write, I slogged through everything to get there, thinking that it would be my reward once I finished everything that led up to that. It never worked. XD It was miserable. By the time I got to the part I wanted to write, I had beaten the scene to death in my head imagining all the ways I could write it, and it a) no longer interested me and b) could not live up to my expectations because I couldn't remember all my ideas I'd had for writing it. The scene came out mediocre and so did everything leading up to it. Since then, I learned through working on VN writing (I co-own a game studio and we have some visual novels that I write for) that I don't have to write linearly. If I'm inspired to write a scene, I just write it immediately. It usually comes out pretty good even in a first draft! But then I also have it for if I get more ideas for that scene later, and I can just edit them in. The scenes come out MUCH stronger because of this. And you know what else I discovered? Those scenes I slogged through before weren't scenes I had no inspiration for, I just didn't have any inspiration for them in that moment! I can't tell you how many times there was a scene I had no interest in writing, and then a week later I'd get struck by the perfect inspiration for it! Those are scenes I would have done a very mediocre job on, and now they can be some of the most powerful scenes because I gave them time to marinate. Inspiration isn't always linear, so writing doesn't have to be either!

Some people are the type that joyfully write linearly. I have a friend like this--she picks up the characters and just continues playing out the next scene. Her story progresses through the entire day-by-day lives of the characters; it never timeskips more than a few hours. She started writing and posting just eight months ago, she's about an eighth of the way through her planned fic timeline, and the content she has so far posted to AO3 for it is already 450,000 words long. But most of us are normal humans. We're not, for the most part, wired to create linearly. We consume linearly, we experience linearly, so we assume we must also create linearly. But actually, a lot of us really suffer from trying to force ourselves to create this way, and we might not even realize it. If you're the kind of person who thinks you need to carrot-on-a-stick yourself into writing by saving the fun part for when you finally write everything that happens before it: Stop. You're probably not a linear writer. You're making yourself suffer for no reason and your writing is probably suffering for it. At least give nonlinear writing a try before you assume you can't write if you're not baiting or forcing yourself into it!! Remember: Writing is fun. You do this because it's fun, because it's your hobby. If you're miserable 80% of the time you're doing it, you're probably doing it wrong!

2. Rereading my own work. I used to hate reading my own work. I wouldn't even edit it usually. I would write it and slap it online and try not to look at it again. XD Writing nonlinearly forced me to start rereading because I needed to make sure scenes connected together naturally and it also made it easier to get into the headspace of the story to keep writing and fill in the blanks and get new inspiration. Doing this built the editing process into my writing process--I would read a scene to get back in the headspace, dislike what I had written, and just clean it up on the fly. I still never ever sit down to 'edit' my work. I just reread it to prep for writing and it ends up editing itself. Many many scenes in this fic I have read probably a dozen times or more! (And now, I can actually reread my own work for enjoyment!) Another thing I found from doing this that it became easy to see patterns and themes in my work and strengthen them. Foreshadowing became easy. Setting up for jokes or plot points became easy. I didn't have to plan out my story in advance or write an outline, because the scenes themselves because a sort of living outline on their own. (Yes, despite all the foreshadowing and recurring thematic elements and secret hidden meanings sprinkled throughout this story, it actually never had an outline or a plan for any of that. It's all a natural byproduct of writing nonlinearly and rereading.)

Unpopular writing opinion time: You don't need to make a detailed outline.

Some people thrive on having an outline and planning out every detail before they sit down to write. But I know for a lot of us, we don't know how to write an outline or how to use it once we've written it. The idea of making one is daunting, and the advice that it's the only way to write or beat writer's block is demoralizing. So let me explain how I approach "outlining" which isn't really outlining at all.

I write in a Notion table, where every scene is a separate table entry and the scene is written in the page inside that entry. I do this because it makes writing nonlinearly VASTLY more intuitive and straightforward than writing in a single document. (If you're familiar with Notion, this probably makes perfect sense to you. If you're not, imagine something a little like a more contained Google Sheets, but every row has a title cell that opens into a unique Google Doc when you click on it. And it's not as slow and clunky as the Google suite lol) (Edit from the future: I answered an ask with more explanation on how I use Notion for non-linear writing here.) When I sit down to begin a new fic idea, I make a quick entry in the table for every scene I already know I'll want or need, with the entries titled with a couple words or a sentence that describes what will be in that scene so I'll remember it later. Basically, it's the most absolute bare-bones skeleton of what I vaguely know will probably happen in the story.

Then I start writing, wherever I want in the list. As I write, ideas for new scenes and new connections and themes will emerge over time, and I'll just slot them in between the original entries wherever they naturally fit, rearranging as necessary, so that I won't forget about them later when I'm ready to write them. As an example, my current long fic started with a list of roughly 35 scenes that I knew I wanted or needed, for a fic that will probably be around 100k words (which I didn't know at the time haha). As of this writing, it has expanded to 129 scenes. And since I write them directly in the page entries for the table, the fic is actually its own outline, without any additional effort on my part. As I said in the comment reply--a living outline!

This also made it easier to let go of the notion that I had to write something exactly right the first time. (People always say you should do this, but how many of us do? It's harder than it sounds! I didn't want to commit to editing later! I didn't want to reread my work! XD) I know I'm going to edit it naturally anyway, so I can feel okay giving myself permission to just write it approximately right and I can fix it later. And what I found from that was that sometimes what I believed was kind of meh when I wrote it was actually totally fine when I read it later! Sometimes the internal critic is actually wrong. 3. Marinating in the headspace of the story. For the first two months I worked on [fic], I did not consume any media other than [fandom the fic is in]. I didn't watch, read, or play anything else. Not even mobile games. (And there wasn't really much fan content for [fandom] to consume either. Still isn't, really. XD) This basically forced me to treat writing my story as my only source of entertainment, and kept me from getting distracted or inspired to write other ideas and abandon this one.

As an aside, I don't think this is a necessary step for writing, but if you really want to be productive in a short burst, I do highly recommend going on a media consumption hiatus. Not forever, obviously! Consuming media is a valuable tool for new inspiration, and reading other's work (both good and bad, as long as you think critically to identify the differences!) is an invaluable resource for improving your writing.

When I write, I usually lay down, close my eyes, and play the scene I'm interested in writing in my head. I even take a ten-minute nap now and then during this process. (I find being in a state of partial drowsiness, but not outright sleepiness, makes writing easier and better. Sleep helps the brain process and make connections!) Then I roll over to the laptop next to me and type up whatever I felt like worked for the scene. This may mean I write half a sentence at a time between intervals of closed-eye-time XD

People always say if you're stuck, you need to outline.

What they actually mean by that (whether they realize it or not) is that if you're stuck, you need to brainstorm. You need to marinate. You don't need to plan what you're doing, you just need to give yourself time to think about it!

What's another framing for brainstorming for your fic? Fantasizing about it! Planning is work, but fantasizing isn't.

You're already fantasizing about it, right? That's why you're writing it. Just direct that effort toward the scenes you're trying to write next! Close your eyes, lay back, and fantasize what the characters do and how they react.

And then quickly note down your inspirations so you don't forget, haha.

And if a scene is so boring to you that even fantasizing about it sucks--it's probably a bad scene.

If it's boring to write, it's going to be boring to read. Ask yourself why you wanted that scene. Is it even necessary? Can you cut it? Can you replace it with a different scene that serves the same purpose but approaches the problem from a different angle? If you can't remove the troublesome scene, what can you change about it that would make it interesting or exciting for you to write?

And I can't write sitting up to save my damn life. It's like my brain just stops working if I have to sit in a chair and stare at a computer screen. I need to be able to lie down, even if I don't use it! Talking walks and swinging in a hammock are also fantastic places to get scene ideas worked out, because the rhythmic motion also helps our brain process. It's just a little harder to work on a laptop in those scenarios. XD

In conclusion: Writing nonlinearly is an amazing tool for kicking writer's block to the curb. There's almost always some scene you'll want to write. If there isn't, you need to re-read or marinate.

Or you need to use the bathroom, eat something, or sleep. XD Seriously, if you're that stuck, assess your current physical condition. You might just be unable to focus because you're uncomfortable and you haven't realized it yet.

Anyway! I hope that was helpful, or at least interesting! XD Sorry again for the text wall. (I think this is the longest comment reply I've ever written!)

And same to you guys on tumblr--I hope this was helpful or at least interesting. XD Reblogs appreciated if so! (Maybe it'll help someone else!)

[nekrops-shaped]

you're correct, i do not own a wallet. do you know why? because i'd be constantly forgetting to grab it before i leave the house. do you know what i never forget to grab before i leave the house? my phone! although i do carry a fanny pack with all my cards, ID, some cash and other tools; basically a wearable wallet that you attach to yourself. so why do i still keep emergency money in my phone case? in case i forget to wear my fanny pack! and why would i ever forget to wear my fanny pack if it's such an essential item to wear before leaving the house? because i have ADHD and forget essential things sometimes, like grabbing the keys before leaving the house or putting on my fanny pack before leaving the house! it's happened to me! i found myself stranded in a city with NOTHING on me. bank card, ID, public transport card, cash. NOTHING. and with a bus to catch, no less! guess who had a continuous panic attack for the following hours? me! guess who learnt how to get money from a bank machine without a bank card using only the bank app in my phone? also me! guess who doesn't want to live through all that stress and anxiety again?? me!!!

now take a guess at what would've happened if i had emergency cash in my phone case instead. correct: i would've just taken a taxi to the bus station and be done with it. oh, and perhaps not feel like i was going to die right then and there for several hours.

now, examples of less intense emergencies. cash-only store and not enough pocket change? emergency money. recharge my public transport card and machine's card reader is broken? emergency money. hanging out with friends, having to split the tab and not enough pocket change? emergency money

so yeah. i don't have a wallet, because if i had one, i'd easily lose it. and even if i forget to put on my fanny pack, i still carry emergency money and an emergency public transport card in my phone case. why? for emergencies. in case something goes wrong. because if there is ONE THING that i will NEVER forget to grab before leaving the house, it's my phone

TL;DR yes, i carry emergency money in case of emergency. much surprise, such wow. better safe than sorry after all

For people whose currency is not USD, you can either answer based on the nearest conversion or based on the approximate equivalents listed on each option.

Obviously the cost of a large pizza/jeans/etc varies regionally even in the US, but these are some approximate reference points since direct conversion may not accurately represent the buying power that money has in your area. (e.g. $20 USD in New York City is vastly different from $20 USD in Nairobi, Kenya.)

–

We ask your questions anonymously so you don’t have to! Submissions are open on the 1st and 15th of the month.

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 36: October 2024 - Part 3

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Belle had always known that Lorenzo loved Charlotte.

You didn’t need to be particularly observant to catch it — not when he looked at her like she was sunlight bottled into human form. He was quieter about it than most, but in a way that only made it more obvious: the way he listened, the way he waited, the way his eyes found her even in a crowded room. Not infatuation. Not flair. Just… certainty.

So when Lorenzo asked if he could stop by for coffee, she hadn’t expected it to be anything dramatic.

But then he sat at her kitchen table — still in his work clothes, his tie half-loosened, hands wrapped too tightly around the mug she’d handed him — and didn’t speak for almost five full minutes.

That’s how she knew something was up.

She didn’t press.

Not yet.

She just waited.

Lorenzo had always been the sort of person who unfolded in his own time, like a letter written in longhand — slow, thoughtful, deliberate.

Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “I think I want to propose.”

Belle blinked. Once. Twice.

Then smiled softly. “You think?”

“I know,” he said. “I do. I’ve known. For a while. I just…”

He looked down at his mug.

“I want it to be right.”

Belle rested her chin in her palm and watched her oldest brother. He looked—nervous. Earnest in a way she hadn’t seen in a long time. Maybe since they were kids, before life got complicated and painful and messy.

“And what does right look like to you?”

“That’s the problem,” Lorenzo said, huffing a laugh. “I don’t know. I just keep getting in my own head. She deserves something special. Not flashy. Not over the top. Just… her.”

Belle smiled wider, something warm unfolding in her chest.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s build it.”

Lorenzo looked up, surprised. “You’ll help?”

“Of course I’ll help,” she said. “You’re my brother. She’s your person. This is literally my favorite kind of project.”

“But don’t you have enough on your plate?”

Belle gestured around the room, where baby things sat half-unpacked in calm, expectant chaos. “Max is currently on a mission to figure out how to swaddle a stuffed animal. I think I can spare a little time.”

He laughed, properly this time, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased.

“Alright then,” she said, reaching for a notepad. “Talk to me. What are the non-negotiables?”

Lorenzo leaned back, thinking. “Nothing public. Nothing performative. And something that includes her family, somehow — she’s close to them. But also something quiet. Intimate.”

Belle nodded. “Sentimental. Classic. Maybe something outdoors? A picnic? Or a dinner somewhere that matters to you both?”

“There’s a lake house,” he said slowly. “Her grandparents used to take her there when she was a kid. We’ve been a few times, and she always looks… peaceful there.”

Belle’s heart softened.

“There,” she said. “That’s the place. That’s the moment.”

Lorenzo looked like he was still trying to catch up to the fact that she was doing this with him — no teasing, no commentary, just belief.

“Belle,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him — her oldest brother, who had been too busy or too far removed to see her as anything other than Charles and Arthur’s quiet shadow. But right now, he was here. Asking her. Because he trusted her.

“You’re going to do this right,” she said. “Because it’s not about perfect words or some cinematic moment. It’s about her. And you already know how to love her. You just need to show her that in a way she’ll remember.”

Lorenzo exhaled slowly. “You’d be a terrifying wedding planner.”

“I’m saving that energy for Emilian’s first birthday,” Belle said dryly. “There will be a live band and possibly jungle animals.”

He laughed again, eyes a little glassy now. “God, you’re going to be a good mum.”

Belle smiled down at the notepad, heart full.

“And you,” she said, writing down lake house, sunset, something honest, “are going to be a husband.”

****

They were on the couch, tangled together in the quiet kind of way that felt like routine now. Max’s head was resting on Belle’s belly, his hand absently tracing slow circles over the stretch of skin beneath her shirt, like he was trying to memorize every inch before December came.

Belle had one hand in his hair. The other held her planner, open but forgotten on the coffee table.

“He kicked again,” Max murmured, pressing a kiss just above her navel.

Belle smiled, her heart aching in that full, quiet way that still caught her off guard sometimes. “He’s been kicking all day,” she said. “Probably hates how I folded over during that client call.”

Max snorted. “He already has opinions. Verstappen genes.”

She rolled her eyes, fond. “God help us.”

They fell into silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. Outside, Monaco glowed—blue and gold and still.

Then Max said, softly, “We’ve got the triple header coming up.”

Belle nodded. “I know.”

“Austin, then Mexico, then Brazil.”

“I know.”

“I want you to come.”

Belle looked down at him.

Max sat up slowly, brushing a hand through his hair. “If you feel up to it,” he added. “If it’s safe. I just… I know it’s the last one before—before you can’t really travel anymore. And I don’t want to go three races without you if we can help it.”

His voice was quiet. Honest.

Belle let her hand rest on the slope of her belly. Their son kicked again—just once, like punctuation.

“I was thinking the same thing,” she said softly. “I don’t want to miss this part. After Brazil, I’ll stay home. Nest. Wait. After that, I won’t be able to travel long haul. Not safely, anyway. I just… I want to be there with you. One last time.”

Max’s expression shifted—surprise giving way to something deeper. Something tender.

“You’d really be okay with all that travel?” he asked. “Three races in three weeks?”

She nodded. “I already talked to my OB. I’ll be 34 weeks by Brazil. She said if I’m careful, and I rest, and we don’t take risks, it’s fine. After that, no more flights. But until then…”

Max reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers.

“I’d love that,” he said softly. “I miss you when you’re not there.”

Belle smiled. “You have GP.”

Max smirked. “GP doesn’t sneak me cookies or remind me to drink water. Or kiss me before every quali.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “You want kisses before quali?”

“Obviously. It’s good luck.”

She laughed and leaned in, pressing one to his temple.

“Then it’s settled,” she said. “Three races. Three cities. Then we come home. And wait.”

Max smiled. It was a tired kind of smile, edged in awe. “He’ll be here so soon.”

Belle nodded. “It still doesn’t feel real.”

“It will,” Max said. Then, after a beat: “Are you sure, though? It’s a lot of travel. Long flights. Weird hotel beds.”

“I’ll bring my pillow fortress,” Belle teased, nudging him with her foot. “And snacks. And compression socks. I’ll be fine.”

Max leaned over, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Then her collarbone. Then her belly. “Okay,” he murmured. “Then we’ll do this together.”

Belle closed her eyes. Felt the hum of his voice against her skin. And the tiny flutter of their son, responding like he knew.

Together.

Until they weren’t two anymore.

But three.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Lorenzo: So… I have some news. Charlotte said yes 💍😊

Arthur: WHAT?????? WAIT YOU PROPOSED????

Charles: BRO. What do you mean “said yes”??? WHEN??? HOW??? WHERE???

Arthur: Wait Belle knew didn’t she SHE TOTALLY KNEW

Belle: 👀

Charles: UNREAL. I TELL YOU EVERYTHING. AND YOU STAYED QUIET FOR THIS???

Belle: It wasn’t my news to tell! 😇 Also… I helped pick the ring. And the spot. And the picnic menu.

Arthur: I KNEW IT THE BASKET IN YOUR BACKSEAT LAST WEEK YOU SAID IT WAS FOR A “CLIENT MEETING”!!!

Lorenzo: It was a meeting. With my future wife 😌

Charles: Okay but for real—congratulations. You both deserve all the happiness. Still mad you didn’t tell us though.

Belle: 🥹 I was under strict brother-sister confidentiality. But I’m so happy for you, Enzo. Truly.

Arthur: Can we plan the bachelor party?? Please??

Charles: No. I know you. Absolutely not.

Arthur: 😤

Lorenzo: Thanks, all of you. Belle, especially. I couldn’t have pulled it off without you.

Belle: Anytime. Now go be nauseatingly in love.

***

Pascale hadn’t even set her wine glass down when Lorenzo said, “Charlotte and I are engaged.”

There was a beat of silence—sharp, almost theatrical—and then the room burst into overlapping exclamations.

Arthur stood up to hug him, nearly knocking over the bowl of olives. Charles thumped Lorenzo on the back like they were still teenagers. Even Alexandra, who was usually more reserved around the Leclerc chaos, was smiling wide, clutching Charlotte’s hands and asking a thousand questions.

Pascale pressed both hands to her heart, eyes wet. “Oh, my darling—felicitations!” She turned to Charlotte, enveloping her in a tight hug. “You are already family, but now it’s official. I am so, so happy.”

Belle watched it all unfold with a soft smile, Max’s hand resting on her knee under the table. She was genuinely happy for Lorenzo. 

But when Pascale dabbed her eyes and said, “Oh, we have to start planning,” Belle felt the old, familiar weight settle in her chest.

“Summer wedding?” Arthur asked. “Italy?”

“Too hot in July,” Charlotte said, laughing. “We were thinking September.”

“Belle should help you with everything,” Pascale added warmly. “She always has the best taste.”

Belle opened her mouth, closed it again.

“She already has,” Lorenzo said quickly, rescuing her. “She helped plan the proposal. Honestly, it was perfect.”

Charles raised his glass. “To love. And to Belle being a better event planner than all of us combined.”

They all drank. Belle sipped at her water, but she couldn’t quite keep the smile on her face when Pascale turned to her and said, with teasing affection, “Well, I expect an invite this time.”

The joke slipped out easily.

The silence that followed was harder.

Max’s fingers subtly curled around Belle’s under the table. “What do you mean?”

Pascale looked at Belle. “You know. The last wedding. The one none of us were invited to.”

“Maman,” she said quietly.

“No, I’m not trying to be rude, I just…” She trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “We found out from the press, Belle.”

Belle exhaled. “You forgot my birthday, remember? All of you,” Belle said sharply. 

“I turned 25. And you were all too busy with Charles winning Monaco.”

“Belle,” Pascale said gently, “we didn’t mean—”

“But you did,” Belle interrupted, and her voice wasn’t cold. It was tired. Bone-deep tired. “You never mean it.”

The table was quiet now. Even Arthur wasn’t fidgeting.

Belle glanced down at her plate. Then back up. Her gaze flicked to each of them—her brothers, her mother, Charlotte and Alexandra.

“Max and I got married on a Tuesday morning. At Monaco City Hall. We didn’t want the press. Didn’t want a spectacle.”

Pascale’s face crumpled. “But we should’ve been there.”

“No,” Belle said, with finality. “You really shouldn’t have.”

She folded her napkin slowly, carefully, like it would help her hold back the years she hadn’t said anything.

“Because in that moment, I didn’t want to wonder if any of you thought I was enough. I didn’t want to hear one more backhanded joke about how I decorate houses for Instagram. Or how I was the ‘soft’ Leclerc. Or how I should be grateful for being in the room.”

Max stayed silent beside her, but his hand remained warm on her knee, steady, grounding.

“I wanted to be surrounded by people who saw me. Who remembered me. Who didn’t compare me to Charles or Arthur or Lorenzo. Who didn’t make me feel like a placeholder in my own life.”

She turned toward her mother. “So no, you weren’t invited. Because it wasn’t about you. Or about what a wedding should look like. It was about what felt safe.”

“Belle,” Pascale began, reaching for her, “we didn’t mean to—”

“But you did,” Belle cut in. “You’ve spent years not meaning to. Not meaning to forget. Not meaning to brush me off. Not meaning to act like my work is just expensive Pinterest. Like I’m the background character in someone else’s success story.”

Pascale’s expression shifted, like someone trying to balance shame and defensiveness and failing at both.

“When Max and I got married,” Belle continued, her voice lower now, steadier, “we had everyone there who mattered. People who saw me. Who remembered me. Who didn’t need a headline to decide I was important.”

Max’s hand tightened around hers under the table, silent but solid.

“It wasn’t a grand wedding. There was no string quartet, no designer gown. Emilie somehow managed to get my favourite flowers and cake. And it was the best day of my life.”

She looked at her mother.

“And I didn’t invite you. Not because I wanted to hurt you. But because, in that moment, I couldn’t handle the way you made me feel. Like nothing I did would ever be enough. Like even that day would be compared to someone else’s. Like I’d be asked why I didn’t wait. Or why the photos weren’t professional.”

Pascale looked stricken.

“I didn’t want to feel like an afterthought at my own wedding,” Belle finished, quietly. “So I didn’t invite the people who made me feel like one.”

Silence.

Lorenzo swallowed hard. Arthur looked like he might cry. Charles… looked wrecked.

And Pascale, for once, said nothing at all.

Belle pushed her chair back gently, the scrape of wood on tile loud in the quiet.

“I’m going to check on dessert,” she said, standing. “Max, come with?”

He rose immediately. ***

The kitchen was warm and low-lit, all copper tones and quiet clatter. Belle moved automatically, opening drawers, checking the oven—like she hadn’t just dropped every hard, buried truth onto the dinner table like a thunderclap.

Max followed, quietly closing the door behind them.

For a second, neither of them spoke. She reached for plates with trembling hands.

“Belle.”

“I’m fine,” she said. Too fast. Too flat.

He crossed the room in three steps, gently placing his hands on her hips. “You don’t have to be.”

Belle inhaled like she was bracing for another wave, but when it didn’t come, she sagged slightly into him, just enough that he felt it.

“I didn’t mean to make it a scene,” she murmured, voice frayed at the edges.

“You didn’t make a scene,” Max said. “You told the truth.”

She didn’t answer. Just stared at the cake tin on the counter like it might disappear if she focused hard enough.

“I’m just surprised you said all that out loud,” he added gently.

Belle let out a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a breath. “So am I.”

He rubbed small circles into her back. “They needed to hear it.”

“She won’t change.”

“Maybe not right away,” Max allowed. “But tonight… that landed. They were quiet, Belle. Your mother looked like she got hit with a brick.”

“That’s not exactly comforting,” she muttered, though she didn’t pull away.

Max lowered his head, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “I mean it. You gave them a wake-up call they couldn’t brush off. That takes guts.”

She was silent for a long beat. Then: “I didn’t want to cry in front of them.”

“You didn’t. You stood up for yourself.”

Belle turned slightly to look at him. “Did I come off like an asshole?”

Max smiled, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek. “No. You came off like someone who’s tired of being invisible.”

Belle exhaled. “I wasn’t trying to hurt her.”

“I know,” he said. “And deep down, I think she does too. But she needed to feel it. You gave her the truth. What she does with it is up to her.”

Belle leaned into his chest fully now, the tension finally starting to seep out of her limbs. “I just… I don’t want our son to ever feel that way. Like he has to earn being seen.”

Max wrapped his arms around her and kissed her temple. “He won’t. Not with you as his mother.”

She let out another breath, steadier this time. “God. Dessert feels so stupid now.”

Max tilted his head. “It’s chocolate tart. Nothing about that is ever stupid.”

She laughed, soft and tired. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you,” he said, brushing his thumb across her cheek, “are the bravest person I know.”

***

The moment Belle disappeared through the kitchen door with Max, the silence she left behind clung to the room like smoke.

No one spoke.

Charlotte gently touched Lorenzo’s arm, but he barely registered it.

He turned to his mother, voice low. “Do you realize what you just did?”

Pascale blinked at him, eyes still wide. “Lorenzo—”

“No.” He shook his head, biting back the anger rising in his throat. “You don’t get to play innocent now, Maman. You made a joke about not being invited to her wedding, and you didn’t think once about why you weren’t.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt her,” Pascale said, voice trembling. “It was meant to be lighthearted.”

“And that’s the problem.” Lorenzo’s voice hardened. 

Pascale blinked at her oldest son. “Lorenzo—”

“No,” he said, calm but sharp. “Don’t deflect.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were. Like you always do. Like we all do. And I’ve let it slide for years. We all have. Because it’s Belle, and she never kicks up a fuss, right?”

He leaned forward, fingers pressed against the edge of the table like he needed something solid to hold him down.

“But she remembers.” His voice dropped, hard with the weight of truth. “She remembers everything you brush off. Every joke about her job. Every time we prioritized a podium over a person. Every thing we forgot because we were too caught up in what one of us was doing on the track.”

Pascale’s eyes were glassy. “I didn’t mean to hurt her—”

“That’s the problem,” Lorenzo snapped, sharper than anyone in the room had ever heard him. “You keep saying that. You never mean to. But it happens anyway. And because she doesn’t fight you on it, you think it didn’t cut.”

Arthur looked down. Even Charles didn’t try to interrupt.

“She helped me plan my proposal, Maman. Thought of every detail, reminded me to tell Charlotte’s parents first—she did it all with a smile. And not once did she bring up her wedding. Not once.”

He sat back slowly, tone dipping into something quieter. “She didn’t even want a wedding with us. You understand how much that says?”

Pascale had a hand pressed to her lips now.

“She didn’t invite you to her wedding because she didn’t feel safe with you. Not loved. Not supported. Safe. Do you know how devastating that is?”

Pascale blinked hard, and for once, she didn’t have anything to say.

“And you know what?” Lorenzo added. “That’s on you. Not her. She found someone who sees her. Who values her. Who protects her, because he understands what it feels like to be treated like you’re never quite enough.”

Lorenzo’s tone turned more bitter than he meant it to. “God, Max Verstappen treats her better than any of us ever have. And we’re her blood.”

Pascale shook her head, tears finally spilling over. “I didn’t mean—”

“But you did,” Lorenzo echoed Belle’s words, soft but resolute. “And I’m done pretending you didn’t.”

He stood, placed a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder.

“I’m going to help with dessert,” he said quietly.  He looked around the table, gaze landing on his mother last. “You can sit with what Belle said for a while.”

And without waiting for a response, he walked away.

***

Belle’s hands stayed on the countertop, gripping the edge a little tighter than necessary. Her breath was steady, but only because she’d fought for every inch of calm since leaving the dining room. Max hovered nearby, silently setting out the plates for dessert. He hadn’t said a word—just let her have her silence, the same way he always had when she needed to recalibrate.

Then she heard the second pair of footsteps.

Lorenzo.

“Belle,” he said gently, and that was all it took for her throat to go tight again.

She turned slowly, blinking fast. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—tonight was supposed to be about you. And I—God, I just—ruined it.”

He stared at her for a moment. Then let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh and crossed the kitchen in two strides.

“Petite sœur,” he said softly, wrapping her into a hug so immediate and so warm that it nearly undid her.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he murmured into her hair. “Don’t ever say that.”

Belle shook her head against his shoulder. “But I took the spotlight—”

“No. You spoke your truth. Finally. That’s not stealing attention. That’s surviving.” He pulled back slightly, hands still on her shoulders, anchoring her. “And frankly? Someone needed to say it. It should’ve been me. Years ago.”

Her eyes welled again. “I didn’t want to make it about me.”

“It wasn’t about you,” he said. “It was about all of us. And what we didn’t see. What we didn’t do.” His voice softened. “And for what it’s worth? I’ve never been prouder of you.”

Belle blinked at him, stunned.

“I meant it when I said you helped make the proposal perfect. And tonight? You gave me the best gift you could have—your honesty.”

She leaned her forehead against his. “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” Lorenzo whispered. “And I love you. Even if you made Charles nearly cry during dinner.”

Belle laughed, a wet, breathless sound. “He’ll recover.”

“Barely,” Max called from the counter without turning around. “Pretty sure he is still emotionally buffering.”

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: I just emotionally nuked a family dinner. Max says it was brave. I think I might throw up. (Also, Charles looked like someone kicked his puppy.)

Emilie: WHAT. WHAT DID YOU DO. Please tell me it was deserved and you finally snapped. I’ve been manifesting it for a year.

Belle: Lorenzo announced his engagement. Pascale made a joke about not being invited to my wedding. So I told them why.

Emilie: Holy. Shit.

Emilie: You didn’t just light a match. You set that table ablaze. I am SO proud of you.

Belle: I didn’t mean to make it about me. It just came out. All of it. Every forgotten birthday. Every time they dismissed my work. I told her she wasn’t invited because she made me feel like an afterthought.

Emilie: GOOD. She needed to hear it. You’ve spent your whole life trying to be palatable. Quiet. Easy. But you are not an afterthought. And it’s not your job to shrink so they’re comfortable.

Belle: Max has been perfect, obviously. Didn’t say a word while I was talking. Just stayed next to me. Held my hand. Told me later I didn’t make a scene—I told the truth. That they were finally quiet because it landed.

Emilie: That man. That man would build you a cathedral out of reclaimed stone and lavender if you asked.

Belle: I’d settle for the chocolate tart he just plated.

Emilie: I’m proud of you. So proud. I hope you know how big this is. You stood up for yourself and didn’t apologize for it. You chose yourself.

Belle: I think I finally did. And I think—for the first time in a long time—I don’t feel guilty about it.

Emilie: Damn right you don’t. Also I need Charles' face in that moment. Please. A voice note reenactment. I beg.

Belle: He looked like someone told him Ferrari ran out of red paint.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Max: Just got back from dinner at Belle’s family’s place. It was… Intense.

Sophie: Oh? What happened? Are you okay?

Max: I’m fine. Belle’s a bit wrung out. Her brother Lorenzo got engaged. Announced it at dinner. Everyone was celebrating. Pascale made some joke about expecting an invite this time.

Sophie: Oh no.

Max: Yeah. Belle told them why they weren’t invited to our wedding. In front of everyone. Calm. Clear. Brutal.

Sophie: Good for her.

Max: She told them they forgot her birthday. That they treat her like she’s nothing. Said she only invited people who remembered her. I’ve never seen her do that before. Not with them.

Sophie: She finally snapped.

Max: Yeah. But it wasn’t dramatic. It was worse. It was honest. Tired. She just laid it out—like she wasn’t going to carry their excuses anymore.

Max: And her mother. God. She looked shocked. Like she couldn’t believe Belle didn’t feel loved.

Sophie: Because people like that don’t notice until it’s too late. They don’t think they have to change because they’re the mother.

Max: Exactly. She kept saying “I didn’t mean to.” And Belle just said, “But you did.”

Sophie: Oof. That girl has been swallowing it all for years, hasn’t she?

Max: All of it. Her work. Her feelings. Being ignored. She told them the reason she married me without them was because she didn’t feel safe. And I think it finally hit them. Maybe. Hopefully.

Max: But I don’t understand her mother. How do you look at someone like Belle and not see her? She’s brilliant. She’s kind. She feels everything. And they made her feel like she didn’t matter.

Sophie: Because some people only love the version of you they can control. And Belle? She’s soft, yes—but she’s also steel. That scares people who only know how to hold love with conditions.

Max: I didn’t even have to say anything. She did it all on her own. And then she turned to me in the kitchen and asked if she came off like an asshole.

Sophie: Oh, sweetheart.

Max: I told her no. She came off like someone who’s tired of being invisible.

Sophie: I’m proud of her. And proud of you. She needed someone who would stand beside her while she took her voice back. And that’s exactly what you did.

Max: I don’t get it, Mama. How can you have a daughter like Belle and make her feel like she has to earn your love?

Sophie: Because some people only know how to love the loud ones. The gold medals. The press conferences. The obvious successes. Not the quiet girl who builds beauty and doesn’t ask for applause.

Sophie: But you see her. And that matters more than anything.

Max: She told me she didn’t want our son to ever feel like that. Like he has to earn being seen.

Sophie: He won’t. Because his father will show him what love looks like. And his mother will teach him how to build a home out of strength and gentleness.

Max: I hope so. I just hate that it ever made her feel small.

Sophie: That’s because you love her. And you, my boy, are nothing like her mother.

Max: Good. Because she deserves better.

Sophie: She has better now. She has you.

***

Victoria hadn’t meant to stay long.

She’d only stopped by to drop off a scarf she’d picked up for her mother in Amsterdam. But Sophie had made tea, and the afternoon light was soft, and somehow they’d ended up on the couch with lemon biscuits between them and a conversation that turned, inevitably, to Belle.

Specifically, the Leclercs.

Max had told Sophie the whole story via text—blunt, half-capitalized, frustrated in a way he rarely got—but Victoria hadn’t realized how much had happened until Sophie quietly said, “Pascale made a joke about expecting an invite next time,” and stirred her tea like she was imagining stirring something else instead.

Victoria blinked. “She joked about not being invited?”

Sophie hummed. Calm. Neutral. Terrifying.

Victoria sat back a little.

Because she knew that sound. She’d heard it as a teenager when Jos yelled and stomped and slammed doors—and Sophie just got quiet. When Jos was a hurricane and Sophie was the pressure drop right before the sky cracked in two.

Everyone thought Jos Verstappen was the scary one. And he was, in his own way. But Jos exploded, and Sophie? Sophie waited. Sophie watched. Sophie didn’t lose control—she took it. And there was something so much more lethal in that.

“She said it with a laugh, apparently,” Sophie went on, still stirring. “Right after Belle helped plan the proposal. Said she expected an invite to this one.”

Victoria blinked again. “Oh, wow.”

“Mm.”

“She said that in front of everyone?”

“In front of Belle. At the table.”

Victoria felt something flicker in her chest. A cold edge of anger on Belle’s behalf. “What did Belle say?”

“She told them the truth,” Sophie said softly. “That she got married surrounded by people who remembered her birthday. That she didn’t want backhanded comments at her own wedding. That she didn’t feel safe with her own family.”

Victoria’s jaw tightened. “And Pascale?”

“Tried to say she didn’t mean to hurt her.” Sophie finally set the spoon down, slow and deliberate. “I suppose that’s supposed to count for something.”

There was a long silence then—thicker than the steam curling from the kettle, heavier than any of the words still hanging between them.

Victoria had grown up around volatility. Her father’s temper was legendary, a weather system that built and broke and sometimes came back with no warning at all. But Sophie—Sophie Verstappen was a different kind of terrifying. Jos exploded. Sophie observed. Calculated. Waited. And when she struck, it was always surgical.

Jos could knock you over like a thunderclap. Sophie could gut you with a whisper.

And right now, Victoria could see it: that slow, icy rage simmering just beneath her mother’s carefully neutral face.

“She told them,” Sophie said finally, “that she didn’t invite them to her wedding because she didn’t feel safe. Not unloved. Not forgotten. Unsafe.”

Victoria swallowed. “Yeah.”

“I have half a mind to call Pascale and tell her exactly what I think of her.”

Victoria blinked. Sophie never said things like that. She didn’t make threats. She made decisions.

“She’s pregnant,” Sophie added, quieter now. “And still had to stand there and explain why her family made her feel like a placeholder in her own life.”

“I have watched Belle love that family with her whole heart,” Sophie said, and now her voice had an edge. “I have watched her shrink herself so they wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. I’ve watched her pretend she doesn’t care that they forget her. That they talk over her. That they diminish everything she is.”

The kettle clicked off, but neither of them moved.

“She was raised to believe love is conditional,” Sophie said, not looking at her. “That it comes after achievements. Or for being quiet. Or for not asking for too much.”

Victoria felt something lodge in her chest.

“She has spent her whole life shrinking to fit into their idea of family,” Sophie continued, her voice steady and lethal. “And they still managed to ignore her.”

Victoria swallowed.

“And then she gets married—to my son—and not one of them is there. And not because she wanted to hurt them, but because she didn’t feel safe with them.” Sophie’s expression didn’t change, but her tone dropped low. “That’s not something you laugh about over dinner.”

Victoria sat very still.

Because that was the thing about Sophie Verstappen. You never saw her fury coming. She didn’t yell. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t rant or throw things or storm out. She just… waited. Like gravity. Like consequence. And then she spoke with that glacial softness that made you feel every syllable like it might cut.

Victoria suddenly felt like she was sixteen again and had missed curfew by three hours.

“I’m so mad for her,” she said after a pause. “Belle.”

Sophie nodded. “So am I.”

“She deserves better.”

“She has better,” Sophie said. And that time, there was warmth in it. Fierce. Unshakable. “She has Max. And she has us.”

“You like her,” Victoria said, surprised by the softness that slipped into her own voice.

“I love her,” Sophie corrected. “I don’t care how she came into this family. I don’t care what her last name is. Belle is mine now.”

Victoria blinked fast. “God. Okay. You’re mad.”

Sophie looked at her, eyes dark and razor-sharp. “No, Victoria. I’m focused.”

And Victoria—who had seen Jos Verstappen angry enough to make grown men shrink back—felt a shiver run down her spine. Because Jos might yell. He might throw chairs and punch walls.

But Sophie? Sophie waited until your guard was down and then made sure you never forgot the consequences.

Victoria took a sip of her tea when Sophie finally poured it. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow. “I thought you learned that lesson in 2011.”

Victoria laughed, a little breathless. “Fair.” Then paused. “Do you think they even realize how lucky they are to still be in her life?”

Sophie gave her a look that said no, not yet.

But they would.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: i just left mom’s pretty sure she’s going to have words with your mother in law like. capital W. Italics. Possibly in multiple languages

Max: …oh no what kind of “words”

Victoria: the terrifying kind you know how dad yells? mom doesn’t yell. she plans

Max: okay but like what kind of planning are we talking tea-and-a-pointed-sentence planning or scorched-earth-PR-nightmare planning

Victoria: you know the answer to that she was calm. TOO calm. like she’s already made a list and put a neat little check box next to “remind pascale she’s on thin ice”

Max: oh god

Victoria: on the bright side if belle didn’t feel protected before she definitely has a battle unit behind her now

Max: she does she always did but still maybe warn me if mom starts practicing her diplomatic voice that one always ends in casualties

Victoria: consider this your official warning if Mom puts on pearls and offers to “drop by for a coffee,” RUN

***

Instagram DMs: @sophiekumpen → @charles_leclerc

Sophie: Bonjour, Charles. Would you mind sending me your mother’s number?

Charles:Bonjour… of course. Is everything alright?

Sophie: Everything is fine. I just think she and I should have a little chat. Mother to mother.

Charles: ... Is this about dinner?

Sophie: Among other things. Don’t worry. I’m always very polite. Even when I’m deeply unimpressed.

Charles: ...I’ll send the number. Should I warn her?

Sophie: If you like. Though I find surprise tends to make people more honest. 😊

Charles: Noted.

Sophie: Merci. And Charles? Be kind to your sister. She’s braver than most of you realize.

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: Sophie Kumpen just DMed me asking for Maman’s number.

Arthur: wait what. as in Max’s mum????

Lorenzo: …what did she say?

Charles: She said she wants to “have a little chat.” “Mother to mother.” Also said she’s “always polite. Even when deeply unimpressed.”

Arthur: holy shit

Lorenzo: That’s… terrifying. She’s the quiet kind of scary.

Charles: Right?? Jos is like a storm. You see him coming. Sophie is the earthquake under your feet.

Arthur: did you give her the number???

Charles: Yes?? What was I supposed to do?? She said “merci” and then told me to be kind to Belle because she’s braver than any of us know. I was emotionally held hostage.

Lorenzo: She’s not wrong. Belle is braver than any of us. We just didn’t see it.

Arthur: we should’ve. we should’ve made her feel like she didn’t need to be brave around us.

Charles: Well. Now we wait for the Sophie Effect.

Lorenzo: Maman’s not ready.

Arthur: nobody’s ready.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Sophie :Good Morning, Belle! I’m in Monaco on Thursday. Would you like to have lunch?

Belle: Yes. That sounds great. Please. Wherever suits you. (Unless you want to come to ours, I’ll make something.)

Sophie: I’ll let you choose. I just want to see you. 12:30?

Belle: Perfect. I’ll make a reservation. Thank you for asking. I’ve really been wanting to talk to you.

Sophie: As have I. I’ll see you Thursday, sweetheart. Bring that beautiful baby bump. And don’t you dare worry about anything else.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Belle: Did you know your mother is in Monaco on Thursday?!

Max: …no? I had no idea. Why? What’s happening? Is she okay?

Belle: She just texted and asked if I wanted to get lunch. No drama. Just lunch. She was very sweet.

Max: That’s good?? I mean, she loves you. I’m just confused why I didn’t know 😅

Belle: Maybe she didn’t want you to stress about it.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: The day has come. The talk is upon us. Mom’s going to be in Monaco on Thursday.

Victoria: oh. oh no. is this about Pascale?

Max: She asked Belle to lunch. Alone. So I am expecting her to verbally annihilate Pascale for breakfast.

Victoria: SHE’S GOING TO EAT HER ALIVE IN A TAILORED COAT AND PEARL EARRINGS

Max: I’m honestly more afraid for Pascale than I was for Dad that one time

Victoria: she’s going to do the quiet voice

Max: the lethal quiet voice the "I’m not angry, I’m disappointed and also morally superior" tone

Victoria: may God have mercy on Pascale’s soul (because mom won’t)

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Charles Leclerc

Max: Heads up. My mum is going to be in Monaco on Thursday.

Charles: Oh no.

Max:

I’m 95% sure this is about Sunday.

And your mother.

Charles:

Ah. She asked me for her phone number but clearly she has decided that she needs to talk to her in person… 

Max: Yeah. She knows what happened at dinner. I didn’t tell her everything, but I didn’t need to. She’s connected enough dots to be… not thrilled.

Charles: How bad are we talking?

Max: Sophie-bad. Not Jos yelling bad—worse. The calm kind of bad. The “I will destroy you with facts and a smile” kind of bad.

Charles: …she’s going to kill Maman.

Max: She’s not going to kill her. She’s going to sit across from her in linen trousers and a silk scarf and say things that sound perfectly polite and make your mother spiral for weeks.

Charles: Oh god.

Max: Belle has no idea. And I would prefer to keep it that way.

Charles: Understood. I’ll warn the others. (Should we call Lorenzo?? He’s the diplomat.)

Max:

If Sophie wants to talk, Lorenzo couldn’t broker peace if he tried.

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: 🚨 Update: Sophie Verstappen is going to be in Monaco on Thursday. It’s not a social visit. It’s a Sophie visit. Max warned me. She knows what happened at dinner. Apparently Max didn’t even tell her everything—but she figured it out. She’s not happy.

Arthur: Okay but what does that mean exactly??

Lorenzo: It means she’s coming in tailored trousers and quiet fury and is about to emotionally dismantle Maman using three polite sentences and an herbal tea.

Arthur: …should we warn Maman??

Charles: That’s what I said.

Lorenzo: If we tell her, she’ll try to control the situation and that’ll make it worse.

Arthur: So we just… let her walk into the Sophie Trap??

Charles: We let Max handle it. He asked us not to say anything to Belle. She has no idea.

Lorenzo: She deserves a break, anyway. Honestly, Sophie giving Maman a long-overdue reality check might be the best gift Belle could get.

Arthur: She’s going to obliterate Maman, isn’t she. . 

Charles: Max literally said: “She’s going to sit across from her in linen trousers and a silk scarf and say things that sound perfectly polite and make your mother spiral for weeks.”

Lorenzo: …well.

Arthur: Should we do something?

Charles: Max said not to. I quote: “If Sophie wants to talk, Lorenzo couldn’t broker peace if he tried.”

Lorenzo: Rude, but fair.

Arthur: I vote we hide.

***

Sophie hadn’t come to Monaco to start a fight. She didn’t need to.

People like Pascale Leclerc didn’t respond to raised voices. They responded to subtle shifts in temperature. Gentle truths. Icy clarity.

Sophie’s heels clicked softly against the stone path leading to Pascale Leclerc’s door, the rhythm even, precise. She’d chosen her outfit deliberately: clean ivory trousers, a soft blue blouse, hair pinned back. No jewelry except for her watch. Everything about her appearance said calm, collected, reasonable.

And that, of course, was the point.

Jos could intimidate with volume. Sophie did it with silence, with poise, with a steel-edged smile that didn’t need to raise its voice to be heard.

The door opened.

Pascale blinked at her, startled and still in her dressing robe, a coffee cup in hand.

“Sophie?”

“Bonjour, Pascale,” Sophie said, smooth as ever. “I hope I’m not intruding. I was in Monaco and thought we could catch up.”

“Oh, I—of course, come in.”

Inside, everything was as Sophie expected. Elegant. Neutral. Impersonal.

She took a seat in the sitting room, hands resting lightly in her lap as Pascale flitted to the kitchen to prepare espresso. Sophie’s eyes wandered—not snooping, just observant. Pictures of the Leclerc children lined the mantel. Arthur, Charles, Lorenzo—big frames, central placements. Belle was there too, but off to the side. Cropped in. Slightly tilted behind a decorative candle holder.

That told her everything she needed to know.

Pascale returned with the espresso cups and handed one over with a tentative smile. “Sugar?”

“Always,” Sophie replied.

There was a moment of polite silence.

“I’m not here because something’s wrong,” Sophie said calmly. “I’m here because something has been wrong for a very long time. And I think you need to hear it from someone who isn’t your daughter. I heard about Sunday finner”

Pascale blinked. “From Belle?”

“From my son.” Sophie’s gaze didn’t waver. “Belle doesn’t complain. She survives.”

Pascale flinched. “I didn’t mean to upset her—”

Sophie tilted her head, eyes cool. “You didn’t mean to. That’s always the excuse, isn’t it? You’ve built your whole motherhood on the idea that intention erases harm. It doesn’t.”

Pascale didn’t answer.

“You didn’t mean to forget her birthday. You didn’t mean to dismiss her work. You didn’t mean to make a joke about not being invited to her wedding when you didn’t even ask why you weren’t invited in the first place.”

Pascale went quiet.

Sophie continued, voice calm and exact. “You didn’t mean to hurt her. But you did. Over and over. Because you assumed she’d take it. That she’d understand. That she’d be fine.”

Sophie set down her cup and folded her hands neatly. Her voice didn’t sharpen, but it grew firmer. “I have two children. Max and Victoria.”

Pascale nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“They’re just about two years apart. He was born in 1997. She arrived in 1999. They were loud. Competitive. Wild.” A fond smile tugged at Sophie’s lips. “Very much siblings.”

Pascale exhaled. “They’re close in age too, you know. All three of them. Charles was born in 1997. Belle in ’99. Arthur in 2000. They were always… together. Loud. Chaotic. There is no manual for parenting children so tightly packed.”

Sophie let the silence breathe before adding, “And yet somehow, I managed not to forget my daughter.”

Pascale flinched.

“I love both of my children. Equally. Differently. Fiercely. And not once have I ever made Victoria feel like she mattered less than Max. Even when he started winning karting trophies. Even when the spotlight was on him and him alone. I could’ve let him take up all the space. He’s Max Verstappen—how easy would that have been? One child chasing world titles, the other left in the background.”

Sophie folded her hands delicately around her coffee cup.

“I know what it’s like to sit at a dinner table and choose to ask my daughter how her week was. I know what it’s like to remember her birthday even when Max has a race. I know what it’s like to see them both as whole people—equally deserving of being seen, even when the world tries to make it about just one.”

She let that sit between them. Let it sting.

“I don’t think you meant to forget Belle,” Sophie said, her voice soft now. “But you did. For years.”

“I know I haven’t always handled things well,” Pascale said. “Charles’ career took so much of everything. Time. Energy. Attention. And Belle never demanded anything. Not like the boys.”

“That’s the thing about girls like Belle,” Sophie said. “They don’t demand—they just quietly disappear. Until one day, they don’t come back.” Sophie leaned forward slightly. “You didn’t just forget your daughter. You erased her. Slowly. Kindly. With a smile. The kind of maternal neglect you can hide behind birthday cards and a roast chicken.”

Tears pricked in Pascale’s eyes. Sophie didn’t flinch.

“Belle is more than Charles’ sister. More than a Leclerc. She’s a woman. A professional. A wife. A soon-to-be mother. And you made her feel like the understudy in a family performance that never had room for her.”

A pause.

“She didn’t invite you to her wedding because she didn’t feel safe. That’s not an oversight, Pascale. That’s a statement. And she was right to make it.”

That landed.

“She didn’t marry Max because of who he is on the grid,” Sophie went on. “She married him because he saw her. Because he made her feel like she mattered. Because he never asked her to shrink.”

A long pause.

“She loves you, Pascale. That’s obvious. It’s why it hurt so much. It’s why she stayed quiet for so long. But she’s not going to beg anymore. And you don’t get forever to fix this.”

“I’ve watched Max fall in love exactly once,” Sophie said softly. “And it was with her. I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at her.”

That stopped Pascale. She said nothing.

“Do you understand what that means, Pascale?” Sophie asked. “Max is not an easy man. He’s brilliant, yes. But he is intense. Demanding. He grew up in a house where love was conditional, where you earned praise by winning. And then Belle—your daughter—walked into his life, and everything changed.”

“She softened him,” Sophie continued. “Not by shrinking herself, not by appeasing him. But by loving him exactly as he is. By never making him feel like he was too much. She steadies him. Sees the parts of him he doesn’t let anyone else see. And because of her, he’s gentler. Happier. Kinder.”

A beat.

She met Pascale’s eyes. “Do you know how rare that is? Do you know how much it means to me, as his mother, that the person he chose makes him feel safe?”

Pascale looked down at her hands.

“She is so good for my son,” Sophie said. “She sees him as Max, not a trophy. And he sees her—really sees her. Your daughter. Your brilliant, kind, fiercely steady daughter.”

She picked up her phone and slipped it into her coat pocket. “You may not get many more chances to prove you see her too.”

Pascale rose slowly, still blinking.

Sophie reached the door, paused, and turned. “It’s not too late, Pascale. But it’s getting close.”

And with that, she left. Silent, measured, devastating. Like a queen who didn’t need a crown to be feared.

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Arthur:ok but like who’s going to check on Maman

Charles:not me.

Arthur:not me. Enzo, you’re up. 

Lorenzo:you’re both cowards. you’ve driven at monaco in the rain and you’re scared of a 60-year-old woman in linen this is above my paygrade

Charles: this is above everyone’s paygrade

Lorenzo:i’m not a diplomat. i can’t emotionally reparent maman.

Lorenzo: if i don’t text back in 20 mins assume the worst and tell Charlotte i loved her

Arthur: Also… maybe don’t bring up Belle for a bit.

Lorenzo: She already said, “I was trying my best.” I didn’t know what to say.

Arthur: Maybe: “Then your best wasn’t good enough”? 😬

Charles: Jesus Christ. Do not say that.

***

Belle was already seated at their usual table at Le Petit Marché by the time Sophie arrived—linen blouse perfectly pressed, sunglasses still perched on her head like she’d walked out of a silent film set in Saint-Tropez.

“Bonjour, sweetheart,” Sophie said, leaning down to kiss both her cheeks before taking the seat across from her.  “You look glowing.”

Belle laughed, a little breathless. “I look puffy.”

“You look lovely,” Sophie corrected, settling across from her. She flagged down the waiter with a tilt of her chin. “Still sparkling water?”

Belle nodded. “You remember.”

“I remember everything,” Sophie said lightly, but her eyes lingered on Belle for a second too long to be casual.

They ordered—salads, tartines, nothing too heavy—and by the time the drinks arrived, Belle had finally let herself exhale.

It was easy, being with Sophie. It always had been.

Max’s mother had never made her feel like she needed to be louder, or smaller, or clever in a way that didn’t come naturally. Sophie simply saw her, and for Belle, that was still something of a quiet miracle.

They talked about everything and nothing. It was only when their plates had been cleared and coffee had been brought that Sophie said, in her most casual tone, “And how are you doing? Truly?”

Belle blinked. “I’m… okay.”

Sophie tilted her head.

“Some days are harder than others,” Belle admitted. “But Max makes them better. Always.”

Sophie stirred her coffee once, twice, then set her spoon down with precision. “He’s different with you, you know.”

Belle smiled, ducking her head. “I know.”

“I’ve watched that boy drive through everything—noise, pressure, fire. And still, you’re the first person who made him slow down.” Sophie’s gaze softened. “It’s beautiful. And it scares him.”

Belle was still smiling when she looked up and saw Sophie watching her. Not assessing. Not judging. Just… looking.

“I had coffee with your mother this morning,” Sophie said, tone gentle but deliberate.

Belle blinked. “You did?”

“I did. She didn’t know I was coming. I like the element of surprise.”

Belle set her fork down carefully. “Was she…”

“Wrecked? Defensive? A little of both.” Sophie shrugged. “But I said what I needed to say.”

Belle was silent, unsure if she wanted to ask what that entailed.

Sophie didn’t make her. “I told her that I have a son who drives a Formula One car. And a daughter who has spent most of her life in his shadow. Just like you.”

Belle’s throat tightened.

“But I didn’t forget my daughter,” Sophie continued, voice calm and precise. “I didn’t ask her to shrink so her brother could shine. I didn’t treat her love as smaller just because it wasn’t in a headline. And I certainly didn’t make her feel like the supporting character in her own life.”

Belle looked down at her water glass. Her eyes stung.

“I told her,” Sophie went on, “that my son saw your worth immediately. From the first moment. ”

Belle swallowed, hard. “Sophie…”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Sophie said. “It was overdue.”

“She loves you, I think,” Sophie said. “But love without effort is just sentiment. And you deserve more than sentiment.”

“Thank you,” Belle whispered.“I’m really glad you’re here,” Belle said softly.

Sophie smiled and reached across the table, brushing a piece of hair from Belle’s cheek. “You are my daughter now. I will always show up.”

Belle blinked fast. “If I cry in this café, Max is going to blame you.”

“He already does,” Sophie said breezily. “Now then we’re going shopping. I saw a pair of flats that are very you, and you’re not leaving without them.”

 Which meant Belle left the afternoon with a pair of maternity jeans so well-tailored she could cry, a cashmere cardigan in the softest dove grey, and a little knit hat for the baby that Sophie claimed she couldn’t walk past without buying.

“I spoil the people I love,” she said, like it was obvious.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Charles Leclerc

Charles: Your mother’s intervention has resulted in our mother questioning all her life choices.

Max:Good. She should.

Charles: She’s been sitting on the balcony for an hour Just… staring at the sea Like she’s in an existential French film. Alexandra brought her tea and she whispered "Am I a bad mother?"

Max: Sophie works fast. And thoroughly.

Charles: She didn’t even raise her voice.

Max: She never does. That’s how you know it’s serious.

Charles: Do you think she’s available for hire? We could send her to FIA meetings.

Max: I’ll ask.

Charles: No but seriously I think it got through to her. She hasn’t deflected once today. She’s just… quiet.

Max: That’s progress.

Charles: She’s still herself, don’t worry. She asked if Belle wanted a proper wedding And Arthur started choking on his juice.

Max: Tell your mother our wedding was already perfect. No upgrades needed.

Charles: Tell your mother she might be the only person who’s ever successfully made our mother reflect. It’s like watching a glacier move.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: And has your mother-in-law survived Mom? 👀

Max:

She’s still breathing. But I think she’s in a mild existential crisis.

Victoria: Mild?

Max: She spent twenty minutes staring at the ocean in silence. Then apparently asked Charles if she’s been a bad mother. Then actually listened when he answered.

Victoria: Oh damn. Mom really unleashed the linen-trousered therapy nuke.

Max: She just sipped her espresso and dismantled a whole family system. Belle doesn’t know the half of it.

Victoria: She doesn’t need to. Mom did what moms are supposed to do: Protect their daughters.

Max: I know. And Belle’s glowing today. She had lunch with her and came back with a cardigan, a hat for the baby, and suspiciously expensive flats.

Victoria: That’s the Sophie Kumpen Experience™ Phase 1: espresso. Phase 2: emotional reparenting. Phase 3: light shopping spree.

Max: Tell me you’re related without telling me you’re related.

Victoria: Tell Belle I said she’s now Mom’s favorite. Also tell Pascale not to test her again unless she wants a sequel.

***

The room felt softer this time.

There was no cold weight in her chest, no sense of armor laced tight under her ribs. Belle still sat close to Max, still had one hand resting over her bump, but for once, it wasn’t to brace herself. It was just—her hand. On her stomach. Because their son had been active all morning, and she could feel the light nudges that reminded her, constantly, of the new chapter ahead.

Camille gave everyone the same calm nod as she sat. “Thank you for being here again.”

They all murmured polite hellos. Belle caught her brothers’ expressions—Charles quiet but attentive, Arthur slightly wary, Lorenzo composed as ever. Max, steady and grounded next to her, nodded at Camille. She always liked how seriously he took this.

But it was Pascale who surprised her.

Her mother looked tired—but not defensive. Not braced. She looked… resolved. There were faint lines beneath her eyes, the kind that come from crying. Her hair was pinned back neatly. Her hands folded in her lap. Belle didn’t recognize this version of her. And somehow, that made it harder.

“Before we begin,” Camille said gently, “Pascale mentioned she had something she’d like to say.”

Belle tensed automatically. Max’s pinky brushed hers in silent reassurance.

Pascale looked at her daughter.

“I owe you an apology,” she said quietly.

The words landed like a stone in the water. Clear. Heavy. Real.

Belle didn’t speak.

“I didn’t come here today to justify anything,” Pascale said. “I’ve spent too long doing that. Dismissing things. Telling myself that good intentions were enough.” She exhaled. “They weren’t.”

The silence in the room wasn’t awkward. It was reverent.

“I’ve been thinking a lot this week,” Pascale continued. “About you, Belle. About how many birthdays I missed. How many quiet accomplishments I treated like background noise. I thought I was being fair. Letting everyone find their own way. But I see now—I see that I didn’t give you the same space I gave the boys.”

Belle’s throat tightened.

Pascale looked down, voice softer. “I told myself that because you didn’t complain, you were okay. That you were independent. That you didn’t need as much.” Her voice cracked. “But you did. Of course you did. And I wasn’t there.”

There was a moment—brief, flickering—where Belle’s heart stuttered. She tried to breathe through it.

“I was a good mother to Charles,” Pascale said. “And Arthur. And Lorenzo. But I wasn’t a good mother to you. And I want to say that out loud. I need you to hear it. No excuses. Just truth.”

A beat. Then another.

“And I am so proud of the woman you became anyway.”

That broke something in Belle. She didn’t cry—but the tears burned hot in her chest, where all the old silences used to live.

Pascale looked up, eyes glassy. “Your work is brilliant. Your marriage is strong. And this baby—this baby is so lucky. Because he’ll be raised by someone who knows how to see people. Truly see them.”

Belle exhaled shakily.

“I want to earn my place again,” Pascale said. “Not as your mother by name. But as someone who supports you. Who shows up. Who listens, even when it’s uncomfortable.”

Max stayed quiet beside her. Charles had his hand loosely over his mouth. Arthur blinked hard. Lorenzo watched his mother like he was seeing her clearly for the first time.

Belle’s voice was small. “It hurt.”

“I know,” Pascale whispered. “And I’m sorry.”

[moechies]

:¨ ·.· ¨: ୨୧ somno w toji

somno with toji never works :( he’s simply too big, and any part of him inside of you would wake you up in an instant, no matter how deep of a sleeper you are.

you proved this true the one time toji came home later than normal from a weighted job, scruffy and worn. yearning for some love from his dearest, cutest wife, jittery at the thought of your sweet lips against his own, and your soft skin pliant against his.

although worried, you had put yourself to sleep on the couch outside of your guy’s bedroom, a plated meal warmed and covered in a wrap for his hoped upon arrival. upon staggering upon the doorstep, fidgeting the key into the hole to get the lock open, he’s greeted by the soft, warm atmosphere of what hes able to call home.

his eyes set on your pliant body sprawled across the couch, body sunk into the soft pillows beneath you. your snoozy face on display due to you laid on your side, and a little knit blanket limps across your tummy. you’re wearing one of his over-sized shirts with a thin pair of panties, delicate lace and a strung bow that details the rim of it.

although originally admiring your soft body laying so peacefully, he can’t help the way his eyes divert to the sight of your chubby cunt, hugged so snugly by the crotch of your panties.

it’s adorable, honestly.

he makes his way towards you with ill intentions, dropping his belongings as he strides towards you.

soft snores reverberate through your body, paying no mind to the huge man mounting you from the side. he curses himself silently when all he can imagine is a sweet imagine of your is your fucked our face imprinted in his head, cute drooly mouth and crystalline tears painting your cute cheeks. his ears ring with your little mewls and cries of his name, little hand grappling at his much larger bicep trying your best to ask for a kiss.

he feels his cock ache and throb against your warm thigh as his mind surpasses all of these perfect moments, wasting no time before tugging at the silk embellishment of a belt, shimmying off his pants and discarding them on the ground. he hoists your soft leg onto his shoulder, shirt lifting along side it allowing him an open view to your perfect cunt, and your perfect slit. he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

although racked with guilt, head pulsing with anger at his poor self control, he can’t help but replay certain moments in his head; where you’d beg him to use you, conscious or not.

with honeydew tears rolling down your face, desperately holding the man impossibly close, mewling in his ear, ‘use me, use me, use me !” and all you ask in return is a sweet kiss on the lips. he chuckles at the thought, you, who others assume to be such a dear, gentle as a fawn, cute as a doe, the most innocent of all, compared to the version of you only toji knows. he’s utterly blessed.

his mind acts as a record, one that doesn’t stop playing, one which each and every film is of your sweet, sweet self. he’s not long into his fantasy before he finds himself mindlessly humping against your clad pussy, a thick layer of slick beginning to form from the simulation.

he lets out a mere laugh, tugging the crotch aside to be met with the prettiest sight of your worked up cunny. the sheen coat of arousal does nothing but highlight your pearly clit, and milky hole, all ready to take your favorite. your breath has labored, eyes squeezed tight, and cheeks flushed with a light rose, outcries for your dearest lover; ‘toji, toji, daddy— d . . daddy,’

his pride can’t help but swell at cute commentary unconsciously slipping from your lips; to know that even in you’re sleep, you were dreaming of him.

as his hand holds your panties aside, the other tugs his cock out from the confinements of his boxers, dragging the sloppy tip against your slit. he watches the two textures of arousal mix against eachother, his creamier pre blend into your clear slick. he can almost feel himself staring at the mess through heart-shaped lenses, obsessed with how your hole pulses around his mere cock head.

he feels your body twitch against his, leg shivering lightly, as you huff. much as if you had been awake, other than your usual whining and rushing, tugging at his much larger hips to hurry.

he finally lands above your hole, pressing lightly against the wet flesh, assuming he’s being diligent with his movements in order not to wake you. he watches as your soft cunt swallows his pudgy cock head as if it’s a right, fat lips hugging his cock head tight.

his technique doesn’t work too well.

his mere tip sits comfortably inside you when he hears you whimper loudly at his initial movement, eyelashes fluttering as you wake yourself with heavy pants. your leg attempts to retract, but he keeps a easy grip in order to keep you still. your cries grow louder, completely oblivious as to what’s happening around you in your woozy state. you flinch at the scarred hand that lays against the soft skin of your face,

“it’s jus’ me, honey. don’t fret.” toji comforts, smiling at the way your head turns to face his, brows furrowing in confusion.

“o . . owie—“ you react regarding his cock head protruding your cunny from below, “t-toji,” your hand grips at his fingers weakly, slowly adjusting to the ‘foreign’ feeling of his cock.

“mhm.. that’s right, darling girl. y’slept well?” you shake your head quickly, pouting up at the man above you. he tilts his head to the side, anticipating your explanation.

“ ‘s ‘cause you w-weren’t home. m-missed y’so much, toji.” you sniffle, tugging his arm in order to pull him closer.

“oh, poor baby.” he replies solemnly, reaching down to press a loving kiss onto your forehead. you feel him nudge himself deeper, squeaking at the unprepped stretch.

“heh.. missed you so much too, doll. y’know that?” he cups the side of your face, shallow and short thrusts of his cock. more than enough to get him off perfectly. you nod your head rapidly with shut eyes, fists clenched into little balls against your chest at the overwhelming simulation.

“y’r doin’ s’good. ‘s almost over doll, t-then i’ll put ya to sleep.”

“w-wait hnn— m gonna cum !”

he snickers at your meek whines, teasing you slightly,

“already? this pussy’s so sensitive, sweet doll.”

he knows it’s the mixture of you barely conscious, added onto the intense simulation of his cock pounding against your gummy walls over and over, but he loves the little helpless glare you shoot him, silently begging him to let you cum.

“please, please—“

“shh darlin,’ no need to beg. cum, cum f’me, doll.”

and with a couple deep strokes, his cock overwhelmed by the way your cunt pulses and squeezes around him, he cums a potent load into the depths of your womb.

he jets a milky and viscous stream of thick cum into you, seemingly never ending as he slowly rides out his high by lazily humping into your spent cunt.

his eyes can’t help but pace back and forth from your lewd expressions to the creamy mess below, watching his load spread across your chubby folds and dirty the inside of your thighs.

sweet whispers of ‘love you, love you,’ fall from the lips of the man, pressing wet kisses all over your face. you nuzzle against his face, kissing down his jaw, entertaining his needy behavior that you surely wouldn’t see for a while.

[glow-in-the-dark-death]

A Week (He Will Take You)

~

Danny moved to Gotham for school, while there he noticed that Gotham's ambient ecto was really murky for lack of a better word.

This didn't really affect him too much besides a mild headache every once in a while but that also just might be stress from all his school work so maybe not.

Anyway

This murky ecto seemed to effect the people who lived there or more importantly the ghosts,

They were visible to the human eye like most ghosts back in Amity but instead of looking very much like a ghost they still looked like humans if a bit off putting.

They all seemed to be continuing their normal lives as if still fully alive, with the people around them none the wiser.

Danny noticed this and began approaching them to figure out what was going on.

Apparently the murky ecto in the city had made it so that they were strong enough to still continue a somewhat normal life but not be able to cross over to the GZ.

In other words they were stuck in Gotham

Danny was the Ghost King so he could easily fix this problem, all he needed to do was give them a bit of pure ecto for around a week to fully stabilize them them then he would just open a portal into the GZ and they could cross over with all their things also transferring into the GZ for their new haunt.

Unfortunately this looked rather worrying to an outsider,

Imagine you're used to your neighbor being very outgoing so you and others see them a lot suddenly this man seems to appear in their life out of nowhere an at exactly one week, your neighbor and all their belongings in their home disappear no trace to be found.

You tell people and they begin saying the same story they knew someone and them a man with black hair and blue eyes appeared in their life, then they and all their things disappear in exactly one week.

Of course the police in Gotham do the bare minimum so they're no help.

But it starts to begin a trend, especially online.

"Oh careful or the blue eyed man will make you disappear in a week"

This of course after time catches the bats attention, Gordon had already given them all the information he had.

"Young adult early twenties, dark hair, blue eyes"

That was it.

The bats look into it and from their point of view Danny is a serial killer.

But they can't find the connection between all of his victims, they range from young children and the elderly from different backgrounds absolutely no connection,

Worrying enough he doesn't just make one person disappear he has taken entire families up to over a dozen, without anyone figuring out how he's doing it or why at all.

The disturbing thing also being that he seems to take everything in their home, leaving it like it has always been empty

Like no one had been living in it.

People have tried to take photos of Danny get some kind of evidence of his existence, but when they try to do it, it either comes out completely corrupted or their devise simply shuts down fully.

Danny of course has no clue what is happening he's just happy that he's able to help so many ghosts, and is trying not to fail his exams.

~

Danny leaving the house he just helped: "That went easier than I expected!"

Neighbor peeking from the window: "Shit it's that guy! "

~

Red Hood marching down into the cave: " The fucker took many from my territory without me even realizing it!"

~

Tim: "I'm pretty sure his kill count is nearing the hundreds and he just started like maybe 4 months ago, this is bad."

Barbara: " I think I got a theory, this matches up with the new school year beginning so maybe their not a Gotham native which narrows down my suspect list."

Bruce: "Hn."

Tim: "Yes thank you B for the insightful commentary"

~

Danny trying not to fall asleep while on his way to class: "Strange I keep seeing shadows following me, oh well must be the stress!"

Bats who are pretty sure Danny is the killer: "Has he done anything suspicious yet?"

~

Just an Idea

[chuckwon]

real

holding out hope for act 2 season 16, personally

instead of jack becoming god at the end of spn they should have brought back marie from fanfiction and made HER an authorgod. the final shot of the show should have been salmondeancas and their new robot driving the impala through outer space (which now exists in supernatural)

[prettieinpink]

HABITS TO IMPLEMENT BEFORE THE END OF THE YEAR ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊ ⊹

DAILY AFFIRMATIONS

You can choose whatever time you’d like to say positive and affirmative statements to yourself. When saying affirmations, use the first person and present tense. E.g I am healthy, I take care of myself, and I am strong academically. 

Affirmations are so helpful because our brains struggle to tell the difference between imagination and reality. So, when we visualise ourselves doing something that's not actually happening, it stimulates the brain areas as if we were actually experiencing it.

So, repetitive affirmations will encourage your brain to treat it as fact. While this only works to an extent, it does help with self-sabotaging thought actions and thought patterns. 

EATING MINDFULLY

Eating mindfully is the practice of when consuming anything, you put your full focus on that meal. There are no devices that may distract you, you’re eating slowly and paying close attention to how different meals make your body feel. 

To eat mindfully, focus on the time it takes for you to finish your food. Is it enough time for your body to give signals about your meal? To chew thoroughly? Another thing is to turn off and eliminate any distractions. Such as being on any devices or multitasking. 

Eating too quickly means that your body may not have enough time to tell you that it's full. When you eat mindfully, it's easier for your body to register when it's full. Furthermore, it's easier to distinguish between true hunger and non-hunger triggers for eating. 

CREATIVE OUTLETS

For a lot of us, 2024 was a stressful year. We’re constantly hustling and not letting ourselves process what's happening in and around us. Having a creative outlet helps us to release and detach from those emotions. It allows us to experience that feeling, but leave it all behind in the end. 

Some examples are painting, clay artwork, creative writing, designing, sewing, crocheting and music. There’s a lot more you could do, but ultimately you have to do what's best for yourself. 

LEARNING SOMETHING NEW EVERYDAY

At least one thing each day: aim to learn something completely new to you. Other than the fact that you are learning something new, it allows for your curiosity to grow and expand outside of your typical education institution. With curiosity, comes with the skill of being able to explore complications and come up with solutions. 

There are many ways you can learn, but I think the best way is by coming up with your questions in an area you’re unfamiliar with and then looking for an answer to your question. 

My favourite way has to be watching video essays. Doesn’t always have to be social commentary, but anything that seems interesting enough for me. 

COMPLIEMENT-A-DAY

I love receiving compliments from strangers. It leaves the widest smile on my face and I swear I feel so much lighter like I’m floating around. However, I never think to give a compliment to someone else who I don’t know. So, whenever you see the cutest outfit or the perfect lip combo, make sure to say it!

For those who may be shy in those kinds of interactions, practice saying it in your head. You don’t have to say it out loud to them, but thinking positively of other people will reflect on how you think about yourself. 

That is it for this post, thank you for reading until the end ♥︎ Until next time, take care of yourself ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊ ⊹

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

So being a "live" author rather than "write it all up, publish, and come what may" type author, do you ever take reader commentary into consideration? Like I imagine for sure nothing that'd change the story per se, but if people expressed that they liked the exposition for example, do you feel driven to maybe put a little more whenever it fits?

No. The story gets what the story needs; if the readers like a lot of something then I make notes for the next story so that I can (if I choose to do so) design a story with more of that from the start. Being a 'live' author gives very little room for direction, theme or basic structure and tone changes because you can't go back and rewrite published chapters. Spent too much time taking the audience into account will turn you into one of those tv writers who spend too much time reading about their own show on twitter and end up writing a mess as a result.

I keep an eye on the reactions as an educational tool; did this elicit the kind of reactions that I wanted? Is the audience exhibiting the sort of discussions that I expected? If not, why not? That data is used to improve my craft. For the story in progress, the main thing I'm checking for is comprehension. Does the audience sufficiently understand the plot and setting? Is there something they're wildly misunderstanding? That's the one thing that does change how I write the story in progress; some misunderstanding is normal (the audience will usually have some people who understand something explain it to the people who don't), but if everybody's misunderstanding or forgetting something basic, it means I've communicated it incorrectly and need to communicate it again before it becomes plot critical. Checking the live reactions is also a good way to skim for minor plot holes and ensure that your twists are at the level of predictability you want. You want a small number of people to guess each twist in advance; this shows that you have correctly seeded the pieces and it's not coming out of absolutely nowhere. If a very large proportion of the audience is guessing a twist, then it's not a twist, it's a revelation for the character, which is perfectly fine and YOU SHOULD NOT ALTER IT, THEN IT'S A MESS COMING OUT OF NOWHERE, YOU'RE NOT IN COMPETITION WITH YOUR AUDIENCE OH MY GOD TV WRITERS GET OFF TWITTER, but it's handy to know which one you're writing in advance.

[arijackz]

PICK A CARD: Your Road to Fame

♛ “If God gives you something you can do, why in God's name wouldn't you do it?” ―Stephen King

Disclaimer: This is a general reading, take what resonates. This is a gender-neutral reading, change any pronouns to apply to you.

p1 → p2 ↙︎ p3 → p4

♕ Pile One (8oP, 3oW rev., Temperance, The Hermit)

Your road to fame would be quite unorthodox and since you’re paving an original path, it would take time, patience, and dedication. This is not an overnight sensation type of thing. Think Sheraseven- the Sprinkle Sprinkle Lady ✨. She had been consistently making content (unique, neo “feminist” videos way before it picked up in media) for well over a decade. She even had a spiritual side to her, she talked about esoteric themes in pop culture and made guides on how to manifest and attract abundance. 

This is my spiritual pile, you would get famous for offering psychic insight (using clairaudience capabilities in particular) or putting your own creative spin on things using your spiritual attunement. Like Sheraseven for example, she combined her interest in esoteric practices with her love for pop culture and social commentary. 

Inherently, esoteric studies have smaller audiences so it would take significant time to build up worldwide fame (if you even want that). 

Honestly, with your skills, any fame you get is due to a higher power. You are a conduit for elevating the collective consciousness. You will be seen because your insight is meant to be heard. Society is heading towards a deep transformation and shift of power from the ultra-rich to the common man and you’re one of the ushers of this change. Your words empower people and are a primary reason for your incarnation. 

Any platform you build is going to be held to a higher standard than most in the eyes of the public and the universe. People are going to look at you for guidance and inspiration and the petty, nasty shit you see in media nowadays will not bode well if you enact it. You will be made an example of how to behave and treat others. Your bad actions will be punished more harshly than anyone else’s and your good actions will be rewarded tenfold. 

Major Jupiterian and Plutonian influence. A genius astrologer on this app tracked the most common nakshatras of K-Pop Idols, and Jupiter dominated their charts. They are held to an incredibly high standard and are trained to be model citizens. However, their fame surpasses the average celebrity and they are practically worshipped worldwide. *ahem* You.

I mean… imagine if a holier-than-thou mental health, peace, and love guru was bullying people on Twitter, nobody would listen to anything you have to say. You HAVE to pay careful attention to your media presence and image.

Howeevveerrr, your biggest personal challenge is trusting yourself and your capability. The thing with spirituality is, it lies outside of human perception, so there is no concrete evidence to prove it to others. So, you would battle with, “Am I even right? Will anyone believe me?” and it would cause a shit ton of anxiety cause you’re constantly questioning yourself. 

Be cautious not to clip your own wings. I can't stress this enough: you are meant for this! You are the real deal! If others don’t believe in you, so what? Only YOU need to believe in yourself. Offer honest help to others, and if they choose not to take your advice, that's their loss. Remember, you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink—just as my grandmama would say. DO IT THE FUCK ANYWAY!

But have patience! That’s another thing, you’ll grow frustrated if your platform isn’t building as quickly as you’d like. You have to remember that the divine has a hand in this ordeal, they are going to attract the right people at the right time and it likely won’t align with your sense of urgency. Trust the process and stay committed—you’re on the right path!

P.S. Your work will be slow. Most careers require a “grind”, yours won’t. You need to prioritize introspection, drawing your attention inward and looking for answers deep within your soul. Don’t stress logic and manipulation of the algorithm, trust your inner knowing. 

(Do you have a prominent Pluto in your chart: Either in a cardinal house or conjunct a personal planet? You are a major player in the world’s rebirth.)

Okay bye bye! MUAH! 💋💋

The Seer of the Space Between Worlds

♕ Pile Two (7oS, 9oS, Queen of Wands, The High Priestess, 5oS, 10oW, 5oW rev.)

YOU’RE SEXY AND HOES ARE MAAADDDDD.

Your road to fame is you embracing your authentic self. Something about your beauty: your looks, how you style yourself, who you’re seeing romantically, your creativity, your sensuality,

or you could lead a visually pleasing “soft girl” lifestyle. Anything that makes people look at you just swoon. 

People would be mad because they think you have it easy. You don’t really have to do much, but be beautiful because people desire you and your lifestyle. If you’re a woman, I see you leading self-confidence courses and teaching women of all ages how to raise their self-esteem by detaching from anything that drains their inner wild woman.

This reading is hyper-feminine, if you’re a man you’d get famous for your proximity to women or will have a female-dominated fanbase that sees you as their dream guy and wants to date you. 

You create a wonderfully comfy vibe; everything you do looks effortless, even if it takes a ton of hard work behind the scenes. You sell a fantasy, showcasing the polished version of a lifestyle while hiding the nitty-gritty realities. Take that Ballerina Farms lady, for example. She’s running a farm, raising 50 kids, and cooking from scratch daily, all while looking FABULOUS. I bet she goes to bed exhausted! Yet to the public, everything appears romantic and effortlessly beautiful, making it seem far easier than it actually is. Now everyone is dreaming of escaping to a self-sustaining farm and embracing that charming cottage-core lifestyle.

However, underneath all the glitz and glamour, there is something dark in your mental space. You attract a lot of envy. People desire your lifestyle to the extent that they’ll get buddy-buddy with you just to be near what you have, hoping it will rub off on them. You’ll have to learn to navigate deceitful energies and “friends” who are secretly competing with you.

People will like the idea of getting you out of your “princess” character. They want you to look like the bad guy- someone who is actually a mean bitch underneath your cool, calm, and collected persona. 

This aspect of fame, in the broader context of your life, will teach you discernment and help you trust your intuitive judgment of others. However, on this journey, you may find yourself grappling with intense paranoia and trust issues. Having been burned by people in the past, you'll become hyper-vigilant, determined to avoid the same pain again. Yet, through this struggle, you'll also discover the importance of vulnerability and the value of genuine connections, allowing you to grow stronger and more resilient in the face of adversity.

You will meet the best people in your life and your greatest adversaries at this time. 

But don’t sweat it, they hate you because they don’t have shit on you.

Okay bye bye! MUAH! 💋💋

She Weaves Timeless Romanticism Into The Mundane

♕ Pile Three (Page of Pentacles, The World, 10oW, King of Pentacles, Powerful, Saturn, Gemini Medical, Seduction)

You have the power to unite the world baby. Your key to fame is sharing your perspective on life. 

You possess a deep understanding of a universal truth that many remain blind to, and it's crucial to share your ideas. If this resonates with you, you'll likely feel a weight of knowledge pressing down on you, creating a longing to communicate and connect with others. This insight isn't just a personal burden; it’s your ticket to stardom. By expressing this truth, you have the potential to inspire others, spark meaningful conversations, and elevate both yourself and those around you. 

You have the gift of the gab, can charm the birds from the trees, a mouth like a magpie, can sell ketchup to a lady in white gloves, and every other saying under the sun that says your words are seductive. 

I don’t think you realize this but you have a knack for attracting an audience. You may feel insecure and think people stare at you for no reason or listen too intently to everything you say, but it's because you radiate an aura of importance. 

Significant placements: Saturn in a cardinal house or major conjunction, Libra, Cap, Aqua, Pushya, Anuradha, and Uttara Bhadrapada.

Your mind is critical, astute, and hyper-aware; this aspect of yourself bleeds into your physical existence. Your body language communicates this fact and people pick up on it, giving the impression that you’re intelligent and have something important to say.

You know those internet personalities who, for whatever reason, people hang onto their every word? When something happens in the media, people rush to their comments and ask about their thoughts and opinions. Or, all their content is their knowledge about niche things or their viewpoint on divisive arguments in society. That’s your shit right there. 

You’re likely not too interested in mainstream media and like to consume content that expands your knowledge and mentally stimulates you. 

There is a deep sense of doubt here, you’re probably reading this and going, “But I’m not smart🫤.”

LIEESSSSS!

You don’t give yourself nearly enough credit, you’re a genius! You might be surprised at how interested people are in your thoughts if you find the courage to share them. Sure, you’ll encounter some naysayers along the way, but who cares? It’s the internet, and let’s be honest—people can be insufferable. You could say the sky is blue and there’d be some smartass like, “Well actually, with all the methane in the atmosphere the sky turns pink with a dash of purple at approximately 6:44 pm in the western hemisphere  ☝🏾🤓.”

You can’t let these losers silence you. 😭😭

Focus on those who resonate with your message and don’t let the negativity hold you back. Your voice matters, and the world needs to hear what you have to say!

Just to reiterate, it IS your ticket to getting the spotlight you deserve.

P.S. If you have Saturn dominance, especially in relation to Mercury, you likely experienced some delays and struggles in your education and learning development (SAMESIES). You might have a speech impediment or struggle to find the right words. 1) Things will get better with time and you will likely surpass everyone else in terms of communication because you will put a lot of focus into refining your speech. 2) People will find your speech endearing because it shows that you’re human, imperfect, and relatable. It makes it easier for people to connect to you and resonate with your message. 

P.S.S. For some of you, this message is tied to your academics and whatever you’re learning professionally. 

P.S.S.S It's hours later, and I'm letting my intuition shape your mood board. The imagery is… quiet yet formidable, like towering mountains or the very core of the Earth. You have an intellect that doesn’t need to scream that it’s sharp. You embody the dignified essence of Saturn, exuding a carefully crafted composure. People are drawn to unravel your layers, eager to glimpse the depth within. It may sound strange, but over time, people come to see you as profoundly wise.

Okay bye bye! MUAH! 💋💋

The Gentle Fortitude in Peace of Mind

♕ Pile Four (Page of Swords, 2oP, 4oW, 4oS rev., 9oS rev., High Priestess)

Haha, you think you won’t find love but you’re about to receive one of the greatest love stories of a lifetime 🫵🏾!

Your road to fame is a blossoming partnership filled with love, mutual respect, and endless banter. 

It could be a familial, platonic, romantic, or a friends-to-lovers situation, doesn’t matter. Your bond with another is what will catch the media’s attention. In today’s age, this could be in the form of a podcast or live streaming where people get to observe you and your person’s natural flow of conversation.

Do you know Aaron and Jo? They’re commentators who’ve been friends since childhood, and their unique rapport is magnetizing. It’s effortless and incredibly comfortable to witness, making their interactions feel genuine and warm. They have middle-school boy humor but they’ve refined it over the years, so it appeals to all audiences and is genuinely hilarious. You and your person will have something one-of-a-kind like this. 

This is sort of separate from the reading, beyond the potential fame, this person is coming into your life (or is already in it) as a gift from the Universe. The karmic scales are balancing in your favor. You’ve spent years emotionally pouring into people with very little in return and as a form of justice, you are going to meet people who “Match your Freak”, so to speak. 

Placements: Tropical Aries, Sidereal Pisces, Uttara Bhadrapada Nakshatra. Any Cancer or 4th house placements. 

You’ll know this is coming when you’re going through a season of release. Whatever has been draining you emotionally and torturing you psychically will just… poof!

One day you’re going to, “fuck that shit, it’s not the deep- WE BALL!” your way to success 😭😭.

This is my bubbliest pile. Not that you are a bubbly person, in fact, life’s trials and tribulations took away your ability to crack a smile for a while. But this new phase you’re entering is nothing but giggles and a great fucking time. You deserve it!

This person is going to nurture you in ways that even your inner child can’t fully comprehend. The success you find online won’t even feel like the ultimate prize; it’s the deep connection you build that truly matters. This bond will uplift you and provide the support you didn’t know you needed, making the journey all the more rewarding.

P.S. You might have Libra or 7th house significance in your chart because a core aspect of your life revolves around connection and partnership—more so than most. It's time to celebrate! Toss your cap in the sky, you’ve completed a huge karmic cycle and your blessings are coming! 

Okay bye bye! MUAH! 💋💋

The Joyous Hum of Divine Union

[zenmiren]

sypnosis: from friends to strangers to friends to lovers. you have known michael kaiser ever since you were kids, your cloud 9 friendship ended after he mysteriously stopped meeting up with you, and 4 years later, you meet again.

michael kaiser x reader

likes and reblogs are appreciated!!

— not proof-read, might be some mistakes

content: fluff, angst if you squint, nickname 'mihya' is used, childhood friends to lovers trope

saturday, 2:35 pm. berlin, germany.

— 3rd december 2007

8 year old michael kaiser sat by himself under a slide at the park that he went to often. he had been booted outside by his father once again, and with no where else to go, he fled to the park. michael had no friends, so usually, he just sat and watched people play, walk by with their dogs, etc..

until.. he spots a ball, old and rough looking. it clearly wasn't important since it was left behind, and maybe he could fit in with other kids if he had a toy of his own that he could play with.

he crawls out from under the slide and takes the ball. he threw it, bounced it and punched it around, but he was left wondering why his ball wasn't as bouncy as the other kids ones.

compared to his ball, which had pentagons and hexagons, the other kids had brightly coloured balls, and a few kids even had an orange ball with intricate stripes that they threw in a hoop. he tried to throw his ball high up in the air, to make it seem like he knew how to play too, and hopefully, the other kids would ask him to join... but instead.. a girl who was a bit shorter than him, but definitely his age approached him with a toothy grin.

"thats not how you play soccer" you pointed at him with your fat little index finger.

michael was.. awestruck, to say the least, he had never seen someone so.. soft looking, it gave him the urge to protect you, and he didn't even know your name...

"uh-uh.. what." what even was soccer? michael had no idea.

"soccer, you have a soccer ball. are you good at playing?"

"uh-"

"clearly not if you're throwing it around like that!" you laughed, unaware that you had made the boy a tad bit insecure of himself "but don't worry! i'm not very good, but still, i know the jist of it!"

michael simply nodded, letting you lead him along to a more open space. he watches you make a makeshift goal, using two sticks as the point you have to kick past before you strolled over to the ball and kicked it past.

"score!!" you happily exclaimed, cheering as you threw one hand up in the air, gripping the corner of your shirt and putting one leg ahead of the other [JUST IMAGINE KAISER'S MAGNUS POSE BUT LESS DRAMATIC.. cause ur not a try hard like michael is..]

you and michael had played until evening, and michael had quickly realised that he was a natural at the game.

the days after your first encounter, you hadn't shown up to the park in a bit, michael was disappointed, but had hoped you had returned. while you were gone, he practiced kicking the ball and doing tricks to impress you when you came back.

in reality, you were just sick with a fever and had to miss a few days of school and going out, which you were very upset about, but your mom made you just suck it up.

when michael finally saw you again, playing with your friends from school, he was so happy, yet so shy, and he didn't have the guts to approach you again. meanwhile, you were looking for the boy in the black hoodie that you played with before.

when you met eyes, michael felt relief when your face brightened, and you quickly excused yourself from your friends, running over to him and saying hi.

michael had a lot of fun with you every single day, for years. after your school, you would meet up at the park, it didn't matter how tired you were, you had to see him, atleast once a day. michael wasn't much of a talker, hangouts always usually consisted of you yapping about your day while he listened, hummed along and added commentary here and there. to you, it was perfect, you liked that michael listened.

your friends often wondered why you never finished all your food, and your mom found it strange that you always asked for extras whenever she packed your lunch. she summed it up to you just being a growing girl, and that it was most likely just cause you were going through puberty.

you would always just give your spare food to michael though.

you watched as michael scarfed down the remaining food in your lunchbox. neither of you talked, you both just sat on a small hill together. you laid on the grass while michael sat upright, since he didn't want to choke with how fast he was eating.

your eyes scattered around his body and face, he had taken off his signature black hoodie, showing off his forearms and all the bruises and scars that came with it. your gaze travelled up to his face, you always noticed his wounds, but never mentioned it, it must have been a sensitive topic. he had a busted lip, a black eye and a few bruises around his cheeks and forehead.

you sighed, before an idea came to mind.

saturday, 11:15am. berlin, germany

— 15th november 2014

the next day, you showed up to the park with a picnic basket, you had lied to your mom, saying that you would go out with a few friends, since she had no knowledge of michael.

"mihya" you hugged him from behind, effectively making him flinch in shock.

"hey, [name]..." his eyes drifted down to the picnic basket ".. what's.. that for?" he shrugged over to it

"oh! i brought some snacks for us"

michael's fat ass immediately got excited, and he watched as you set the picnic blanket down. you urged him to sit on the blanket, and when you opened the basket, it revealed a lot of snacks you brought, and a few medical items, like cotton balls, alcohol and gauze bandages.

you two made conversation, for a bit before you brought up the wounds. your hand gently cupped his cheek, softly caressing it.

"mihya.. let me clean your wounds, i'm not gonna ask how you got them, i just want to help.." you leaned in close, and michael felt his heart start to race... he hated how you were such a good person.

you ended up cleaning his wounds, only because you were so insistent.

as you used the last of your bandaids for a bruise on his cheek. you ended it off with a sweet kiss on his cheek, to which he flinched away before a heavy blush made its way on his cheeks. you giggled, and michael wished that he could save this in his memory forever. better yet, he wished this lasted forever.

you made him feel things that felt good, you were a safe space to escape everything else in his life. you were what heaven felt like, and michael hoped that he would never be separated from you.

he should have knocked on wood.

around a month after that day, michael mysteriously stopped showing up. not even a hint to why. you remembered clearly that the last time you both were together, he said "i'll see you tomorrow!".. and yet.

you, however, remained hopeful. michael isn't the type to just leave without a word, right? you waited for hours on end, every single day, and he never once came back. by the end of january, you had given up completely.

tuesday, 6:44pm. munich, germany

— (your birthdate) 2018

michael returned to his penthouse after practice. he was drenched in sweat, and his jersey stuck to his toned muscles. he sighed, kicking his shoes off, putting his duffel bag down and plopping down on the couch, manspreading before he whipped his phone out.

he needed a vacation, honestly. he scrolled on instagram, looking through his feed. he stumbled upon a collaboration post of a bunch of university students his age. michael raised a brow, and swiped to see the rest of the photos.

his blue eyes widened when he saw a familiar face, holding a cake. then it clicked, how could he forget? it was your birthday... michael mentally slapped himself, he thought of you every single day, and yet he managed to forget the most important day of the year, which was YOUR date of birth.

he was enamoured.. you looked so pretty, aged like fine wine, in his opinion, even though it had only been around 4 years.

his eyes went to the curve of your nose, the crinkle of your eyes as you smiled, the way your lips looked so so soft.. my goodness.

he set his phone down, his thoughts going on overdrive before he picked his phone back up, and looked through the collaborators on the instagram post, it was your birthday, so obviously you would be a collaborator. he clicked on your profile and mentally applauded himself when he found that your page was public.

he felt a small smile show up on his face when he saw what you were up to. you were a university student in munich, the same city he was in.. you went to a pottery class with a few friends just for fun, you had a part-time job working as a waitress at a 4-star restaurant. you had one cat, named misty, and your friend group over all had a good vibe to it.

michael was happy that you had trustworthy people to hang out with, however, he still wanted to be your number one best friend, maybe even more, so of course, he was a tad bit jealous.

he ordered a bouquet of generic roses to send to your university the next day. it came with a card that said 'send to [name] [last name]', so obviously you received it.

for a while, michael was fine with just stalking your social media and sending you gifts, without signing his name, but it all stopped once ness had come to practice with a familiar girl.

michael raised a brow, he remembered her from somewhere, but he just couldn't remember where.

"kaiser! this is eliza, a close family friend of mine!" ness beamed as michael glanced to eliza, who shyly waved.

eliza.. eliza... ah.. now he remembered.. michael had seen her name when he was scrolling through your followings.

ness had explained that eliza had invited him to a big meet up that was happening tonight with her friends and acquaintances, just for fun, and he wanted michael to come along, since for some reason, ness thought they were friends.

"is [name] gonna be there." michael blurted out, placing a hand on his hip.

ness tilted his head in confusion at the unfamiliar name, and eliza wasn't expecting that question.

"you know [name]? yeah, she'll be there" eliza nods

"then I'm coming."

".. right.."

ness didn't leave him alone for the entire day, constantly asking about who you were and how you knew each other. michael tuned him out. he was more focused on what he would wear, what cologne he would wear... what cologne would you like?

that night, he finished getting ready. he just wore something casual, since the gathering wasn't remotely fancy. ness had picked him up and as they drived, michael felt butterflies in his stomach, his knee was consistently bouncing and his hands felt clammy.

they met with eliza outside of the bar and when they went inside, michael was met with a few familiar faces, he recognised some as people you were following online, and some he didn't know at all.

his eyes shifted from face to face, before he saw yours. michael immediately started regretting coming here.. he was perfectly fine with just watching your life on instagram.. 'michael.. fucking idiot..' he mentally slapped himself. he should just leave honestly. michael was full of ego and confidence, and here he was, buckling his knees for a childhood friend.

he was just about to leave the bar, but you had already seen him, he swore he saw your eyes widen, just a little tiny bit before you excused yourself from your friends, just like how you did so many years ago at the park when you were children, and approached him...

"michael.." you addressed him

"hey." he forced himself to smirk, putting up his arrogant, usual facade.

"wipe that smirk off your face, asshole" you huffed, crossing your arms. "you have some explaining to do."

michael wasn't shocked when you returned to his penthouse with him that night... just to catch up, of course!

sunday, 6:30pm. berlin, germany

— 28th april 2025

you and michael were walked around your hometown, you had just gone as a 2 day trip, and soon, you both would be going to greece anyway, so you didn't need to go on holiday for too long.

you stopped by the old park you used to spend time in "mihya look!" you ran ahead, breaking your hand holding "hahah! this place barely changed!"

michael lovingly watched as you walked around the playground area ".. yeah.. it really hasn't.."

whilst your back was turned, he pulled out a velvet box from his coat pocket. he looked down at it, before looking back up at you, before looking back down at it again. he took a deep breath

".. mein liebling." he called out, gaining your attention. you turned over your shoulder, only to be met with the sight of your boyfriend down on one knee.

"...!!" you gasped and he softly smiled at your cute reaction.

".. let's get married?"

UGGGHHH TS SOOO BUNS 😞😞 it ain't proof-read either whay the heck

please pslpslspslspl ignore grammar mistakes

fic of THIS POST

TAGLIST:

@yvanllie @mrsitoshirin

borders by @dollywons and @cyberbeat

[elikajinnie]

hii! hope ur doing good I have some ideas in mind hear me out demon sunghoon where he fell in love with reader and tries to protect and keep an eye on her and sunghoon tries to disguise himself as a human to get closer to her will do anything to protect her and love her, buttt what if reader discover’s his true identity. It could be incubus sunghoon BUT ITS UR CHOICE, Hope ur doing good :333

The Incubus's Touch - P.S

a/n: i hope you like it <33

P: Incubus!Sunghoon X Fem!Reader (Recommended age 18+)

Warnings: Murder, Violence, Obsession, Teasing, Possession, Seduction, Hurt/Comfort, Temptation, Stalking, Suggestive Content, Mature Content.

Wordcount: 10.2k

Synopsis: Working at the old campus library was fun—except for one rule: never enter the basement. Yet, one day, you found yourself there, holding an ancient book. You read a few words, and now strange things are happening, and a mysterious new student won’t leave you alone. Who—or what—did you awaken?

a/n: i got some inspiration from a new book im reading called The Devil Makes Three by Tori Bovalino - i would recommend it if you can handle slowburn.

now playing: woo by rihanna | sins (let me in) by kanii | temptation by ashley sienna | dont mess with my mind by emo

reblogs and commentary are welcomed <3

--

When you first decided to get a job close to campus, you weren’t expecting much. In fact, you didn’t have many choices at all. Most of the cafes and shops near the university had already filled their rosters for the semester, and every rejection you received only added to the growing knot of anxiety in your chest. As the weeks passed, you found yourself growing desperate, spending late nights scrolling through job postings that seemed to disappear before you could even send in an application.

It wasn’t until one quiet afternoon in the campus library that your salvation arrived.

The campus library had always been your sanctuary—quiet, calm, and filled with the smell of old books. It wasn’t unusual for you to spend hours tucked into one of the corners, surrounded by towering shelves of books and the gentle hum of the air conditioning. The librarian, Mrs. Choi, had gotten used to seeing you there almost every day, to the point where she’d started greeting you by name when you walked through the doors.

That day, she had approached your table while you were hunched over your laptop, your screen open to yet another fruitless job search.

“Still looking?” she’d asked, her voice soft but knowing.

You’d sighed, leaning back in your chair. “Yeah. It’s been… rough.”

She’d nodded thoughtfully, her gaze drifting toward the stacks of books waiting to be shelved. Then, after a moment, she’d said, “How would you feel about working here? As my assistant?”

You’d blinked, thinking you must have misheard her. “Wait, really?”

“Really,” she’d said, smiling faintly. “It’s nothing glamorous, but we could use an extra set of hands. And you seem like the kind of person who’d do well here.”

You didn’t need to think twice. You’d eagerly accepted the offer on the spot.

The job, as it turned out, was exactly what you’d needed. Sorting out books, erasing stray pencil marks and doodles from pages, sitting behind the counter to check books in and out, cleaning shelves, making sure the computers were turned off at the end of the day—it was simple work.

You quickly fell into a routine. Most days, you worked quietly alongside Mrs. Choi, who was as patient and kind. Other times, you found yourself alone.

There were small challenges, of course— like figuring out the library catalog system, dealing with students who were less than gentle with the books, chasing down overdue returns—but they were minor in the grand scheme of things.

It wasn’t the job you’d imagined yourself doing, but it turned out to be exactly what you needed.

But there was one simple rule she had given you: never enter the basement alone.

At first, you thought it was strange. The basement was just a storage space, wasn’t it? A place to keep old supplies, forgotten books, and maybe some outdated equipment. Why would it matter if you were alone or not?

You got your answer the first time Mrs. Choi took you down there.

It had been a quiet afternoon, with only a few students milling around the library. Mrs. Choi had handed you a list of supplies needed to repair a torn book—a delicate process that required some old tools and adhesives she kept locked away downstairs. She led you to a small, unassuming door at the far corner of the library, almost hidden behind one of the towering shelves.

The moment the door creaked open, the atmosphere changed.

The air was heavier, colder. A faint smell of mold hit your nose immediately, mixed with something metallic that made you wrinkle your nose. The single light bulb at the top of the stairs flickered, casting shadows that danced along the narrow stairwell. You hesitated, but Mrs. Choi gave you a reassuring look and motioned for you to follow.

“I know it’s not exactly inviting,” she said with a small smile, descending the stairs, “but the supplies we need are down here. Just stick close to me.”

You nodded and followed her, but the deeper you went, the more uneasy you felt. The basement wasn’t just dark—it was suffocatingly so. The walls were lined with shelves cluttered with dust-covered boxes, forgotten stacks of books, and unidentifiable objects. The floor beneath your feet was uneven, cracked concrete, and your steps echoed in the silence.

And then there were the hallways.

You hadn’t expected the basement to be so sprawling. Hallways branched off in seemingly every direction, twisting and turning into darkness. Some of them were so narrow you’d have to walk sideways to squeeze through. Others disappeared entirely into shadows, the overhead lights either burned out or nonexistent.

“This library is older than the campus itself,” Mrs. Choi explained as she rummaged through a shelf near the end of one of the hallways. “The basement used to be part of an old archive building before the university bought the property. They’ve renovated the library a dozen times over the years, but the basement? Well…” She trailed off, gesturing to the decaying walls around you.

“Out of sight, out of mind,” you muttered, wrinkling your nose at the sight of a particularly large spiderweb on the wall.

Mrs. Choi chuckled softly. “Exactly. What the students can’t see won’t hurt them—or so the administration likes to think. Just be glad you don’t have to come down here often.”

You nodded, but your eyes kept drifting to the dark hallways. There was something… off about them.

“Mrs. Choi?” you asked, your voice quieter than you intended.

“Hmm?” she replied without looking up.

“Why don’t you want me coming down here alone?”

She paused, her hands stilling on the box she’d been searching through. For a long moment, she didn’t say anything, and you felt a chill crawl up your spine. When she finally spoke, her tone was casual—too casual.

“It’s easy to get lost,” she said, turning to you with a faint smile. “The layout down here doesn’t make much sense, and it’s not exactly safe to wander around in the dark. The last thing I want is for you to trip and hurt yourself.”

Her explanation made sense, but the way she avoided your gaze left you unconvinced. Still, you didn’t press the issue. You helped her carry the supplies back upstairs, relieved to step back into the library.

After that, you made a point to follow her rule. The basement was creepy enough with someone else—there was no way you were going down there alone.

At least, not until the night you had no choice.

It happened a few weeks later, after a long shift that had stretched past closing time. Mrs. Choi had gone home early, trusting you to lock up on your own. Most of the evening had just been returning books to their shelves, tidying up the counter, shutting down the computers—but just as you were about to leave, you noticed a small stack of books on the repair desk.

You froze, staring at them. Mrs. Choi had asked you to fix those earlier in the week, but you’d completely forgotten. The supplies you needed were downstairs—in the basement.

You hesitated, debating whether you could just leave it for tomorrow, but you knew Mrs. Choi was counting on you. Sighing, you grabbed a flashlight from the front desk and made your way to the basement door.

You hesitated at the door, keys in hand, as a quiet, uneasy thought crossed your mind: Just leave it for tomorrow. But Mrs. Choi... She was counting on you. The supplies were just downstairs. It’d take five minutes at most.

With a resigned sigh, you unlocked the door.

The heavy, creaking groan of the hinges sent a shiver down your spine as the door swung open. The familiar smell hit you immediately: damp, mold, and that faint metallic. You reached for the light switch, flipping it on without much thought.

Nothing happened.

You froze, your hand still on the switch. You flicked it again. And again. Still nothing.

You swallowed hard, telling yourself the bulb had probably just burned out—though you couldn’t remember a time the light had ever failed before.

“It’s fine,” you muttered under your breath, bringing the flashlight you’d brought along up. The bright beam cut through the darkness as you clicked it on, illuminating the narrow staircase in front of you. You took a shaky breath and began your descent.

The further down you went, the colder it became.

The air felt heavier here, pressing against your skin like a warning. You tried to focus on the flashlight’s beam, watching it bounce against the cracked walls and uneven steps. It helped, a little. But not enough to shake the growing knot of unease curling in your stomach.

When you finally reached the bottom of the staircase, you paused to look around. The beam of your flashlight swept across the basement, revealing the same maze of shelves, forgotten boxes, and darkened hallways you’d seen before. But tonight, it felt different—almost unfamiliar.

A shiver ran up your spine. You adjusted your grip on the flashlight, forcing yourself to move.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself. “Get the supplies and leave.”

You turned toward the shelf where Mrs. Choi always kept the repair tools. They were usually right there—neatly stored in a small wooden crate on the middle shelf. But as you shone the flashlight over it, you froze.

The shelf was empty.

Your heart skipped a beat as you quickly scanned the area. No crate. No tools. Nothing. You crouched down, checking the lower shelves, even though you knew they’d never been there before. Still nothing.

“Where…?” you muttered, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own breathing.

Maybe Mrs. Choi had moved them? That was possible, right? She was always reorganizing things. You straightened up, your flashlight flicking from shelf to shelf, moving to step back, you were about tt turn to check the other shelves nearby. That’s when you heard it.

A faint sound, just on the edge of your hearing. A soft creak, like the sound of a door easing open—or maybe a floorboard shifting underfoot.

You froze, your flashlight trembling slightly in your hand.

“Hello?” you called out, your voice louder than you intended. It echoed through the basement, bouncing off the walls and disappearing into the dark hallways. No response.

You told yourself it was nothing. Maybe just the old pipes settling, or your own footsteps disturbing something. But as you turned back to the shelf, another sound reached you.

This time, it was softer—quieter. Like the faint rustle of fabric.

Your stomach dropped.

You swung the flashlight toward the nearest hallway, its beam cutting through the dark. Nothing. Just more shelves, more shadows. But your instincts were screaming at you now, telling you to leave. To get out of there.

"Okay, nope," you whispered to yourself, backing away from the hallway, your flashlight trembling slightly in your hands.

That’s when you heard it.

A hum.

Soft, almost melodic, like someone humming a lullaby just out of earshot. It floated through the air, carried on a breeze that shouldn’t have existed down here. The sound wrapped around you, tender and strangely inviting, tugging at something deep inside your chest.

You froze, the flashlight beam flickering as your grip loosened. The hum grew louder—not in an overwhelming way, but in a way that seemed to sink into your bones. It felt… warm.

Where were you again?

You frowned, the thought slipping through your mind like water through your fingers. You couldn’t remember. The dim basement around you blurred at the edges, the walls dissolving into a hazy glow. The tight knot of fear in your stomach melted away, replaced by a slow, pleasant warmth that spread through your body.

The hum wrapped around you like a blanket, comforting and wonderful, coaxing you to close your eyes and just… relax. The cold, damp smell of the basement faded, replaced by something sweeter. Flowers? No… vanilla, maybe. Something that reminded you of home.

You let out a soft sigh, your muscles relaxing, the tension in your shoulders fading. Your flashlight slipped from your fingers and clattered to the ground, but you barely noticed.

Everything felt so perfect.

You wanted to stay here forever.

But then, just as suddenly as it had started, the hum stopped.

And everything crashed back into focus.

The warmth in your chest was gone, replaced by a sharp chill that clawed at your skin. The sweetness in the air vanished, leaving behind the bitter stench of mold and metal. Your surroundings solidified, and you realized you were no longer standing where you’d been before.

You were in a different room.

The walls were smooth and gray, completely different from the crumbling concrete of the basement hallways. The shelves were gone, replaced by nothing but cold, empty space. The air felt heavier, colder, and every breath you took made your chest ache.

Your flashlight was nowhere to be seen, but a dim, pale light seemed to seep into the room from nowhere and everywhere at once.

The hum was gone, but the silence it left behind was worse.

You turned in slow circles, your heart hammering in your chest. The room was small, with smooth, gray walls that loomed over you, stretching upward into darkness.

“Hello?” you called, your voice trembling.

It echoed back to you, warped and distant, as if the room was far larger than it seemed.

The warped echoes of your voice faded into the suffocating silence of the room, leaving only the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears.

How did you even get here?

You couldn't remember. Your mind was still foggy, fragments of warmth and that eerie hum lingering in the back of your thoughts like an unfinished dream.

Did you walk here?

You felt like you were missing pieces of yourself, as if part of your memory had been swallowed whole.

You were about to take a tentative step forward when something deep inside you shifted—a strange, unnatural pull. It wasn't a sensation you could describe easily. It was as though a string deep within your chest was being tugged, pulling you toward something.

You froze, your breath catching as your eyes followed the invisible tether.

In the center of the room, sitting on a low, ornate stand, was a book.

Your heart stuttered. Had that been there before? You were sure it wasn’t. You would have noticed it immediately, wouldn’t you?

The book seemed to glow faintly, its crimson-red cover almost pulsating, like it was alive. There were no words or symbols on the front, just smooth, worn leather that seemed impossibly pristine for something that felt so… ancient.

You swallowed hard, your feet moving toward it as if on their own. Each step felt heavier, your instincts screaming at you to turn around, to run, but you couldn’t stop.

When you finally reached it, you hesitated.

It was smaller than you expected, almost delicate, as though it shouldn’t have belonged in a place like this. Despite its vivid crimson color, the book radiated a strange sense of calm—like it wanted to be touched.

Before you realized it, your fingers were brushing against the cover.

It felt smooth, almost unnaturally so, and surprisingly light when you picked it up. You turned it over in your hands, the edges soft and perfectly bound, as if the book had been untouched for centuries. But on the back, something caught your attention.

A pink heart.

It was imprinted into the leather, subtle, making it look almost playful.

You huffed, confused and almost annoyed by how strange it all felt. Turning the book back over, you slowly opened it.

The pages inside were blank.

Every single one, clean and untouched, as though the book had never been written in. But when you turned to the first page, something stopped you in your tracks.

There was writing.

It was delicate, inked in looping, elegant script that seemed to shimmer faintly in the dim light. The letters were strange, unfamiliar, but they seemed alive, as though they were moving ever so slightly, shifting and breathing on the page.

Latin, your mind supplied, though you couldn’t remember ever studying the language.

You tilted your head, curiosity overriding your fear as your eyes traced the unfamiliar words. They beckoned to you, pulling you in deeper. Before you even realized what you were doing, your lips parted, and you read them aloud:

"Qui me legit, fiat noster ligamen aeternum."

Nothing happened.

You stared at the book, waiting for some dramatic effect—a rumble, a flash of light, maybe a ghostly apparition—but there was nothing. Just silence.

You let out an annoyed huff, rolling your eyes. “Great. Real spooky,” you muttered under your breath. Closing the book with a snap, you placed it back on the stand, wiping your hands on your jeans as if to rid yourself of its texture. “What a waste of time.”

Turning around, you glanced around the room again, your frustration growing. It wasn’t like you had time to deal with creepy books in creepy basements. You still needed to get out of here and figure out why the supplies weren’t where they were supposed to be.

Then, you saw it.

A door.

It was open, just wide enough for you to slip through. You frowned. Had it been there before? It must’ve been—how else would you have gotten in here? Still, something about it didn’t sit right with you.

Was that where you came from?

You shrugged. Probably.

With no other options, you headed toward it, slipping through the opening, the faint creak of the hinges echoing unnervingly.

And then you were swallowed by darkness.

“Of course,” you muttered, groaning. Without the flashlight from earlier, the darkness was thick and impenetrable. You could barely see an inch in front of your face, and the faint light from the room behind you did nothing to help.

Fishing your phone from your pocket, you switched on its flashlight. The beam wasn’t as strong as the flashlight you’d been carrying before, but it was enough to see the area around you.

The floor beneath your feet was uneven and cold, a mixture of dirt and cracked stone. You shone the light around, trying to get your bearings. The walls were damp and covered in spiderwebs, and the faint scent of mold and rust lingered in the air.

Where even am I?

You took a tentative step forward, the beam of light from your phone trembling as you moved.

The hallway kept stretching forward, narrow and seemingly endless. The farther you walked, the more the walls seemed to close in around you, the air growing colder with each step. Your phone’s light flickered once, then again, making your pulse spike.

“Don’t you dare die on me,” you whispered, gripping the device tighter.

The light steadied, and you exhaled a shaky breath, your footsteps faltering slightly.

Something felt off.

The air was too still, the silence too absolute. It was the kind of quiet that made you feel like you were being watched, like something was lurking just beyond the reach of your light.

You shook your head, trying to focus. “Get it together,” you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper. “Just find the exit.”

But as you took another step, something caught your attention.

A sound.

It was faint at first, almost imperceptible, but it grew louder the more you listened. A soft, rhythmic tapping, like footsteps… or fingers drumming against a surface.

You froze, the beam of your phone’s light shaking as your hands trembled. The sound echoed faintly through the corridor, coming from somewhere ahead of you.

“Hello?” you called, your voice cracking slightly.

No response.

The tapping stopped.

You waited, holding your breath, your ears straining for any hint of movement.

Then, suddenly, the tapping started again—this time behind you.

Your stomach dropped, and you whipped around, the flashlight from your phone sweeping over the hallway you’d just walked through. It was empty.

Completely, utterly empty.

You took a shaky step backward, your heart hammering in your chest. The tapping grew louder, faster, coming from all around you now, echoing off the walls in a maddening cacophony.

“Stop it,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Just stop!”

And then it did.

The silence that followed was deafening, almost worse than the sound itself. You took another step back, your pulse racing, and suddenly the floor beneath you gave way.

With a startled cry, you fell, the phone slipping from your hand as you tumbled into darkness.

You hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Dazed and disoriented, you lay there for a moment, your head spinning and your body aching.

When you finally managed to sit up, you realized you were no longer in the narrow hallway.

You were back in the room.

The light was gone, replaced by an suffocating darkness that seemed to stretch endlessly around you.

And in the center of the room, sitting on the stand where you’d left it, was the book.

But this time, it wasn`t red.

It was black.

And it was beating.

You screamed, the sound raw and terrified as it echoed around the room. Your knees buckled, and you collapsed to the ground, trembling uncontrollably. Your body felt impossibly heavy, as though some unseen force was pressing down on you, rooting you in place.

Frantic, your eyes darted around the room, searching for a way out, for anything to explain what was happening. But the darkness seemed alive now, shifting and writhing just beyond your vision.

And then, you felt it.

Hot breath, impossibly close, brushing against your ear.

Your breath hitched as warmth spread through you, pooling low in your stomach, and you hated how your body betrayed you, reacting to something you couldn’t even see.

Then came the lips.

Soft, feather-light, trailing along the curve of your neck. The sensation was so vivid, so real, that a groan escaped your lips before you could stop it. Your body arched instinctively, leaning into the phantom touch, even as your mind screamed at you to fight it, to run, to do something.

“Shh,” a voice purred, its tone soothing. “There’s no need to be afraid, my sweet. You called me, remember?”

Your heart raced, and your hands clenched into fists as you tried to regain control of your body. “What… what are you?” you managed to choke out, your voice barely above a whisper.

The presence behind you chuckled, the sound low and intimate, like a lover’s laugh shared in the dark.

“I’m yours,” it said simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You read the words. You invited me in. And now… we’re bound.”

You shook your head, tears welling in your eyes. “No, no, this isn’t real. This can’t be real.”

“Oh, but it is,” the voice replied, amusement lacing its tone. “You wanted something, didn’t you? Why else would you open that book? Why else would you speak those words?”

The weight on your body eased slightly, enough for you to shift and try to crawl away, but the darkness coiled around you like a living thing, keeping you in place.

“You don’t even know what you’ve done, do you?” the voice murmured, almost pitying. “Poor thing. You were so eager, so curious. And now…”

A hand—cold yet burning—brushed against your cheek, tilting your head up toward the stand where the book still rested.

“…you’re mine.”

The room seemed to pulse with those final words, the darkness tightening around you like a vice. Your vision blurred as panic clawed at your throat, and the last thing you saw before everything went black was the book—its pages flipping wildly on their own—glowing faintly with a sinister crimson light.

You woke up with a sharp gasp, your body jolting upright like you’d been shocked awake. But as you looked around, you realized you were lying in the middle of the hallway.

Your phone was on the floor beside you, its flashlight pointed up at the cracked ceiling.

It was a dream?

You laughed, breathless and shaky, running a hand through your hair as you tried to calm yourself. “This is insane,” you muttered, your voice trembling. The laughter didn’t last long—it felt hollow, a desperate attempt to convince yourself that what you’d experienced wasn’t real.

You snatched up your phone, and scrambled to your feet. Without wasting another second, you sprinted down the hallway, the weak beam of your phone’s flashlight bouncing with every step. You didn’t care where you were going anymore; you just needed to get out.

The hallways twisted and turned, stretching endlessly, and every shadow seemed to claw at you as you ran. It felt like hours—like the labyrinth was mocking you, refusing to let you leave.

But finally, somehow, you found your way back.

The dim light of the main basement room greeted you, and your breath hitched as your eyes landed on something you hadn’t expected to see.

The box of supplies.

It was sitting on the shelf, exactly where it was supposed to be.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you stared at it. The same box you’d been searching for, on the same shelf you’d checked before.

How had it gotten here?

You didn’t dare question it. Not now. Not after everything that had just happened.

Without hesitation, you grabbed the box, clutching it tightly in one hand while you snatched the flashlight off the ground with the other.

Then you bolted.

Your feet thundered up the stairs, your pulse roaring in your ears as you raced for the exit. When you reached the top, you slammed the basement door shut and locked it, your hands shaking so badly it took you a couple of tries to get the key to turn.

The moment it was locked, you pressed your back against the door, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath.

You glanced down at the supplies in your arms, the mundane, ordinary contents almost laughable now after everything you’d been through.

But as you stood there, something cold prickled at the back of your neck.

You turned slowly, your eyes drifting toward the library’s main floor.

Everything was still. Silent.

And yet, for a brief moment, you could’ve sworn you saw a figure standing in the shadows between the shelves.

Watching you.

You blinked, and it was gone.

This was crazy. Absolutely crazy.

You forced yourself to take a deep breath, shaking your head as you clutched the box tighter. You were just tired, that was all. You hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in days, and the stress of balancing school and work was clearly catching up to you. Yeah, tired. That’s all this is, you thought, repeating it like a mantra.

Ignoring the lingering unease prickling at the back of your neck, you made your way to the counter. The two ripped books Mrs. Choi had left were still there, waiting for you. You dropped the box down with a thud, grabbed the tools you needed, and got to work.

Your hands trembled at first as you smoothed out the torn pages, applying the adhesive carefully. You focused on the process—cutting, pressing, and smoothing out the repair strips—letting the repetitive actions calm your frayed nerves.

This was normal. Fixing books. Doing your job. Nothing weird about that.

Minutes passed. Then longer. The books were almost done, and for a moment, you felt like you could breathe again.

But then, just as you reached for the last tool in the box, a soft tap echoed through the library.

Your hand froze mid-reach, your eyes darting toward the source of the sound.

Tap… tap… tap.

It came from the direction of the shelves, slow and deliberate, like someone tapping their nails against wood.

Your chest tightened as you stared into the rows of books, the library was dark now—darker than it should’ve been. The overhead lights seemed dimmer, casting distorted shadows across the shelves.

You swallowed hard, trying to convince yourself it was nothing. Maybe it was the building settling, or the heating system kicking on. Don’t be stupid. You’re just scaring yourself.

Still, you couldn’t help but call out, your voice wavering. “Hello?”

No response.

The tapping stopped.

You stared into the darkness for what felt like an eternity, your heart hammering in your chest.

Then, just as you were about to turn back to the books, a book fell from one of the shelves.

The sound was deafening, the thud reverberating through the library like a gunshot.

You jumped, your breath hitching, and spun toward the source. The book lay open on the floor, its pages splayed out like wings.

You didn’t want to go over there. Every instinct in your body screamed at you to stay behind the counter, to leave it alone.

But your feet moved on their own, taking slow, hesitant steps toward the fallen book.

When you finally reached the book, you crouched down, your hand trembling as you picked it up.

Your fingers brushed over the embossed title, and your stomach dropped.

It was the same book you’d seen in the basement.

You gasped, clutching the crimson book tightly as your eyes darted around the library. Maybe this was some sort of prank? Someone could have grabbed the book from the basement and planted it here to scare you.

“Hello?” you called out again, but the library was still empty, silent.

Your breathing quickened as you scanned the shelves, desperate to catch a glimpse of anyone—a student pulling some cruel joke, or maybe Mrs. Choi coming back to check on you. But there was no one.

You hurried back to the counter, your heart racing, and turned on the computer. Your fingers fumbled as you brought up the CCTV footage, the small screen flickering to life. You scrubbed through the past hour, watching yourself walking back and forth, grabbing the box, and fixing the books.

Nothing.

No one else had entered the library. The hallways and shelves were empty. It was just you, moving around, completely alone.

Well… almost.

You paused the footage, your heart sinking as your eyes locked onto a shadow. It was faint, barely distinguishable, but for one brief frame, something seemed to linger in the corner of the screen. Not a person, but… something.

It was gone in the next frame.

“Nope. Nope, nope, nope,” you muttered under your breath, slamming the monitor off.

You looked at the crimson book sitting on the counter, its cover gleaming faintly under the dim light. It felt wrong—its very presence seemed to thrum.

Without thinking, you grabbed it and tossed it into the nearest trash bin, making sure it landed deep under crumpled paper and leftover scraps.

“There,” you said to yourself, your voice shaky. “Done.”

Forcing yourself to focus, you went back to finishing the torn books, your hands working faster than ever. As soon as the repairs were complete, you shoved the box under the counter and hurried to turn off the lights.

The library plunged into darkness, the faint moonlight filtering through the windows barely enough to guide you as you locked the doors behind you.

You didn’t realize how late it had gotten until you stepped outside. The campus was quiet, the lampposts casting long shadows across the pathways.

You tightened your coat around you and began the walk home, your footsteps echoing loud. Every so often, you glanced over your shoulder, unable to shake the feeling that someone was following you.

But the path behind you was always empty.

Still, the unease stayed with you, like a cold weight settling deep in your chest.

When you finally reached your apartment, you locked the door behind you, double-checking it twice before collapsing onto the couch. You stared at the ceiling, your mind racing.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe you were just tired, your imagination running wild after a long day.

Before you knew it, sleep had overtaken you. The exhaustion from the long day weighed down on your body like a blanket, pulling you into unconsciousness almost instantly.

But the peace of sleep didn’t last long.

You found yourself in a dimly lit bedroom, one you didn’t recognize. The walls were draped with dark curtains, and the air was heavy with the faint scent of roses. You sat up slowly, blinking in confusion as you tried to make sense of where you were.

“How did I…?” you murmured, your voice trailing off.

Before you could process anything, a voice, smooth and rich like velvet, broke the silence.

“My, you’re even more beautiful up close.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, equal parts alluring and unsettling. You whipped your head around, searching for the source, but the shadows in the room seemed to shift and dance, obscuring whoever was speaking to you.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment,” the voice continued, closer now, almost right beside your ear. “To touch you… to feel you…”

You gasped as a pair of lips suddenly pressed against yours, soft but demanding.

Your initial instinct was to pull away, but the sensation was overwhelming. Your mind grew hazy, a strange warmth spreading through your chest as the kiss deepened. It felt so intoxicating, so magnetic, that you couldn’t help but melt into it.

Your heart pounded in your chest, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. The kiss was unlike anything you’d ever experienced—it was all-consuming, as though the very act of it was pulling you further into the dream.

You felt hands brush against your skin, feather-light but firm, holding you in place.

You tried to pull back, but the hands held you steady, the kiss turning more possessive. The warmth you’d felt earlier now burned, searing through your veins as if something was being poured into you.

Panic swelled in your chest, but just as you were about to scream, the room spun violently, and everything went dark.

When your eyes shot open, you were back on your couch, drenched in sweat. Your chest heaved as you gasped for air, your fingers clutching the fabric of your shirt.

It was a dream. Just a dream.

But the lingering warmth on your lips, the faint ache of the kiss, told you otherwise.

And as you glanced toward the door, you froze.

The crimson book was sitting there, completely untouched, resting on the floor as if it had never been buried at all.

Your blood ran cold.

You scrambled to your feet, your heart pounding as you stared at the book. How was it there again? You knew you’d buried it deep under the pile of scraps.

“Nope. Not dealing with this,” you muttered, your voice shaking but resolute.

You grabbed the book, your fingers brushing against its smooth, cold cover. A strange, pleasant warmth crawled up your arm at the contact, sending shivers through your body. For a fleeting moment, it felt good—too good. Your grip faltered as a soft sigh escaped your lips, unbidden.

No.

Shaking your head fiercely, you tightened your grip and turned toward the window. Without hesitating, you threw it open, the cool night air brushing against your flushed face.

With all the strength you could muster, you hurled the book out. It spiraled through the air before landing with a dull thud on the damp grass below.

You leaned against the windowsill, watching the book. It lay there, unmoving.

Relief coursed through you.

“That’s it,” you whispered. “Stay there. Stay gone.”

Slamming the window shut, you locked it, double-checking the latch before stepping back.

You needed to clear your head, to shake off the strange sensations still crawling under your skin. Heading to the bathroom, you stripped off your clothes.

The shower hissed to life, steam rising as the water warmed. You stepped under the stream, letting the heat cascade over you, washing away the sweat and fear clinging to your body.

You closed your eyes, taking deep breaths, trying to convince yourself it was all in your head. Just a bad day. Just a stressful, weird day.

You squeezed your eyes shut, the sound of the water beating against your skin filling your ears as you focused on your breathing. It’s fine. It’s just your imagination. Nothing weird is going on. You’re tired, just tired, you repeated in your mind.

The water seemed colder now, even though the temperature hadn't changed, and a shiver ran down your spine. You’re overthinking it. Just get out of the shower and relax, you told yourself, but your hands felt heavy as you reached for the soap.

Just as you were about to wash your face, a soft tap echoed from somewhere beyond the bathroom door.

You froze, the motion of your hands stalling in midair.

Tap... Tap...

Your heart skipped a beat as your eyes darted to the bathroom door.

It was all too familiar. You couldn’t breathe, your chest tightening as the sound echoed louder in your mind.

No. No. It’s just the house settling. Maybe it’s the pipes. Just the pipes.

But the words felt hollow in your mind, the fear building with every passing second. The taps grew louder, clearer, almost closer.

You turned off the water quickly, your heart hammering in your chest. You stood there, motionless, listening, waiting for the sound to stop.

But it didn’t.

And then a creak. Just slightly, but enough for you to hear.

You gasped, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around yourself as you backed away, your legs shaking. Your mind screamed at you to leave the bathroom, to get out of the apartment, but you couldn’t move.

Then, before you could react, the door opened, just a crack.

There was nothing on the other side.

Just the empty hallway beyond.

But you knew. You knew it wasn’t right.

You slammed the door shut and locked it immediately, your breath ragged. The air in the bathroom felt stifling now, the walls pressing in on you, the space shrinking.

Your hand trembled as you reached for your phone, desperate to call someone, anyone.

But the screen flickered as soon as you unlocked it. The text on the screen was warped, unreadable. You stared at it for a moment, your stomach dropping. Something wasn’t right with your phone either.

A sharp, guttural whisper curled through the air, a voice so low you barely caught it.

The voice was so faint at first, you thought it was just a figment of your imagination, a trick your mind had played in the silence. But then it came again, clear and sharp, wrapping around your senses like a heavy fog.

“Come closer...”

It was soft, smooth, but there was an undeniable edge to it—laced with something... something tempting.

You froze, the words swirling in your mind. It wasn’t your own voice. It was deeper, resonating through you, the very air around you thick with a strange pull. Your chest tightened, and you felt something shift within you, an involuntary tug deep inside your stomach, urging you forward.

“Just one touch... just one kiss...”

The voice slithered, curling into your ear like a lover’s whisper, and something about it stirred the air around you. Your body was heating up, your skin prickling with a strange energy you couldn't explain.

You swallowed hard, your breath quickening as you stared at the mirror, trying to make sense of what was happening.

That’s when you felt it—an undeniable heat at your back.

It burned, searing through you like something alive, something that wanted you. Your breath hitched, and you spun around in a panic, expecting to see someone behind you, but the bathroom was empty, the space cold and silent.

But the heat didn’t fade.

It lingered, crawling across your skin like a heavy presence, sending shivers up your spine. There was no one there, but the sensation of being watched was there. Your body tensed, the warmth spreading through your entire body now, suffocating you, as if someone was right there, pressed against you, whispering into your very soul.

“It’s just us now…”

You glanced into the mirror once more, and there it was again—the figure. This time, it was clearer, its shadowy outline just behind you, impossibly close. The reflection wasn’t yours—it was someone else, standing so close that the hairs on your neck stood on end.

You gasped, heart pounding, but the figure didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. It simply stood.

The heat intensified, and the whisper grew louder, more insistent, as if it had taken root in your mind.

“Come to me... you know you want to...”

Your pulse raced. The pull in your chest was growing stronger now, as if your body was no longer your own, as if it was being drawn to something that wasn’t just a dream anymore.

The room began to spin, and you had to grip the edge of the sink to steady yourself, feeling dizzy as the desire to obey, to give in, washed over you. But as you fought it, something else caught your eye in the mirror—something that made your blood run cold.

A pair of glowing eyes pierced through the shadows, locked on you. And they were hungry.

You staggered back, heart slamming against your ribcage, and in the corner of your vision, you saw a fleeting glimpse of something—something moving, shifting in the dark.

No… You wanted to scream, to run, but your body wouldn’t move. Your limbs felt like lead, and the heat had become unbearable, pressing into you, dragging you toward it.

With a strangled breath, you finally tore your gaze away from the mirror, blinking furiously to rid yourself of the image. But the voice didn’t stop. It echoed inside your mind, growing louder.

“We’re bound now... there’s no going back…”

You tried to pull away, tried to break free of the suffocating heat and the unbearable pressure, but you couldn’t move. It was as if invisible hands were holding you in place. Your body, already trembling from the overwhelming sensations, was paralyzed as the touch slowly traveled up your arms.

It was light, ghostly, like fingertips grazing over your skin—soft, but burning with a heat that sent a shiver down your spine. You couldn’t stop it. You couldn’t. The sensation slid up to your shoulders, your neck, curling around you.

The moment it brushed your throat, the pressure seemed to increase, suffocating you. The touch lingered there, just under your jawline, fingers gentle yet firm. And then, before you could think, before you could react, you felt something else—lips.

A kiss.

But not from anyone you could see.

Your eyes snapped shut, your breath shallow as the kiss deepened, warm and intoxicating. It was urgent, burning, and wrong, but in a way that felt too good to resist. You tried to move, tried to pull back, but the invisible force held you in place, pushing you further into the kiss.

It was there, all around you—this overwhelming feeling of being wanted, of being pulled into something. Your heart pounded painfully in your chest, fear and desire mingling into a sickening cocktail. The sensation of lips on yours, it felt alive, like the very essence of the kiss was drawing something from you.

A low, satisfied murmur vibrated against your lips, and something deep within you shivered.

No… stop, please… You tried to scream in your mind, but your body didn’t obey. You couldn’t pull away from it.

You were being pulled into it, held captive by something invisible, something that wasn't human. But what? What was kissing you, claiming you like this?

The answer felt just out of reach, like a whisper that barely brushed against your mind, too faint to grasp, too slippery to hold onto. The sensation of lips—too warm, too alive—pressed against yours again, and your strength began to wane. It was as if every breath you took was being drained, pulled out from you with each passing second. You felt weak, too weak to move, too weak to even think.

Your body, once full of fear, had gone completely limp, like a ragdoll strung up and held in place by an invisible force. The pressure around your throat tightened, suffocating, but you could do nothing to fight it. You couldn’t scream. You couldn’t even blink—all your energy was consumed, sucked away by whatever was holding you captive, by the kiss that wasn't a kiss.

You could feel your mind slipping, like your thoughts were dissolving into the heat, into the darkness surrounding you. The invisible force—was it a presence? A shadow?—held you in place, guiding you, manipulating you, as if you were a puppet and it was pulling your strings.

But still, the sensation of being claimed lingered, you tried to focus, tried to break free, but it was no use. Every attempt only made you feel smaller, more powerless, like you were losing yourself bit by bit.

Was this what it wanted?

Your body didn’t feel like your own anymore. It felt... distant. Detached. Like you were a spectator in your own skin, watching as the thing—whatever it was—wove its tendrils around you.

Just as the world around you seemed to fade, a distant whisper echoed through the fog of your mind:

"Mine now."

The words wrapped around you like a heavy chain, pulling tighter and tighter until you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t even feel the floor beneath you anymore.

You were slipping away, your body fading into nothingness, held together only by the force that had claimed you.

"Mine forever."

--

When you woke up, it wasn’t like any other morning. You felt... tired. Groggy, and exhausted. As you stretched, you looked around the room, everything exactly as you left it, nothing unusual. It felt normal.

When you arrived at school, you couldn’t focus. The lessons droned on, but your mind kept wandering. You couldn't shake the feeling from last night. There was a gnawing curiosity deep inside you, a need to know what had happened, to make sense of it. You couldn’t just ignore it—your body wasn’t the same.

You pulled out your laptop in the middle of class, and you typed furiously. Your fingers flew over the keys, searching for any explanation that made sense, some kind of rational answer.

You found nothing but chaos.

The results were all over the place: demons, rituals, ghosts, whispers about curses and creatures from myths, things you thought only existed in horror stories. At first, you dismissed it. This can’t be real, you told yourself. But the deeper you went, the more it all seemed... possible.

And then you found it.

Incubus demons.

Your stomach twisted as you read more. The descriptions, the encounters—everything fit too perfectly. A demon, often seductive, one that could manipulate dreams, feed off your energy, entwine itself with you in the most intimate of ways. It would drain you slowly, filling you with warmth, with need, until it had you completely. Some even said an incubus could bind you to them—forever.

You felt a shiver creep down your spine. Was this what had happened to you? Could it be real? Could the thing you felt, the presence that had been with you, be an incubus?

The deeper you read, the more it made sense. The powerlessness, the way you felt unable to stop it, to resist. The hunger, the overwhelming desire. You couldn’t imagine it. You couldn't dream it.

You were still lost in thought as the bell rang, signaling the end of class. You gathered your things mechanically, your mind still reeling from the unsettling information you had uncovered. The words about incubus demons echoed in your head, each sentence making you feel more and more trapped.

As you packed your bag, your hand brushed against something unfamiliar. A cold chill ran through you, and your stomach dropped. You froze for a second, staring at your bag with a creeping sense of dread. Slowly, you opened it, and your eyes widened.

The book.

The crimson-red book. The one you had thrown out the window, the one you’d left behind—it was here, in your bag.

Your heart hammered in your chest, your fingers trembling as you touched the book. It was impossible. How could it be here? You distinctly remembered tossing it out, watching it fall to the ground outside your window. You’d even seen it land on the grass—it couldn’t have just come back.

A deep sense of dread filled your chest as your fingers slowly curled around the cover. You could feel the pull of it again, that same suffocating desire that called to you, whispered to you.

You quickly closed the bag, as if hiding it would make it go away.

How... how was this possible?

Your mind raced, trying to piece it together, but there was no logical explanation. The book had been thrown out. It shouldn’t be here.

And yet, it was.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that you weren’t in control anymore.

Something was toying with you.

You had just sat down in your next class, trying to focus, but your mind kept wandering. How was it possible? What was happening to you? You barely noticed when the seat beside you shifted, and someone sat down, pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts.

You turned your head instinctively, and your breath caught in your throat.

He was... stunning.

Tall, with sharp features and thick eyebrows that gave him an almost commanding presence. A few moles dotted his face, and his eyes were dark, almost mesmerizing, in a way which made your heart race in a way that felt unnatural.

But what really made your stomach flutter was the fact that you’d never seen him before.

Was he in this class?

You racked your brain, trying to recall if you had ever noticed him in the hallways or anywhere else on campus, but nothing came to mind.

He seemed to notice you staring at him, and a sly smile tugged at his lips. He leaned a bit closer, as if he didn’t mind the attention at all, his voice smooth and confident when he spoke.

"Hey, you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

You blinked, caught off guard by the casualness of his tone. "Uh, yeah, I'm fine."

He chuckled softly, and you felt a strange sensation wash over you, like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. It was unsettling, but you couldn't quite pinpoint why.

"I'm Sunghoon. Park Sunghoon," he said, his smile widening slightly.

You blinked again, now fully aware of how close he was. "Oh, uh, nice to meet you."

You forced a smile, but your heart was beating too fast. There was something about him, something that felt off—but also familiar.

Why did it feel like he already knew you?

The class went by as usual, the minutes dragging on in a haze. Sunghoon didn't speak much after you introducing yourself, but every now and then, you'd catch him glancing at you, his dark eyes glimmering with something you couldn't quite place. You tried to ignore the unease creeping up your spine and focused on the lesson.

By the time class ended, you were relieved to be able to leave. You needed some time to clear your head.

--

When you arrived at the library, you clocked in and slid behind the counter, but quickly growing bored, you leaned forward and opened the computer, deciding to look up something to distract you. You typed in "demon books," half expecting it to pull up some weird conspiracy theory, but to your surprise, a result popped up. There was a book, right there in the archives—on demons.

Your curiosity flared. This was what you needed.

You grabbed a pen and jotted down the shelf number before heading to the stacks. When you arrived, your eyes searched the shelves, scanning for the number you’d written down. There it was—just out of reach. The book you wanted sat high on the shelf, taunting you. You stretched on your toes, reaching as far as you could, but it was no use. You could feel the frustration rising as you considered your options.

As you were about to give up and turn away, a hand shot up from behind you, effortlessly reaching the book and pulling it down.

You turned around, heart skipping a beat. There, standing just behind you, was Sunghoon. He held the book you had been struggling to get, his expression unreadable.

“Need this?” he asked, his voice casual, almost too smooth.

You blinked, your breath catching in your throat. Something about the way he said that sent a strange shiver down your spine. It was as if he knew exactly what you were searching for, as if he had been waiting for you to look it up.

“Thanks,” you said, taking the book from him, but your hand brushed against his for a moment longer than necessary. A jolt of electricity shot through you, and you quickly pulled your hand away, your face flushing.

“No problem,” he replied smoothly, his eyes twinkling. “Figured you needed a little help.”

You watched him disappear into the rows of books, and the unease from earlier returned, settling deep into your bones.

--

You don’t even realize what you've walked into, do you? Your deliciousness is like a siren's song, luring me in, and I am a lost soul, destined to follow. I've got you now, and I won't let you go. I'll devour every last piece of you, leaving no part untouched, for you're a feast that I'll savor forever.

Your beauty, it's like a spell, casting a shadow over my heart, and I want to take and take, until you give me everything, for I crave the taste of your soul, the essence of your being.

I think of your skin, smooth as silk, and how it feels under my touch. I imagine the taste of your lips, sweet like nectar, and how they'd satisfy my every craving. I envision your body, and how it yields to my every caress.

I'll trace the map of your body with my hands, my lips, and my heart, marking every inch as my own.

I'll feast on your lips, kiss by kiss, until my soul is satiated. I'll drink from the well of your desire, quench my thirst, and be nourished by your passion. I'll explore the depths of your pleasure, discover the peaks of your ecstasy.

And when I've had my fill, my sweet, I'll still want more. For you're an endless ocean, a bottomless pit of pleasure, and I can never quench my thirst. I'll always want to dive deeper, explore further, and discover more.

--

You stared at the book in your hands as you made your way back to the counter. And once you sat behind the counter, you placed the book down in front of you, the sound of the pages flipping echoing softly in the quiet library.

You opened the book, the musty scent of old pages filling your nose as you began flipping through it, scanning the words and images. Each page was filled with descriptions of various demons, their powers, their origins, and their terrifying abilities. But you kept your focus, searching for the section you had come here for.

Incubus demons.

When you finally reached the right section, your heart pounded in your chest. The words jumped off the page, unsettlingly familiar. It was like the book was confirming everything you had felt and the more you read, the clearer it became that this was no coincidence.

Incubi, it said, were demons who thrived on energy—specifically life force. They were known to seduce their victims, using dreams, lust, and an overwhelming need for intimacy to drain them. They were powerful, manipulating their prey until they were completely drained, their energy absorbed by the demon.

But what caught your eye was the last part.

"Once an incubus claims someone, it forms a bond—one that cannot be easily broken. The victim becomes a vessel, their soul linked to the demon’s for eternity."

You froze, a cold shiver crawling down your spine. Eternity. Was that what had happened to you? Had you unknowingly made a pact with something otherworldly?

You could feel your pulse quicken as your mind raced. Had you been claimed by the demon? Was it already too late to turn back?

You closed the book abruptly, the sound of it thudding against the counter loudly. You couldn’t breathe. Your stomach twisted, and for a brief moment, you thought you might collapse right there.

Just then, you heard a voice, soft but clear, cutting through the storm of thoughts in your head.

"Are you okay?"

You looked up, startled, and saw Sunghoon standing there, a stack of books in his hands. His eyes were searching your face, brows furrowed in concern.

"Uh... yeah, I’m fine," you stammered, trying to act normal. But you could feel the flush creeping up your neck, the words of the book still fresh in your mind. You quickly gathered your composure and grabbed the books from him, trying to distract yourself from the overwhelming feelings swirling inside you.

You ran the books through the system, scanning the barcodes one by one, all the while acutely aware of how close Sunghoon was standing.

As you glanced down at the books, you couldn't help but notice the titles—all of them were romance novels. It felt... strange. You glanced back at Sunghoon, trying to read his expression.

"Romance, huh?" you said, attempting to make small talk as you finished scanning the last one. "Didn’t peg you for someone into these kinds of books."

He chuckled softly, a low, smooth sound that made your heart skip again. "I’m not really. But, you know, sometimes it's good to pretend."

You blinked, unsure if you were reading too much into the comment. His smile didn’t help—he always had that air of mystery, like he was saying something and nothing at the same time.

"Thanks for helping with the book earlier," you added, trying to steer the conversation back to something neutral. "I appreciate it."

He shrugged, grabbing the books from on the counter. "No problem. Just looking out for you."

The way he said it sent a chill down your spine. It felt like more than just a casual statement. Like he knew something you didn’t. Something you didn’t want to know.

You tried to push the feeling down. You had to stay focused. "Anything else you need?" you asked, attempting to keep things professional.

Sunghoon just smiled again, that strange glimmer in his eyes never fading. "For now, no," he said, his tone teasing. "But I’ll be around."

--

When your shift finally ended, the night had already settled in, the streets now cast in shadows. You clutched your bag tightly as you walked, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Eventually, you found yourself at the bridge, standing on the edge, the water below reflecting the lights.

You opened your bag, pulling out the crimson red book, the one you had tried so desperately to get rid of. As you held it, you could feel something radiating from it—a pull, tempting you to keep it, to keep following.

You shook, unable to tear your gaze away from the book, as if it were alive, trying to draw you into its dark power. What had happened to you? What had you gotten yourself into?

A cold sweat broke out along your spine, and for a moment, you thought you might lose control. With trembling hands, you lifted the book to toss it into the water, ready to rid yourself of it once and for all.

But just as you were about to throw it off the bridge, you heard a voice behind you, low and rough.

"Hey," the voice called out, sending a shiver down your spine.

You froze, heart pounding in your chest. Slowly, you turned around.

Standing there was a man—a stranger. His features were sharp, his eyes narrowed in a way that made your stomach turn. There was something off about him, something unsettling in the way he watched you. His gaze was degrading, as if he had already sized you up.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing out here alone?" he asked, his voice slithering through the air.

You instinctively took a step back, clutching the book tighter in your hands, there was no mistaking the way his eyes lingered on you, his stare lingering a little too long.

His lips twisted into a grin, and it made your blood run cold. "You don't look like you're in a hurry to leave."

His tone, that smile—everything about him screamed danger, your heart thudded loudly in your chest as you fought the urge to run, but your feet felt rooted to the spot.

Your breath caught in your throat as the man took a step toward you, his hand reaching out with an unsettling determination. This was it. He was going to—

Suddenly, there was a sharp thud, and the man was thrown backward, crashing to the ground with a pained grunt.

You gasped, startled, and watched in disbelief as a familiar figure stepped besides you.

Sunghoon.

Without hesitation, he lunged at the man, throwing a fist that landed with a sickening crack against the stranger’s face. The man tried to scramble to his feet, but Sunghoon was relentless, his fists moving with precision, each punch landing harder than the last. You could hear the force of each strike, the sound of flesh hitting bone. The man barely had a chance to defend himself, crumpling beneath the force of Sunghoon’s blows.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away, transfixed by the brutal scene before you. There was something terrifyingly powerful about Sunghoon right now, his movements were swift and calculated, as if he were punishing the man for something more than just the assault on you.

Your hands shook as you held the book tighter to your chest, you didn’t know why, but it felt like it was alive, pulsing in your grip.

The book was vibrating, faintly at first, but then stronger, almost as though it was purring, responding to the violence — to you.

You ignored it, trying to focus on what was happening in front of you. Sunghoon wasn’t stopping, his anger mounting with each punch.

The man on the ground groaned, clearly dazed, unable to defend himself. Finally, Sunghoon stopped, standing over the man, his breath coming in heavy, measured gasps.

"You shouldn’t have done that," Sunghoon said, his voice low and dangerous, his gaze unwavering. He turned to look at you, eyes locking with yours.

You were still frozen, your heart pounding in your chest, and you couldn’t make sense of it all. The way Sunghoon was acting, the way he looked at you—it was like he wasn’t the same person you’d met in the library. This was someone else.

"Are you okay?" he asked, voice softer now, though there was still a sharpness to it.

You nodded, though your voice felt stuck in your throat. You couldn’t even find the words to thank him, or to ask why he’d come out of nowhere to help you. Why was he here?

Sunghoon glanced down at the man on the ground, his expression unreadable, before he turned to you again, taking a step closer.

"You’re safe now," he said, his voice more comforting this time, though the intensity never fully left his gaze.

Your hands trembled as you clutched the book tighter, trying to shake off the strange feeling it was giving you.

Sunghoon’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, his eyes scanning you before he helped you steady yourself.

“You’re okay,” he repeated, his tone lighter, he glanced at the book in your hands, and that smile of his grew, just slightly, as if pleased.

He led you away from the bridge, the cool night air now feeling heavy around you. His presence beside you was comforting, but at the same time, you couldn’t ignore the sense that he was guiding you in more ways than one.

You looked up at him, and he caught your gaze, his smile widening ever so slightly. "Seems like you’ve taken quite the interest in that," he said, his voice soft but with an edge you couldn’t quite place. "You’re holding it tightly."

Your fingers ached as you continued to clutch the book to your chest, your heart still hammering from the encounter. You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, too overwhelmed by everything that had happened.

"You shouldn’t have to worry anymore," he said, his voice lowering. “You’re safe now.”

Then why did something not feel right? Sunghoon was far too calm, too understanding. As if he already knew everything—everything that had been happening to you.

The way he looked at you, like he was watching, waiting for something.

And for the first time, you realized something that made your stomach twist in unease.

He wasn’t just helping you.

He was guiding you.

--

The moment you stepped through the door of your apartment, you immediately noticed it. The book was still pressed against your chest, and for the first time, it felt almost suffocating. You hadn’t even realized how tightly you had been holding onto it the entire time—your knuckles white. It was like it had become a part of you, and that realization twisted something deep within your gut.

You couldn't stand it anymore.

Without even thinking, you hurled the book against the wall, your heart racing as the impact caused it to thud loudly, the book sliding to the floor. The sound echoed in the quiet apartment, and you could feel your breath catch in your throat, as if your body had finally caught up to the chaos inside your mind.

For a moment, there was silence. The book lay on the floor, the cover staring up at you, as if mocking your decision. But you were too exhausted to care anymore. Too worn out by everything that had happened.

You stumbled fowards, your legs giving way, and before you knew it, you were sinking onto the couch. Your mind was foggy, too tired to think. Your body ached, your head pounded, but the exhaustion was overpowering. The last thing you saw before your eyes fluttered shut was the book, sitting on the floor.

And the only thing you could think of as you drifted off was how you felt that it wasn’t done with you yet.

--

You felt so... relaxed? It was like your body was weightless, wrapped in warmth and comfort. The air was thick, almost too hot, and the bed beneath you felt too soft, like sinking into a cloud. You opened your eyes slowly, blinking at the unfamiliar ceiling above you. A grand queen-sized bed stretched out beneath you, luxurious sheets tangled around your legs.

Your head was still foggy, like you were waking from a deep, dreamless sleep. But the discomfort of the heat around you was immediate, and you instinctively pushed the covers away, trying to breathe through the thick air.

That’s when you felt it.

A weight on your body, pressing down, holding you where you lay. Your breath hitched as the sensation of someone’s lips—warm, urgent—pressed against yours. The shock of it made your chest tighten, and you gasped, eyes wide as you tried to push the figure off of you, only to find you couldn’t move.

A voice, soft but laced with something darker, echoed in your mind, almost like a whisper, “Give in.”

Your body stiffened, the words familiar yet chilling. The lips on yours were insistent, coaxing you into submission. You couldn't understand—how did you get here? Why was everything so warm? And why did you feel this strange pull?

The kiss deepened as your breath quickened, and the moment your hands tried to reach above you, they tightened their grip. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t think.

You wanted to push away. You wanted to scream. But you couldn’t. You were trapped in this sensation, helpless.

You felt so good. So pleasant. Every part of you hummed with a warmth, an overwhelming comfort, like sinking into the softest dream. But with it came an exhaustion, a draining weariness you couldn't fight.

As the lips moved from your mouth down to your jaw, trailing soft, slow kisses, you felt your body go limp beneath them. You tried to stay alert, to keep your mind sharp, but the sensation was too much. The warmth, the pleasure, it was like it was melting you from the inside out. Your energy, your strength, seemed to vanish with every kiss, every press of lips against your sensitive skin. You couldn't fight it. It felt too good.

A small gasp escaped your lips as they moved lower, their touch leaving a trail of warmth on your neck, then your collarbone. The sensation was both soothing and dizzying, like you were drifting between wakefulness and sleep. You felt so tired, but the pleasure pulling you under kept you from fully giving in.

Your heartbeat thudded in your ears, quickening with each new kiss, each lingering touch. The sound of your breath was louder than the rest of the world, but even that was fading. You could barely hold onto your thoughts, the desire to move, to push, slipped further and further away.

And then you realized—there was nothing you could do. You didn’t want to.

You felt something deep inside you stir, a craving, a hunger that matched the pull of the lips against your skin. You were being drained, yes, but it also felt like it was what you needed.

You closed your eyes, surrendering to it. You let your body go, let the exhaustion wash over you, let yourself fall into the warmth of the kiss. You didn’t even care where it was leading anymore.

You felt your body give in completely as the lips on your neck paused, lingering there, and you could hear the soft hum of approval, a low sound of satisfaction. And just like that, it was too late to resist.

As you surrendered to the moment, the hands, ever so gently, pushed your shirt up, exposing more of your skin, as the heat in the room seemed to rise.

The lips, now free to explore, trailed kisses down your stomach, his tongue teasing the sensitive skin there. His hands slid down to your waist, he squeezed gently, pulling you closer, and you felt his body press against yours.

You didn’t want to fight it anymore. Your body was giving in, responding to him, reacting in ways you couldn't fully comprehend. It was as though you were caught in a web, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

His lips moved from your neck, tracing the sensitive line of your jaw before they found your lips again, kissing you. The kiss was hungry now, deeper. You felt his hands tighten around you, as though he couldn’t get close enough, as though you were the only thing that mattered in that moment.

And somehow, it felt... right.

You felt so hazy, your mind clouded by a warm, soothing fog that made it impossible to think clearly. Everything was blurred, all thoughts slipping through your fingers like sand. The weight of your body felt distant, like you were floating. You couldn’t move your limbs, couldn’t even feel them anymore.

The only thing you could focus on was the feeling of the lips that pressed gently against yours, warm and insistent. Every time they left, it felt like you were waiting, craving the return of that contact. And when they did, you kissed them back instinctively, your lips parting slightly to welcome them.

"Let go," it murmured softly, the sound of it like silk against your mind. "Enjoy this. Let the pleasure take over. You deserve it."

You shivered, feeling the warmth of the words settle deep inside you, pushing aside any lingering doubts, any hesitation. The voice continued, coaxing you, convincing you that this feeling, this moment, was all that mattered. That you didn’t need to resist, that you could simply surrender and feel everything without fear.

There was no fight left in you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt completely at peace. You didn’t have to think, you didn’t have to worry— just the feeling of being taken care of, loved, and wanted.

You closed your eyes, lost in the comfort, the warmth, and the voice that guided you deeper into the haze.

--

You woke up suddenly, your mind heavy, still clouded in a haze, and found yourself lying on the couch. You blinked, trying to shake off the fog, and as you looked around, everything seemed perfectly normal.

One thing wasn't normal, though. It was the warmth, the sticky, almost suffocating heat clinging to your skin, like honey trapping you in its sweetness. The sensation was odd, and it was paired with an exhaustion that weighed you down, a tiredness so deep you could barely keep your eyes open.

You managed to sit up and push yourself to your feet, dragging yourself to the bathroom, needing to see your reflection, needing to understand what was happening. The mirror greeted you with an unexpected shock.

Your neck and collarbone were covered in marks—deep, almost bruised-looking impressions, some faint, others dark, like someone had pressed their lips into your skin too hard, leaving their mark. You barely recognized the face staring back at you. Your cheeks were flushed, the kind of flush you’d never get from just a long day, and your eyes looked distant.

You kept staring at your reflection, eyes wide in disbelief, and slowly pulled your shirt off, but what greeted you beneath your clothes made your breath catch in your throat.

Handprints. Dark, unmistakable imprints stretched across your waist, your hips, and even down to your thighs. It was like someone had gripped you there with force, leaving their mark on your skin, as if they couldn’t resist claiming every part of you.

You stood there, frozen, trying to make sense of what you were seeing. The more you looked, the more it seemed to confirm your theory.

An incubus had done this.

But the memories were murky, like a dream fading in the light of day. You couldn't remember the specifics, but the evidence was undeniable.

You were cursed.

The thought sent a shiver through your body. There was no other explanation. It was all pointing to something beyond your control, something that wanted you, that had claimed you.

But what did it want from you? Why you?

The mirror reflected your confusion, your unease, and your disbelief. Your hand instinctively reached up to touch the marks, your fingers brushing lightly over your skin. Each touch sent a wave of heat through you, a reminder that something was still there, still affecting you, even when you had no idea what was really going on.

--

Days passed in a strange blur after that. Each time you tried to focus, tried to pull yourself together, the exhaustion dragged you down further. You couldn’t remember when it had started, when your body began to feel like it was no longer your own, but it was now a part of your reality. Every night, you’d find yourself drifting off to sleep, only to wake up once again in that grand bed, under the same warmth, your body burning.

The familiar sensation of lips on yours, the heat of his hands—each kiss drained you, leaving you weak and confused. It felt as though the very life force was being sucked out of you, but you were too tired to resist. Too tired to care. The next morning, you would wake up again, just as exhausted, with the marks on your skin deepening, the imprint of his touch still there. You tried to push through the haze, but it felt like you were walking through quicksand.

And then there was Sunghoon.

He was there for you in ways you couldn’t explain. It started small—offering to walk you to class, making sure you ate something, checking in on you when you seemed too tired to function. You didn’t fight it. You were too exhausted to.

You would often find yourself slumped at the counter, fighting to keep your eyes open, and there he was, showing up with something to drink or a comforting word, offering you a brief respite from the overwhelming fatigue that seemed to cling to your every movement. You didn’t realize at first that you were relying on him, leaning on him without question.

But Sunghoon didn’t mind. In fact, he thrived in this new dynamic, in your dependence on him. He reveled in the way you’d look to him for comfort, for answers, for protection. You didn’t know how much it fed into his desires, how much he enjoyed being the one to offer you care, to have you rely on him completely.

And you? You were too tired to notice. Too lost in the fog of exhaustion, the haze of what was happening to you.

But.. the more time you spent with Sunghoon, the more you began to notice the oddities that you’d once brushed off. He was always there, always watching, always making sure you were okay. But something about him felt... off. It wasn’t just his constant attention—it was the way he seemed to know exactly what you needed, before you even asked for it. It was the way his gaze lingered on you just a little too long, his smile a little too knowing, like he was seeing something in you that no one else did.

Then, there was the issue with his past. Sunghoon never spoke about it. When you asked about his family or where he grew up, his answers were vague, brushing off the topic with a quick change of subject. No traces of a life outside of the moments he spent with you.

It didn’t make sense. You had seen him around campus, so you knew he wasn’t a complete ghost. But there were no photos, no friends tagging him on social media, no history to trace. He was just... there. As if he had stepped out of nowhere and appeared in your life, and now he was all you could focus on.

Something about him felt wrong, and the pieces were starting to fall into place. But you couldn’t stop yourself from leaning on him, allowing him to take care of you. You didn’t know what to think anymore, especially since you were so tired, so lost in the fog of exhaustion that you couldn’t tell if your thoughts were your own or if they were being influenced by something else.

So, you decided to test your theory—to see what would happen if you suddenly started ignoring him. It wasn’t easy. Sunghoon always seemed to find a way to be around you, whether it was sitting next to you in class or showing up at the library while you worked. But you were determined. You stopped texting him back, avoided his gaze, and made excuses to leave whenever he tried to engage you in conversation.

At first, he didn’t seem bothered by it. He would simply smile when you dodged him, as if he already knew why you were doing it. That unnerved you more than anything else. It was like he could see right through you, like he knew your thoughts before you did.

But as the days went on, his demeanor started to shift. His smiles became tighter, his gaze colder, and the once-comforting presence he exuded started to feel suffocating. He wasn’t following you outright, but every time you turned a corner, you’d catch him in your peripheral vision—leaning against a wall, walking just a few steps behind you, always near enough to remind you that he was there.

One night, after a particularly long shift at the library, you came home and collapsed onto your couch, exhaustion washing over you. The moment you closed your eyes, you found yourself back in that bed again.

But this time, there was a whisper. A deep, seductive voice you hadn’t heard before.

"You can’t ignore me forever."

Your eyes snapped open, your heart pounding. You were back on your couch, drenched in sweat, and your hands were trembling. You instinctively gripped the edge of the couch as you tried to ground yourself, but the tremor in your fingers betrayed how shaken you really were. The room was quiet—too quiet. It felt as though something was watching you, just out of sight.

Your gaze darted toward the windows, scanning for any sign of movement, but the curtains were still drawn shut. Slowly, you reached for your phone on the coffee table, wanting the comfort of a light, a distraction—anything. As the screen lit up, you noticed the time. 3:03 a.m.

And then you saw it.

A single notification. It wasn’t from anyone in your contacts, just an unknown number. You hesitated before opening it, dread settling in your stomach like a lead weight. The message read:

"Stop running."

You dropped the phone as though it had burned you, the clatter breaking the suffocating silence. Your breaths came shallow and quick as you stared at the device, afraid it would light up again.

No. This had to stop.

You pushed yourself off the couch and stumbled to the bathroom, your legs weak beneath you. Splashing cold water on your face, you tried to steady your breathing.

You gripped the edge of the sink, your knuckles turning white as you leaned forward, staring at your pale reflection in the mirror. Your breaths came shallow and uneven as you tried to process everything.

It didn’t make sense—none of it did. But your thoughts kept circling back to Sunghoon. His perfect timing, his uncanny presence, the way he seemed to know more than he let on.

Your throat felt dry as you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to say it.

“Sunghoon?”

The sound of his name echoed faintly in the small bathroom. You waited, holding your breath, your heart pounding louder and louder in your chest. Nothing happened.

For a moment, you felt ridiculous, like you were spiraling into paranoia. You let out a shaky exhale and closed your eyes, trying to collect yourself. But then, just as you started to relax, you felt it.

A heat began to radiate behind you, warm and heavy, pressing against your back like a presence. The air shifted, and before you could react, a soft whisper brushed against your ear.

“Did you miss me?”

Your eyes snapped open, wide with terror, as you froze in place. The mirror reflected nothing behind you, but the heat remained, and the voice lingered, teasingly low and intimate.

“Y-you’re not real,” you stammered, gripping the sink tighter, refusing to turn around.

The voice chuckled, soft and amused. “Oh, but I am. You called me, didn’t you? Thinking of me? Dreaming of me?”

A shiver ran down your spine as the warmth seemed to creep closer, pressing against you like an invisible embrace. You gasped, your knees threatening to buckle under the weight of whatever was behind you.

“I-I wasn’t—”

“Liar,” the voice interrupted, a trace of playfulness in its tone. “You’ve been looking for answers, haven’t you?”

You felt something brush against your shoulder, light as a feather but enough to make your skin tingle. Your breathing quickened as the sensation spread, leaving you dizzy and disoriented.

“Stop,” you whispered, your voice shaking.

But the voice only hummed in response, low and pleased. “You can’t run from me. You’ve known that all along.”

“I never wanted this!” you shouted, your voice trembling but firm, defiance breaking through your fear. “I didn’t ask for any of this!”

The air around you grew colder, and suddenly a hand—a firm, invisible grip—wrapped around your throat. You gasped, your hands flying up instinctively to claw at nothing.

“Oh, but you did,” the voice purred, smooth and dark, vibrating through the room. The grip on your throat tightened just enough to make your pulse race, but not enough to harm you. It was a warning.

“You put this on yourself the moment you read the words in that book,” the voice hissed, hot breath fanning over your ear. “Qui me legit, fiat noster ligamen aeternum. Do you even know what that means?”

You shook your head frantically, tears pricking at your eyes as you struggled against the phantom hand holding you in place. The voice chuckled, low and condescending.

“It means, ‘Who reads me, let our bond be eternal.’ You invited me in.”

Your breath hitched as the words hit you like a punch to the gut. The book. The book in the basement. The words you read aloud.

“That’s not possible,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “It’s just a stupid book. It—it can’t be real!”

The laughter that followed was sharp, almost mocking. “Oh, it’s very real. And now, so am I.”

In the mirror, the reflection began to change. The shadow behind you shifted, growing more defined, more solid. Your eyes widened in horror as the silhouette morphed, taking shape, and then—

There he was.

Sunghoon.

Your heart stopped. You couldn’t believe it, but there was no mistaking him. The sharp jawline, the intense gaze, the faint smirk curling his lips. It was him.

Sunghoon stood behind you, his hand still firmly around your throat, his touch searing and impossible to ignore. His other hand came to rest lightly on your waist, and you shivered under the weight.

“Surprise,” he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement as his eyes locked with yours in the mirror.

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head, panic rising in your chest. “This— you’re not—”

“Not what?” Sunghoon interrupted, tilting his head as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Not human? Not the man who’s been taking care of you? Or not the one who’s been in your dreams, night after night?”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. The pieces were falling into place, but they painted a picture you didn’t want to see.

“You were so lonely,” Sunghoon continued, his voice softer now, almost tender. “So desperate for someone to understand you. And I came to you, didn’t I? Gave you exactly what you needed.”

His hand on your waist tightened slightly, his grip on your throat loosening just enough for you to take a shaky breath.

“But you’re scared now. Why?” he asked, his tone almost teasing, as if he already knew the answer. “You’ve enjoyed this, haven’t you? The attention, the way I’ve made you feel.”

“No,” you choked out, your voice barely above a whisper. “You tricked me. This isn’t what I wanted.”

Sunghoon’s smirk widened, his reflection in the mirror impossibly calm, his eyes glinting with something dark and dangerous.

“You can lie to yourself all you want,” he said, his tone almost pitying. “But you can’t lie to me.”

“We’re bound now, you and I,” he whispered, his voice soft but laced with finality. “You can’t run from me. You can’t hide. And deep down, you don’t want to.”

You stared at him in the mirror, your chest heaving, your mind screaming for you to fight back, to do something, anything. But your body betrayed you, frozen in place as Sunghoon’s reflection smiled, dark and triumphant.

His grip tightened around your arms as he suddenly spun you around effortlessly, your back slamming against the cold countertop. A sharp gasp escaped your lips as the impact sent a jolt through your body, and you found yourself face to face with him.

Only... it wasn’t entirely him.

Your breath hitched, eyes widening as you took in his appearance. Sunghoon was still the same—his sharp features, his impossibly handsome face—but now, his true form was on full display.

Two curved, jet-black horns protruded from his head, his ears were pointed, inhumanly sharp, twitching slightly as though attuned to every sound you made. A pair of massive, leathery wings stretched out behind him. His skin held a faint reddish tint now, and his eyes...

They weren’t what you’d grown accustomed to.

They were blood-red, burning with an intensity that made your knees weak.

As your gaze traveled lower, you caught sight of a sleek black tail swishing behind him, the pointed tip moving back and forth like a serpent poised to strike.

“Like what you see?” Sunghoon asked, his voice low and smooth, laced with amusement.

You couldn’t answer. Your lips parted, but no sound came out as you stared up at him, utterly frozen. He leaned in closer, the heat radiating from him making it even harder to think, to breathe.

“You should’ve known,” he murmured, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “You should’ve felt it. I’ve been hiding in plain sight this whole time, waiting for you to figure it out.”

“Sunghoon...” you finally managed to whisper, your voice trembling as you tried to push him away, but your arms felt like they were moving through water—slow, weak, powerless.

He chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that sent heat flooding through your chest. “Still clinging to the illusion, huh? Poor thing.”

His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek with an almost tender touch.

“This is the real me,” he said softly, his voice dripping with dangerous charm. “And now that you’ve seen it, there’s no going back.” His wings shifted slightly behind him, the sound making your stomach twist in unease. His tail flicked once, curling against your leg in a way that made your skin crawl—and, to your shame, sent a strange warmth pooling in your chest.

“You’re lying,” you said weakly, your voice barely audible. “This isn’t happening...”

Sunghoon tilted his head, his expression softening just enough to make it even more unsettling. “Lying?” he repeated, his voice almost offended. “Sweet thing, everything I’ve done has been the truth. You just didn’t want to see it.”

He leaned in, his lips hovering just above yours, his red eyes locking onto yours with a hypnotic intensity. “But now you can’t ignore it, can you? You can’t ignore me.”

You gasped, your body trembling as his tail coiled tighter around your leg, holding you in place. “You belong to me now,” Sunghoon whispered, his voice final. “And nothing will change that.”

You clenched your eyes shut, your entire body trembling as you willed it all to disappear. You thought maybe—just maybe—if you denied it long enough, it would go away. That he would go away.

But it didn’t work.

Instead, you heard his low, amused chuckle. The sound was rich and dark, crawling into your ears and embedding itself into your mind.

“You can’t escape me,” he murmured. And before you could protest, his lips crashed against yours, stealing your breath and overwhelming your senses.

The kiss was searing, a fire that burned its way through your body and left you paralyzed. It wasn’t soft or careful—it was commanding, leaving no room for resistance.

Sunghoon...

Sunghoon was an incubus.

Your mind screamed at you to push him away, to fight, but your body wouldn’t listen. The warmth from his lips spread through you like molten lava, making you weak, making you feel... good. Too good.

You tried to turn your head, to break the connection, but his hand gripped your jaw firmly, holding you in place as he deepened the kiss. His lips moved against yours with a skill that made your knees feel like jelly, and the heat radiating off him felt almost suffocating.

When he finally pulled back, your head spun, your breaths shallow and uneven. His glowing red eyes locked onto yours, and you could see the satisfaction etched across his face.

“See?” he purred, his voice dripping with confidence. “You’re not resisting me.”

You shook your head weakly, trying to deny it. “You’re not... I won’t...” you stammered, but even as the words left your lips, they sounded hollow.

Sunghoon leaned down again, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “You already gave yourself to me the moment you opened that book.”

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes as you struggled to comprehend his words. You’d read the words without understanding what they meant, unknowingly binding yourself to him.

“You belong to me now,” he said, his voice soft but firm, his hand trailing down to rest on your waist. “No running. No escaping.”

His tail flicked lazily at his side, as if he were toying with you, enjoying your fear and confusion.

“I’ll take care of you,” Sunghoon continued, his tone shifting to something almost... tender. “You won’t need anyone else. You won’t want anyone else.”

You clenched your fists, trying to fight against the pull he had on you, the way his words seemed to seep into your mind like poison.

“What do you want from me?” you finally managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I already have what I want,” he said simply, his hand tilting your chin up so you couldn’t look away. “You.”

His hand slid up to your throat again, his grip firm but not enough to hurt—just enough to remind you who was in control. You gasped, your heart pounding in your chest as he leaned in, and before you could think or protest, his lips captured yours again.

This time, the kiss was more intense. It was intoxicating, a dizzying, heady sensation that left you feeling drunk and high at the same time, though there wasn’t a hint of nausea.

Instead, you felt consumed, like your body and mind were being submerged in a warm ocean. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that left you breathless.

Your hands gripped the edge of the bathroom counter behind you, trying to ground yourself, but the heat only grew. It curled in your stomach, spread up your spine, and flooded every corner of your being.

Sunghoon’s lips left yours only briefly, his breath hot against your skin as he kissed down your jaw, tracing a path to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. “You feel it, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

You couldn’t respond, your head spinning, your body trembling. Every word he spoke seemed to sink into your skin, fusing with your very being.

He chuckled softly, his lips brushing over your ear. “No one else can make you feel like this. No one else can take care of you like I can.”

When he finally pulled back, his red eyes burned into yours, glowing with satisfaction.

“Say it,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over your pulse. “Say you’re mine.”

You hesitated, your lips parting, but no words came out. Your mind was a swirling mess of emotions, torn between the primal pull he had over you and the small flicker of defiance still burning in your chest.

Sunghoon leaned closer, his smirk returning as he tilted your chin up slightly. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’ll say it soon enough.”

With that, he released you, stepping back just enough to let you breathe, though the heat still clung to your skin like a second layer. Your knees felt weak, your body trembling, and you gripped the counter to keep from collapsing.

“Rest for now,” he said, his tone almost affectionate. “We’ll see each other again soon.”

And with a flick of his tail and a low hum of satisfaction, he vanished, leaving you alone in the dimly lit bathroom, your body still warm and your mind reeling from what had just happened.

--

It didn’t take long for you to realize that Sunghoon’s persistence wasn’t just some fleeting infatuation—it was something far deeper. When an incubus claimed a human, it seemed, their desire turned into a relentless obsession. Sunghoon took every opportunity to have you, to pull you into the haze of his presence, leaving you breathless and weak in his wake.

In the library, you were shelving books in the far corner, but then, you felt it—the familiar warmth crawling up your spine. Before you could turn, his hands were on your waist, spinning you around and pressing you against the shelf.

“Sunghoon—” you started, but your words were cut off as his lips crashed against yours, desperate and hungry.

The books nearly toppled from the shelf as his body pinned you in place. His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping them tightly before lifting you up effortlessly, your back pressed to the shelf. His kisses left you dizzy, your hands clinging to his shoulders for balance as his lips trailed down your jaw, his voice low murmurs.

When he finally pulled back, you were breathless, your body trembling. He smiled, his red eyes glowing faintly. “Couldn’t help myself,” he whispered, his voice thick with desire.

In the kitchen, you thought you’d have a moment of peace as you cooked dinner, but of course, he appeared again.

You didn’t even hear him approach before his hands were on your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto the counter.

“Sunghoon!” you protested, but your voice wavered as his lips found yours, silencing any resistance.

His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them slightly as he stood between them, his kisses consuming. The heat of the stove was nothing compared to the fire he ignited in you with every touch.

“You taste better than anything you’re cooking,” he teased against your lips, as you shivered under his touch.

Even in class, he couldn’t seem to keep his hands off you. At first, it was subtle—a hand resting on your thigh under the desk. But his touch was anything but innocent. His fingers pressed into your skin, his grip firm enough to leave an imprint through the fabric of your jeans.

One day, you made the mistake of wearing a skirt to class. His reaction was immediate.

His eyes darkened the moment he saw you, his gaze lingering on your legs with a hunger. The skirt seemed to drive him wild, and he didn’t bother to hide the want in his eyes as he took the seat beside you.

During the lecture, his hand found its way to your thigh again, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles on your bare skin. Every touch sent shivers up your spine, your pulse quickening as his grip tightened slightly, his thumb brushing dangerously close to the hem of your skirt.

“You wore this for me, didn’t you?” he whispered, his voice low and teasing.

You didn’t answer, your face burning as you tried to focus on the professor’s voice. But Sunghoon wasn’t letting you off so easily. His hand slid higher, just enough to make you squirm in your seat.

By the end of class, you were a mess, your legs trembling as you tried to stand. Sunghoon, of course, looked perfectly composed.

But one event made you realize just how far Sunghoon's obsession had gone happened unexpectedly.

You had just finished getting ready, dressed to go out to the club, your outfit on point, and your makeup perfectly done. You were about to put on some music for the drive when suddenly, you heard a soft hum from behind you.

The sound was so familiar, so calming that you couldn’t help but pause. The familiar haze crept in, clouding your thoughts. Before you could even process what was happening, you felt a shift in your surroundings. The next thing you knew, you were no longer sitting in the front seat of your car but instead found yourself in the backseat, sitting on Sunghoon's lap.

“You going somewhere?” he asked, his voice smooth, leaning back, his eyes filled with contentment. He seemed to be enjoying the view of you on his lap, your body pressed against his, all dressed up.

You were about to move off, muttering to yourself about how utterly stupid this situation was.

However, before you could push him away, Sunghoon's hands went around your hips. He pulled you closer, his body pressing into yours, and then, with a sudden thrust, he lifted you off his lap.

The movement was unexpected, and it caught you off guard. You let out a surprised squeal as you found yourself being moved to lay down on the backseat. Sunghoon hovered over you, his body pressing down on yours, his eyes filled with a fiery passion.

You were on the brink of speaking, your mind filled with thoughts you wanted to express, when suddenly, Sunghoon's lips crashed down on yours, silencing your words in an instant.

His lips, soft yet demanding, devoured yours, a perfect blend of tenderness and dominance. Sunghoon groaned into the kiss, a deep, raw sound that reverberated through your core. His hands found their way to your waist, his fingers digging into your skin. And as his kiss deepened, you felt him wrap your legs around his hips. You could feel the heat of his body, the solidness of his muscles, and the intensity.

You felt a sudden urge to pull away, to regain some sense of control and composure. With a gentle push, you tried to create some distance between you and Sunghoon. But Sunghoon, ever attuned to your every move, wasn’t about to let you escape so easily. As you tried to shift, reaching for the car door, his hands swiftly grabbed your waist, his strong arms pulling you closer. His chest pressed against your back, and you turned your head, your breath quickening as Sunghoon leaned over, his face now inches from yours.

His voice, soft and teasing, broke through your thoughts. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his tone low, almost playful.

You couldn’t find the words to answer, but you could feel the heat rising between you.

Sunghoon, sensing your hesitation, nuzzled his face against your neck, his breath warm against your skin. The soft touch of his lips traced a path along your neck, sending a jolt of warmth through you. You shivered at the sensation, unable to stop the flutter in your chest.

"Sunghoon..." you breathed, trying to push him away again, but his hands tightened around your waist. He didn’t let you move, holding you there.

He chuckled softly, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke. “You want me to slow down?” he teased, his voice amused.

You swallowed hard, feeling the heat between you both. The car, once cool, now felt stifling, the air thick. You glanced over at the windows, noticing that the glass had fogged up, the condensation creeping in.

A soft sigh escaped your lips as you tried to focus, but it was hard with him so near, his breath warm against your neck. You could feel him pressed against your back, his hands still holding you close.

“Sunghoon,” you whispered again, your voice barely a breath, caught between uncertainty and desire. You shifted slightly, trying to pull away, but he gently tugged you back, his lips hovering just above your ear.

“Why resist?” His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but there was an edge to it, a quiet demand. His lips brushed against your earlobe, sending another shiver down your spine. “We both know you don’t want to.”

The fog on the windows seemed to grow thicker, the air growing warmer with every passing second, as if the space between you was becoming smaller.

You didn’t answer him right away, just closing your eyes for a brief moment, trying to clear your mind.

But Sunghoon's voice broke the silence as he gazed at you. "You look perfect," he said, his eyes roving over your body, taking in every detail. "So delectable, it's as if you're offering yourself on a silver platter."

His hands, which had been resting on your waist, slowly slid downwards, tracing the curves of your hips with a gentle touch.

"I want to ruin your makeup," he said, his voice low. "I want to mark you as mine, to leave my touch on you."

His hands, which had been gently caressing your body, suddenly tightened around your hips. With a swift movement, he flipped you over, and you found yourself lying on your back, staring up at him with surprise.

"I want to look at you," he said, his voice low and intense. "I want to see your beautiful face, your eyes, your lips, as I kiss you."

His lips, soft yet demanding, pressed against yours, a perfect show of passion. His hands roamed freely, tracing the curves of your body. He cupped your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks, a gentle caress that sent a rush of pleasure through your body.

Guess this is what happens when you get claimed by an incubus in love.

a/n: well.. i have no other words. this had been sitting in my drafts for awhile so, yeah :)

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