#windowpane mirror

[ahokyoya]

Contemporary Dining Room - Enclosed Photo of a spacious, contemporary dining room with a gray floor and a marble floor, white walls, and no fireplace

[leoppii]

Contemporary Dining Room in Houston Photo of a spacious, contemporary dining room with a gray floor and a marble floor, white walls, and no fireplace

[heesmiles]

FALLING INTO RUIN l.hs

೨౿ ⠀  ׅ ⠀   ̇ 22k ⸝⸝ . ‌ ׅ ⸺ word count.

pairings 𝜗𝜚 bad boy .ᐟ heeseung ៹ ex ballerina .ᐟ reader ᧁ ; smut ˒ angst ˒ bad boy .ᐟ good girl

warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ heavy angst lots of deep mentions of death graphic depictions of death centering around the reader and heeseung meeting at a grief group smut car accidents fights drug & alcohol use cheating (not heeseung) reader is a flawed character socialites past and present shifting timelines - this is dark, please read at your own discretion will have a happy ending.

synopsis ୨୧ your world ended the day your best friend died. In the hushed corner of a grief group you never wanted to attend, you find him — the boy with the defiant gaze and a hard exterior. with cracked pointe shoes and a heart still pirouetting in the past, you feel your family’s disapproval tightening around you like an old corset. He is everything you’ve been taught to avoid: trouble, danger, thrill. But in the quiet ache of loss, you discover something soft in him, something that mirrors your own hollow, and you never want to let go.

.ᐟ rain's mic is on ⋆ ͘ . this one is heavy y'all so please read the warnings before reading, I have experienced a loss like this and let me tell you it is not easy. but honestly I think this will be therapeutic to write...I hope you enjoy.

You sit in a circle of battered folding chairs, each one occupied by a stranger cloaked in their own quiet ache. The walls are an unremarkable shade of beige, the ceiling tiles sagging as if even they are tired of holding up this room’s endless, aching confessions. A fluorescent light flickers overhead, buzzing like a fly caught between windowpanes. It hums in your ears, mingling with the low murmur of voices; voices that float around you like a fog you can’t seem to break through. They’re sharing their stories, each word rolling into the next, and yet none of them find purchase in your mind. You hear phrases —“I lost her six months ago,” “he was my brother, my twin soul,” “I don’t know who I am without them.” The syllables tangle together, a blurred melody of heartbreak and hollow confessions that should resonate, but don’t. Instead, your thoughts roam restlessly, slipping past the edges of this circle like water seeking an escape. 

This is stupid. That’s all you can think. This room, these strangers, this forced performance of vulnerability. You don’t need to be here, you don’t want to be. It was your mother’s idea, or maybe your father’s, or maybe the friend who found you crying in the kitchen and didn’t know how else to help. “You’re not okay,” they’d said, their eyes soft, their voice careful, as though your grief were a fragile thing that might shatter at the slightest touch. “You should talk to someone.” But you don’t want to talk. Not to these people, not to anyone. You’re still angry — so angry you can taste it, bitter and bright on your tongue. Angry that she’s gone, that the world keeps turning anyway, that people you love can slip away as easily as breath. Angry that you’re here, forced to sit in this room and pick at the edges of a wound that still bleeds no matter how tightly you try to hold it shut. 

 Your hands twist together in your lap, fingers knotted tight as you stare down at the scuffed linoleum floor. You watch the shadows shift across the tiles, the way the cheap plastic chairs creak as people shift and sigh. You wonder what they see when they look at you; if they can sense how hollow you feel inside, how every breath feels stolen from the silence you can’t seem to fill. A voice cuts through your reverie, sharper than the rest. The instructor; her name is June, but she introduced herself so quickly you barely caught it, leans forward, her kind eyes settling on you. “Would you like to share today?” she asks, her voice gentle but insistent. Her question drifts across the circle, landing in your lap like a stone.  

You hesitate. You want to say no. You want to slip back into the fog of your own thoughts, let the stories of these strangers wash over you without having to offer anything in return. But June’s gaze doesn’t waver, and there’s a quiet determination in her eyes that tells you she won’t let you slip away so easily. “I—” you start, your voice a dry whisper in your throat. The word feels foreign, as though it doesn’t belong to you. You swallow, trying to find something, anything to give her, even if it’s just a shard of the truth. But before you can force out another word, the door to the room swings open with a soft groan of hinges. The quiet murmur of voices stills, the air shifting like a held breath. You look up, startled by the sudden interruption. 

He stands there in the doorway, framed by the flickering fluorescent light. A boy; no, a young man, but with a reckless, hungry energy that feels too big for this small, sorrowful room. He’s tall and lean, dressed in a black hoodie that hangs loose around his shoulders and jeans torn at the knees. His hair is dark, falling across his forehead in careless waves, and there’s a glint in his eyes that doesn’t belong in a place like this; mischief, or defiance, or maybe both. He walks in like he owns the space, his steps unhurried, each one deliberate and almost lazy. There’s a kind of swagger to him that seems out of place here, where everyone else is weighed down by loss and uncertainty. He moves like he doesn’t care who’s watching, like the world could fall away around him and he wouldn’t miss a beat. 

Your breath catches in your throat as he turns his gaze on the room. His eyes sweep over the group, pausing on you for just a moment; a flicker of something electric in the space between you, something that hums along your skin like static. He smiles then, a small, knowing curve of his lips that makes your stomach tighten. June recovers first, her voice steady as she addresses him. “Heeseung,” she says, her tone calm, as though she’s known him for years. “Glad you could join us. Please, have a seat.” 

Heeseung. The name settles in your mind, a word with edges that feel sharp and dangerous. He doesn’t say anything, just inclines his head in a mockery of respect before sauntering over to an empty chair across the circle from you. He sits with the kind of ease that seems to come naturally to him, sprawling back like he’s at home in this room of strangers and sadness. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. You don’t know why you’re staring, why you can’t seem to look away. He’s trouble; anyone could see that. He carries it in the curve of his grin, the careless way he lounges in his chair like he’s got nothing to prove and everything to lose. Your family would take one look at him and see every mistake you’ve ever been too careful to make. 

But there’s something about him that pulls at you anyway; something that feels like a challenge, or a promise, or maybe just a spark in a life gone too quiet. June’s voice breaks through your thoughts again, gentle but firm. “You were about to share,” she reminds you softly, her eyes encouraging. The others in the circle watch you with polite curiosity, their own pain momentarily forgotten as they wait for your words. You’re too caught up in the magnetic pull of the boy who just walked in, the way he lounges in his chair like it’s a throne and he’s the king of this quiet kingdom of broken hearts. His presence crackles in the air, a live wire of confidence and mischief that feels out of place here; like a thunderstorm that’s wandered into a library. 

Your eyes meet his again, and for a moment, the whole room seems to vanish. The flickering lights, the shifting shadows, the low drone of sorrowful voices, they all dissolve into a hush that’s just the two of you, suspended in a glance that feels like a secret whispered against your skin. Heeseung holds your gaze with an ease that makes your breath stutter in your chest. His smirk is slow and deliberate, a curve of his lips that’s both a challenge and an invitation, and it sends a rush of heat to your cheeks, blooming like a flush of summer in the cold hush of winter. You can feel the rest of the group watching; feel their curiosity flicker and sharpen as they notice the way you’re staring, as if this boy has turned you inside out with nothing more than a look. Embarrassment burns in your veins, a bright, fierce blush that you can’t quite hide. You tear your eyes away, the weight of their collective gaze pressing in on you like a vice, but it’s too late. Heeseung’s smirk deepens, dark eyes glinting with amusement that slices right through you. 

You cough, the sound small and fragile in the hush of the circle. Your hands twist together in your lap, fingers fumbling with the edge of your sleeve as you try to gather the tatters of your composure. “I—I have nothing to say,” you stammer, your voice barely more than a whisper. The words feel like an apology, but you’re not sure who you’re apologizing to, June, the others, or maybe just yourself. June sighs softly, a gentle exhalation that speaks of disappointment and understanding all at once. She doesn’t push further, her eyes lingering on you for a heartbeat longer before she shifts her focus to the next trembling soul in the circle. The moment slips away, swallowed by the rhythm of the meeting, but the echo of it still hums in your bones, a melody you can’t quite silence. 

You risk one last glance across the room, drawn back to Heeseung like a moth to flame. He’s still watching you, his head tilted just slightly, as if he’s trying to see right through the careful mask you wear. His gaze is steady, unflinching, and there’s a kind of quiet challenge in it, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next, or if you’ll let yourself fall into the gravity of whatever this is between you. You know he’s trouble. The kind of trouble that’s all sharp edges and reckless laughter, the kind that would make your parents’ hearts seize with worry. But you also know that there’s something about him that feels like possibility, like the flicker of dawn on the edge of a long night, a spark of something wild and bright in the darkness of your grief. 

You look away quickly, your pulse a ragged drumbeat in your throat. You tell yourself you’re here to heal, to stitch your heart back together with soft words and shared sorrow. But as Heeseung leans back in his chair, that smirk still playing at the edges of his lips, you can’t help but wonder if healing is really what you’re searching for. 

Before 

You’re back in the old studio, the one with mirrored walls that seem to stretch on forever and floors that smell of rosin and sweat and quiet determination. The soft strains of a piano echo through the room, each note a gentle command that your body obeys without thought. You’re in the middle of your rehearsals, your limbs aching in that sweet way that comes only from hours of repetition, from the careful sculpting of muscle and will. Your best friend Nari is there, her laughter ringing like wind chimes as she prattles on beside you. She’s tying the ribbons of her pointe shoes, nimble fingers weaving them into place as she talks a mile a minute about some party on Saturday. Her voice is a melody of excitement and mischief, rising above the music like a warm breeze. But you’re only half-listening, your mind caught on the precise line of your arabesque, the subtle shift of your weight that can make or break the beauty of a single pose. 

The showcase on Friday night looms in your thoughts, its promise and threat shimmering like a mirage just out of reach. It’s everything; the culmination of years spent spinning your soul into motion, of dawns and dusks blurred by practice and sweat. If you can dance this one performance perfectly, if you can become the music itself, there’s a chance you might be seen — truly seen — by those who can open the doors you’ve been dreaming of since you were a little girl with stars in your eyes and blisters on your feet. Nari’s words ripple through the haze of your focus, a bright ribbon of sound you can’t quite catch. “Are you even listening to me?” she huffs, nudging your shoulder with a grin that’s all playfulness and exasperation. You blink, startled out of your reverie, and offer her a sheepish smile. “Sorry, Nari,” you murmur, breathless from both the dance and the sudden warmth in your cheeks. “Can you say that again?” 

She rolls her eyes, but her smile never wavers, eyes alight with mischief and affection. “Beomgyu’s having a party on Saturday,” she says again, slower this time, like she’s repeating the steps of a new routine just for you. “He wants me to come, and he said I should bring you too. You know, his roommates are going to be there, and they’re… fun.” She raises an eyebrow in a way that makes you laugh despite yourself, the sound of it soft and surprising in the hush of the studio. You pause, your breath steadying, and you brush a stray lock of hair from your face. “I’ll think about it,” you reply, your voice careful even as your heart tugs in two directions, between the shimmering future of the showcase and the siren call of a night that promises a different kind of abandon. 

Nari grins, satisfied. “You’ll come,” she says with the certainty of someone who’s already decided for you. “I’ll see you there.” She winks, and for a moment, the air feels brighter; like the soft glow of stage lights just before the curtain rises, or the hush of the audience as they lean forward in anticipation. You just smile, the knot in your stomach unraveling one by one. 

Present day 

The clink of cutlery on china fills the hush of your family’s dining room, each sound a brittle punctuation in a conversation that has long since dried up. You’re pushing your food around your plate, letting the fork drag through the creamy potatoes in swirling patterns that feel like they should mean something. The roast sits in thick slices, glistening with juices that have already gone cold. It tastes like nothing in your mouth, like dust and memory. Your parents are seated across from you, the soft glow of the chandelier casting their faces in warm light that doesn’t reach their eyes. Your father’s brow is furrowed, the way it always is when he’s trying to figure out how to reach you without knocking you further away. Your mother’s lips are pressed into a line that might have once been a smile, but now it’s just another careful crack in the façade she wears for dinner. 

They ask you about your first day at grief group, their voices careful and measured like they’re afraid of stepping on shards of glass. You shrug, your shoulders stiff and aching with the weight of words you’re not sure how to shape. “It’s stupid,” you mutter, each syllable slipping out like a sigh. “I don’t need it.” Your mother sighs, and the sound feels like a door closing softly in the night. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t push, and for a moment you’re grateful for it, grateful for the quiet that settles like a blanket over the table, even if it’s heavy with all the things you’re not saying. She clears her throat, the small sound snapping through the silence. “There’s a banquet this weekend,” she says, her voice careful as she changes the subject. “I think it would be good for you to come. To get out of the house, to socialize a little.” 

Something in you flares at that, a hot spark of anger that surprises even you. Socialize. Like it’s something you deserve, like it’s something you’re entitled to just because you’re still here and breathing. Your fork stills, the silver tines scraping against the porcelain as you lift your gaze to meet hers. “Why should I?” you ask, your voice quiet but sharp. “Why do I get to socialize when Nari doesn’t?” Her name hangs in the air like a ghost, and your mother’s eyes falter, her gaze dropping to the untouched green beans on her plate. The silence stretches, taut and trembling, and you can feel the shape of the words you’re holding back, a raw scream echoing in the hollow of your chest. 

“Nari’s parents,” you continue, your tone as flat and bitter as the cold dinner in front of you. “Will they be there? Beomgyu? Should I smile and pretend it’s all okay while they’re looking at me, knowing I’m the reason she’s not here?” Your mother doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. The way her shoulders slump, the way she can’t meet your eyes; it’s enough. It’s everything. You push your chair back from the table, the legs scraping against the wood floor with a grating shriek that echoes in the quiet. Your hands are shaking, but you keep them fisted at your sides as you stand, your breath coming hard and ragged. 

“I don’t deserve to socialize,” you say, your voice hollow and aching. “I don’t deserve to sit there and smile and pretend I’m okay when I killed their daughter.” The words fall into the silence like stones, and for a moment, no one breathes. Your father opens his mouth, but there’s nothing he can say, no soft reassurance or gentle lie that can wash the blood from your hands, even if it’s only there in the quiet chambers of your guilt. You turn away before you can see their faces; before you can see the pity or the pain or the fear in their eyes. Your footsteps are quick and sharp as you leave the table behind, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears. You don’t know where you’re going, only that you can’t sit there under the weight of it all, can’t stand to be in the same room with the echo of your own confession. 

In the hush of the hallway, you pause, your hand pressed to the cool wood of the doorframe. Your breath is shaking, each inhale a jagged cut. You close your eyes, and for a moment, you can almost feel the soft press of Nari’s hand in yours, the bright laugh that used to pull you back from the edge of yourself. But that’s gone now, a memory that tastes of salt and regret. You open your eyes and step away from the door, the shadows of the hallway swallowing you whole. Empty. 

Heeseung moved like a storm in a bottle, all coiled energy and restless, reckless hunger. The girl underneath him was a blur, a placeholder for a connection he didn’t care to remember the shape of. Her moans were a hollow echo in his ears, a soundtrack he barely noticed as he chased his own release. He didn’t know her name — he didn’t care to know. All she was to him was a means to an end. A small glimpse of euphoria in his already fucked up life.

“Oh god.” Her voice was pitched just right, her body taunt with pleasure as her nails deliciously traced the expanse of his back up and down. It sent shivers down his spine, his head falling forward to rest on her shoulder. His orgasm approached fast and unyielding; blinding him completely for only just a second. When it was over, he didn’t bother with softness or sentiment; he just rolled away, breath ragged, the sweat cooling on his skin in the stale air of his too-small room. 

It was then that the pounding came, a hard, insistent thump on the door that rattled the handle and broke through the post-coital haze. Heeseung swore under his breath, his brow furrowing in annoyance as he pushed himself upright. The girl beside him made a soft, questioning noise, but he didn’t answer. Sunghoon’s voice called through the door, muffled but clear: “Hey man… I don’t mean to bother you, but your dad is at the door asking for you.” A string of curses slipped from Heeseung’s lips, low and biting as he turned to the girl. She was sitting up, her hair tangled and her eyes wide with confusion. Heeseung didn’t bother with apologies, he just grabbed her shirt from the floor and tossed it at her, his jaw tight. “Get lost,” he muttered, his voice like gravel. 

She scowled but didn’t argue, her movements quick and sharp as she tugged the shirt over her head and gathered the rest of her clothes. Heeseung didn’t watch her leave — he was already halfway to his dresser, yanking on a pair of jeans and grabbing a wrinkled shirt from the floor. His movements were hasty, all careless urgency as he buttoned the shirt with fingers that didn’t quite stop shaking. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was still tucking the shirt into his waistband, his hair damp with sweat and falling into his eyes. His father stood in the doorway, the harsh afternoon light casting deep lines across his face and turning his eyes into cold shards of glass. The girl slipped past Heeseung in a hurry, not even sparing a glance at the older man as she ducked out the door. 

His father watched her go, his mouth twisting into a frown that spoke volumes without a single word. “Is she your girlfriend?” he asked, his tone as sharp and clipped as the cut of his tailored suit. 

Heeseung let out a short, humorless laugh, his shoulders rolling back in lazy defiance. “Nah,” he said with a smirk. “Random girl.” His father’s face darkened, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he shook his head in silent disappointment. Heeseung could feel the weight of that look like a hand around his throat, but he didn’t let it show, didn’t let it break through the practiced mask of indifference he wore like armor. “I’m only here because your mother wants you to come to a banquet this Saturday,” his father said, his voice cold and final. “No questions, Heeseung. You’ll be there.” 

Heeseung’s lips twisted, his laughter gone as quickly as it had come. “No way in hell,” he snapped. “I’m not going to sit with a bunch of prissy rich kids and play pretend. Find someone else.” His father’s eyes narrowed, and the room seemed to go still around them, the air heavy with all the things they’d never said out loud. “If you don’t go,” his father said quietly, his words cutting deeper than any shout could, “I’ll yank your inheritance money right out from under you. I’m done watching you piss away everything your brother worked for.” 

The mention of Han hit Heeseung like a blow to the gut, the name a ghost in the space between them. His father didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, just kept his eyes fixed on Heeseung like he was daring him to break. “Usually we’d be asking Han,” he said, his voice low and venomous. “But obviously, because of you, we can’t do that.” The words rang out, sharp and final, the old wound split open once more. Heeseung’s hands clenched at his sides, his breath a ragged snarl as he took a single step forward. “I’ll be there,” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. And then he slammed the door in his father’s face, the sound of it echoing through the quiet of the house like a gunshot. 

He stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, the anger coiling in his gut like a living thing. The silence in the house felt heavy, the memory of his brother’s name still clinging to the air like a curse. Heeseung closed his eyes, let the weight of it settle over him for a heartbeat and then he turned away, his jaw set and his mind already miles from the echo of his father’s voice. 

Before

The memory snuck in like smoke — thin, curling at the edges of Heeseung’s mind as he lay back on his bed, the anger from the encounter with his father still simmering in his chest. It arrived uninvited, as most memories of Han did, but he never had the heart to push it away.  It was a Thursday evening. Late spring, the windows open to a warm breeze that stirred the curtains and carried the faint sounds of traffic from the road outside. Heeseung had just come home from his job; something menial and forgettable at a music store, the kind of gig he kept for pocket money and for the simple pleasure of thumbing through vinyls all day. His shoulders ached, his hair smelled faintly of dust and old plastic, and there was a smear of something, maybe ink on the hem of his sleeve. He strolled through the front door like he owned the place, calling out lazily, “Han! You alive?” 

The house was quiet except for the subtle shuffle of papers in the den. Heeseung followed the sound, and sure enough, Han was there, tucked behind their father’s massive old desk, sleeves rolled up, brows drawn in that signature furrow that meant he was neck-deep in whatever the hell their dad had dumped on him this time. His tie hung loose around his neck like a forgotten noose, and the desk lamp cast a tired yellow light over his papers and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. Heeseung leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching his brother like a man studying a machine. “What are you doing?” he asked, not unkindly, but with a tone that leaned slightly into mockery. Han didn’t look up right away. 

“Contracts,” Han replied eventually, flipping a page with fingers that were stained slightly with ink. “Dad wants me to review the Q2 proposals before the meeting next week. He’s testing me, I think.” Heeseung scoffed and stepped into the room, hands shoved into his pockets. “You know you’re twenty-six, right? You’re allowed to act your age. Get drunk. Flirt with someone. Sleep until noon. Come on, man, you’re wasting your golden years.” 

Han chuckled under his breath, a soft, familiar sound. He leaned back in his chair finally and looked up, eyes slightly bloodshot, but sharp. “My golden years?” he repeated with an amused snort. “You sound like a commercial. Look; I get it. But I can’t afford to screw this up. If I’m going to take over the company someday, I need to prove I’m ready. Dad won’t hand me anything just because I’m his son.”  Heeseung made a face, as if the very idea bored him to tears. “Yeah, yeah. Legacy, pressure, expectations, whatever.” He waved a hand dismissively. “You sound just like him, you know? Minus the part where he breathes fire every time I walk in a room.” 

There was a beat of silence between them, a moment that stretched like taut string. Then Han smiled again, this time with a hint of warmth. “You’re not so bad, Hee. You just… don’t want the same things I do.” 

“Damn right,” Heeseung said, grinning. “And that’s why I’m inviting you to this party saturday. You need to blow off steam. Come on, it’ll be fun. Booze, music, girls who don’t talk about market projections. Maybe you’ll get laid, huh?” Han threw his head back and laughed, a full-bodied sound that filled the room and warmed something deep in Heeseung’s chest. “God,” Han said, shaking his head, “you’re such an idiot.”

“An idiot who knows how to have a good time,” Heeseung countered. 

Han leaned forward again, reaching for his pen, already turning back to his mountain of responsibility. “Maybe next time. I’ve got to finish this before morning.” Heeseung sighed dramatically, shoulders slumping. “Suit yourself, nerd.” He turned on his heel and headed for the hallway. “One day you’re gonna regret choosing paperwork over parties.” Han didn’t answer that, and Heeseung didn’t expect him to. 

Present day 

The kitchen is quiet, too quiet for a house that used to hold the hum of music and the scent of spices and your mother’s laughter like a cradle. Now, it’s just you, curled on a barstool with your knees drawn up and your fingers clenched around a lukewarm mug of tea you forgot to drink. The steam’s long gone, and the honey at the bottom has settled into something thick and bitter. You stare into it like it might offer answers, like it might bring her back. The fridge hums. A fly taps against the windowpane. Somewhere upstairs, your father’s voice filters down faintly as he takes a business call, every word sharp and clipped, like life never paused for him. Like the world didn’t lose her. But yours did.

Nari’s absence is a bruise that never yellows, never fades. It’s sharp even now, especially now. She would’ve hated this silence. She’d be here, chattering about nothing, raiding the pantry for snacks and nagging you to put down your damn phone and just be present. And maybe that’s why your thoughts won’t stay still, because they’re clawing for a world where she still exists, a version of today where she might burst through the back door in her worn-out slippers and call you “ballerina girl” with that lopsided grin of hers. You press your palms flat against the countertop. It’s cold beneath your skin, grounding. You try to focus on the pattern of the granite, the little swirls and veins, but your thoughts still pulse like static. You feel raw. Like someone scraped out your insides and filled you with salt. Then — Buzz.

The sound shatters the silence. Your heart jerks like it remembers how to beat.

You glance at your phone, already half-hoping it’s no one important. Spam, maybe. A group text you forgot to leave. Anything but —

Beomgyu.Can we please talk?

Four words. But they land like a punch. Your chest constricts so tight, it’s like your ribs are shrinking around your lungs. You feel your breath stutter. Your fingers twitch. The guilt is immediate, overwhelming, a tidal wave you don’t even try to brace against. You slam the phone down onto the table without thinking, the crack of it hitting the wood startling in the still air. You don’t check to see if the screen’s cracked. You don’t care. Maybe you want it to be. Maybe if it shatters, it’ll mirror something inside you that already has. You bite your lip hard enough to taste iron. Your eyes sting. You haven’t spoken to Beomgyu since the funeral. He hadn’t looked at you, not once. You’d sat three rows back, your nails digging into your palms, your throat like paper. He’d held Nari’s mother’s hand and stared at the coffin with a hollowed-out look that made you nauseous. You’d wanted to crawl out of your skin. You should’ve. 

You think of how close they were; how easily they fit together. You’d seen it from the start. Even when Nari denied it, even when she’d said it was “just fun,” you’d known he was her heart. You’d seen the way she softened around him, the way she came alive when he laughed at her jokes. And now? Now he was just another ghost in your phone. Your gaze drifts to the corner of the kitchen where she used to sit, cross-legged on the counter, eating cereal straight from the box and swinging her legs like a child. You can almost see her there, smirking, eyebrow raised like you’re being dramatic again. 

You whisper her name, just once, and it falls out of your mouth like broken glass. You don’t answer the text. You can’t. Instead, you let your forehead fall forward until it rests against the coolness of your arms. The silence returns, thick and absolute. And still, your phone waits. Quiet. Unanswered. Just like her.

The room is stuffy today; warmer than usual, like the air forgot how to move. You sit in the same chair you did last time, in the same semicircle of grief-soaked strangers and their tea-stained paper cups, their fidgeting hands, their voices weighed with sorrow and memory. You don’t bother pretending to listen anymore. Your eyes are fixed on a speck on the wall behind the group leader’s head, June, The voices in the room bleed together like watercolor in the rain, a blur of confessions and pain you can’t bear to carry. They all sound the same now. “My mother was my best friend…” “It’s been three years but I still smell her perfume…” “He was just twenty-two…”

You know you should care. You want to care. But your grief is greedy and cruel, and it’s made your heart a locked box. There’s no room left inside for anyone else’s sadness. You hear his voice before you see him; low, a little rough, carved out of something not entirely soft. Heeseung. You turn your head, eyes flicking to him like gravity pulled them there. He’s slouched in his chair, legs sprawled, fingers twitching restlessly in his lap. The swagger he wore like armor the last time is gone today. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t wink. He looks different, heavier. Like something happened between the last session and now, something that hollowed him out and filled him with fire.

June is addressing him now. She’s calm, as always, her voice like a therapist’s lullaby. “Heeseung,” she says gently, “would you like to share something today?” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer. “Heeseung?” she prompts again, a little firmer.

He lifts his head slowly, his dark eyes hooded, unreadable. His jaw is clenched. His voice, when it comes, is low and sharp as a blade.

“I have nothing to say.”

There’s an edge there that silences the whispers around the room. Even June falters, just for a second, before she forges ahead. “Sometimes saying something helps. Even a sentence. Even a word.” Heeseung lets out a humorless laugh, short and bitter. He drags a hand through his hair and stares at the floor like it betrayed him. Then he looks up; at her, at the room, and then, briefly, at you. You look away too quickly, pretending not to care. 

“I belong in jail,” he says flatly. A sharp silence follows, sucking all the air out of the room. Someone coughs. Someone else shifts in their seat. Heeseung doesn’t blink. “I killed my brother,” he says, his tone brutal and matter-of-fact, like he’s just telling them the weather. “I don’t belong in a grief group. I belong in a cell.” 

Your breath catches. The words strike you like a slap. You sit a little straighter, unable to look away. June sighs, quiet and practiced. “Your brother died in a car accident, Heeseung. That’s not your fault.” He’s on his feet before she can finish, the chair scraping violently against the tile as he kicks it back. The crash of it slams through the room like thunder. You flinch before you can stop yourself, your heart kicking wildly in your chest. Heeseung’s jaw is tight now, his face pale beneath his sharp cheekbones. 

“Yeah,” he spits, voice rising. “He died picking me up. That’s why he was in that car. Because I was too drunk to drive myself. Because he was always the one who cleaned up my messes.” His voice cracks at the edges; just slightly, but enough to make you feel like something inside you is cracking with it. “I killed him.” 

He stands there for a moment, breathing hard, eyes burning like twin eclipses. No one dares speak. The silence wraps around him like a noose, taut and thick. And suddenly, he looks so young. So lost. Like he’s still standing on the side of that road, glass in his skin and his brother’s blood in the air. You’re stunned; not just by what he said, but by the way it pierces through you. Because for the first time, you see him — not as some reckless, charming bad boy you were warned about, but as someone broken in the same places you are. Someone who walks with a ghost too. 

You’d thought you were different. You, the quiet ex-ballerina with your good-girl past and your polished life. Him, the disaster with smoke on his jacket and grief in his bones. But maybe you aren’t so different after all. Heeseung doesn’t wait for permission. He grabs his coat and storms out, the door rattling in his wake. The room doesn’t breathe until he’s gone. 

You can’t stop staring at the door. You wonder if he’s crying on the other side. Or if he’s just like you, too angry to mourn properly. Too haunted to move forward.

You sit there in the silence, the words echoing in your head. I killed him. You know what that feels like. And somehow, it makes you feel less alone. 

You wake with a gasp, like you’ve surfaced from drowning. The sheets are tangled around your legs, soaked in sweat, your skin clammy despite the cool air slipping through the crack in your window. Your lungs heave, but the air feels too thin, like it’s not enough. Like nothing is enough anymore. The nightmare clings to you, half-formed and shadowy at the edges, but the heart of it remains vivid, cruelly clear. Nari’s hand; slipping out of yours. Her eyes, red with fury. The way her voice trembled not with sadness, but with disappointment, with anger. 

The way she walked away.

How you let her.

How she never came back.

You sit up, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes like you could rub it all away. The images. The guilt. The truth. The silence of the house is suffocating, so you shove off the covers and pad downstairs on bare feet, trying not to wince as the cold tiles bite into your soles. You want water; something cold, something real. Something to distract you from the storm in your chest. The kitchen lights are off, but the refrigerator hums faintly in the dark. You’re halfway to the cabinet when you hear it: the soft, broken sound of someone crying. You freeze.

At first you think you imagined it. But then it comes again — a quiet, trembled sob. Your eyes adjust slowly to the dimness, and there she is. Your mother, sitting at the kitchen island, her shoulders curled in on themselves like the weight of the world finally became too heavy to hold. One hand grips a crumpled tissue; the other is pressed over her mouth to keep the sound contained, like grief should be polite. You hesitate in the doorway, your instincts at war. Once, not so long ago, you’d have gone straight to her without question. But that was before. That was before everything fractured.

You were a different person then. Back when your world made sense. Back when you could still recognize yourself in the mirror. When you danced like your life depended on it, when your report cards came home like trophies, when your smiles were real. You’d never smoked, never drank, never snuck out. You’d dated the kinds of boys who brought flowers for your mother and shook your father’s hand. You were the girl everyone trusted, the girl who never let anyone down. But now? 

Now you move through the world like it’s made of glass. Angry at everything. Detached. Numb. The mirror doesn’t recognize you, and neither do your parents. Especially your mother. You know it. You’ve felt it every time she looks at you like she’s searching for someone who disappeared. Still, something in you softens. You walk forward, slowly, and without a word, wrap your arms around her from behind. She flinches, surprised; your presence, your touch. You used to be so affectionate, but now? Now you rarely even speak at the dinner table. After a moment, she melts into you, her head leaning back against your shoulder. Her sobs taper into shaky breaths. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you murmur into her hair. “I just… I couldn’t sleep.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Her fingers find your wrist, holding gently. Finally, she says, her voice hoarse, “I miss you.”

You close your eyes. “I’m right here,” you whisper, even though the words feel like a lie. She pulls away just enough to look at you, and in the glow of the fridge light, you see her eyes are puffy and red. She studies your face for a long, aching moment, then says, “No. Not really.” It hits harder than you expect. But she’s right. You haven’t been you in a long time.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice cracking. “I don’t know who I am anymore.” Your mother nods, slowly, like she’s known that for a while but didn’t know how to say it aloud. She reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear the way she used to when you were little. “I know you’re hurting,” she says. “We all are. But I don’t want to lose my daughter.” 

The silence swells again, thick with everything neither of you know how to say. The memory of Nari hangs heavy between you — so present, so piercing. After a long pause, your mother clears her throat. “The banquet this weekend,” she says, as gently as she can manage. “I was hoping you’d come. Just to get out of the house. Be around people again.” You want to say no again. It’s your first instinct. No to the dresses, to the small talk, to the pretending. No to the judgmental stares and whispered sympathies. No to the pressure of having to act normal when everything in you is still on fire. 

But then you look at her. At the hope trembling behind her exhaustion. And for once, you don’t have the energy to argue. Or maybe, deep down, you want to try. Not for you; but for her. For who you used to be. “Okay,” you say quietly.

She blinks, surprised. “Really?”

You nod. “I’ll go.” Your mother smiles, small and sad, but genuine. And you wonder when the last time she smiled at you like that was. You get your water, finally, and sip it in the dark beside her, not saying much. But for the first time in a while, the silence feels a little less heavy. And upstairs, your nightmares wait. But at least now, you’re not the only one wide awake in the dark.

The night of the banquet arrives like a storm you’ve tried your best to ignore; thunder rumbling low in your chest, your limbs heavy with dread. You stand alone in your bedroom, the soft click of your heels echoing in the quiet, a fragile sound in the space that once held laughter. The mirror before you shows a girl you almost recognize. The dress clings in all the right places, something tasteful your mother picked. Your hair is pulled back with delicate precision, a touch of makeup to hide the exhaustion under your eyes. But there’s a hollowness beneath the polish, a dullness in your gaze that powder can’t disguise.

You stare at yourself and remember a different version of this same moment. You and Nari, side by side in front of this mirror, perfume in the air and bobby pins scattered like confetti across your desk. You remember how she'd curl your hair for you, then laugh when she burned her own ear. How she'd spin you around, tilt your chin up, and say “Look at you! total heartbreaker.”

And then she'd wink, adding, “Too bad you're a prude.” You press your hand to your stomach as if that could keep it from twisting. The ache there is sharp tonight. This isn’t right. She should be here. Not as a memory; but in the flesh, wearing that crimson dress she swore made her look “dangerously hot,” even though she always ended up changing it last minute. You’d have teased her for trying on three outfits, she’d have stolen your lipstick, and the two of you would’ve danced to some stupid pop song before leaving late and in a rush.

But tonight it’s just you. Just you and the ghost of her smile echoing in the silence. Your throat tightens. You don’t cry. You haven’t cried in days, not since the last nightmare; but the burn is there behind your eyes. That cruel, unshed weight. You let out a long, steadying breath, palms smoothing the sides of your dress. It’s too tight across the chest. Or maybe that’s just your heart.

Then, with lead in your limbs, you move. Open your bedroom door. Step into the hallway. One foot in front of the other, like choreography. Like a dance. Down the stairs, your parents are waiting. Your mother looks up and smiles, that practiced, brittle kind of smile she’s worn too often. Your father offers a quiet nod, adjusting the cuff of his shirt, saying nothing but scanning you like he’s not sure what version of you he’ll be dealing with tonight.

You don’t speak, just grab your coat and purse. And as the front door shuts behind you, you don’t look back at the mirror. You don’t want to see what’s missing in the reflection. 

The car ride to the banquet was silent. No music. No idle conversation. Just the occasional turn signal and the sound of tires humming against pavement. You sat in the backseat, your hands clenched in your lap like a child trying to behave, your fingers twisting the fabric of your dress with a quiet desperation. Your mother, riding in the front with your father, was too busy reapplying her lipstick in the mirror to notice how stiff you were, how you hadn’t blinked in a minute. You watched the city pass by in blurs of warm gold and shadow. Each lighted window another life you weren’t living. When you arrive, it’s all so… much. The venue is a grand old hotel downtown, the kind of place people book months in advance, with chandeliers like frozen galaxies suspended above a sea of tailored suits and glittering dresses. A string quartet plays in the corner, the music slow and graceful, and the air smells of wine, floral arrangements, and money. You step inside, and it hits you like a punch to the chest. The whispers come fast.

Your chest tightens as if the air itself resents you being here. You swallow hard, your throat raw, and try to breathe around the phantom hands curling around your lungs. It’s not working. You shift your weight, your heels suddenly too high, too loud against the marble floors. Every breath feels borrowed, like you’ll have to give it back if you stay too long. But your mother doesn’t notice. Of course she doesn’t.

She’s swept into a conversation almost immediately, pulled in by polished friends with tight smiles and hands adorned in diamonds. You can see the way she lifts her chin, her lips curving perfectly, as though this night is a role she was born to play. She’s glowing beneath the chandeliers, nodding graciously, clutching a champagne flute like it’s the holy grail. 

You’re a silent shadow beside her, just a flicker in the corner of their eyes. You hope it stays that way. You scan the room, dread rising like water in your throat.  No sign of Nari’s parents. No glimpse of Beomgyu. You pray, silently, fiercely, that they don’t come. That they stay wherever they are. That you won’t have to meet their eyes and see the grief you gave them staring back. But fate has never been merciful to you. You barely have time to brace before another group approaches. Family friends. Old ones. People who used to pinch your cheeks at holidays and ask how your pirouettes were coming along. You recognize them instantly. The couple with the fox-faced smiles. The man in the navy suit and the woman with silver hair too stiff to move. 

“Darling,” the woman says, voice dripping with pretend concern, “we’ve been thinking about you.”

You smile, tight, robotic. “Thank you.” 

“And how have you been?” she continues, tilting her head like she expects something profound.

You don’t offer anything. Just one word: “Fine.”

A silence settles over the group, awkward and dense, before the man fills it with a polite cough.

“And ballet?” he asks, though it’s not really a question. More of a test. “Are you still keeping up with it?” You stare at him for a moment, then at the swirling wine in your untouched glass. 

“No,” you say simply. “I don’t dance anymore.” 

The woman blinks. “But you were so talented. Surely you’ll pick it up again once things settle?”

You force a smile. “Being a ballerina wasn’t in the cards for me. Not anymore.” The way you say it; final, flat, seems to unnerve them. They don’t push further. Just exchange a glance, murmur something about catching up later, and turn back to your parents. You’re left alone again, more alone than you were when you walked in. A knot forms in your stomach. It sits heavy, immovable, like stone. You sip your wine, but the taste is bitter, acidic. It doesn’t help. 

Across the room, someone laughs too loudly. A toast is made. Another waltz begins. And still, all you can think about is Nari. About how she would’ve hated this place. About how her laugh would’ve cracked through the crystal calm like lightning. About how she would’ve made a joke about someone’s ridiculous earrings just loud enough for you to choke on your drink. She would’ve made it bearable. You set your glass down on a table and press your fingertips to your temples, as if that could stop the spinning. You want to leave. You need to.

But before you can step away, before you can disappear into the safety of some forgotten hallway, your gaze lands on a figure across the ballroom. Heeseung. He’s leaning against the far wall, half in the shadows, dressed in black like the storm he always brings. His tie is loose, his hair slightly tousled, and he looks like he doesn’t belong here either. His eyes, dark and sharp, scan the room until they land on you. 

And just like that, the air shifts again.

Not like before—no, not suffocating this time. Different. This is tension. Electricity. A current you can feel down to your bones. He doesn’t smile. He just stares, unreadable. And you stare back, too stunned to look away. For a moment, it’s as if the crowd fades. The whispers fall away. The chandelier light softens. There’s just you, and him, and everything you haven’t said to each other yet suspended in the space between. 

Before

The studio was nearly silent save for the soft shushing of your slippers against the marley floor, the gentle hum of the overhead lights, and the faint throb of your heartbeat in your ears. Outside, the sky had already turned a deep violet, streaked with orange at the edges where the sun had made its quiet descent. But inside, it was still you and your reflection, looping the same phrase of choreography over and over until your legs screamed and your lungs ached. Friday was the big day. The showcase that could change everything. The one that scouts were coming to, the one your instructors called a turning point. You needed to be perfect. There was no room for anything less. So you stayed long after the others had gone home, repeating your variations in dimmed silence, chasing something close to flawlessness.

You paused, chest heaving, sweat glistening along your collarbones. You stepped to the side and grabbed your water bottle, letting the cool liquid ease the burn in your throat. Just as you lowered it, the front door creaked open. You flinched. No one else was supposed to be here. And then, casually framed in the doorway with one hand in the pocket of his jeans and the other running through his shaggy dark hair, stood Beomgyu. Your heart jumped — not just from surprise. 

He was in jeans and a soft flannel jacket, the collar folded haphazardly. His hair looked like he'd been in the wind, or maybe he'd just run his fingers through it too many times. He blinked when he saw you, a little stunned himself, then grinned. “Didn’t expect to see you here this late. Thought everyone cleared out by now." 

You raised an eyebrow, tugging your towel over your neck. “I could say the same to you.” Beomgyu stepped in, letting the door creak shut behind him. The warm light cast soft shadows on his face, making his features look even gentler. “I came to pick up Nari’s pointe shoes. She said she forgot them in her locker.”

You nodded, gesturing to the changing room. “They’re probably still there. I can grab them for you.” 

“Nah,” he said quickly, taking a few more steps inside. “I know where her stuff is. It’s cool. Didn’t mean to interrupt you.” 

You gave him a small shrug. “Was just running through the piece again. Nerves.” Beomgyu lingered near the edge of the room, watching your reflection in the mirror. His gaze wasn’t invasive, just curious. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Big show Friday, right?”

“Mhm.” You leaned against the barre, stretching your arms over it. “It’s the one that decides my whole future, apparently.” 

“No pressure or anything,” he said with a lopsided smile. You laughed, a real one. It slipped out without your permission, caught you off guard. Beomgyu seemed surprised too, like he hadn’t expected to be funny. “I get it though,” he added after a moment. “We have our first show this weekend. It’s nothing big, just a coffee shop gig. But I’ve been running lyrics in my head all day and still feel like I’m gonna forget everything.”

You tilted your head. “You’re in a band?”

“Yeah. We suck,” he said, grinning. “But we have fun.”

You leaned one shoulder against the mirror and crossed your arms, amused. “What do you play?”

“Guitar. I write most of the songs too. Kind of emo, kind of indie. We're in a genre crisis.” You chuckled. “That sounds about right.” The conversation stretched on easily after that. What started as a brief chat turned into something warmer, something slower. Beomgyu stayed, leaning against the mirror beside you, the two of you trading stories about rehearsals and routines, stage fright, and the strange way people expected so much from you just because you were good at something. He spoke with his hands, animated and expressive, his laughter full-bodied and contagious.

You hadn’t laughed that much in weeks. Eventually, the clock on the wall struck ten. Beomgyu checked his phone, then glanced at you. “Want a ride home?” You hesitated. You were tired, your legs aching. And the walk back felt far longer than it ever used to.

“Sure,” you said. You gathered your bag and hoodie, flicked off the lights, and walked with him into the cool night. The sky had gone pitch black by then, stars hidden behind gauzy clouds. The parking lot was mostly empty, quiet but for the hum of streetlamps and the occasional car passing by in the distance. His car was older, navy blue with a cracked windshield and band stickers on the bumper. He opened the passenger door for you like it was second nature. You climbed in, the scent of spearmint gum and cheap cologne lingering faintly inside.

The drive was short. You lived only a few blocks away. But the silence that settled in the car wasn’t uncomfortable. He parked in front of your house, engine idling, the headlights casting long shadows across the street. You turned to him, already reaching for your bag. “Thanks for the ride,” you said softly. 

He was looking at you. The way his eyes lingered was different now. Slower. Focused. Under the streetlight, his features looked almost unreal. The softness of his mouth. The mess of hair falling into his eyes. The calm in his expression that made your chest tighten. “No problem,” he murmured. 

You lingered.

So did he.

There wasn’t a single logical thought in your head when you both leaned in. It was instinct. A gravity neither of you had expected, too strong to ignore. The next you know your leaning over all the while he is too. The kiss was soft at first, tentative; but it didn’t stay that way. Your hand found his jaw, his fingers tangled in the hem of your sleeve. It was impulsive, reckless, and stupid in the way only something that feels too good too fast can be. His lips moved against yours like he’d been waiting for it, like he couldn’t believe it was happening either. Your heart pounded. You could feel it in your throat, in your fingertips. 

The kiss deepened. Your limbs felt light, dizzy with adrenaline and guilt, a dangerous cocktail that made you bolder. You shifted, climbing into his lap as though something inside you had been aching to feel this wanted, this close. 

But then; it hit you.

Like ice water over the head.

Nari.

This was Nari’s boyfriend.

Your best friend.

Oh god.

You jerked back like you’d been burned, scrambling out of his lap, your breath caught in your throat. “Oh no,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Oh no, no, no.” Tears welled up fast, hot and full of shame. Your lips still tingled from the kiss, but the pit in your stomach was already growing. This wasn’t just a mistake; it was a betrayal. Beomgyu looked stunned, his eyes wide, mouth parting like he wanted to say something. 

“I—” he started.

But it was too late. You shoved open the door, stumbling out of the car into the cold night, tears trailing down your cheeks. You didn’t look back. Couldn’t. The porch light blurred in your vision as you fumbled with your keys, your hands shaking. The kiss echoed in your bones like an accusation, like thunder in a silent room.

You slipped inside, heart splintering. And upstairs, alone in the dark, you cried until your chest ached; because you had just made the worst mistake of your life. 

Present day 

The air outside was colder than you expected, bracing against the heat still clinging to your cheeks from the banquet. You leaned back on the stone ledge, your palms flat against it, grounding you as your heart slowly tried to even itself out. Too many eyes. Too many voices. You could still hear them; those low, pitying murmurs, the way people glanced sideways and then looked away like the sight of you hurt too much to bear. Or worse, like it was something juicy they weren’t supposed to talk about but would the second you turned away. 

You hated it. All of it. The way the room had swallowed you whole, a ghost of who you used to be.

A failed ballerina.

The girl who lost her best friend.

The girl who killed her. 

The air helped. A little. The night had a stillness to it, only disturbed by the occasional hum of a car in the distance or the soft click of someone else’s shoes along the sidewalk. You closed your eyes, tilted your head up to the stars that were barely visible through the city’s haze. That’s when a voice broke the fragile quiet. “Hey.” Your heart lurched, and your eyes snapped open. You turned, already bracing yourself, and there he was. Beomgyu. You cursed under your breath, low and bitter.

He looked like he hadn’t changed clothes since the last time you saw him, his tie slightly loosened, his shirt untucked like he hadn’t bothered fixing himself up fully. He looked… tired. More worn than usual. But you didn’t care. He was the last person you wanted to see. The last person you needed. “Did you get my message?” he asked quietly. 

You turned your gaze back toward the dark, refusing to look at him. “Yes.”

He hesitated, then took a few steps closer. “Why didn’t you respond?”

That made your blood boil. How dare he act like nothing happened. Like you haven’t betrayed your best friend and now she's dead. Like your word didn’t end the moment the two of you decided hurt her so badly it drove her to her death. You can’t even look at him without feeling an overwhelming shade of shame. 

You turned sharply, your voice cold. “Are you stupid?”

Beomgyu blinked. “What?”

“You really came out here asking why I didn’t respond? You really thought I’d want to talk to you?” His brow furrowed, eyes filled with a hurt he had no right to feel. “We can’t not talk about this.” 

“Yes we can.” You pushed off the ledge, straightening your back, ready to walk away. “I have nothing to say—” He reached for you. His fingers closed around your wrist. And you yanked your hand back like his touch had burned you. And in a way it did. It felt like a zap to your soul. 

“Don’t touch me.” Your voice was sharp, your body trembling.

He looked wounded, frustrated. “Please, Ju—”

“She said let go.”

Another voice cut through the air, low and cold like the crack of a whip. You froze. Beomgyu did too. Your head turned slowly, disbelieving, and there stood Heeseung. Beomgyu looked at Heeseung, eyes narrowing. “Get lost,” he muttered. “This doesn’t involve you.”

Heeseung didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. He took a single step forward, slow and deliberate, his eyes steady. “It does now.”

Beomgyu scoffed, incredulous. “You don’t even know her.” But Heeseung didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, before you could fully register what was happening, you felt his hand curl gently around your wrist; careful, unlike Beomgyu, and then you were being pulled forward, tucked against him, his arm coming around your waist like it belonged there.  

“Don’t touch my girlfriend,” Heeseung said, cool and quiet, the lie sliding from his mouth like he’d rehearsed it a hundred times. Your breath hitched. What? You stiffened against him, frozen. Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching for a sign that he was joking; but he wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was locked on Beomgyu, steady, unflinching, sharp as cut glass. It wasn’t a threat. It was a dismissal. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know him. You had barely spoken to Heeseung, and yet here he was, holding you like you were something worth shielding. 

And Beomgyu — he just laughed. A single, humorless sound that cracked open something bitter inside you. “Really?” he said, his eyes sliding between the two of you, his smirk twisting. “This loser?” He turned to you then, gaze challenging, voice low. “You can do better.” 

You felt the blood rush to your ears. Your spine straightened, anger fizzing to life under your skin. All the things you wanted to say for months clawed at your throat. You stepped slightly forward, still half wrapped in Heeseung’s arm. “Really?” you said, voice trembling with heat. “Like with you?” Beomgyu stilled.

For a second, just a second, you saw something flicker in his expression; something uncertain and maybe even ashamed. But then it hardened again, sealed over by the same easy indifference he wore like a mask. He gave a low chuckle. “Whatever.” He turned to leave, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his voice floating behind him like smoke. “I’ll catch you some other time. And we will talk.”

You didn’t say anything. You watched his back as he walked away, each footstep carrying the weight of too many things unsaid. The night closed around him until he was just another shadow swallowed by the dark. And then it was quiet. Heeseung’s arm still hovered around you, tentative now, uncertain. You stepped away slowly, enough to put a little distance between you, enough to breathe. 

You stayed in silence for a few minutes, the kind that lingered not awkwardly, but gently; like fog curling around a streetlamp. The chill in the air touched your skin, but the tension in your body had started to ease, little by little. Then you turned to him, brushing your hair back from your face. “Thanks,” you murmured, your voice low, but sincere. 

Heeseung shrugged, his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket. “It’s whatever.” And maybe it was. Maybe to him, stepping in like that didn’t mean anything at all. But to you, it meant more than he could know. There was a pause, and then Heeseung tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in the direction Beomgyu had walked off. “What the hell’s his problem anyway?”

The question caught you off guard. You froze for a beat, lips parting. Then you shut your mouth again and gave him the most practiced shrug you had. “No idea.” Heeseung looked at you; really looked at you and you could tell he didn’t buy it. You could see it in the subtle lift of his brow, in the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t press.

He just nodded once, slowly, as if to say: okay, I’ll let it go. You didn’t thank him for that out loud, you didn’t need to. The silence consumed you for a few more minutes until finally Heeseung speaks, his words surprising you for the second time tonight. 

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks, his voice low, edged with something reckless, something soft.

You blink. “What?”

“This place sucks,” he mutters, glancing back toward the golden-lit banquet hall like it’s a prison, not a celebration. “We don’t belong here.” You open your mouth, about to say something responsible; about your mother, the expectations, the whispers that would follow, but instead, you hear yourself say: “Yeah. Let’s go.”

You don’t know what possesses you. Maybe it’s the tightness still winding in your chest. Maybe it’s the look on Beomgyu’s face as he walked away. Or maybe it’s something else entirely, the gravity of Heeseung’s presence, the pull of someone who seems just as lost as you. The two of you slip away from the banquet like ghosts through a wall, unseen, unnoticed. The air outside is cool and silver. You trail behind Heeseung toward his car, your heels clicking softly on the pavement, each step peeling away the image of the girl you were expected to be. 

You slide into the passenger seat of his dark sedan, a little stunned, a little breathless. He doesn’t say anything. Just starts the engine and pulls away from the curb like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The ride is quiet. Your hands fidget in your lap, your phone buzzes once — probably your mother, and you silence it without even looking. The streetlights blur past like slow-dancing stars, and you feel something rising in you that you don’t yet have the name for. Guilt, maybe. Relief. Fear. Hope. All of them, maybe. 

You glance sideways. Heeseung’s face is unreadable, cast in the faint glow of the dashboard. His hand grips the wheel loosely, like he’s driving nowhere in particular. Like wherever he’s going, he just wants to go there with someone. Eventually, he pulls into a dark parking lot. Some vacant strip mall long closed for the night. A single broken streetlamp flickers near the far end, humming like it’s trying to stay alive. Heeseung parks, cuts the engine, and the silence rushes in like a wave. Neither of you speak.

You sit there, breathing it in, the quiet, the dark, the feeling of being no one, nowhere. You hadn’t realized how much you needed it. Then, after a while, he shifts slightly. Reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls something out.

A small, ziplock baggie.

Weed.

He doesn’t look at you. Just holds it in his palm like a casual offering, then tilts his head. “You cool?” You stare at it. You remember a time — clean ballet shoes lined up like soldiers, your life scheduled to the minute, your mother bragging about you at dinner parties. You remember being the good girl. The golden girl. But that girl is gone.

You turn your gaze to the windshield. The night stares back. “Yeah,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m cool.” And in a strange, twisted way, you think you mean it. 

He watches you for a beat, his expression unreadable in the dark. The silence hums between you, heavy with something unspoken. Then, almost gently, Heeseung asks, “Have you ever smoked before?” You hesitate, then shake your head no. Never. You never had the chance, too many rehearsals, too many performances, too much pressure to be perfect. But you’d be lying if you said the idea never crossed your mind. If you said you weren’t curious. If you said a small part of you hadn’t longed for the kind of freedom where you could just… let go. 

He raises an eyebrow, not in judgment but in quiet surprise. “Huh,” he says simply, like he’s filing the fact away. Then, he holds the baggie up again between two fingers, his gaze flickering to yours. “You wanna?” 

Your heart kicks, once. Sharp and startled. But what startles you more is your answer. “Yes.” You don’t even let yourself think. You just say it. And it hangs there, bold and fragile in the air between you. Because you mean it. If it will help you forget, if it will quiet the scream you’ve been holding in your chest since the day the world cracked and Nari was gone, if it will make the ache a little duller, the past a little blurrier, then yes. You’d do it. Heeseung gives a slight nod, not smug, not surprised. Just understanding. Like he knows exactly what it’s like to want to float outside your body for a while. 

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s make it a soft one.” He moves with practiced ease, fishing out a crumpled rolling paper and pinching the weed between his fingers. You watch, fascinated, the movements almost meditative. There’s something comforting in the way his hands work, steady, sure, deliberate. 

The flame from Heeseung’s lighter flickered to life, casting a golden glow across his face before it kissed the tip of the joint. He inhaled slowly, his cheeks hollowing slightly, and the ember at the end burned a hot, bright orange in the dimness of the car. You watched him with something close to awe, or maybe curiosity, or yearning, or all three twisted into one. He looked so at ease, leaning back against the driver's seat, elbow perched casually on the window frame, his gaze fixed ahead like the night outside held all the answers he didn’t want to say aloud. He turned to you after a moment, his expression unreadable as he held out the joint. 

You wanted it to help you forget — just for a moment; the aching cavern in your chest where Nari used to be, the guilt gnawing at your insides like acid, the unrelenting pressure of being whoever the hell everyone thought you were supposed to be. Heeseung passed it to you. You stared at the joint for a beat too long, unsure how to hold it, how to breathe it in, like it was an alien thing and you were fumbling through foreign rituals. He noticed. Of course he did. A lazy smirk crept onto his lips, his tongue darting out to wet them slightly. 

“Here,” he said. “Don’t baby it. Just put it to your lips and inhale. Deep. But not too deep, or you’ll cough your soul out.” You rolled your eyes at his amusement, but you did as instructed. You placed it between your lips and drew in a breath, tentative, hesitant, but determined. The smoke filled your mouth and then your lungs and then; You sputtered. Violently.

Coughing ripped through you like a storm, your body jerking forward as tears sprang to your eyes. Heeseung cracked up, his laughter echoing in the small space between you. “Holy shit,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. “I should’ve recorded that. You sounded like you were summoning demons.”

You glared at him, cheeks burning, but then you laughed too. Really laughed. A broken, breathless sound that felt like relief. Like freedom. You passed the joint back and forth after that, the air inside the car growing warmer, thicker with smoke and laughter and something else unspoken. You slouched lower in your seat, legs folded beneath you, and Heeseung mirrored your posture, his thigh brushing against yours now and then. The world outside faded. The banquet. Your mother. The whispers. The ache. None of it mattered. 

You talked about everything and nothing. Dumb things. Childhood stories. Songs you hated. The worst school lunches you ever had. Heeseung told you he once got detention for throwing mashed potatoes at a substitute teacher. You confessed you used to fake headaches to get out of gym. You both laughed until your faces hurt, the high sinking its claws into your skin like a warm blanket wrapping around your bones. But somehow …..the conversation shifted. 

Heeseung fell quiet. His smile slipped. The light in his eyes dimmed, like a shadow passed across his heart. “My brother used to love this song,” he murmured, nodding toward the faint music trickling out of his car speakers, some old indie ballad, moody and atmospheric. “He’d play it every night before bed. Drove me crazy.” You watched him closely, the haze not dulling your senses but sharpening them in ways that scared you. 

“Is he… the reason you’re in the grief group?” you asked, soft, unsure. Heeseung didn’t answer right away. Then, finally: “I’m the reason I’m in that grief group.” His voice cracked, just a little, like something too heavy to carry was trying to escape his throat. He didn’t look at you, just stared ahead, into the dark. 

And you understood. God, you understood more than you ever wished to. “I know the feeling,” you whispered. That made him look at you. Really look at you. And in that glance, smeared by smoke and shadows and sorrow, you both saw something reflected. A mirror image of broken pieces. A matching ache. Something shifted.

He leaned forward, just slightly, and you met him halfway. The kiss happened so fast you didn’t even think. It was clumsy, desperate, tasting like smoke and everything you’d never said aloud. His hand cupped your cheek, fingers grazing your jaw, pulling you closer like you were the only anchor he had. Your hands found the fabric of his shirt, tugging, gripping, needing to feel something — anything that wasn’t grief. It deepened in seconds. Lips parting, tongues meeting. Heated. Messy. 

Heeseung moved with a hunger that mirrored your own, his hands roaming across your back, your waist, your thighs like he needed to memorize every inch. You felt his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your dress, your breath catching as his palm flattened against your bare skin. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t want to. This, whatever this was, felt like the first thing in months that made sense. That made you feel alive instead of just surviving. Your body reacted before your brain could catch up. The car was hot now, windows fogging, clothes tangling. His mouth left trails down your neck, and your fingers curled in his hair, pulling him closer.

You didn’t think of Nari. You didn’t think of anything but this moment, and the way Heeseung’s lips felt on your skin, the way his body pressed against yours like he needed you to breathe. It was exhilarating, your body alight like a flame catching fire. You didn’t know how to explain the feeling that seeped through your bones and laid a nest in your marrow. 

His hand continued its climb on your thigh inching upward for what felt like a mile a minute. You broke away to catch your breath, your forehead resting on his. “I want you.” Heeseung said, his words low in his throat it almost felt buried, like he was trying to conceal himself but his body wouldn't let him. 

“Ok.” You nod because that's the only word you could say that would be coherent. 

“But not all the way. I want to take my time with you.” His breath shot shivers down your spine, his fingers caressing the skin of your knee. His lips find purchase on the skin of your neck sucking the skin slightly. A gasp falls from your lips, quick and breathy. You were not a virgin, that was the truth but you had never been as needy as you were now. In Lee Heeseung’s car of all people. He was trouble, that much was clear. You had just gotten high with the guy for crying out loud. 

You didn’t care. Not anymore, at least. You were tired of caring. So, you let him continue his kisses down your neck, slow and careful, a strong opposition to your rapidly beating heart. A timeless boom let out into the quiet or your entire body and your entire soul. You welcomed it and it came crashing like a tidal wave. 

His hand inched up, and under your dress. His hands caressing your clothed core with his finger. Your breath shook a small mewl leaving your lips. Heeseung smirked against your skin, a slow languid smirk that told you he was enjoying this just as much as you were. His thumb ran across your panties slowly like he was testing the waters. Watching your reactions, keening at your pleasure. Lee Heeseung knew what he was doing, that much was clear. 

“I’m going to touch you now, Okay?” His voice was questioning but not uncertain. Like he knew you wanted this but just had to make sure. It was more appreciated than you could even say. 

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. His finger pulled your panties aside, his eyes never leaving your face, not even for a second. This was a movie and you were the star of the show, the leading lady. You deserved a fucking standing ovation after this one, only it wasn’t an act. This was real; very much so. You moaned breathily watching Heeseung with careful eyes. He was beautiful there was no doubt about it. His finger traced your clit, moving in slow circles over the nub. Your body felt electrified. 

You reacted with a gasp, your hand reaching to grip Heeseung’s arm “Hee–” You whimpered as he slid a single finger into your entrance, eyes still locked on your face intently. “Feels good.” 

“Yeah?” He asked with a smirk. “How good?” 

“So good.” You withered under his gaze, your hips lifting to meet his fingers. It was euphoric. A mind numbing feeling you’d been searching for. It didn’t take long for you to tip over the edge. Your orgasm hitting you like a truck. Your moans ringing through the car and filling the space. Heeseung’s gaze turned dark, drinking you in. 

“Beautiful.” He muttered “So fucking beautiful.” Then it was over. And not a single part of you regretted it. You had felt alive, ablaze with feeling. You needed this. 

“What time is it?” You asked, after a stretch of silence. You watched as the foggy windows cleared your mind becoming less hazy as you came down from not only the high of your orgasm but the high of the weed. 

“Just passed one. Need a lift home?” You nod tiredly, barely gaining the strength to lift your head. And before you know it, he was starting the car and taking off. Your perfect night ending as you knew it. 

Before. 

The house was already thick with tension, the air humid with summer heat and something more suffocating; disappointment, maybe, or something sharper, something older. Heeseung stood in the middle of the living room, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. The walls around him had once felt like home, but now they felt too close, like they were folding in on him. “You can’t just keep coasting like this,” his father barked, pacing across the living room with his arms crossed, brow furrowed like a permanent fixture. “You’re twenty-three, Heeseung. What are you even doing with your life?” 

Heeseung leaned against the back of the couch, arms folded, expression unreadable except for the faint twitch in his jaw. “I’m figuring it out.” 

“Figuring it out?” his father repeated with a humorless laugh. “You’ve been saying that for two years. Meanwhile, Han’s already lined up for internships, he’s tutoring on weekends, and he’s still pulling top grades. He actually wants something for himself.” And there it was. Han. The golden son. The measuring stick. Heeseung pushed off the couch, tension suddenly uncoiling in his limbs like a spring snapped loose. “Good for him,” he said bitterly. “Why don’t you make him a damn trophy?” 

“Don’t talk about your brother like that,” his father snapped. 

“I’m not talking about him,” Heeseung shot back. “I’m talking about you. You never look at me without seeing what I’m not.” 

His father’s face hardened. “You have all the same opportunities. You just don’t take anything seriously.” 

“Because I don’t want to spend my life miserable just to meet your standards.” 

“God, listen to yourself,” his father muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “You think life’s about doing whatever the hell you want? You think you’re entitled to waste your time and your potential?” 

“I’m young,” Heeseung barked. “Isn’t that what being young is for? I have the rest of my life to hate my job and sit in traffic and drink burnt office coffee. Why the hell would I start now?” 

“You always have an excuse,” his father said. “Always. You’re lazy, Heeseung. And selfish. I’m just glad Han didn’t turn out like you.” The words sliced through the air like a blade. Heeseung went still. His chest rose and fell, his breath shallow. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The only sound was the hum of the fridge in the next room. Then Heeseung laughed; quiet and humorless.

He grabbed his keys from the counter. “You know what?” he said, voice brittle at the edges. “Thanks, Dad. Really. That was the push I needed.”

“Where are you going?” His father yelled after him. 

“Out,” he snapped, walking toward the front door. “To do something useless. Just to spite you.” 

He didn’t wait for a reply. The door slammed shut behind him, the sound sharp as a gunshot. Outside, the sun was still bright, but it felt cold in his chest. A hollowness had opened up inside him, and he didn’t know how to fill it, except to forget. So he texted the group chat, asking what parties were happening tonight. And as he walked down the street, hands in his pockets and jaw still clenched, Heeseung thought only one thing: Han can keep being perfect. I don’t want that life anyway. But part of him knew; even then, that something had cracked open. And that no party in the world would be enough to glue it back together.

Present day 

The car ride home was quiet, the kind of quiet that sinks into your skin and makes a home there. After the haze and heat of that night with Heeseung, the soft high that blanketed your brain, the weight of his body pressed into yours like something grounding, you hadn’t thought about what came next. You hadn’t prepared for the way your real life would be waiting for you like a predator at the door. Heeseung pulls up slowly in front of your house, the engine humming low. The porch light is on. A silhouette moves behind the curtain. Your stomach knots. You should’ve known better. You should’ve gone home earlier. You should’ve texted.

You shouldn’t have disappeared. Heeseung glances at you. “You good?” 

You nod, though you’re not. You open the door and step into the cool night air, the scent of pine and pavement rising with the wind. The moment the door swings open, you’re met with your mother’s worried face, and your father’s fury. “There you are,” your mother breathes, like the air had left her lungs hours ago and only now returned. Her eyes are wide, red-rimmed. Her robe is tied tightly at her waist, hands clenched. “Where have you been? We didn’t know if something had—”

“Where the hell were you?” your father’s voice cuts like a blade. He’s pacing now, his posture rigid, as if he’s been holding himself still for too long and has finally snapped the leash. The living room lamp casts long shadows on the hardwood, your mother’s expression flickering like candlelight. You cross your arms. “Out.” 

“Out?” he repeats, incredulous. “You disappeared in the middle of the banquet. You didn’t answer your phone. We were about to call the police.” 

“I was with someone.”

“Who?” he demands.

You shouldn’t say it. You know the weight the name carries in this house, the implications, the judgment it would bring. But you’re still high. You’re still reeling. And your anger, your rage, has been stewing beneath your skin for far too long. You tilt your head, smirk venomously. “I was busy having sex. With Lee Heeseung.”

Your mother gasps, small, but sharp. A sound of heartbreak and horror all at once. Your father stills. There’s a quiet moment, too quiet, before he explodes. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to your mother?!”

“I don’t care,” you snap.

His face darkens. “You don’t care?” 

“No. I don’t. Because none of you care about me. You only care about what I do. How I act. How I reflect on you. You don’t care about how I feel; about what I’ve been going through.” 

“We’ve given you space—” 

“No,” you cut him off, your voice rising with the heat in your throat. “You’ve given me rules. Expectations. You wanted me to move on quietly. To cry behind closed doors and never, ever make you uncomfortable with the reality of what happened.” Your mother clutches her robe tighter. “We’ve tried—”

“You’ve tried to ignore it!” you cry. “You want to pretend Nari dying didn’t ruin me. You want me to go back to who I was. But I’m not her anymore.” Your father slams his palm against the wall, the sound like thunder. “We’ve given you so much grace this year after Nari’s death but—”

“There is no buts!” your voice cracks. “My life ended the same day Nari’s did.” A silence falls over the room, heavy as snow. Your father’s voice is low, seething. “No, it didn’t. You’re still alive. And you’re treating yourself like some kind of corpse. Wake up.”

“Why should I?” you whisper. “Why should I get to live comfortably, eat dinner, go to banquets, kiss boys in dark cars, when it’s my fault she’s dead?” Your mother lets out a sound like a sob, but you can’t stop now. The words are fire on your tongue, and they’ve been burning there for too long. 

“You don’t get it,” you say to your father, your voice shaking. “You don’t know what it’s like to carry that kind of guilt every single day. To wish it had been you instead. You’re right. I am acting like a corpse; because I should be one.” 

That’s when he takes a step forward, his face pale with fury and pain. “Don’t say that.” 

“Why not? It’s true.” 

“Don’t you ever say that again,” he growls. 

But you don’t listen. You’ve already turned. Your feet carry you down the hall like instinct, your fingers fumbling for your phone. You scroll through your contacts with trembling hands, your vision blurred. You tap his name. He picks up on the first ring. “Hello?” 

“Heeseung…” you breathe, voice cracking. “Please. Come pick me up.” There’s a pause. Then; his voice, calm and certain. “On my way.”

You hang up before your father can say another word, before your mother can cry any harder, before the weight of their stares suffocates you completely. You step outside into the night, wind rushing against your skin like a balm, your heart still thrumming with rage and regret and pain. The world outside is dark, the moon obscured by clouds. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. You stand there on the sidewalk, arms crossed tightly over your chest, waiting. And when his car turns the corner, headlights cutting through the dark like a lifeline; you breathe again. You don’t know where you’re going. But you know it’s away. And for now, that’s enough.

Before

The theatre smelled of velvet and varnish and a faint current of dust stirred by restless feet; an intoxicating mix that lived in your bones long before you ever set foot in its wings. It was Friday, the day everything was meant to unfold exactly the way you’d mapped it in your sleepless imaginings: the day the scouts filled the back row with clipboards poised, the day your instructors whispered Watch this one, the day your life would pivot on the sharpened point of a single relevé.

But all week your nerves had been a live wire sparking under your skin. You’d flitted through dressing‐room corridors like a ghost, ducking Nari’s bright grin, her lilting voice calling your nickname, the glitter of anticipation in her eyes. Pre‐show jitters, you’d told her, forcing smiles so wide your cheeks trembled. In truth, your heart was a glass ornament rattling in its box, because tucked into it was a secret kiss that did not belong to you; a kiss that belonged to Nari, to her late‐night confessions about Beomgyu, to the dizzy way she clasped your arm and said He’s the one, I feel it. That kiss replayed in your mind on a merciless loop: the blurred parking‐lot lights washing across Beomgyu’s face, the soft rasp of his flannel collar, the unplanned tilt of two mouths colliding in a moment that should never have existed. Every beat of silence afterward felt like a fresh betrayal. You’d tried to bury it beneath pliés and pirouettes, to sweat it out into the marley floor, but guilt is a clever shadow; it clings to the arch of your foot, the curve of your rib cage, rides the breath of every port de bras.

Now, backstage, the hush before the storm pressed in on you. Scuttling crew members tacked stray cables to the floor; the stage manager hissed cues into a headset. Beyond the velvet curtain came the low hum of an expectant crowd; parents adjusting programs, instructors scanning rosters, the occasional rustle as someone leaned to whisper good luck to a performer slipping past. Your fellow dancers flitted in and out of light like dragonflies, tutus trembling, pointe shoes ticking softly on the worn boards. Somewhere out there was Nari, waiting two numbers after you, hair pinned in a sleek crown, eyes surely hunting the auditorium for Beomgyu’s familiar silhouette. And somewhere, closer than you wanted to imagine, was Beomgyu himself, sitting with the audience’s polite hush draped about his shoulders. You had not dared to look for him during warm‐ups; the very idea set your pulse galloping.

An assistant stage manager approached, clipboard clutched, voice gentle yet insistent. “Five minutes, star.” The moniker landed like a shard of glass. Star. The word rang hollow when you felt anything but stellar, when every muscle was soldered to fear. Still, you nodded and stepped into the narrow spill of light at stage left, waiting for the house to black out and the overture to climb. The curtain would rise on silence, a single spotlight blooming down like moonlight. You would step from darkness into glow, offering your first breath to the rafters. You’d practiced that entrance so many times the floor all but remembered your weight. Tonight you would give it everything, because failure, you’d decided, was the only penance big enough to fit this sin. If you danced perfectly, perhaps the universe would not forgive you; so you vowed to dance beyond perfect, to dissolve into movement so wholly that the world could forget it ever saw you kiss the wrong boy.

The house lights dimmed. A hush rippled across the audience like the draw of a single breath. In that hush you caught the faintest sound: a program dropping, a throat clearing, the soft scuff of someone shifting in their seat. And beneath it all, your name inside your chest, repeating like a mantra: remember the choreography. remember the music. remember the reason you began. When the curtain ascended, it felt almost slow like dawn unfolding. The low whirr of the fly‐system chains, the gentle rustle of velvet reaching upward, revealing a stage hushed, waiting. The spotlight found you, and heat flooded your skin. Applause dotted the darkness: a scattering of claps, polite and anticipatory, then fading to a reverent hush.

The first note of the piano slipped from the orchestra pit; soft, deliberate, as if testing the air. You drew a breath so deep it lifted your ribs like wings, and then your body obeyed the command that had been etched into its sinew over months of repetition. You stepped forward, ankle rolling through demi‐pointe to full, the world narrowing to the music, the floor, the fire in your muscles. For a heartbeat, it was perfect. More than perfect: it was transcendence. Each développé carved an invisible ribbon through space; each alignement felt true, as though gravity itself had arced to cradle you. You surrendered to the dance and let it carry you across the stage like wind across water. Every beat of the piano pulled another secret thread tight inside your chest, and yet, incredibly, you didn’t unravel; you soared.

Then your eyes lifted. A reflex. A mistake. Rows of faces climbed into the darkness, features softened by the spill of stage light. Far left, a head of sandy hair, a familiar tilt of a jaw, a pair of wide dark eyes that had once closed under your kiss. Beomgyu.

The breath caught in your throat mid‐pirouette. The world jolted slightly off its axle. In that split second, the clarity you’d fought so hard for shattered like a mirror under stone, and the edges flew at you; every shard a memory: his smile in the glow of the streetlight, the click of his seatbelt as you leaned in, the soft shock of his lips. Behind those shards, the imagined face of Nari when — if — she discovered the truth. Your next placement faltered. The edge of your pointe shoe skidded. You tried to salvage it, shoulders tightening, arms shooting wide but the correction was too sharp, too late. Your ankle buckled, and gravity claimed you in a brutal, inelegant swoop.

You hit the floor hard enough to send a tremor through the wings. A stunned gasp rippled across the crowd; a collective intake of breath that sounded like a verdict. The spotlight kept shining, merciless, on the shape of your failure. For a moment you couldn’t breathe; the air seemed to have left the theatre entirely. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. In that bright, silent agony, one thought screamed louder than the pain: I deserve this.

Your palms slipped on the marley as you scrambled upright, but the choreography was gone, blown out like a candle. All that remained was the monstrous echo of what you’d done, of who you’d betrayed. The music continued, an empty cascade of sound; and you, trembling, stared out at the sea of faces until one face met your gaze: Nari’s. Stage left, waiting for her entrance, eyes wide with horror and a heartbreak you prayed she couldn’t name yet. Something inside you broke fully then. You couldn’t stay. You couldn’t finish. You couldn’t breathe in a world where she might learn the truth. With a ragged sob, you spun on your heel and fled the stage, the curtains swallowing you, the orchestra faltering into confused diminuendo. Behind you, the audience erupted, someone calling your name, others murmuring like distant thunder, parents half‐rising from seats.

Backstage smelled of dust and rosin and your own panic. You tore down the corridor, past startled crew members, tutus swishing as dancers pressed back against scenery flats to let you pass. Someone called after you; an instructor, maybe but their voice drowned in the roar of your pulse. You pushed through the stage door into the alley, the night slapping cold against your fevered skin. The street beyond the theatre was shockingly normal, cars rolling by, a neon sign buzzing across the avenue, the faint peppery smell of a late‐night food truck. But inside you, the world had ended. You bent double, hands on your knees, tears splattering the asphalt. On the other side of the stage wall, the showcase continued; voices, hurried announcements, an onstage piano vamping to fill the space you’d left barren. You pictured scouts scribbling notes: promising, but no mental stamina. poor recovery. not ready. 

None of it mattered. You deserved none of it. You deserved exactly this emptiness, this shame coiled tight as wire around your throat. Because what kind of friend kisses the boy her best friend loves? What kind of dancer lets the stage become collateral damage for her guilt? A monster. You pressed your fist to your mouth to stifle a sob. Down the block, an ambulance siren wailed; shrill, insistent and the sound echoed in your bones. You didn’t know it yet, but hours later you’d meet that wail again in a different key, flashing red against wet pavement, broken glass glittering under streetlights, the night Nari would walk away from you for the last time.

For now, there was only the alley and the wreckage of a dream that had shattered under a single glance. You slid down the cool brick wall until you were crouched amid puddles of stage runoff, trembling with adrenaline and remorse. Somewhere inside the theatre, Nari was stepping into her music, dancing her heart out; maybe flawlessly, maybe faltering because of you. You’d never know, because you couldn’t bear to watch. 

You buried your face in your hands and stayed there until the music ended, until the applause rose and fell, until the night air numbed the sting of your scraped palms. By the time a teacher found you, voice gentle, jacket draped over your shoulders; you had already decided you were done. With ballet. With pretending. With believing you deserved good things. Because the monster inside you had spoken, and the stage had listened. And you felt certain — absolutely certain that nothing would ever be bright again.

Present day 

The streetlights flicker past like ghosts, golden halos warping through the tears blurring your vision. You don’t bother wiping them away. You just hope Heeseung doesn’t notice, but of course he does. Silence may fill the cabin of his car, but it's not a silence that shelters. It’s the kind that listens too closely, hears too much. The air is thick; warmer than it should be for nightfall. The windows are cracked just enough to let in a breeze that carries the scent of damp pavement and something flowering in the dark. Your fingers are clenched in your lap, nails carving half-moons into the soft flesh of your palms.

You feel his glance before you see it. Heeseung shifts slightly in the driver’s seat, one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other drumming an idle rhythm against his thigh. He doesn’t say anything right away, and you cling to that mercy for as long as you can, but then his voice slips into the space between you. “What’s wrong?” he asks, gentle. Like he’s afraid you might break if he presses too hard.

You inhale sharply through your nose and keep your gaze pinned to the window. You watch as the night spills over rooftops and lampposts and blinking store signs, blurry and distant, as if you’re floating somewhere above your life instead of living it. You debate lying. It would be easy. Safer. You could tell him it was just a bad day. School stress. A family squabble about curfews or drinking or some other shallow wound that wouldn’t require stitching. But Heeseung doesn’t feel like someone you can lie to. Not right now. Not after the joint, the kiss, the way he touched you, the quiet understanding that crackled between you like static in the dark. This thing between you, it’s not defined, not shaped into anything real; but it’s honest. And in a world where most people look at you with pity or suspicion or sanitized grief, Heeseung looks at you like he sees past the performance. 

So you speak. Quietly. “I got into a fight with my parents.” Heeseung nods, doesn’t push. Just gives you space. You swallow, your throat tight. “It was about Nari.” 

There’s a brief pause. You can feel the shape of the question before he asks it, cautious and curious. “Who’s Nari?” 

Your eyes close for a beat. The ache swells in your chest again, a slow, suffocating bloom. “My best friend,” you say. And then, sharper, crueler, the words tear their way out of you: “My best friend that I killed.” 

Silence. A heavier one now. Weighted. You brace yourself for the flinch, for the retreat, for the cold rush of judgment that always follows. You wait for him to tell you that you’re being dramatic, that it wasn’t your fault, that grief warps memory and blame. But Heeseung doesn’t say anything. And in his silence, there is no retreat. There is no recoil. You glance sideways. His expression hasn’t shifted into pity or horror. If anything, it’s softened. Eyes dark and unreadable, mouth slack with something that might be understanding, or pain. Heeseung just nods. Like he knows exactly what it feels like to carry something unspeakable.

When he pulls into his driveway, you expect him to say something more, to fill the silence with platitudes or distractions. But he doesn’t. He turns off the ignition, tosses his keys onto the dashboard with a quiet clatter, and says, “Come on.” You follow him into the house. The air inside smells faintly like detergent and something warm from earlier; maybe toast or ramen. The lights are low, and the hallway creaks under your steps. There are photos on the wall, but you don’t stop to look at them. It feels like trespassing, being here. Not physically, but emotionally. Like you’ve brought the rot of your guilt into a space that deserves better.

Upstairs, his room is dim and a little messy; sheets rumpled, books stacked sideways on the desk, a hoodie slung across the back of a chair. You hover in the doorway, unsure, until he gestures for you to come in. You sit on the edge of his bed, suddenly small. Your hands knot in your lap. The air is thick again. Not from heat this time, but from the weight of what’s unsaid.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. Heeseung drops to a crouch in front of you, hands braced on his knees. He looks up at you like he wants to memorize your face in this exact moment. “You don’t have to apologize.” 

Your eyes sting again. “I do. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this. I—” 

His voice cuts you off. Firm. “You’re not a bad person for needing someone.” You shake your head, blinking hard. “I betrayed her. She was always there for me, and I hurt her. I broke something so sacred. She trusted me.”

Heeseung’s expression shifts. Not in disbelief, but in recognition. He knows this guilt. Wears it like a second skin. “I get it,” he says, softly. “I killed my brother.”

He doesn’t look away. “Not literally. But I might as well have. I— I did something. I didn’t mean to. But I did. And now he’s dead. And it’s because of me.” 

Your voice is tentative. “That can’t be true.”

“It is,” he insists. His voice trembles just once, then steadies. “I might as well have put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.” You stare at him, stunned. Not because of the words, but because of how familiar they sound. Like an echo of your own worst thoughts. 

“I told her,” you say quietly, “that she didn’t deserve him. I told her he didn’t love her. I lied. I said it to hurt her.” You’re not even sure when the tears start again. They fall quietly, steadily, like summer rain.

“I kissed him. Her boyfriend. She found out. I never got to explain. I never got to say sorry.” Heeseung says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He just kneels there in front of you, steady as a lighthouse, his eyes locked on yours.

You can barely breathe. “It should’ve been me. Not her. I was the one who ruined everything. I should be the one—” 

“Stop,” he says, gently but firmly. Your voice cracks. “Why does the world keep spinning when she’s not in it? Why do I get to wake up every day when she’s in the ground?” 

Heeseung places a hand on your knee. Not romantically. Not out of pity. Just to anchor you. To remind you that you're still here, breathing, even if you don’t know why. “Tell me what happened,” he says. “That night.”

You don’t answer right away. You stare past him, past the walls, past the ache. Your throat works around the lump rising in it. That night. The one you’ve rewound and replayed a thousand times. The night everything shattered. You open your mouth. And the scene begins to unwind behind your eyes. But that’s for the next breath. The next storm. For now, you sit in Heeseung’s room, in the quiet aftermath of too much truth. And for the first time in what feels like forever, someone sees you in all your ruin; and doesn’t look away. 

It was the night after the showcase, and you felt like a ghost in your own skin. The stage lights had faded, but their burn still etched itself behind your eyes, mocking you. You hadn’t even made it through the routine. You’d crumbled; right there, in front of everyone who ever believed in you. Your body, trained and honed like a blade for years, had given out at the mere sight of him. Beomgyu. His eyes in the crowd. His mouth, the one you’d kissed in secret. Nari’s boyfriend. Her everything. And you’d shattered. Now, your phone was a storm. Ping after ping, call after call. All from her.

Nari.

Her contact photo was a blurry selfie from last summer — her smile sun-kissed and wide, your arm looped around her neck. You looked so happy. So unworthy. She was worried. Of course she was. You were supposed to be avoiding her for pre-show jitters, remember? But now the show was over and the lies had nowhere to hide. The texts were a blur. hey. 

please say something. i’m worried about you. i’m not mad. just talk to me. i love you. you know that right? That last one made you feel like you were going to throw up. You dropped the phone onto your bed like it was on fire. You paced. You screamed into your pillow. You considered telling her everything. The kiss. The guilt. The way your bones ached with shame every time her name crossed your lips. But you didn’t. Because what kind of monster kisses her best friend’s boyfriend and lets her say I love you like nothing happened? You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to punish yourself. And then she called.

The ringtone split the silence like a siren. You let it ring. Let it go to voicemail. It rang again. And again. On the fourth try, you picked up, breathless like you’d run a mile. “Hello?” Her voice came through, thin and frantic: “Oh my God; are you okay? Why haven’t you been answering? I’ve been freaking out—”

“I’m fine,” you lied. “Just… tired.”

“Tired? You disappeared after the showcase, you didn’t even stay for the closing photos. Everyone was asking about you. Your parents looked — I don’t know, really worried or something. What happened up there?” You couldn’t answer. Your throat locked up. The sound of her worry made you want to claw your skin off. Nari didn’t push. That was her gift and her curse. She gave you space when you needed it; even when you were lying to her face.

“I think you should come to Beomgyu’s,” she said after a long silence. “I know, it’s dumb. I know you don’t like these things. But maybe it’ll help. Just… I don’t know. I want to see you.”

The line crackled. Her voice wavered. “Please.” It was that word — please that broke you. Even after everything, even not knowing what you’d done, she still wanted you there. Still loved you. You whispered, “Okay.” And hung up before you could change your mind.

The second you stepped through the front door, the night swallowed you whole. Music pounded like a heartbeat, loud and consuming, the bass thudding through the soles of your shoes and up your spine until your body seemed to vibrate from the inside out. The house was an explosion of color and chaos; flashing LED lights staining the air red and green, the smell of alcohol and weed thick enough to choke on. Someone shrieked with laughter from the kitchen, their voice edged in hysteria. The living room looked like a scene from a dream gone wrong: bodies pressed together in the dim light, dancing on tables, spilled drinks soaking into the carpet, lipstick-smeared kisses exchanged without meaning. You were an intruder here, a ghost drifting through a world too loud, too fast, too alive for what was rotting inside of you. Your heart beat too loudly, but only with dread. You were here for one reason — Nari.

Your eyes scanned the crowd in desperation. Faces blurred together, a kaleidoscope of strangers and half-friends you didn’t care to recognize. Every movement felt slow, as if your limbs were dragging through molasses. You called out for her once, twice, but no one heard you over the noise. Your throat burned. Every second that passed stretched thinner than the last, stretched like the lie you’d built between yourself and the girl who’d once been your anchor. You grabbed a boy near the stereo, his breath reeking of vodka and his eyes glazed over with party-born indifference. “Have you seen Nari?” you shouted over the music.

“What?” he bellowed, tipping his head.

“NARI!” you yelled again, your voice hoarse.

He squinted, lips pulling into a sloppy grin. “Beomgyu’s room!” He jabbed his finger upward, then turned back to whatever game he was playing with the girl beside him. The words hit like a brick to the stomach. Your legs moved on their own, carrying you toward the stairs, each step heavier than the last. The music dimmed slightly as you ascended, replaced by the echo of your own breathing; shallow, frantic, uneven. The hallway was lit by a single flickering bulb, shadows creeping along the walls like phantoms. You hesitated at the door, the weight of what might be behind it pressing against your chest. You knocked. 

No answer.

You tried again. Still nothing.

You opened the door.

The room was dim, just the low glow of a lamp in the corner casting a soft golden haze. Beomgyu was there, sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed, fingers knotted in his hair like he was trying to rip thoughts straight from his skull. He looked up at the sound of the door creaking, his eyes dark and distant, the slump of his shoulders too familiar. You stepped inside, heart hammering. “Where’s Nari?” 

He blinked like he’d just remembered you existed. “She’s in the bathroom,” he said, voice low. You nodded, relief flooding your system. You turned to leave, to find her, to finally talk, to explain. 

But his hand caught yours. You froze. “Wait,” he murmured, standing. Your heart leapt into your throat. You turned toward him slowly, your fingers still curled beneath the weight of his. 

“What are you doing?” your voice trembled.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said.

The room tilted, the words crashing into you like a rogue wave. You pulled your hand back, stumbling a step away. “What?”

“I—” He reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, the gentleness of the touch striking terror into the hollow space beneath your ribs. “I think I’m in love with you. And I’m not sorry about it.”

Your breath left your body. The room suddenly felt too small, the air thick and cloying. Your thoughts scattered like dust in sunlight. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember what day it was or who you were or why any of this had happened. Then he leaned in. And god help you, you didn’t stop him.

The kiss was soft, slow, nothing like what you should have felt. No heat. No passion. Just desperation. A collision of two broken people reaching for something to numb the ache. His lips pressed to yours like a promise he had no right to make, and your body moved on autopilot, not because it meant anything; but because you couldn’t stop unraveling. Because the guilt already inside you wanted to finish the job. And then the door opened.

“Sorry, Gyu, the line was lo—” Nari’s voice sliced the moment in half. You and Beomgyu broke apart instantly. Her figure stood in the doorway, her silhouette backlit by the hallway, her face frozen in pure, heart-wrenching horror. Her lips parted. Her eyes wide and glassy. A silence so violent followed that it rang in your ears.

“Nari—” you began, stepping forward.

“What are you doing?” she asked, voice cracking. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I…”

Beomgyu stepped in front of you, shielded you. “I love her.” The words detonated. You saw them hit her like bullets, tearing through her chest, her stomach, her soul. Her mouth opened in disbelief. Her hand flew to her face, eyes flooding. A tear slid down her cheek, and then another. 

“You love her?” she repeated, the disbelief in her voice shattering into something sharper. She turned to you, her face contorted. “How could you?”

You shook your head. “I don’t— I don’t love him—”

“Then what the hell was that?” she screamed.

Your words failed. Every explanation tasted like ash in your mouth. Nari shook her head in disgust, chest heaving, shoulders trembling. “I felt bad for you,” she hissed. “I was here crying for you after you fell at the showcase. I was the only one defending you, worrying about you — and you were falling in love with my boyfriend?”

“I wasn’t—I’m not—” You took a step forward, pleading. “Nari, please—”

“Save it,” she snapped, her voice tight with betrayal. Then she turned and ran. You chased her, heart in your throat, vision blurring with tears. The house blurred around you, voices rising in alarm as people stepped back, made room for the spectacle.

“Nari!” you cried out, louder. “Nari, wait!” You hit the yard just as she reached the edge of the driveway. You grabbed her hand, stopping her.

She spun to face you, eyes wild. “How could you?”

Her voice cracked in two. Your breath hitched. “I made a mistake,” you whispered, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t thinking—I—”

“I loved him,” she spat. “And you knew that. You knew what he meant to me. And you let him touch you anyway.”

You shook your head, helpless. “I was hurting, I wasn’t—I’m sorry—”

But it didn’t matter. She stepped back from you, tears shining in her eyes, her voice growing louder, shriller. “How could you betray me like that?” she screamed. “I gave you everything—I trusted you!”

The crowd that had spilled from the party stood in silence now, some filming, some whispering, none stepping in. She kept backing away, one trembling step at a time, her anger unraveling into sobs. “I hate you,” she choked. “I hate you—” Then headlights cut across the street. A roar of an engine. Screams. Tires screeching too late. 

Your scream ripped from your chest. “NARI!” But the car struck her before she could turn. The impact was sickening. Her body flew; crashed to the pavement like a marionette with its strings sliced clean. Gasps exploded around you, someone dropping a drink, the shatter echoing like gunfire. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. You stood frozen as her body crumpled on the road, limbs twisted, her eyes wide and unseeing.

Time stopped.

The music had gone silent. The world had gone quiet. And all you could hear — over and over and over again, was the sound of her body hitting the ground.

Before Heeseung’s pov 

The world had already begun to blur around the edges. Music throbbed through his skull like a migraine, and every heartbeat pulsed with fury. Heeseung swayed in the middle of the chaos, a red solo cup dangling from his fingers, filled with something that tasted like gasoline and bad decisions. Sweat slicked his back beneath his shirt, his skin clammy and hot. He laughed too loud at nothing, danced with girls he didn’t know; arms flung over their shoulders, mouths close enough to kiss but never quite touching, never quite feeling. He couldn’t feel anything. That was the point.

He hated this place. Hated the way people looked at him like he was just some pretty face with skates on. Hated the smirk that his father wore every time he talked about Han; the good son, the real winner. The one who did everything right. The one who didn’t mess up. The one who didn’t get drunk and high just to silence the noise of expectation. He stumbled into the backyard, stars smeared across the sky like someone had finger-painted them in haste. His phone burned in his hand, screen too bright, too white. His fingers fumbled over Han’s name. He pressed call.

“Hello?” Han’s voice was soft, groggy, that worried older brother tone he always used. “Hee? Are you okay?”

Heeseung let out a bitter laugh, the sound catching in his throat. “You’re not better than me.”

There was a pause. “What? Heeseung, what’s going on?”

“You think you’re so perfect.” Heeseung’s words slurred together like wet paint. “Dad thinks you’re the golden boy. But you’re not better. I’ll show you. I’ll show him. You’re not better—”

“Heeseung, you’re drunk. I’m coming to get you. Stay there, okay? Just wait.” Heeseung hung up. Or maybe he didn’t. He couldn’t tell. Everything was spinning. He staggered forward, gripping the porch railing like it could keep him tethered. He felt like throwing up. Or screaming. Or both. The inside of his head was all static. And then headlights sliced through the darkness. Han’s car. Heeseung stumbled down the steps, nearly eating it on the last one, and staggered toward the passenger side. Han threw the door open, face pale and tight with worry.

“Get in,” he ordered. Heeseung obeyed, limbs heavy and unwilling. He slumped into the seat, slurring more than he was speaking. “You think you’re better than me, huh?” he muttered, leaning against the window, his cheek pressed to the cold glass. “Just 'cause you got your degree and your dumb finance job and your clean record.” 

“I don’t think that,” Han said sharply. “And Dad doesn’t either, he’s just… Heeseung, he’s hard on both of us. You know that.” 

“Bullshit,” Heeseung growled, eyes closing. “You never had to be perfect to be loved. He just loved you.” 

Han’s grip tightened on the wheel. “That’s not true. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re drunk.”

Heeseung kept going, words bubbling out like poison. “You think I don’t see it? The way he brags about you. Han graduated summa cum laude. Han never got suspended. Han’s never in the papers for fighting or failing.” He laughed. “I hope you’re proud. Look at me now, huh? Look how far I fell.” Han opened his mouth to answer, but he didn’t get the chance. Because just ahead, in the fog of motion and the flash of headlights —

There was a girl.

A blur of limbs and hair and horror, stepping backward into the road. Han shouted. The brakes screamed. But the moment came too fast. The sound, oh god, the sound, of impact was the kind that split your soul in two. Metal and flesh, a sickening crunch, a thud that would echo in nightmares for the rest of time. Heeseung’s body flung forward with the jolt, the seatbelt carving into his chest. Time bent sideways. Han swerved. The world spun. A flash of a tree trunk—then blackness. When he came to, everything hurt.

The car was mangled metal wrapped around bark. Smoke coiled from the hood. Blood ran down Heeseung’s face, sticky and warm, his head lolling forward. His ears rang like a bomb had gone off. He blinked once, twice. Tried to move; glass in his leg. Something was wrong. Something was wrong. “Han?” he croaked. There was no answer. He turned his head and screamed.

Han’s body was slumped over the wheel, motionless. Blood pooled under him, his face obscured. Something primal split through Heeseung’s chest; panic, dread, disbelief. “No, no, no,” he muttered. “Han!” He shoved at him with trembling hands. “Come on, wake up—wake up—” Sirens in the distance. Voices shouting. People running.

Heeseung’s breath caught. A sob clawed its way from his throat. It was all his fault. It was too late. And Heeseung had never hated himself more. 

Present day 

The silence stretches between you like a drawn-out breath, trembling and thin. Heeseung sits beside you on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, jaw clenched like he’s trying to bite back the storm surging in his chest. You can still hear the echo of the past in his voice, the shattered edges of guilt rattling in his throat. The room is quiet but not peaceful; it's the kind of quiet that comes after an earthquake, when everything has fallen and the air still trembles with memory. You sit there, skin cold, heart unraveling, both of you held in the soft aftershock of everything you’ve said. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. 

His voice cracks like dry wood. And it catches you off guard, more than anything else could have. Of all the things you expected him to say, an apology wasn't one of them. Not to you. Not when the pain has stained both your lives in different, irreparable ways. You look over at him, eyes red but dry now, exhaustion threading through your bones like a second skeleton. “Why?” you ask him, barely above a whisper. “Why are you apologizing?”

He turns toward you slowly. The lamplight casts his features in shadow, sharp and soft at once; eyes that have seen too much, mouth that’s tasted too much regret. “Because,” he says, voice thick, “this all started with me. I was the one who called Han. I was the one who needed to prove something. I got drunk, I spiraled, I needed to be seen, and now he’s gone. And so is Nari.”

Your heart pulls painfully in your chest, but your voice is steady when you speak. “No. This isn’t your fault.” He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it, like your words are a kindness he doesn’t think he deserves. “I don’t blame you, Heeseung,” you continue, softer now. “Not one bit. We’re all carrying so much. And grief... grief makes monsters out of moments. It twists things until we forget where they really began.” 

His eyes shine then; wet and wide. He opens his mouth to say something, but instead he leans in. Slowly, hesitantly, as though giving you a chance to stop him. You don’t. You meet him halfway. His lips brush yours with the gentleness of someone who knows how much you’ve lost, how much you’ve suffered. The kiss is slow, tender, and reverent. Like a vow whispered against a storm. His hand cradles the side of your face, thumb grazing your cheek, grounding you in the warmth of something fragile and real. When he pulls back, you both stay close. Foreheads touching. Eyes closed. For a moment, you just breathe. Then, he speaks. “Take a bath with me?”

The words are so simple, yet intimate in a way that leaves you breathless. Not lustful; this isn’t about escape or distraction. It’s about presence. About being in a space where nothing else exists. You nod, and he stands, offering you his hand. The bathroom is dim, lit only by the soft orange glow of a nightlight and a flickering candle someone must’ve left on the windowsill. The tub fills slowly, steam curling toward the ceiling like the last sigh of a day. You both undress silently, not shy, not rushed. You slip into the warm water, and he follows after, settling in behind you. His legs bracket yours. His arms wrap around your middle. The water laps at your collarbones like a gentle lullaby.

You tilt your head back to rest against his shoulder. He exhales into your hair. “I’ve been angry,” he says finally. “So angry. About everything. About my dad. About Han. About the fact that I’m still here when they’re not. That I keep waking up and they don’t.” 

You nod slowly, fingers tracing patterns in the surface of the water. “I feel that too,” you say. “Like life just… kicked me. Over and over. Until I couldn’t stand anymore. Until I didn’t know if I wanted to. I keep wondering if this is the part where I break forever.” Heeseung’s grip around you tightens, just slightly. “You won’t.”

“I don’t know how to start over,” you admit. “Everything hurts all the time. Even the good things hurt.”

He kisses your temple. Not as a promise. Not as a cure. Just as a quiet I know. And maybe that’s enough. Because you’re not pretending it’s all better. You’re not trying to erase the pain. You’re sitting in it together. Letting it be real. Letting it matter. And in that space; where the warmth of the water holds you both like a womb, like a prayer, you begin to believe that maybe you can heal. That maybe ruin doesn’t mean the end. Maybe it’s the beginning of something else.

You don’t know where life will take you from here. You don’t know what redemption will look like, or if you’ll ever forgive yourself for what happened. But right now, wrapped in Heeseung’s arms, you believe in the small, aching miracle of this moment. Of choosing to stay. Of choosing to feel. Of choosing each other. You were ready to fall into the ruin. But not let it ruin you.

Epilogue 1 year later

The sky was soft that day, bruised with a gentle gray, the kind that made the world feel quiet; like the earth itself was holding its breath. You sat cross-legged on the dewy grass, fingers tracing the edges of Nari’s name etched into cold stone. A year had passed. A year of aching, unraveling, rebuilding. And now here you were, knees pressed into the earth, a heartbeat steadier than it used to be.

"You would love Heeseung, Nari, you really would.” Your voice came out tender, barely above a whisper. “He makes me laugh. He never lets me lie to myself. He doesn’t try to fix me, just holds me when it hurts too much.” You reached down and brushed away a few stray leaves that had gathered at the base of the headstone. “I wish you could’ve seen me now. I wish I could’ve said goodbye the right way.”

There were still tears sometimes. And nightmares. And those mornings where the weight of memory made it hard to breathe. But there was also sunlight. And laughter. And Heeseung’s steady presence like a compass in your shaking hands. Therapy had taught you to hold space for both joy and sorrow. Grief group gave you words for the things you once buried. But it was Heeseung who reminded you, every day, that you were allowed to keep living; that you didn’t have to stay in the ruins to prove your love for the ones you lost.

“Babe! I got the flowers!” a voice called out behind you, pulling you gently from the past. You turned to see Heeseung jogging toward you, a bouquet of soft blue hydrangeas cradled in his arms, cheeks pink from the wind. He still carried that quiet sadness in his eyes, the one only you really saw, but it was softer now; tempered by time and the work he’d done to understand it. He bent down beside you and laid the flowers in front of Nari’s grave, brushing your knee with his hand as he settled beside you.

“Did you talk to Han?” you asked, voice gentle.

He nodded, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was good. I needed that.”

You turned back toward the grave, reaching for his hand. “I did too.”

The two of you sat there for a long moment, silence curling comfortably between your bodies. The cemetery was quiet, wind rustling through the trees, birds flitting through the distant branches. Around you, the world kept moving; cars humming down the road, life unfolding in soft, ordinary ways. But here, in this pocket of stillness, you felt grounded. Rooted. Whole.

Grief never left, it wasn’t something that vanished with time or faded into nothing. It changed shapes. Grew quieter. Some days, it bloomed like a bruise. Other days, it shimmered like memory. But always, it walked beside you, not as a shadow, but as a reminder. Of love. Of loss. Of the choice to keep going. You looked down at the stone again, your thumb tracing the curve of her name.

“I’ll keep living for both of us, Nari,” you whispered. “I promise.” And this time, when you stood, you didn’t feel like you were leaving her behind. You felt like she was walking with you.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 3

in which spencer reid spends a rainy day teaching inexperienced fem!reader how to touch him. of course, her efforts don't go unrecognized, much less unrewarded

series masterlist

18+ (smut) warnings: inexperienced reader, softdom!spencer, sub reader, oral m receiving, reader swallows lol, a truly sickening amount of praise, like really, you JOKINGLY refer to each other as dirty sluts, r has longish hair, spit mentioned once, thigh riding (moans loudly), its filthy idk what to tell you, i feel like i've crossed the desert on foot i don't even know what else is in here, your honor they're in love, i take you to dinner first, this part is stupidly long a/n: had a fucking field day the three separate times i had to rewrite this el oh el... but think i like how it turned out?! anyway, if u like this PLS lmk bc writing it took a small piece of my soul, and yes there will be a part four!! take care of yourselves!! i love you!!!

You give Spencer half a minute or so before knocking on his door for a second time. 

It’s miserable outside, and though the hallway you’re standing in now isn’t terribly cold, you’d much prefer to be in Spencer’s apartment, where it will be the same toasty 68.5 degrees as always. Not that the heating will magically dry you. And not that you’ll be there for long, if the date you’d scheduled last week goes on as planned. 

You’re getting worried, about to knock for a third time when the locks finally click and the door opens to reveal a disheveled Spencer Reid—not at all looking ready for a date. You take in his ensemble; blue checked pajama pants, FBI Academy crewneck, the usual questionably paired socks. He’s rubbing his droopy eyes, which slowly widen as he notices your attire. 

“Shit, I’m sorry, our date! I mean—you look really nice. I look… like this. Why don’t you come in while I get ready to go?”

He holds the door open a little wider and you step through, relishing in the familiar warmth as you pull your hood down and excess water droplets spatter on the ground. 

“When did you get in?” you ask, hanging your raincoat up on a hook. You know he’d wrapped up a case yesterday evening, but you’d gone to sleep before the team left Cincinnati. 

Spencer pauses in the middle of the room, staring at the antique flooring like he forgot what he was doing. 

“Uh… four hours ago.”

“Wh—four hours? Spencer, you must be exhausted.”

He laughs awkwardly, running a tired hand over his face. 

“I mean… I’ve definitely felt better.”

You kick your soaked shoes off and cross the room until you’re toe to toe with him. Immediately his hands settle on your waist and yours find his arms. His eyes are kind, and he’s clearly pleased by your presence despite his lack of energy. 

“The weather’s terrible, anyway. Let’s just go out another day.”

His features have softened and you can see how tired he truly is—not just in his bleary eyes, but the way his fingers grasp weakly to you, the way his head bows slightly. It seems bone-deep. 

“But I haven’t seen you in a week. I don’t want you to go home.”

Your lips twist. A clap of thunder rolls in the distance and the rain starts coming down even harder against the windowpanes. 

“We could hang out here. We can take a nap!”

Spencer sighs—half resignation, half disappointment. 

“But we made such good plans,” he laments. 

You kiss his cheek. 

“Plans that can be rescheduled. The bookstore will still be there next weekend.”

It takes him a moment to settle into the idea, but you watch the exhaustion win. 

“Okay. But no nap. I want to be awake for you. Coffee?”

You nod enthusiastically, beaming at the prospect of getting to spend the day doing nothing with him. Spencer mirrors your grin, before pressing a kiss to your head.

“You’re so cute.” Heat creeps into your cheeks and you can’t think of a satisfactory reply, but in the end you don’t need to, as he tugs gently on your hands. “C’mon. Tell me what mug you want.”

The kitchen counter bites into your palms as you lean with your back to it, watching Spencer putter all around the kitchen as he works on the coffee. It makes you tired just to watch. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to take a nap? Caffeine isn’t a substitute for sleep, you know.”

“I do know,” he agrees, measuring coffee grounds. “But other than last night, I actually slept fairly well this week.”

“You seem exhausted.”

“I… am tired in lots of ways. Not all of which can be resolved with more sleep.” he admits.

Your heart drops ever so slightly at the way his voice weakens as he looks through the fridge. Sometimes you remember there are still things you don’t know about him—sides you haven’t met. His work side is one of them, and it more than a little intimidates you.

“Bad case?” you ask, voice quiet and crackling with nervous energy. 

Spencer nods, approaching and setting a carton of milk on the counter behind you—caging you in with his arms in the process. It’s hard to find the words when he’s this close, but you manage to stumble through them. 

“Do… do you wanna talk about it?”

Spencer hums, tilting his head before gently saying, “not right now. But thank you for offering, lovely.”

“Okay, well—if you change your mind… if there’s anything I can do to make you feel better…”

Finally he stops with the teasing—the unabashed staring at your lips, the faux-attentive nods—and drops his head to your level to kiss you properly. It’s obviously an attempt to get you to shut up, you’re not dumb enough so as to miss that—but you don’t really care why he’s doing it so long as he does it at all. 

“I feel pretty great right now, actually,” he murmurs against your lips, a hint of a smile coloring his words. “Do you want sugar in yours?”

“Um…”

Your eyes dart helplessly between his as he pulls away and you struggle to un-fluster yourself enough to answer his simple question. Spencer seems to delight in this. The longer it takes you, the bigger his perfect smile gets. 

“You took too long. You’re getting sugar.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” you plead later on the couch, for the third or fourth time, setting your mostly-empty mug on the coffee table. 

His eyebrows raise. 

“I’m sure, honey.”

“But I want to help,” you pout, pulling your knees into your chest. Spencer regards you for a moment from the other end of the couch, before beckoning you closer wordlessly. 

“You are helping,” he assures you, gently grabbing your wrist as you crawl into his lap. He rubs soothing circles into the delicate skin with his thumb. “You being here and being you is plenty.”

It’s the closest you’ve been to him since before he left, and while you’ve all but given up on asking him to sleep with you, it doesn’t mean you don’t think about it multiple times per day. It’s especially difficult to keep your thoughts PG when you haven’t seen him in a week, and his hair is all messy, and he’s got his pajamas on, and you’re in his lap, and he’s looking at you like that. 

“What are you thinking about?” Spencer murmurs, likely concerned by your lack of response and the glazed-over look in your eyes. You reanimate, averting your gaze to the spot on your thigh he’s now rubbing absentmindedly. 

“Nothing. I just missed you.”

“I missed you a lot, too.” You don’t even have to look up to know that his brows have twisted into a pleasant sort of bemusement, like you are a particularly complex puzzle—you can hear it as he continues speaking. “I’m still not used to having something external take up so much of my attention while I’m trying to do my job. I’ve never had that before. Not something good, anyway. It’s like every time I leave, I’m thinking about you more than the time before. And I was already thinking about you a lot.”

The corner of your mouth twitches as he rambles. 

“Really?”

“Yeah, really,” he chuckles. “You prove to be incredibly distracting even when you’re hundreds of miles away. Do you know how many nights I almost called you before realizing it was one in the morning?”

A slow smile spreads over your face. 

“Oh? Whatever could you have been calling about at one in the morning?”

You’re teasing him, and it works. He blushes adorably. 

“Um… probably exactly what you’d expect. In hindsight I think it’s best that I refrained.”

“What?” You grin, incredulous, forgetting your shyness and leaning closer. “You totally should’ve. I’ve never had phone sex before. I would’ve done it.”

“No, you wouldn’t!” Spencer laughs. “It would have just been me talking to myself with you on the other line. I don’t think phone sex is really up your alley.”

“Shut up,” you laugh as your lips meet. He smiles into the kiss. Before you get too lost in it, you pull away, leaning back when he tries to follow you. “I think you’re over-complicating it. It’s just dirty talk, right? I can totally do that. It’s just, like… blah blah blah, dirty slut, something something…”

You trail off as he gives you a look. Poker faced—aside from the slightly narrowed eyes sparkling with humor. 

“You want me to refer to you as a dirty slut?”

Maintaining eye contact is an uphill battle—you crack in a matter of seconds, resting your forehead against his and closing your eyes stubbornly. 

“No. For all you know I want to call you a dirty slut.”

It’s ridiculous, but he recognizes the bravado for what it is, still smiling slightly as he rubs your hips. 

“Right. I apologize for assuming. But just for future reference, I don’t want to be called that, and I don’t think I’d be comfortable calling you that, either.”

“But you can call me other stuff,” you remind your boyfriend, pulling back and still not looking at him. 

“Yeah? Like what?”

And just like that, you’re shy again. 

“I don’t know… nice things. I like when you’re nice.”

“I like being nice to you.” It’s so sincere-sounding that you meet his gaze, examining his face. His eyes are clear and soft on you, the only source of warm light on such a grey day, as his hands keep running slow lines over your sides. “Kiss?”

And how could you ever deny him anything? 

As has happened before, the kiss starts out innocent enough. And it’s not that it gets particularly heated, or anything—it’s just that it doesn’t end, and after a few moments your mouth slips open and so does his and that’swhat gets both of you worked up over a period of minutes. Pressure and heat that you’re becoming accustomed to build between your legs, and you don’t even notice that you’ve begun rocking back and forth in his lap until Spencer is attempting to still your hips with patient but assertive hands. 

“Honey, that’s—slow down, sweetheart.”

Finally he gets a grip on you and you realize as soon as you stop moving that there had been friction occurring—and you’re pretty damn sure you know what you were grinding against. 

Your whole body feels hot with arousal and embarrassment. 

“Oh my god—I’m sorry,” you mumble, moving your hands from his shoulders to cover your face. “That was an accident, I—”

“It’s fine,” Spencer assures you, squeezing your waist gently. “I just wanted to make sure you knew what you were doing because I know we haven’t… gotten there, yet.”

A moment passes—your hands fall to the FBI stitching across his chest, studying the letters without really seeing them. You haven’t gotten there yet… but why not? Why haven’t you touched him, or even seen him? You think back to the few times he’s touched you and realize that you had been too busy with either your own insecurities or pleasure to genuinely consider how it might be affecting him. He says your name gently, drawing your attention. 

“You okay?”

You nod haltingly, brow furrowed as you think. 

“I—yeah. I was just realizing that I haven’t, like… touched you, yet.”

It’s silent for another long second, and you glance up, to where he’s studying you with a dissonant kind of relaxed scrutiny—a knowing confidence that probably comes with a lot more experience than you have. 

“Do you want to?”

Woah. 

Usually you have to beg on hands and knees and prepare a slideshow presentation before he agrees to doing anything sexual in nature. He’s never so overtly invited or initiated it before. Not that you’re complaining by any stretch of the imagination.  

You nod shyly, still fiddling with the fabric of his shirt. 

“If you want to, I can show you how. But it’s also absolutely okay if you don’t.”

Show you how? 

Your brain is melting into sludge at the idea. 

“I do,” you admit, meeting his gaze again. It’s kind, and you know he really wouldn’t be upset if you said no—but now that you’ve thought about it, you feel deeply compelled to try. 

“Okay. Come here, first.” You lean forward expectantly, eyes fluttering shut as his hand finds the back of your neck and he pulls you into another soft kiss. By the time your lips separate again, your head is spinning. “We’re just trying something, okay? You’re allowed to stop whenever you feel like it. Really low stakes. Got it?”

You nod, still close enough that your noses brush as you do. 

“Got it.”

He presses one more chaste kiss to your lips before pulling away and leaning back into the couch. 

“Scoot back a little, angel.”

Wordlessly you do so, heart pounding with nervous excitement as he lifts his hips and slides his pajama pants down just enough to where he can comfortably pull himself out, and—

Your breath catches. 

Now, you may be about as virginal as they come, but you weren’t born yesterday. You’ve seen porn, you’ve received unsolicited nudes—it is the 21st century. Yet never before have you thought to yourself; wow, that dick is the pinnacle of beauty. Perfect. Breathtaking. But there’s just no other way to describe him. 

So that’s what hits you first—how unexpectedly pretty it is. 

The size sinks in a quick second later. 

You can’t tell with perfect accuracy how many inches he is, but you’re pretty damn sure he’s big. That’s meant to fit inside of you?

No, no—that’s a consideration for another day. Right now you need to stop staring like an idiot. You glance up at his face, and he’s sporting a cocky little half-smile which lets you know you’ve been caught. Motherfucker he’s so hot. It’s unnerving. 

“Do you have something you’d like to say?” he asks politely, quite obviously containing his amusement. But you can’t summon a sufficiently sarcastic response. 

Your voice comes so soft when you reply, “you’re pretty.”

Spencer melts, eyes impossibly softening. 

“Pretty?” His smile is earnest now. He strokes your cheek and you can’t not lean into his touch. 

“Mhm. I want to, um…” your lips twist to the side as you look back down, finding he’s not gotten less intimidating since you last checked. “But what if I’m bad at it?” you whisper. He chuckles, brushing hair over your shoulder.  

“It’s kind of a hard thing to be bad at. And I’m gonna help you, okay?”

It’s the honesty with which he speaks to you that makes you feel so safe. There are no hidden intentions or words that seem to mean one thing but really mean another. Spencer wants you as a person more than he wants you as a body and that’s been clear since the first time he touched you. You take a deep breath. 

“Okay. What do I do?”

“First, you’re gonna spit in your hand.”

You look up, alarmed. 

“You want me to intentionally get my spit on you? Is that not your worst nightmare?”

“Believe it or not, I’m not super worried about yours,” he teases. “But if you’d prefer, I can spit in your hand.”

“Actually, mine is fine,” you laugh nervously. 

Hesitantly, you do as instructed, even though it seems frankly bizarre. 

“Good. Now just wrap your hand around it, like this.” His voice is quiet, focused as he guides your hand downward. Your heart rate ticks up again as he encourages you to wrap your hand around the base of his cock. He feels much warmer than you’d expected—his skin is silken beneath your touch but he’s undeniably hard and that sort of eliminates any sense of him being fragile from the equation. 

“It’s gonna be less sensitive down here—and then, up here—” he slides your hand back up, covering your thumb with his own and swiping it just below the head of his cock on the underside. He hisses and you look up in fascination. “That’s the most sensitive part.”

Without further instruction, you do it again, keeping your touch light and watching his face for a reaction. His drawn brows twitch, furrowing deeper for a second, and his lips part. A heavy exhalation passes between them and quickly builds into a breathy laugh. 

“What?” you murmur, over-eager to please and very nervous to do something wrong. 

“Nothing. Just feels good, that’s all.”

“Don’t laugh,” you pout. Of course that makes him laugh again, and he leans forward to kiss your head. 

“I’m laughing at myself, angel. I’m a grown man fighting for my life from a handjob that you’ve barely started. I knew it would be different with you but I didn’t realize it would be this different.”

Heat rises in your cheeks and you look away. 

“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”

“I’m not lying,” he urges, grabbing your free hand and encouraging you to uncurl your fingers. His thumb traces circles in your open palm, before capturing your entire hand in his. “Do you feel how much softer your hand is than mine?”

You frown, attempting to feel whatever it is that he’s pointing out. Despite the fact that you think he has very nice hands, you realize he’s right. By no means would you say that they’re rough, but you can tell where his gun normally sits in his hands, where his fountain pen rubs against his fingers. “Yeah.”

“Yeah. Anything you do is going to be perfect because it’s you.”

Spencer drops his hand to your leg, rubbing it soothingly. The other moves to cover yours—the one wrapped around him. 

“You’re gonna help me, right?” you ask quietly. Some adventurous part of you is very excited about this as an experiment—fascinated by the reactions you’ve already gotten from him and eager to push it. 

“I am. Little bit tighter, honey. I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

You do as you’re told, and he’s murmuring more praise—slowly encouraging you to begin moving your hand with his own. A shaky exhale catches your attention, drawing your gaze to his face. His eyes are, of course, cast downward, but his expression is hypnotizing. Those lips remain slightly parted, and suddenly you wonder if he makes noises like you do. In that moment it becomes your life’s mission to find out. 

For a while you continue letting his hand guide your movements, but he keeps things so slow for your sake that you’re getting impatient. You forgo his direction, picking up the pace but trying to keep the rhythm he’d instilled in the motion. His hand slackens around yours. 

“Fuck,” he hisses to himself. The hand on your thigh rubs achingly deeper into the flesh. “Angel, what are you doing?”

“I want it to feel good.” Suddenly shy again, you slow down. His hips stutter, which you think may be a sign that it was working. “Am I—was that bad?” Spencer looses a breath, looking almost… frustrated?

“No, I’m just—I’m weirdly close to coming.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“Well,” he mutters, “not usually. Mostly it’s embarrassing.”

You giggle, a release of some tension, and begin pumping your hand again. His breath hitches and he finally looks up at you, meeting your eyes with his own lust-glazed ones. Heat pools deep between your legs. 

“I want you to come,” you admit quietly as you twist your wrist, brushing that spot underneath the head of his cock again. His jaw literally drops, and a look that is part confusion, part pleasure, twists his features. You see the surprise sparkling in his eyes and it only spurs you to keep talking. “I’ve never seen how you look when you do, but I’ve imagined it. I bet you look so pretty when you come, Spencer. ‘Nd then I would know that I can make you feel good, too.”

“You… you are making me feel good,” he assures you. The way his brow furrows and his  lips are parted give you a feeling that’s entirely new. Normally, you’re the one falling apart under his touch—but when it’s the other way around there’s a whole new kind of pleasure in it for you. You feel kind of powerful. Maybe even close to confident. 

“Really? I’m not this quiet when you touch me.”

“I’ve ha—ah—had more practice not making noise.”

“But why?” you implore, ignoring the fact that he’s slept with other women and enjoyed the sounds they made, and opting to brush your thumb across that extra sensitive part he definitely shouldn’t have told you about. His hips buck up and he hisses, which is immensely gratifying to you. 

“Because I like to listen.”

“What if I do, too?”

In a moment of divine inspiration , you cover the tip of his cock with your hand, swirling beads of pre-come over your palm. Spencer moans and his hips jut up into your grip. It’s a beautiful sound, just as you’d hoped. 

“Jesus, fuck.”

You understand why he seems to enjoy touching you so much. It’s so rewarding to watch as his breathing picks up and pleasure contorts his face—to watch him get messier and messier and lose his composure a bit more with each stroke of your hand. It’s so simple but Spencer looks at you like you’re exercising some arcane deviant power over him and he’s not sure he should be enjoying it as much as he is. 

Distantly you think about how it felt when he had his hands on you—and then, in clearer focus, how it felt when he went down on you. Both were perfect, but something about his lips so gentle on the most intimate, vulnerable part of you had felt like ascension. Maybe it was the emotional component, or maybe it just felt fucking good. Regardless, it seems an irresistible thought. 

You keep stroking him until his head is lolling on the back of the couch as he groans.

“Spencer?”

“Yeah, baby?”

He sounds so destroyed it makes you clench around nothing. Without any indication that you’re going to do so, you stop touching him, and the speed with which he lifts his head again is almost comical. Immediately, while he’s utterly defenseless and desperate, you ask, “can I use my mouth?” 

His eyes widen, and then shut, as he processes your request with a tiny shake of his head—probably trying to clear the haze of pleasure from his mind before he answers. 

“Honey,” he rasps eventually, opening his eyes and smoothing a hand over your hair, “you don’t have to do that just because I do. That’s not why I do it.”

“But I want to,” you murmur, shy and mildly embarrassed by what feels almost like a soft rejection. “I don’t think I could do anything, like, mind-blowing, but… I want to try.”

Your face is hot by the end of the sentence, and you can’t meet Spencer’s eyes as his fingers twitch over your hip. A quiet moment passes—but it’s short-lived.

“Okay. Go ahead, baby.”

Wide eyes dart up to his. 

“Really?”

Spencer smiles fondly, brushing an invisible speck from your cheek. 

“I don’t think I’m capable of turning that offer down. Not when it’s you.”

“Okay—um, should I just—” Spencer watches on, finding your sudden enthusiasm completely adorable as you scoot off of his lap and gingerly kneel in front of him. Your eyes are big and glassy as you look up at him, hands set politely on his knees. You squint suspiciously, eyes darting between his face and his cock, now about as hard as it’s ever been due to your toying. He knows it’s probably intimidating for a girl who has never seen one in real life, and he feels kind of bad about it. You do terrible, wonderful things to him that he doesn’t understand. “Wow. So... it looks bigger from down here.”

“Please don’t try to choke yourself,” he instructs hurriedly, leaning forward slightly. “I really don’t need you to do that. It’s fine if you can’t fit it all, I just—” he exhales shakily. Spencer is most definitely strong-willed but he can’t pretend like the sight of you on your knees for him, inches from his aching cock for the first time isn’t impacting his cognition. Most importantly he doesn’t want to make you feel pressured. He’s trying to not let how badly he wants this show in case you change your mind. 

Spencer watches as you psych yourself out—wilting like a thirsty flower. 

“But what if I’m bad at this?” you mumble, hands curling into loose fists atop his legs. Spencer pushes your hair back, tucking it behind your ears. 

“What’s your worst case scenario?” he asks. Your answer is immediate. 

“That I’m so bad you make me stop halfway through.”

Spencer can’t help but laugh again. 

“I’m sorry—I just… honey, you are really underestimating how profound your effect is on me. I just almost came from a minute long handjob. I can assure you that I won’t make you stop halfway through because I’d rather not have your mouth on me. That is… that’s just not going to happen.”

You lean your cheek against his thigh. He might actually pass away. 

“Will you tell me if I’m doing something wrong?”

“Honestly, as long as you don’t bite, you’re in the clear.”

Your eyes squeeze shut and your lips pull into an embarrassed little smile. 

“Great. Thank you for that invaluable advice.”

“Of course,” he smiles. It fades slowly as you take a deep breath and look up at him, obviously steeling yourself, before leaning forward and taking him in your hand again. He watches with bated breath, repeating no sudden movements to himself over and over as your hand moves up and down a few more times and your head lowers. 

You delicately, so lightly trace your tongue from the base of his swollen cock to just underneath the leaking tip, mapping a vein, and his hips buck as you take him into your mouth experimentally. Only the first few inches fit but the sight of your lips wrapped around him, the way you’re looking at him is so unbelievably erotic Spencer knows he won’t last very long.

From a purely technical perspective—he knows he’s gotten objectively better head. Still, something about the way you’re so delicate with him, so soft and timid in the way you lick and kiss and take him into your mouth has him fighting not to come already. Maybe it’s wrong, but knowing that he’s watching you do this for the first time in your life is obscenely arousing. The idea that you’ve never trusted another person this much; that you’re letting him be the one to help you navigate something as new and as important as sexuality. The more he thinks about it, though, the more he realizes: it’s not your inexperience that turns him on. It’s just you. Everything you do is so undeniably you—he recognizes your mannerisms in every tiny motion, in every glance, and it’s killing him. You’re like a dream as you look up at him with big nervous eyes, (no, really, he has had this dream) and he remembers he wants to be reassuring you—not pondering life and human connection. 

“Look at you,” he murmurs, groaning and hips twitching as your cheeks hollow, wrapping his achingly hard cock in soft gentle warmth so sweetly it feels taboo. “So good, baby. So gorgeous like this.”

You whine around him, receptive as always to his obsequious praise, and he notices the way your hips wiggle as you seek friction. God, you must like this a lot. Spencer gathers your hair into a makeshift ponytail, resting his hand on your head as you begin to bob it. That, he wasn’t prepared for. He’d have been satisfied with just kitten-licks and suckling but he won’t complain about this. It’s slow, and so intentional as you keep watching him for feedback cues. Ever his observant girl, you’re constantly paying attention. Aware of his reactions. He needs to keep telling you you’re good or else you’ll assume you’re terrible. 

“Over-achiever,” he whispers through a little smile as you down even more of him. 

Spencer is for the most part a kind and gentle person. For better or worse he is also a man, and he can’t help but fantasize about getting you all teary and drooly as he holds your mouth open and sees how much of his cock he can push down your throat. But again—kind. Gentle. So when you get a little over-zealous, attempting to sacrifice your comfort for his pleasure, he pulls your head back slightly. “That’s far enough, angel. That’s—fuck. God, you’re good at this.” The words are thoughtless, muttered to himself more than you as he watches through a haze while you look up at him with glassy, half-lidded eyes, slipping him in and out of your warm mouth, a little faster now as you gain confidence. 

You whine desperately around him, like you’re the one nearing orgasm and not him. The sound of your pleasure as you suck his cock makes him dizzy. His hips buck, pressing him a little deeper into your mouth. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he exhales. “Slow down, baby. I’m—” a louder moan from him like you’ve never heard as he thrusts shallowly turns you on profoundly. He’s so much more vocal than you’d have imagined—sonically and verbally. He breathes out a quick, “fuck, fuck, fuck,” pulling your hair slightly, and you’ve never wanted to touch yourself more but you know you can’t focus on both. Instead you work on making him come—you can worry about you later. He says your name, with an authoritative edge to his tone that makes you throb. “Honey, if you don’t stop, I’m gonna come—”

You swirl your tongue around the top of him like candy and he’s done for. Spencer tries to pull out, which only results in cum both in your mouth and on your face. The orgasm is his strongest in recent memory, and he grunts, watching your lips part and a little squeak escape as he comes all over your face—but you keep stroking him all the while. Once he’s 90% sure it’s over, he falls against the back of the couch, breathing heavily and looking down at you through hazy eyes. Oh, he’s going to feel terrible about this in a few seconds—but right now you look fucking perfect. Your eyes are wide, nervous as his essence drips over your face and down your neck—he groans when you swallow cautiously, averting his eyes to the ceiling lest he do another thing he regrets. 

“Baby, I am so sorry,” he mutters, forcibly clearing the haze of orgasm from his mind and sitting up, fixing his pants and looking around before locating the box of tissues on the side table. “I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” You look up at him attentively as he wipes himself from your face as gently as he can. 

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t ask you first. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Spencer guides your head around by your chin, wiping your jaw and lips. 

“It’s okay, Spence, I—”

“No, it’s not,” he cuts you off, trying to at least turn his guilt into a learning experience for you. He’s not deluded enough to think someone like you will stay with someone like him forever, because sometimes he does things like that, and he’s reminded that there are certainly people out there more deserving of you. At the very least he can clarify that nobody should ever do what he just did to you. “It’s really not nice to do that to someone.”

“Do you care what I think at all?”

Spencer freezes, finally forcing himself to look you in the eye. Despite the fact that he’s mad at himself, he’s sure it’s coming across as being directed at you. And he knows you’re sensitive, especially about this kind of thing. 

“Of course, I do, baby. I’m sorry. Do you want to come back up here with me and tell me what you’re thinking?” he murmurs, cupping your jaw. Hesitantly you nod. The tissues end up on the table—which he will be thoroughlywiping down later—before you crawl back into his lap from the floor. Spencer helps you settle against him, hoping he hasn’t messed this up irreversibly. He keeps his voice quiet as he rubs your leg. “What were you going to say?”

“I was going to say,” you begin, “that it’s fine, because you’ll remember to ask next time. And because… I kind of liked it. I like when—when you do stuff like that.”

It’s a miracle he can hear you with the way your voice drops into an almost-whisper and you’re hiding against his shirt. 

“Like what?” he murmurs. Although he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle the answer. 

“Like… I don’t know. Like you can do whatever you want to me. Like I’m literally yours.” Each word makes you cringe further, but Spencer has to try hard to maintain a cool facade as he processes this. If he’s going to try and be chivalrous, you’ll have to move away from this topic—this revelation—immediately. Thankfully, you seem eager to move on. “So… how did I do?”

He almost laughs. It seems exceedingly obvious how you did, but as per usual, you require verbal reassurance. 

“That was really good, baby. You did well.”

You blossom. 

“Really?”

“I wouldn’t lie.”

“Was I the best girl out of all of the other girls?” 

I wasn’t in love with any of the other girls. 

Just barely, he manages to stop himself from saying it, pinwheeling his arms on the edge of a very steep verbal cliff. The realization that he’s been in love with you for a while hits him like a truck. But he can’t tell you that right now. He should wait until you’re less vulnerable.

Fuck. 

He really wants to tell you right now. 

“Actually—don’t answer that,” you decide, while all of this happens in his head in less than a few seconds. “I want to go back to pretending I’m the only girl you’ve ever seen in your life.”

“You’re the only one that matters,” he offers, relieved to express at least some portion of the much bigger truth. Then he frowns. “Not that the other women I’ve met don’t lead important lives. I actually know a lot of incredibly influential and intelligent people who are women. I have deep respect for all of them. Am I helping or making it worse?” he rambles. You giggle. He has his answer. “What about you? How do you feel?” he asks after a moment, tenderly, lowly, stroking your hair as you lean against his chest. 

It takes you a moment to deliberate, fiddling with the fabric of his shirt. 

“I feel good. I, um… liked it a lot more than I would have thought.”

“Well, that’s good. Much better than if you had hated every second of it.”

You hum in agreement, and he waits for you to say whatever you’re holding back. It comes sooner than he’d have anticipated. 

“I feel bad about the times before. How did you just… go to sleep after? Were you not, like—insanely turned on? Not that I’m, like, irresistibly sexy, or whatever—you know what I mean.”

Spencer smiles because he knows you can’t see him. 

“I wasn’t doing it to pressure you into feeling obligated to reciprocate, I guess. My line of reasoning was that it would be less intimidating if I didn’t even present it as an option until you wanted to try.”

“Oh.”

Spencer thinks he sees where this is going. 

“Why?” he asks, leaning back and encouraging you to look at him. “Are you insanely turned on?”

“Wh—that’s—I didn’t say that!”

Spencer can feel how warm your cheeks are as he presses his lips to the side of your face. 

“You can tell me if you are,” he murmurs, all smiley as he moves to kiss your lips. “If you want something, you need to ask for it. I’m not a mind reader.”

“Yes you are,” you grumble. “That’s literally what behavioral analysis is.”

Not quite true, but surprisingly, he doesn’t feel the need to explain to you the semantics of what he does for work right now. 

“What got you all excited?”

“You know what,” you mumble, trying to look away again. Spencer doesn’t allow it this time, gently grabbing your jaw. 

“Yes, I do. But I want you to tell me. If you want me to make you feel good, this is how you’re going to convince me that you deserve it.”

You whine wordlessly, looking at him with those big, lust-glazed eyes.

“You wanted me to teach you how to use your words, right? This is it. I’m giving you an opportunity. If you don’t want to, that’s okay. Maybe we can take a nap, like you said earlier.”

“No! I liked—um, I liked all of it. I didn’t know if I would, because I was really nervous. But when I first—you know—and you got all quiet… it was like you couldn’t even talk for a minute. I was kind of proud of that. Because normally nobody can ever get you to stop talking.” Spencer narrows his eyes incredulously, a small smile tugging at his lips. But he doesn’t interrupt—not when it seems you’re finally starting to get more confident in your words. “And I really liked the noises you made. I think that was my favorite part. I liked when you pulled my hair back, and how you spoke to me. And when… when you got me messy and I had to swallow it. I really liked how it felt because I couldn’t think of anything else, just making you feel good. I really wanted to… make you proud, I guess. Is that weird?”

Spencer shakes his head no, a fond smile on his face when your eyes meet his again. 

“No. It’s a pretty normal thing to feel when you’re nervous and wanting to impress someone you care about. And I would have been proud no matter what, for the record. You were being very brave.”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, watching him expectantly. Spencer should have known you’re too needy to truly absorb anything he says to you right now. Which is actually pretty cute. Everything you do is endearing to him. 

“Stand up.”

You frown. 

“But—”

“Just stand up,” he demands calmly, preferring to think of himself as firm and not bossy. 

You do, looking rather annoyed and confused as you plant yourself in front of him. 

“Why?”

“You are so full of questions.” His hands slip up the side of your legs, under your skirt, and hook in the waistband of your underwear. Spencer looks up at you meaningfully and you nod, swallowing. 

As he pulls down, Spencer can literally feel the resistance of the fabric clinging to your soaked core. Under his touch the skin of your thighs is warm and soft. He wants to feel it on either side of his face, he wants to hear you whine as his stubble rubs against it, he wants to feel it clamp around his wrist, he wants it between his teeth and he definitely wants it pressing against his hips as he—

But no. 

There will be time for all of those things—especially the last one—later. For now, he’ll reach between your legs just to see—

“Oh, my god,” Spencer half-chuckles, half-groans, upon feeling how wet you truly are for him. He drags his knuckles from your dripping entrance up over your clit, pinching very lightly and earning a squeak from you which he ignores. “You really did like having your mouth full of me, huh?”

“I told you,” you breathe, visibly relaxing some as he continues to play with you for a moment. Then he pulls his hand away again, patting his thigh. 

“Sit.”

“You want me to…”

“Yes,” he says, simply. 

“But is it not going to… am I not going to mess up your pants?”

“You are even more neurotic about messiness than I am. I can wash them, honey. Come here.”

Spencer guides your hips over his thigh, watching your pretty face twist with uncertainty as you fully settle on him. Fuck, he can feel your warmth through the fabric instantly. Already he’s getting hard again. 

“What am I supposed to do?” you whisper, bunching his shirt in your fists. Spencer slides your skirt up higher, revealing the way you’re nestled against his thigh. He spreads you a little further apart, exposing more of your clit to the material underneath you. Immediately you press against him—he watches the delicate flesh rubbing gingerly against him and  his grip tightens ever so slightly. 

“All you have to do is rock back and forth. It’s easy.”

Already you’re starting to do it—but he guesses it’s like earlier where you don’t even realize it’s happening. 

“But… I wanted your mouth,” you admit, quietly, slinging your arms around his neck and burying your face there. 

“Do this for me first. Just get yourself off like this one time and then you can have my mouth. You said you wanted to help me feel better because I’m tired today, right?

“Yes,” you mumble, squirming over him. 

“Well, there are a lot of days when I get back home and I’m tired. I’m gonna need you to be able to get on top of me, just like this, and make me feel better. And I know you don’t know what it feels like to have something that deep inside of you yet, but it’s gonna be a lot. Even once you know how it feels to have me inside when you’re underneath me. I need you to practice for me right now so you’ll be ready, okay?”

You could come from the words alone. You nod, dazed with need as you roll your hips in a circle, pressing his thigh against your clit. 

“Back and forth, baby,” he murmurs, guiding your hips forward with his hands locked around them. “Back and forth, just like this…”

You moan quietly, shamelessly, eyes fluttering as you look down and watch your clit dragging over the darkening fabric. It’s easier if you isolate your hips, grinding down without moving your legs or upper body at all. 

“It feels really good,” you whisper under your quickening breath. 

“Yeah? Does it?”

“Mhm.”

“Good, angel. You look like you know what you’re doing.”

It’s audible now, quiet and wet and dirty. 

“I don’t,” you breathe. He sucks in a breath of his own, stilling your hips with fingers pressed deep into your flesh. 

“Sit up, baby.” You really wish he would stop making you stop, but you don’t want to keep going in case he needs you to quit—so you rise slowly, thighs trembling as you kneel. Spencer groans at the strings of your arousal momentarily connecting your core to his pants before they snap, getting your inner thighs wet. There’s a dark, very wet patch over his thigh, shining like glass. He thumbs over your slick clit absentmindedly as he looks up at you like you’re a miracle. “You’re fucking soaked. I’ve never seen you like this. Is this all from making me come?”

You nod feverishly, hips grinding against nothing in search of friction. He sits you back down on his leg, allowing you to sloppily find your rhythm again. Spencer bounces his leg lightly and you cry out softly, buckling forward. His arms wrap around you, still pressing you down against his thigh as you rut against it. 

“You’re sweet. Maybe I should have known how much you’d like it when I came all over your pretty face. You really like hearing that you did a good job, huh? I bet you like it even more when I prove it to you.”

You moan a “yeah,” barely processing his words. 

“My good girl even swallowed on her first try. Took it so well. And now look at how you’re taking this. You’re gonna love riding, baby. Just going to be another thing you’re good at as soon as you try it.”

“Spencer,” you gasp, overwhelmed by the praise. He’s bouncing his leg at regular intervals and everything is so sensitive.

“I know it’s harder to finish this way, but just one time, remember? And then you can have my tongue for as long as you want. You are my only plan for the day. Just give me one like this.”

But it’s not really harder to finish this way. Then again, you’re so turned on you could probably finish if a breeze hit you just right. Regardless, the thought of him going down on you again pushes you even closer to the edge.

You don’t know how much time goes by like that, you rubbing against him like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do, him pressing up into you until the pressure is so taut it snaps. There’s no time to warn him, but you suppose you don’t really need to. You writhe against him, caught between wanting to keep going and not being able to take more stimulation. He lifts you up just slightly, trying to separate you from his leg. You exhale deeply as your body relaxes, already close to dozing off against his chest.

“We can’t have you tapping out just yet. I still have to fulfill my end of the deal.”

In the end, he fulfills it three times over, and you end up showing your appreciation in kind one more time—much slower and more comfortably in his bed. He gives you plenty of time to learn what he likes, taking your teasing and coquettish explorations like a champ and never so much as tightening his grip in your hair. Turns out, you don't exactly spend the day doing nothing.

And you do end up taking that nap after all. Just... much, much later. And with less clothing on.

-

part 3.5

[noirscript]

His Silent Vows

pt. 2

Pairing: Yandere Husband x Reader

Warning/s: TW: Yandere | Marital Rape | Forced Domesticity | Psychological Abuse | Dubious Consent | Gaslighting | Possessive Behavior | Surveillance | Isolation | Captivity | Coercive Control | Grooming Dynamics | Trauma Bonding | Power Imbalance | Manipulative Affection | Dark Themes

Notes: Apologies for not tagging both fics featuring Coen. Will refrain from posting anything mid-day so I can tag them properly moving forward. 😔 I'll schedule them 8 PM (GMT+8). :) Thank you!

The days blur, not because they’re fast, but because they repeat with near-mechanical precision.

Coen wakes early, showers in silence, then returns with your coffee already prepared the way you like it—two sugars, no cream, in the porcelain mug from your old kitchen, as if dragging familiar pieces of your old life into this twisted domestic revival.

He kisses your forehead every morning like he didn’t hold you down against the mattress the night before, whispering promises into your skin while taking you like a man possessed. He sets out fresh clothes folded at the foot of the bed. Never tight. Never restrictive. Flowing, soft, breathable.

Because he doesn’t need chains to keep you here.

He needs you to look comfortable.

“Eat, love,” he murmurs behind you as you stare at the breakfast he prepared—eggs, fruit, toast, perfectly plated. “You need to take care of yourself. You’ve been through a lot.”

You’ve been through a lot.

As if he wasn’t the one who orchestrated the fall of your freedom.

As if he wasn’t the reason your body still aches in places love was never meant to bruise.

Still, you eat.

Because he watches.

Always.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

The windows don’t open. The door locks from the outside. He says it’s for security. That he “can’t risk losing you again.” The walls don’t have cameras, but you’ve stopped trusting what’s visible. His staff—those loyal men in quiet black—don’t speak to you, but they always seem to know where you are.

Once, you tried the side entrance during his call.

It was locked.

The next morning, a subtle change—your shoes were moved. He never mentioned it. Just kissed your hand at breakfast and said, “You're such a good girl for staying close.”

You never said a word.

But that night, he made love to you slower. Almost reverently. As if rewarding loyalty you never offered.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

The house has a library. Coen insists you read. He brings you books you used to love—titles from your shared shelf back in the city. You thumb through the pages, half reading, half calculating.

Maps. Floorplans. Patterns.

There are no clocks. You guess the time by the light—gray mornings, golden afternoons, the sharp navy of night pressing against windowpanes you can’t open. You’ve counted five security rotations so far. Three men. Two women. They trade shifts at dusk and dawn.

Coen thinks you’re adjusting. That you’ve surrendered.

You let him think that.

Because you’ve learned that quiet is armor. That the more you comply, the more freedom he gives in return. Controlled freedom. But freedom nonetheless.

Like how he lets you roam the halls now. One level. Two wings. No access to the cellar. Never to the garage.

But you saw it once.

From the reflection in the mirror, when he left the door cracked just a little too long. A glimpse of a car, black and clean. Keys hanging from a board.

It burned itself into your memory.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

He brings you flowers on the fourth day. Not store-bought. Picked. Arranged.

He holds them out like a peace offering from a war you weren’t allowed to win.

“You’ve been so good to me,” he says, eyes soft like they used to be, the illusion stretching like paper over a blade. “I knew you just needed a little…reminding.”

Your hands tremble as you take the bouquet.

He doesn’t notice.

Or maybe he does—and just likes the way it looks on you.

“I’ve missed this version of us,” he continues, brushing a lock of hair from your face. “You’re soft again. Sweet. It suits you.”

You press your lips together, forcing a smile.

Because sweet wives don’t plot escapes.

Sweet wives don’t memorize security lapses.

Sweet wives don’t watch the keys when his hand grazes the kitchen counter.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

But you do.

Because somewhere under the bruises, under the silk and false comfort, you remember that love never felt like this.

You may wear the role well.

But you're not broken.

Not yet.

And somewhere in this fortress, this gilded prison wrapped in roses and delusion, there’s a door.

All you have to do…

…is time it right.

[senascoop]

☁︎ . , INTIMATE HORIZONS , Y.JW ! 18+

PAIRING. virgin ! jungwon × virgin ! afab reader. . SYNOPSIS. jungwon and you have been dating for years. despite your deep connection, the topic of sex has always been awkwardly avoided. both virgins and nervous about messing things up. but one night, you decide it’s time to take that step together. . GENRE. smut, virgins and clumsy-imperfect sex (sort of?), established relationship. . WARNING(S). virgins, clumsy and imperfect sex, kisses, boob play, nipple play, clit rubbing, first time, nsfw, mdni, mentions of premature release, protected sex, a little dirty talk (?), etc, lmk if i missed anything. . WORD COUNT. 2k.

The storm outside was a symphony of chaos, the heavy rain drumming a frenzied rhythm against the windowpanes, each droplet a tiny drumstick pounding out a primal beat that seemed to echo the fervent tempo of your heart.

You sat across from Jungwon, your breaths coming in soft, uneven gasps that mirrored the tumultuous weather outside. Your heart raced beneath the thin fabric of your blouse, and your chest rose and fell as your eyes drank in every inch of him.

Jungwon's hands, large and gentle, were clenched on his thighs, his knuckles turned white from the force of his grip. His eyes, dark pools of emotion, darted from your face to the curves of your body, and back again, a silent conversation passing between you.

Your fingers toyed with the fabric of your top, the pads of your fingertips tracing the delicate fabric, as if seeking the courage to reach out and touch him. You watched Jungwon's lips, full and soft, as he spoke, memorizing every word that passed between you.

"May I...?" Jungwon's voice was barely a whisper, his words laced with hesitation. His eyes met yours, a silent question hanging in the air between you. He reached out, his hand slow and deliberate, his fingers brushing against your wrist.

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak. His touch was warm, his fingers wrapping around your wrist, his thumb gently brushing against your pulse. He guided your hand to his chest, his own heartbeat a rapid drum against your palm. "I'm nervous," he confessed, his voice low.

You could feel the taut muscles beneath his shirt, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. His eyes were locked onto yours, his expression a mix of vulnerability and desire. You slid your hand upwards, your fingers tracing the line of his collarbone before wrapping around the back of his neck.

He leaned in, his eyes fluttering closed as he neared your lips. "I've wanted to do this for so long," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. Your lips met, a soft, hesitant kiss that quickly turned into something more.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened. You could feel his heart pounding in a steady rhythm against yours, his grip tightening as he traced your bottom lip with his tongue. His touch was electric, sending tingles down your spine that made your head spin.

You gasped as he broke the kiss, your chests rising and falling in sync. His eyes were dark, pupils dilated with desire and a hint of mischief. "Shall we continue this inside?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your voice barely a whisper as you responded, "Yes, please." Your eyes fluttered closed as his hands slid down to your waist, lifting you effortlessly from the chair. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck as he carried you towards the bedroom.

The room was dimly lit, the only sound the soft rustling of clothes as Jungwon laid you down on the bed. He stood over you, his eyes roaming over your face before he slowly removed his shirt, revealing his toned chest and abs.

You bit your lip, your eyes taking in every inch of him as he slowly crawled onto the bed. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, his hands reaching for the hem of your shirt. "May I?" His voice was soft, his eyes meeting yours for permission.

You nodded, your breath hitching in your throat as he slowly peeled your shirt off, his fingers brushing against your skin. He leaned down, his lips pressing against your collarbone, his hands sliding up your sides to unhook your bra. "You're so perfect,"

Your breasts spilled free from their confines, his hands cupping them gently, his thumbs brushing against your hardened nipples. The peaks taut and begging for his touch.

Jungwon's mouth moved lower, his lips wrapping around your right nipple while his hand teased the other. He sucked on it gently, swirling his tongue around the peak while his fingers pinched and rolled the other nipple between them.

Your back arched off the bed, your body responding to his touch instinctively. Your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging gently and encouraging him to continue. Jungwon's free hand made its way down your torso, tracing a path over your stomach until he reached the waistband of your pants.

His touch was gentle, his fingers trembling slightly as he unbuttoned your pants and slowly slid the zipper down. He glanced up at you, his eyes seeking permission once more. You nodded, your own hands shaking as you reached for his belt, mirroring his actions.

Together, you both undressed each other, each touch tentative and filled with desire. When you were both bare, Jungwon settled between your thighs, his eyes locked onto yours. "I...I've never done this before," he confessed, his voice barely a whisper. "I want you so much."

Jungwon threw the last piece of cloth off, his cock sprang free from his boxers, the mushroom tip already glistening with precum. He quickly tore open a condom wrapper, rolling it down his shaft with practiced ease.

But as soon as he attempted to enter you, the condom burst, slick with his premature release. Jungwon let out a frustrated groan, discarding the ruined condom aside and reaching for another one. You couldn't help but giggle softly at the sight, finding his flustered state utterly adorable.

Jungwon leaned forward, his eyes locked on yours as he positioned himself between your legs. He reached down, running the mushroom tip of his leaking cock against your wetness, smearing the precum around your pussy lips and slicking himself up.

"You're so wet," he breathed, his voice husky with desire. "Is that all for me?" He asked, his fingers spreading your folds apart to reveal your swollen, needy flesh. He ran his thumb over your entrance, pressing it inside you as he slowly pumped it in and out.

"Y-Yes, all for you," you stammered, your face flushing with embarrassment. Jungwon's touch was clumsy, his inexperience evident as he tried to prepare you for him. He pushed another finger inside, scissoring them to stretch you wider.

"It-It's not enough," he muttered, more to himself than to you. He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and sucking your nectar off of them. Your eyes widened at the gesture, your heart pounding in your chest. "Tastes like you,"

Jungwon positioned the tip of his cock at your entrance once more, his hand shaking slightly as he tried to align himself. He pushed forward, his thick head bumping against your tight ring of muscles. "Fuck, you're so small,"

"I-I know," you replied, biting your lower lip as you stared up at him. "It's my first time after all," you whispered, reaching out to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Jungwon groaned, his face contorting in concentration as he tried to force his way inside. He pushed, and pushed, his cockhead stretching your delicate hymen to its breaking point. Finally, with a sharp pop, he broke through, the head of his dick sinking into your tight, virgin pussy.

"Oh god, it's so tight," he hissed, his hands gripping your thighs tightly. He looked up at you, his eyes filled with uncertainty. "Is it hurting you?" He asked softly, his voice barely a whisper. You nodded, but wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

Jungwon's breath hitched as he was pulled closer, his cock sinking deeper into your tight heat. He could feel your walls stretching to accommodate him, the pressure incredible. He looked down at where you two were connected, his dick disappearing into your tiny pussy. "Fuck, you're so fucking tight,"

He began to move slowly, his hips pulling back before thrusting forward again. His rhythm was uncoordinated, his movements clumsy as he struggled to find a comfortable pace. But with each thrust, he became bolder, his hips snapping forward harder, burying himself to the hilt inside of you.

You moaned, your back arching as his cock struck every sensitive spot inside of you. His hands moved to cup your breasts, squeezing and kneading them as he fucked you. Your walls began to clench around him, tighter with each passing moment as pleasure rolled through your body.

Jungwon leaned down, pressing his lips against yours in a deep, passionate kiss. His fingers left your breasts and slid down your body, slipping between your slick folds to find your swollen clit. He began to rub the sensitive nub gently as he continued to fuck you slowly.

You broke the kiss, panting heavily. "I love you so much," you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. Jungwon's heart swelled in his chest, his love for you overwhelming him.

"And I love you too," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. He began to rub your clit faster, feeling the walls of your pussy contract around his cock in response. Jungwon knew he wouldn't last much longer, not with the way you were responding to his touch.

You reached up, tangling your fingers in Jungwon's hair as he rubbed your clit and fucked you. "Don't stop," you begged, your hips bucking against him desperately. Jungwon kissed you again, his lips moving against yours as he rubbed your clit with one hand and fucked you with the other.

The pressure inside you grew unbearable, your body tensing as you climbed closer and closer to the edge. "Jungwon..." you whimpered, your voice barely a whisper. He nodded, his arms wrapping around you tightly as he increased the pressure on your swollen nub.

Your world narrowed down to the feeling of Jungwon's fingers on your clit and his cock buried inside you. The pressure became too much, and you came suddenly, your pussy spasming around his dick as you cried out in ecstasy.

Jungwon groaned against your neck, his own control snapping. He thrust into you twice more before burying himself to the hilt and coming inside you, his body shuddering with the force of his release. He slumped against you, his weight a comforting pressure on your body.

Jungwon lifted his head, looking into your eyes with a soft smile. He gently pulled out of you, both of you wincing at the sudden separation. He quickly disposed of the condom in the nearby trash can, returning to your side almost immediately.

You blushed, suddenly shy as you pulled the blankets over your naked body. Jungwon chuckled softly, leaning down to kiss your forehead. "Why so shy now?" He asked gently, his fingers entwining with yours beneath the blankets. "We just...you know...like that."

You hid your face in his chest, mumbling, "I know, but...it's different now. I'm not a virgin anymore. And you're...you're looking at me like you want to do it again." Jungwon laughed, his arms wrapping around you tightly.

"That's because I do," he admitted, his voice muffled against your hair. "But for now, let's just cuddle, okay?" He settled you against his chest, your head resting on his shoulder. "We have the rest of our lives to keep making love, after all."

You snuggled closer, your arms wrapping around him tightly. "I love you," you murmured contentedly. Jungwon tightened his grip on you, his love for you overflowing. "And I love you too," he replied, his voice filled with emotion.

He began to stroke your hair gently, his fingers running through the soft strands as you lay contentedly in his arms. Outside, the rain continued to pour, the sound a soothing lullaby that matched the rhythm of your breathing.

As you drifted off to sleep, nestled in Jungwon's arms, you knew that this was where you belonged. With him. Always. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the storm outside, not the past, only the two of you and the love that bound you together.

© senascoop | tumblr

[chososcamgirl]

(SHE’S) JUST A PHASE CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR: it’s never over

masterlist

• listen while you read

cw: crude humour, mild language, hints of depression

The phone’s glow illuminated a mask of frustration on Megumi's face — a crinkled nose, deepening eyebags, a leg hammering against the floor. In a sudden, violent motion, he threw the phone. It wasn't enough. He pressed his palms into his eyes, his head collapsing into his hands as a wave of pure frustration crashed over him.

The clock on the wall was a relentless accomplice to the silence in the room. Each tick a small and sharp reminder of her absence.

Yn’s absence.

Outside, the rain had started again. A persistent drumming against the windowpane. Not the kind of drumming you would hear from the garage courteous of Yuji, no. It was the kind of drumming that mirrored the dull ache in Megumi’s chest.

He stared out at the streets, glistening as the city lights blurred into a watercolor of melancholy hues. It was a night for lovers, the kind of night that drives people together, seeking warmth and solace from the damp chill.

And yet, he was alone.

The bed was made, the sheets crisp and cool to the touch. He’d smoothed them over for the third time, a futile attempt to impose order on the chaos of his thoughts.

An open window let in the scent of wet asphalt and blooming jasmine, a fragrance that would forever be intertwined with her. In the corner, the soft glow of a single lamp cast long shadows, a solitary beacon in the dimness of his self-inflicted exile. He was a keeper of this lonely vigil, a man burning in a self-made pyre of longing.

He thought of her smile, the easy way it crinkled the corners of her eyes, and the sound of her laughter, a melody he’d trade all his worldly possessions to hear again. It was a fool’s bargain, he knew. He’d been too young, too reckless, too blind to the damage he was causing until it was done. Now, the weight of his own foolishness pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating.

His body ached with a weariness that sleep couldn't quench, a yearning for a peace that only her presence could bring.

He rubbed his temples, his mind replaying their last conversation, a fractured mosaic of sharp words and wounded silences.

He had let his pride build a wall between them, and now he was a king in a kingdom of one, his riches the bitter taste of regret.

“Yn, please” he whispered.

The line a desperate prayer to a god he wasn't sure he believed in anymore.

A car's headlights swept across the ceiling, and for a heart-stopping moment, he allowed himself to hope. He pictured her at the door, rain-kissed and hesitant, the space between them finally closing. The image was so vivid, so painfully real, that he could almost feel the warmth of her hand in his. But the light faded, and the room was plunged back into its familiar gloom.

His gaze drifted to his discarded notebook, lying open on the desk. He was drawn to it, a reluctant pull he could no longer resist. His own hurried script met his eyes, lyrics stalling mid-thought. A single, raw line stood out, a testament to his aching regret: To not hold your face or feel embrace, is why I waste... His fingers traced the words, the graphite a faint whisper against his skin.

He knew it was a long shot, a fragile wish cast out into the stormy night. But still, he waited. Because somewhere, buried beneath the wreckage of his mistakes, that unfinished verse was a stubborn ember of hope refusing to be extinguished. It wasn't too late. It couldn't be.

As the rain continued to fall, a pen found the empty space below the last line. He kept his lonely watch, a solitary figure hunched over a flickering promise, trying to write a dawn that might never break.

backstage!

• THE YEARNING💔💔💔 THE PINING💔💔💔

• megumiyn comeback!1!1!1!???? GASP?

• has yn finally came to her senses…. will they finally stop pussyfooting….

• toge doing something right for once in his life? hello?

• toge, yuji & panda definitely fell for the labubu propaganda and spent the bands budget on multiple boxes for the secret

• they didnt get it.

• when yuta found out how much they spent he was pissed (gojo wasnt because he was bribed with a labubu)

• the guy who maki ran into was kamo. & let’s just say he was busted.

• this is all in the same timeline (pretend this chapter wasn’t released 6 months later)

• one last show before they release their album :’) my babies have come so far

a/n: heh.. so who missed me????☺️☺️ was this a jumpscare guys lmk. i had to reread the whole thing bc i forgot what the fuck was happening LOL. maybe i miss my ex and thats why im posting this, maybe i just need to finish the fucking series. next chapter in another 6 months x (kidding…. it’ll be this week..) 3 more chapters guys… who’s nervy… #we’resoback

taglist: @shokosbunny @satoryaa @prozacprinc3ss @essjujutsu @therealsatorugojo @yeehawslap @gojodickbig @dawnisatotalqueen @j2upiters @nappingnai @burnishingbagels @totallytatum @3cst4syy @lysaray @saltypuffin1040 @standcom @makeshiftproject @kurtcobaingirlie @kokoiinuts @dashingaurries @slvttycorpse @cuupidsss @mochroialainn @tenjikusstuff4 @ichcocat @sugurubabe @allthestarsarecloserrrrrrr @tyigerz @yoyo-yui @megoomies @yizmiu @jasminasblog22 @marst4rz @guitarstringed-scars @kalulakunundrum @lovefrominaya @beepbopzlorp @itsdragonius @meguemii @chilichopsticks @starantulas @1l-ynn @sluttkuna @rcveriees @solaqes @starrysho @sukunaspillow @evry1luvssm @syxoki

*if i can't tag you please change your tag settings otherwise i will remove you from the list!

[moonlightwritingf1]

One of the girls | LN4

⋆˚✿˖° summary ━━━━━━━ Based on the song One of the girls by The Weeknd

⋆˚✿˖° pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

⋆˚✿˖° word count ━━━━━━━ 2.3k

⋆˚✿˖° warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content, p in v, unprotected sex, rough sex, choking, spitting in mouth, mean Lando?

Based on this request.

The rain tapped a restless rhythm against the windowpane of Y/n’s flat, a sound that mirrored the chaos in her mind. She stared at her phone, the screen glowing with Lando’s latest text: I’m outside. Her heart skipped a beat, her fingers trembling as she typed back: Come up.

They’d been playing this game for weeks now, ever since they’d met at a mutual friend’s party. Lando had been magnetic from the start, his charm effortless, his cocky smirk enough to make her knees weak. But it wasn’t just his looks or his fame as a Formula One driver that drew her in. It was the way he looked at her, like he could see right through her, like he knew exactly what she needed—even when she didn’t.

The knock at the door was firm, commanding. She opened it, and there he was, leaning against the frame, his leather jacket dripping with rain. His eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

“You’re late,” she said, trying to sound casual, but her voice betrayed her, trembling just enough for him to notice.

Lando smirked, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “Traffic,” he said, his voice low, dripping with that Bristol accent that sent shivers down her spine. “But I’m here now.”

He didn’t wait for an invitation. He never did. He moved with the confidence of a man who was used to getting what he wanted, his hands finding her waist as he backed her against the wall. Y/n’s breath hitched as she felt the coolness of the wall press into her back, the heat of his body searing her front.

“Were you waiting for me?” he asked, his lips brushing against her ear, sending a jolt of electricity through her.

She nodded, unable to speak, her hands gripping his shoulders for support. He chuckled, a deep, sinful sound that made her stomach flip. “Good girl,” he murmured, his lips trailing down her neck, nipping at her skin just hard enough to leave a mark.

Y/n gasped, her head falling back against the wall as he kissed her, his hands sliding under her shirt, his fingers rough and demanding. She’d never felt like this before, so completely consumed by someone else’s touch. It was intoxicating, overwhelming, and she loved every second of it.

“Lando,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but he heard her. He always did.

He pulled back slightly, his dark eyes searching hers. “What do you want, Y/n?” he asked, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down her spine.

She hesitated for a moment, her mind racing. She’d never been honest with anyone about what she really wanted, but with Lando, it felt different. He wouldn’t judge her, wouldn’t make her feel ashamed. He’d take what she gave him and give her exactly what she needed in return.

“I want…” she started, her voice trembling. “I want you to control me. I want you to…” She trailed off, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment, but Lando’s eyes softened, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Say it,” he urged, his voice gentle but firm. “Tell me what you want.”

Her breath hitched, and she swallowed hard before finally whispering, “I want you to take control. Make me yours.”

His smile widened, a predatory glint in his eyes as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against hers. “Good girl,” he murmured, his voice thick with approval. “Now, let’s see how far you’re willing to go.” 

He stepped back, his gaze never leaving hers. “On your knees.” 

Her chest tightened, but she obeyed without hesitation, sinking down until her knees met the cool wooden floor. Lando stood over her, his presence commanding, his shadow engulfing her. He placed a hand under her chin, tilting her face up to meet his eyes. 

“Open.” 

She parted her lips, her pulse racing as she saw the molten desire in his stare. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, and spat into her open mouth. Her breath caught, but she didn’t flinch, swallowing it without breaking eye contact. He chuckled, a low, approving sound that sent heat pooling between her thighs. 

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled, his hands sliding into her hair, gripping tight. He pulled her head back, exposing her neck, and she gasped, her body trembling with anticipation.

His lips crashed against her skin, biting and sucking until she whimpered. He dragged her to her feet, spinning her around and pressing her against the wall. His hand moved to her throat, his grip firm but careful, tightening just enough to make her gasp. She arched into him, her back pressing against his chest as he leaned in, his lips grazing her ear.

“Tell me to stop. Say it, and I will,” he growled, his voice rough with restraint. 

She shook her head, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. ���Don’t stop. Please.” 

His grip tightened slightly, and she moaned, her eyelids fluttering. “That’s my girl,” he muttered, his other hand sliding down her front, fingers roughly pushing past the fabric of her jeans.

She cried out, her body arching off the wall as his calloused fingers pressed harder, circling her clit with a rough, deliberate rhythm. Her hips jerked against his hand, desperate for more, but he held her pinned, his grip on her throat tightening just enough to make her gasp. “Scream for me,” he demanded, his voice low and gravelly, the command dripping with authority.

“Lando,” she gasped, her voice already breaking, the pressure building mercilessly. Her fingers clawed at the wall behind her, nails scraping against the paint as she struggled to find purchase.

“Louder,” he growled, his lips brushing against her ear, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to send a shiver down her spine. His fingers quickened, the pad of his thumb pressing directly into her clit with unwavering focus. Her legs shook, her knees threatening to buckle, but his other hand kept her upright, his hold on her throat steady. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel.

The sound tore from her throat—raw, unfiltered, her cry echoing off the walls as her body coiled tight. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice dark and possessive. “Let go.”

Her orgasm hit like a shockwave, her body convulsing as pleasure ripped through her, sharp and unrelenting. He didn’t let up, his fingers still working her through the peak, grinding against her clit until she was writhing, her screams dissolving into broken whimpers. The room spun, her vision blurring as her legs gave out completely, but he caught her, his arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her back against him.

“Every bit of it,” he reminded her, his voice harsh but satisfied, his lips trailing down her neck, biting at the tender skin he’d already marked. She shuddered, her body still trembling, every nerve alight with oversensitivity. His hand slid out of her jeans, slick with her release, and he brought it to her lips, smearing it across her mouth. Her tongue flicked out instinctively, the taste bitter and sweet and wholly his. He watched her, his eyes unreadable, a slow smirk spreading across his face.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice rough, his approval sending a fresh wave of heat through her. She was his, and she knew it.

Her legs still trembled as Lando lifted her from the floor, her body humming with the aftershocks of her release. He carried her to the bed, her back hitting the mattress with a soft thud. His dark eyes locked onto hers, piercing through the haze of arousal that clouded her thoughts. His hands were rough as he stripped her, fabric tearing under the urgency of his movements. She didn’t protest, didn’t even flinch. She wanted this—needed it—more than air.

“Look at you,” he growled, his voice dripping with lust as he stood over her, eyes raking over her exposed body. “So fucking perfect like this.”

She reached for him, her fingers trembling as she fumbled with his belt, but he swatted her hand away, the sharp sting making her gasp. “Behave,” he warned, his lips curling into a smirk. He undressed slowly, deliberately, letting the tension build until it was unbearable. She writhed beneath him, her breath coming in shallow pants, but he didn’t touch her. Not yet.

“Spread your legs,” he commanded, his voice low and gravelly. She obeyed without hesitation, her thighs falling open, exposing herself to him completely. His hand came down hard on her inner thigh, the sharp slap reverberating through her body, and she cried out, her hips jerking off the bed. “Stay still,” he snapped, his eyes narrowing as he leaned over her, his breath hot on her skin.

He spit into his hand before wrapping it around his hardening cock, stroking himself slow and deliberate. Her eyes fixated on the way his fist moved, the way his veins bulged under the strain. She wanted him inside her, needed it more than anything she’d ever known.

“Please,” she gasped, her voice breaking. “Lando, please.”

He gripped her jaw, forcing her to look at him. “Do you want it rough, love?” he taunted, his voice a dark promise. “Do you want me to take everything?”

“Yes,” she breathed, her body trembling with need. “Take it. It’s yours.”

He didn’t give her a moment to prepare, slamming into her with one brutal thrust. She screamed, her nails digging into his shoulders as he filled her completely, stretching her to the point of pain. He growled, a feral sound that made her pulse race, and his hands moved to her throat, tightening just enough to make her gasp.

“That’s it,” he muttered, his hips snapping into hers with unrelenting force. “Take it. All of it.”

Her vision blurred, her body caught between pleasure and pain as he pounded into her relentlessly. His grip on her throat tightened, cutting off her air, and she arched into him, her nails raking down his back. “Fuck, Lando!” she choked out, her voice raw and broken. “Don’t stop!”

He leaned down, his lips crashing against hers in a savage kiss as he slammed into her harder, deeper. She could taste herself on his tongue, bitter and sweet, and she moaned into his mouth, her body spiraling out of control. His hand moved to her neck again, his fingers pressing into her pulse point, and she felt herself swaying on the edge, her body trembling under his relentless assault.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice thick with possessiveness as he bit down on her shoulder. “All mine.”

She nodded frantically, her mind too far gone to form words. Her orgasm hit like a tidal wave, her body convulsing around him as he continued to thrust into her, prolonging the pleasure until she was screaming, her voice breaking under the intensity. He didn’t stop, his pace unrelenting as he chased his own release, his grip on her throat tightening until she was gasping, her vision darkening at the edges.

“Lando,” she whimpered, her voice a desperate plea. “Please.”

With a guttural groan, he finally came, spilling into her with a force that left her shaking. He collapsed on top of her, his grip on her throat easing just enough to let her breathe, but he didn’t let go completely. His eyes met hers, dark and possessive, and he brushed a strand of damp hair from her face. “Always so fucking perfect for me,” he muttered, his voice rough with satisfaction. “My girl.”

She lay there beneath him, her body still trembling, her heart pounding in rhythm with his. Tonight, she was his—completely, utterly, and without question. But she wasn’t naive. She knew it didn’t mean more than this. She wasn’t the girl he’d write songs about, or the one he’d introduce to his family. She was just one of the girls in his orbit, a secret pleasure he craved when the world became too loud. And she was okay with that.

Lando rolled off her, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. He didn’t speak, just traced a lazy finger along her collarbone, his touch light but possessive. She turned her head to look at him, her eyes searching his for something—anything—that might’ve hinted at more. But there was nothing. Just that same dark, unreadable gaze that made her feel like she was standing on the edge of a cliff.

“Is this it?” she asked, her voice soft, barely above a whisper. “Just tonight?”

He smirked, leaning over to brush his lips against her ear. “Tonights don’t have to end, love,” he murmured. His hand slid down her body, fingers grazing her hipbone before gripping it tightly. “You know that.”

She did know. It was the unspoken agreement between them—the thing she’d learned to brace herself for, even if it left her hollow when the lights came on. She wasn’t his one, and she didn’t have to be. All she had to do was be there when he needed her, to give him whatever he wanted without question. To be one of his girls.

Her hand found his cheek, her thumb brushing against the stubble on his jaw. “I’ll keep the secret,” she whispered, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest. “You don’t need to love me. Just don’t let go.”

His eyes softened, just for a moment, and he pressed a kiss to her palm. “Good girl,” he murmured, his voice rough with approval. “Now get some rest. You’ll need it.”

She closed her eyes, her body sinking into the mattress as exhaustion took over. The weight of his arm draped over her was both comforting and suffocating, a reminder of where she stood in his world. No commitment, no promises—just this. And for now, it was enough.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

Random Writing Prompts For Your Next Story | For Writers

If you need some inspiration for your next story, current WIP or even for scenes for your book. Here's a compilation of random things for you all.

A single rose petal, an ornate pocket watch, a stack of weathered letters, the scent of lavender

Candlelight flickering, a raven's feather, a worn leather satchel, an old family photograph

Frost-covered windowpanes, a gilded mirror, the taste of cinnamon, an emerald ring

A glass unicorn figurine, the sound of violin music, a tarnished key, a faded floral dress

Shifting sand dunes, the crash of ocean waves, a vintage compass, a tattered mappaemundi

Dancing fireflies, the smell of freshly baked bread, a silk ribbon choker, a velvet-bound journal

Flickering gaslight, a regal peacock feather, a stack of vintage postcards, the caw of a lone crow

Moonlight on still water, the feel of worn denim, a bronze astrolabe, the faint taste of honey

Dusty rose petals, the crackle of an old record, a leather-bound tome, the soft glow of a crystal ball

Distant thunder, the gleam of polished silver, a withered sprig of lavender, the weight of a family heirloom

[angelsfat3]

꽃.ㅤㅤ( 𝒴𝖔𝒖𝇄𝓇𝑒 ) ／ㅤ𝒮ဝᆞᆞᆞ𝒟𝔦𝓋𝓲𝔫𝖊．

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆.ㅤ／ㅤ𝑛𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑑𝑜𝑙!𝐽𝑎𝑘𝑒, 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠𝒉𝑖𝑝, 𝑠𝑢𝑔𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒, 𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑔𝒉𝑡 𝑠𝑚𝑢𝑡.ㅤ٭危险──𝑇𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑐𝒉 𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑑𝑠𝑚 (𝑏𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑎𝑔𝑒 , 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑐𝑖𝑝𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑒), 𝐽𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑙𝑖𝑔𝒉𝑡 𝑐𝑛𝑐 𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝒉𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑑, 𝑑𝑒𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑖𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑟𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑎𝑡𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑝𝒉𝑒𝑟𝑒.

Minutes had passed since you started biting the skin on your lower lip without even realizing it. You did that every time you were anxious, nervous... or excited. This time, it was a mix of all three.

Your hands rested on your thighs as you sat on the edge of the bed, heart pounding like it might burst out of your chest. The soft fabric of your underwear clung gently to your hips. In front of you, raindrops slid down the windowpane, blurring the view of the buildings outside, while the scent of vanilla and warm wood lingered in the air thanks to the lit candles. At least that part was a little calming.

Jake appeared behind you, barefoot, slowly climbing onto the bed with the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to his elbows. His fingers toyed with the wine-colored silk rope he’d bought earlier that afternoon, the tag still almost dangling from it. He cleared his throat and chuckled quietly, more from nerves than anything else.

“Well, there are two options… either this ends well and you won’t be able to move, or you’ll look like Prince Naveen all tangled up with Tiana when they were frogs.” he said in a playful tone as he got more comfortable behind you.

The room was bathed in a soft golden glow. The only light came from the flickering candles around you. Jake took your wrists gently, bringing them behind your back, awkwardly measuring the distance between them. It was obvious he’d watched a tutorial—maybe even practiced once on himself… but doing it with you was something else entirely.

His breath was close to your neck, warm, and when he spoke, his voice was low, slightly raspy, like he was trying to sound more dominant—though the laughter still gave him away.

“I guess it was... like this…?” he whispered as he tied the first knot, his fingers unintentionally brushing the inside of your wrist. “Shit… I think this was the wrong way. Mm, don’t move, just—ugh... I swear in two minutes you’ll be tied up like a crocodile…? Well, you get the idea.”

The reflection showed you both: you, with your cheeks slightly flushed, chest rising and falling faster, and Jake behind you, biting his lip while trying to hide his growing bulge.

“You know… I think I’m starting to like this…” he murmured, his voice a little deeper this time, one hand gently caressing your waist while the other adjusted the ribbon.

“Not the knot, no—that’s not working out.” he laughed quietly, shaking his head. “I mean seeing you like this… I don’t know—you look… good.”

He pulled you softly against his chest, still not done with the bindings because honestly, he got too flustered. His chin rested on your shoulder, arms wrapped around you.

“You sure you want to do this, prince?” he asked, no longer teasing. His tone was sincere, concerned. His lips brushed your ear from time to time. “If you want to stop, just tell me, okay? You don’t have to do this just because I asked.”

Your wrists were now completely bound behind your back. You weren’t sure exactly when Jake had stopped laughing at himself while tying you up.

Maybe it was when he finally managed to readjust the knot. Or maybe it was when he gently turned your face just enough to catch your profile in the mirror, his dark eyes slowly trailing down your body. You could feel the game shifting—slowing down. Growing more serious. More intimate.

“Can you feel it now? Finally got it right,” he murmured by your ear, his tone starting to crawl under your skin.

His hands slid down—one by one—tracing your bent biceps. His fingertips followed the curve of your elbows, drifting down to your hips, then back up again, so slowly it felt like his touch might leave invisible marks behind. Your skin shivered as his fingers grazed the small of your back, right where the ties pressed gently.

“Just look at you…” he whispered, and you felt him smile against your neck. “I haven’t even done anything and you’re already hard.” He wasn’t teasing. He was just noticing—everything.

His tongue barely brushed your skin, and you arched instinctively. Jake let out a low chuckle, clearly pleased with himself, his hands drifting now to your thighs, fingertips gliding along the inside with a pace that bordered on torture.

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until he noticed—and laughed, softly, so close to your skin.

“Don’t move, pretty thing. Just relax. I’ll take care of everything.”

One thing was clear: you couldn’t speak anymore. The mirror in front of you showed you completely at his mercy—like prey, undone by the warmth and voice of someone you couldn’t resist.

You felt trapped—in the best way. This moment was one of the rare times you got to witness this side of Jake up close. The serious one. The quiet one. The one who rarely came out.

Speaking of him, Jake went silent for a few moments, studying you while he listened to and mapped every deep breath you took. His fingers toyed with the edge of your underwear, but he didn’t take it off. Not yet.

“Hhm… you look like a little doll… my dolly,” he murmured in a low voice, his hands already resting on your thighs.

Then his fingers moved inwards, unhurried, gently pushing them apart. No force. Just steady pressure.

The control wasn’t really in his hands—it was in how your body weakened for him, every breath brushing the air between you. The silk restraints creaked softly when your wrists shifted just a little, desperate to touch his forearms—but he clicked his tongue, that playful tone still there.

“I told you to stay still,” Jake whispered again, his voice deeper now, rougher. “Don’t make me punish you so soon.”

Your body trembled, wrists still bound behind your back burning with the ache of not feeling him, lips parted from your ragged breathing. Your skin was already starting to glisten with sweat. Jake was behind you, and still—you could feel him everywhere. His presence was total. His eyes, his breath, his voice… they surrounded you.

“I fucking love you,” he laughed softly, his voice low and hoarse. “Do you like how I touch you? Because I do.”

His fingers pressed into your chest, starting gentle—then rougher. He pinched just enough to leave your skin flushed, provoking you, watching how your back arched in response. He loved it. You could tell by the way he panted against your ear, by how his hips rolled forward, grinding right against the curve of your ass.

“God… I need you right now,” he whispered with a breathy hunger, “but I’m not done playing with you yet.”

One hand slid between your thighs again—bolder this time—deliberately brushing your bulge with his palm. Slow. Cruel. While the other moved up your throat, not choking, just guiding—tilting your face toward the mirror so you wouldn’t dare look away.

“You’d better not look anywhere else,” he ordered, his tone holding just a hint of danger. “You’re going to watch everything. You’re going to watch me touching you… and see just how much you’re enjoying it.”

His tongue traced the line of your jaw—wet, filthy—while the hand stroking you moved in slow, firm circles over your swollen tip. Pure torture.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Your body could barely stay upright. With your hands tied behind your back, the position pulled you backward, arching you beautifully at the edge of the bed. Jake had your back pinned to his chest, pressing into you hard.

“J-Jake, please…” you whimpered, your voice breaking—caught between nerves, desire, and a little bit of fake fear that drove him absolutely wild.

He let out a dark laugh, his smile borderline wicked. He bit his lower lip, his breathing getting rougher by the second, his desperation rising.

“Please what, mmh? Want me to stop?” he asked, voice soaked in malice, licking along your shoulder, then sinking his teeth into you. It burned—and then melted into pleasure.

“N-no… I—I don’t know…” you whispered, your thighs shaking. “This… this is too much…”

“Too much what?” he echoed, pushing you off the bed until your feet met the cold floor. One hand on your nape, the other between your shoulder blades.

Without giving it much thought—or you much time—he flipped you around, bending you forward in a swift, seamless motion. Your chest pressed to the sheets, your hips left exposed, vulnerable.

“Too much… good? Is that it, prince?” his voice dropped, rough and low, as his hand dragged down your back, fingernails raking your skin on purpose. His fingers reached for the waistband of your underwear, tugging them down in one sharp motion until they pooled around your thighs. Jake licked his lips when he saw you—completely open, your knees trembling, your hole practically begging for him.

“Well, well…” he exhaled with a crooked smile, letting his hands drop to your ass, giving each cheek a soft smack before gripping and spreading you further—taking his time, indulging in the view.

“I think I should’ve bought more condoms.”

“Jake… no… d-don’t look at me like that…” you panted, but your body betrayed you, again. You needed him. You were begging for him with every involuntary roll of your hips.

"Then stop teasing me.” he muttered, his mouth pressing hungrily against your skin. Jake was obsessed—he always needed to feel you, touch you, taste you. The way your body reacted, the way your skin shivered beneath his lips—it was like his favorite film playing on loop.

He kissed the center of your back, teeth grazing you just enough to leave damp marks, each bite drawing soft moans from your lips and adding to the ache growing in him.

You trembled entirely when he shamelessly pressed against you, his grip on your hips firm, as if trying to brand you with the shape of his hands.

"But J-Jake, I can’t… I-I can't take it anymore..." you begged in a trembling voice, collapsing slightly from how he was pushing your limits.

"I don’t care. You will take it. You’ll stay just like that, legs open, feeling every inch I want to give you. You don’t get to decide when this ends.” he growled, rubbing and faking slow, hard thrusts, torturing you with the idea of having him inside you without reaching that point yet.

“God… you’re driving me insane…” you whispered, voice breaking as your fingers clung to the ribbon.

“That was the plan,” he laughed softly, just before dropping to his knees again, burying himself between your thighs. The sounds were messy, hungry, his mouth exploring you without hesitation, tongue moving in slow, relentless circles.

Turning your head to the side, the reflection in the mirror showed your features unraveling with pleasure—back tense, lips parted, eyes glassy. Behind you, Jake rose after a few moments, licking his lips with no shame, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he drank in the sight of your body.

His hands slid up your back again—how many times now? You lost track. Your cheek pressed into the sheets, your lips trembling with shallow breaths. Every touch left you even more sensitive.

And he didn't even care about that.

He said nothing when he reached for the zipper of his pants. The moment was silent—then you felt the hot, hard, threatening touch of his dripping tip rubbing against your entrance.

“Just.. fuck, baby...” his voice sounded more appealing than ever, breathless, crazed, with a low laugh that mocked you as you stood on your tiptoes, lining up with his instinctively. “Already craving me, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You just whimpered into the sheets. He gave your ass a firm smack.

“I asked you a question,” he growled.

“Y-yes… f-fuck me already, please…” you surrendered, your voice low and desperate.

Jake released a dark, breathy laugh—and then he did. He entered you slowly, torturously, tip first… then inch by agonizing inch. He wanted to linger.

“Watch yourself fill up,” he murmured against your skin, voice strained. “Watch me break into this… precious body so you never forget what it feels like to have me inside you.” He leaned down, one hand gripping your throat so his nails bit into your skin, his lips brushing your cheek as he thrust.

Your thighs trembled.

“I-I can’t… it’s too—too much…”

“No? That’s too bad,” he panted. “You’re going to take it. Because this isn’t about you anymore. It’s about me finishing inside you. I’m going to fill you so deep you won’t be able to walk tomorrow without thinking of me.”

Each thrust hit deeper, marking your soul, your body, your throat—where his name spilled again and again in sobbed moans of sheer pleasure.

The red silk around your wrists burned with each movement, your hands aching just to touch him, even if only his stomach. But Jake didn’t stop—he was ruthless, relentless. One hand twisted into your hair, pulling your head back so your eyes stayed locked on the mirror. So you’d see everything. See him.

“You look like a whore... that’s the expression when you're cumming without my permission, staining the floor with your dirty seed, faggot.” He kissed your neck, bit it as punishment, left his mark just below your ear. “Who makes you squirt like that, mmh?”

“Y-you… Jake… only you, my love…”

“That’s what I thought.”

And with one final thrust, a guttural sound tore from his chest—more beast than man—as he drove in deep, spilling inside you. His grip tightened around your neck and hair, his body trembling over yours as he bit your shoulder hard, desperate to muffle the moans and whimpers breaking from his lips.

The room fell into silence. Only your quiet sobs and the soft drumming of rain against the windows filled the space.

Jake didn’t let go. Not right away. He stayed inside you, still pulsing, wrapping his arms around your back as he kissed your neck with trembling lips—tender, careful. The silk still burned at your wrists, and the nearest candle had melted down to its base.

“Now then…” he whispered near your ear, softer this time. “That was just a warm-up, my prince. I’ve got more planned... Picked up a few toys for you..”

And he wasn’t lying. God, he wasn’t lying.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

⸺ ⠀ 𝑐꯭𝑟꯭𝑒꯭𝑑𝑖꯭𝑡𝑠 @angelsfat3.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ㅤㅤㅤㅤ(ㅤ𝑓ollowㅤ ㅤ，ㅤㅤ #𝖫𝖨𝖪𝖤! )

𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀  &   𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗌      .       𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾.

[eldrith]

˗ˏˋ A Golden Council ˎˊ˗ Jacaerys Velaryon

jacaerys velaryon x targtower fem!reader [part five of a golden cage series.] words: 12.2k. synopsis: "The innocent have already begun to drop like flies, Jacaerys. War is here," you whisper, "and it looms with an ancient breath." notes: things are progressing... ugh they're so cute! i hope nothing bad happens to them! warnings: emotional complexities. unreliable narrator. premonition. fluff. canon-typical violence/blood/injury. allusions to torture. survivor’s guilt. character death. angst. religious trauma. bad coping mechanisms. semi-public smut [fingering, f!receiving]. light hair pulling. mentions of hunger/not eating. also eating. foreshadowing. requests closed. previous. series masterlist. masterlist.

YOUR DRESS SKIRTS KISS ALONG THE WET STONE, AN ECHO OF FOOTFALLS INTO THE GRAND CHAMBER. 

Outside, the morning’s cries have bloomed into a thunderstorm – thrust from the bosom of the gods, heavy sheets of rain pelt upon windowpanes, seeping through the crumbling cracks on the outer bailey’s walls. 

Your chambers were cold. 

No hearth lit, scrubbed clean, stripped bare and brandishing a horrid stain swept over by a new tapestry rug, it is a new room now; and just minutes ago, as you’d tugged on the dress selected with your own delicately trembling fingers, cracks of thunder had beat upon the earth and tremored your spine. Jacaerys had posted with your guard just outside the doors. The Sept’s chill had brought you a bout of shivers, and even your betrothed’s cloak fastened tight round your neck did little to quell it. After dressing yourself, you’d stepped wordlessly from the empty room, fraught with ghostly whispers and phantom chokes, tugging your tresses from your neck and facing away from the Prince; and he, tightening your dress for you with dutiful fingers – muscles remembering the fastenings of your dress as though that first night was merely a breath past. 

Your hair falls freely – you could not bring yourself to meet the mirror hanging so hauntingly near your bedpost – and so you remain unobserved by your own wary eyes, focused instead on the visages which twinkle like stars in the abyssal sky of night as you and Jacaerys enter the Grand Hall. 

Your betrothed’s eyes trace your figure – a practice well known now, though you know this morning it is in regard less to your figure as it is concern for the absent look in your eyes; and you grasp the fine black satin of your dress as you bring yourself towards the table glowing and waiting before you.

It is the very dress you’d worn just days earlier to sup with your family – the very dress that’d been the subject of Jacaerys’ childish jabs, of your rage, of the depths of depravity that you’d fallen into with Jacaerys. 

It is that, but it is also the very dress that’d been hand-stitched by Elina. 

And though the torches burn bright against the midmorning overcast, a dismal cool serves to quench any warmth from the room – the hearth licks hungrily at the air as figures surround the painted table, your eyes heavy upon the Queen at the head. 

It is a pall that has been cast over the council; and you have to assume, surely, they have been readily informed of the ructions from last night – the ashes of some distant pyre lit in the haze of a stormy morning.

 And the Queen, carved from stone, stands with a grasp so tight upon the back of her chair, you wonder numbly if the wood might splinter below her touch. The fire licks up her stoned visage in a backlit haunt as your and Jacaerys’ feet fall to rest before your seats at the table. 

The Queen pardons you all to sit, and as you do your eyes meet Baela’s; a fire of concern that burns into the guilt raging within. You tear your stare away from your cousin to meet the burning curve of Gulltown carved along the table’s coast just before you, your nail tracing its indents idly. 

Perhaps it is the table’s burning kiss – a light that illuminates the hollows beneath Rhaenyra’s gaze, the tight set of jaw, the tempest which swarms the shore of her stare as she stares out into the storm that rages beyond the casements. 

It is a look, absent and ruminating, you know too well – and whilst she broods, Daemon, from beside her and with words as sharp as the blade on his hip, relays the night’s events to those who were not in attendance for the spectacle. 

His words, to you, fall on deaf ears – for there lies before you a cup, and your reflection swims in its contents; a ripple when someone shifts, a shutter when thunder rocks the table. Jacaerys, in the faint morning light, looks a picture too young from memory; a watery thing, washed away by the shores of a childhood lost to fate. And Lucerys, when the cup is jolted again – his young visage turned up with a snicker, mimicking his brother’s brow in a line of jest from years past. Your throat tightens inexplicably. 

And, in that way your mind often does, you are reminded of that haunting thought – that shadow cloaked around you, wherever you go. 

Why indeed was it not you in his stead, at Shipbreaker Bay? An unuttered thought, though just as vivid; as if it were ripped from the lips of your own betrothed, or the Queen herself. And as Daemon’s lips form the tale of teas and servants and one-eyed snakes, your own thought rises, smoke unable to die. 

It is thick, living in the tremor of breath, in the curl of lips, in the inching close of your posture; why were you forgiven mercy to cross paths with the Stranger, and not Lucerys? Not Elina? It is an event which taints your very thoughts – a seeping grief, one so blistering that it sinks into the marrow of the air and grasps your throat. 

What fate is worse than theirs that the gods have planned for you? 

You do not spare a glance at any attendant of the council until Daemon has finished the recount of last night’s events; you surface, then, in the middle of some sentence: 

“–And they sent the girl?” Baela’s voice – a shard through the fog of your mind. 

“She named her masters,” Daemon affirms – there lies a bitter satisfaction curling in his tone; your gaze meets his, and nails press crescents into your palms. 

Soon there is a parchment unraveled by Maester Gerardys upon the table, spread across the table’s thick stretch of the Riverlands; and upon inspection it belies a horrifying shake of penmanship, imbued with the distinct kiss of drying blood. You must bite back a bout of nausea at the sight of the scrawled little markings, stomach churning with what must have happened. It could not be less fresh than this very morning. 

Like the rest, Baela leans forward; a silent intake of the jagged script, the remains of blood upon the confession, though you do not dare. 

In a moment of understanding, it sinks your heart below your stomach; your breath lodges in your chest. A note of your own, written so neatly and yet with haste just this very morning – a promise of duty, of matters with Daemon. You glance at Jacaerys, but his gaze is upon his uncle across the way, jaw tight and eyes resolute. 

You sway, sick and light; Had he watched? Had Jace stood by as the girl screamed, as that weakened courage had unraveled, thread by thread, beneath the pressure of shared fury? Did he even flinch?

Your cheek is torn by the sharp bite of molars – and someone speaks, though you remain trapped in the narrowing confines of your own mind, swirling with realization, with possibilities: Jace’s hands, stained with that very same guilt that Daemon wears so brazenly. 

Daemon’s words cut through your thick haze of shock. “She was a servant from the Red Keep. She came at the bidding of the Prince himself; a loyal friend, sent with poison to deliver his message—” 

Your swallow is thick and it is as pulsing as your own heartbeat when the words come: 

“Aemond One-Eye.” 

And though no one speaks, the words chill the air, tighten throats, cast sidelong glances; your dress is pressed tight to your thigh, a clammy palm soothing in some self-regulatory attempt to cast aside the attention so unwillingly brought to you. 

And for your part, you cannot speak; the girl’s confessional inked by an unsteady hand bleeds together in your vision – and the enormity of it is numbing. 

Aemond has killed kin before – and it is no revelation, no bolt of sudden shock, to realize that his hatred for you has festered beyond the pale confines of mere words. 

No, it has always lived there, sharp as a sapphire eye in the cold light of flame, hungry as a hound starved in the dead of winter, patient as a wolf in wait. 

It has always been known, as the pains of your mother and the shame of your own name, that the seeds of his loathing would one day seek a darker bloom than mere words. 

Perhaps, as sure as you were the branch of olives extended weakly across a chasm in youth, as sure as you are now the tie that will bind the smallfolk to the Black Queen – perhaps as you are these things, so too you are to them — to everyone — simply a vessel. Carrying a name, carrying blood, carrying an excuse, carrying defiance, carrying sins – carrying a future that cracks, that seeps smoke, ash, blood, and ruin. 

And perhaps now more than ever it occurs to you: Gone are the days of innocence, of war written with ink and quill. 

Lucerys’ slaying marked the smothering of whatever last flicker there may have remained of childhood affection. Of shared lineage, of recognition of the fiery blood which pulses the same through all of you. Gone are the days that, in some childish dream, you might see your brother’s laugh again, see the shine of hair glinting in the swordyard, hear that humming song of beetles through a chamber door. It is a certainty, now:

You are a thread to be cut, a piece to be moved from the board. 

To Aemond, to them — your life, that fickle thing that became inconsequential the moment you took your dragon to the sky and left for Dragonstone – your life matters far less than this war, than this pain, than the endless, aching thirst for power and retribution. 

Aemond One-Eye.

It seems that once more, the conversation has continued on without you – and you rejoin in a hazy blink of numbness to Daemon’s sharp lilt.

 “This is no work of Otto Hightower,” He claims to a suggestion of falsities, “The Hand plays a game. Precise, careful. He would never risk the pretense of honor to kill his granddaughter – though, Aemond…” 

Your eyes meet Daemon’s –  within them lies a troubling appetency. 

“That one is unburdened by such concerns.” 

A lull, graced by a crack of thunder – and then a burst of bright light upon the sullen frames of shoulders – and the quiet cracks too, a splintered thing that brings a swarm of foreboding through you in the silent chamber. It has always been known, you are reminded. 

Queen Rhaenyra’s head lifts – emboldened by the beastly chill that laces her visage; her voice is quiet, sharp. “She came for the future Queen.” 

Your stomach pools in a horror, some numb thought of a future burdened and murky. The future Queen — to be referred to as such might have once put a proud curve to your lips, but now just brings you closer to that precipice you must not name. 

Daemon’s reply is sharp and litigious as ever – a far cry from the slithering smirks and teasing mirth from just the day before. Gone is any such semblance of taunt; all that remains is wrath. 

“And she failed,” He reminds the Queen. 

At this, Rhaenyra snaps up straight, whipping her voice across the chasmed chamber as her chair scrapes against stone. 

“My son is dead!” 

A reverberation through the chamber – an echo that could send forth a murder of black winged creatures through the sky, that could stir the deepest of untamed beasts from their homes in the underbelly of the Mont. 

You are not the only one to tense in the chamber. And beside you, Jacaerys’ eyes shine – with vindication, with torment. Outside, the wind howls and wails; tears lament the casement behind you, and across the island, the empty Sept weeps quietly. 

“My son,” she repeats in a harrowing, splintered voice, “was slain by that monster – and now he dares take her too?” 

And there lies that spectre – the one which waits in the shadows of each council and curls fists, draws hands to swords, presses quills to parchment. 

She shakes her head – the glint of a golden crown aches in the kiss of firelight. Thunder clouds moan ominously outside the castle walls. “I will not suffer it. I will not lose another.” 

Your throat, held in a choked pain, that empty lingering of sorrow. Grief knocks upon the door of the chambers, it pelts upon the windows, it slides down the stone walls. It kisses the guilt which lives in your chest, which blossoms something darker and less known; and your eyes avert towards the table once more, ignoring the twitch of your betrothed’s fingers underneath the table, flexing upon his thigh. It is an effort to not reach across the empty space between you and cradle his palm in your own. 

A voice finds traction in the aftermath of the Queen’s words – though you’ve hardly enough capacity to recognize the owner as foreboding hatred swirls in your heart. “What is to be done?” 

A short exhale, and then – and as clear as the Sept’s bell chimes over hills, the Queen nods. “The girl will pay for her crime.” 

A whisper of death, that horrible thing – it curls through the hall, blowing a chill down your spine – and the room is as still as death itself, as though the Stranger looms just outside the doors, biding his time. 

But the Queen has not finished; her eyes burn; soon venom drips from the blades strapped to each man at the table –  the scent of smoke is thick, it clouds your mind in a hazy fog, twisting the rainfall into the beat of wings in the air, to the whoosh of arrows, the roar of turbulent waters – of the rush of earth far below, wind through hair, the last scream of battle. 

Her voice is sharp and heavy – wind off icy slopes, fire burning villages peppered with snow; villagers fleeing like frantic ants in a sugar bowl. Crushed beneath the heel of hatred and fury and wrath. 

“I want Aemond Targaryen.” 

THE SKY STILL WEEPS WHEN THE GIRL IS BROUGHT FORTH.

The servant girl is bound by wrist and dragged before you before the sun reaches its crest in the sky; sheltered by thick clouds, cloaking the island in a dark haze. 

She does not yet weep – though her lip trembles, her eyes darting around the chamber, it is not until her sight befalls Daemon that true terror lights the color of her stare. It is all the confirmation you need. 

Knees fall shaken before the dais where Queen Rhaenyra sits. Imposing as ever in the dismal dark cloud of weak day, she is flanked by Daemon and Corlys; and you, lingering idly and emotionless behind the Queen, feel heavier than the rolling clouds high above. 

Baela’s warmth, just a breath away, provides only a scarce bit less comfort than Jacaerys, who stands in wrath beside you; though you do not waver at the blossoming stains of wounds streaking the girl’s skin before you, still your stomach clenches. 

She weeps soon enough. Pleas fall from her split lips, breaths trembled into the cold air – it is in less than a moment that the girl is left upon her knees that Queen Rhaenyra rises; a dark river of blood-red silk and a crown glinting in the low light of storm. 

It is a deceptively calm voice that reaches through the silence of the chamber. 

“You sought to poison my kin.” 

The girl’s babbling ceases, though tears thick and fat slide over her sullen cheeks. 

“To take the life of a royal Princess – who is as much my daughter as she is my father’s daughter.” 

In the pit of your stomach comes a festering, long-hibernated thing; a violent spill of gratification, of a starved and upended desire to be loved, to be cherished. A flickering memory – that first time, weeks ago, when you’d stumbled weary and bloody onto the Island; Perhaps, you have always bore this burden. 

“You will pay for your treachery, and for the innocent life taken.” 

And despite the girl’s tears, large and lamenting as the rain that slows outside, it is in a deep tone that Daemon reads aloud the girl’s confession – guilt laid for all to hear; and you with a growing numbness in each turn of coerced sentence, each stuttered breath the girl takes as her eyes watch the glint of Ser Erryk’s blade. 

But as they read through the confession, a glint sends a tremor through you – the haunting green of eyes; the lick of silver in a scar across her wrist, glinting in the low stormlight. There is a twitch to her lips – she pleads with you now, you realize with a dropping horror. Mercy.

A sickening pit in your stomach opens; you swallow down the lilting voice from the eve before. Elina, with her fingers threaded in your hair: 

But the smallfolk love you.

A bitter thing, that is. Your own life, attempted by the brother who’d taunted and whispered, snapped in the crowded street – they do not love you, he’d promised; They are dogs at the foot of a table, grateful for scraps discarded from hands that feast. 

And she was, you know deep down. She was kneeled before his greedy, cunning hands — simply waiting her turn for a bite. In a way, you cannot blame her. Though you do not look away, and you do not lament for her impending death. 

The sentence is pronounced; flames lick up the dark slated stone walls, and Jacaerys’ shoulder brushes against your own. It is an old habit – that starving, crawling reflex which spurs your mind: 

May the gods judge her with mercy where we cannot; may her soul find peace where we could not offer it; may the fire take her sins – as it will someday take us all.

The words whisper in your mind as Ser Erryk draws his sword, and they are a fragile shield against the weight in your chest. A plea for absolution; for her, for yourself, for all the blood that has yet to be spilled. 

And with the rustle of armor, your heart lurches. 

The blade rises. 

It glints in the chamber, and you lament that this procession was not under the weeping sky, where the sins of your line and the rivers of her blood might be washed away in streams. 

A warmth finds your own hand, then – slow, a hesitant drag of knuckle over the top of your hand – and in a rush of comfort, your palm turns over to accept him. Jacaerys’ fingers link between your own, locking your palm in warmth, a squeeze tight as the blade glints above the Queensguard armor. You do not look at each other.

In a breath of pain, you squeeze back – his pull brings you to his side closer, and the satin of your black gown grazes his own dark cloak, still damp from this morning. 

The blade falls. 

A horrifying sound, a gasp muffled by the turn of your gaze towards Jace’s shoulder – and with a sickening silence, the rain has ceased. 

The chamber is silent, but for the trickling pulminations aching onto the stone before the body. Your stomach churns. For your sake, a life has once again ended. 

In the aftermath, Daemon simply turns to leave – and at the question of his daughter, he reveals only a clipped sentence: He goes “to visit the prisoner.” 

Numb, you do not think anything of it; and the doors echo through the room. Dresses, cloaks, tresses and trousers ruffle as the council is dismissed; Ser Erryk wipes dark streaks from his blade. 

A foreboding swirls in the ripples of forgotten goblets by the doors; in the blood on the stone floor, which glistens sickeningly in the torchlight; a horrifying thing, one that echoes the price of treachery – and in the faces of most around you is no relief, no victory. 

Your gaze is frozen in a glance, then another, towards the corner of the hall; blinking away a vision of a cloaked, hooded figure you swore was just stooping near the dark. 

A haunting shadow, one that disappears as you blink: A spectre of what is to come. 

Smoke to be fanned.  

Blood to be spilled. 

IN THE WAKE OF THE RAINSTORM, WELL AFTER THE SUN FELL FROM THE SKY, CAME THE FOG. 

It crawled from the shadows across the sea; lumbering like the distant stirring of giants, it slid across the glassy water and choppy tide, lurking upon the Dragon Bridge and slithering into Aegon’s Garden. 

Night fell early today – though you spent most of the day perched at your casement, worrying your lips raw with thoughts that could not leave. It was not until the sky was blanketed by the relief of night, and stars littered its visage, that the anger came; and when it did, it was vicious, irrational. 

Dripping from the ends of your hair, leaking from billowed breaths as you clasped your cloak tighter to the shoulder of your doublet, your hatred steeped long and resenting within your heart. 

Now, the yard is still as it has been in the moon and a half since you arrived; it is quiet, the night biting at your nose, kissing your cheeks with a chilly hiss as the blade in your hand glints under torchlight. 

It is a poor hack which you unload at the straw-stuffed dummy before you – clumsy and misaligned, your stance falters and wavers. The steel in your palm is heavy, and your arms tremble with the unfamiliar burden; screaming muscles, aching throat – though sweat beads along your brow, you ignore the throb of fear and anger which twist in your chest. 

Each swing brings about another flash – whispers, a bloody parchment; a lifeless body, the thud of a final gasp. A face, hollowed and absent. The pelting onslaught of rain, blood bubbling from a gasping mouth – the grasp of a girl trying to remain in the realm of the living. 

And you, helpless, guilty. 

A cruel joke, your mind plays: Because in an effort to cast away the horrid dredges of your memory come forth the more pleasurable ones. 

Unbidden and brash are the memories of kneeled Princes, of lips plush and pursing around quiet prayer; of fingers straining against a nightgown, of a sigh pressed into your own mouth. Visions of a grin set apart by a longer memory of sinned tongues, wandering fingers, and hands grasping starched sheets. 

The Sept, heavy with desire and transgression, with death and life and whatever odd thing lies in between.  

You slip only slightly on the mudded ground, breath pluming as fog swirls below – a strain to recall just days before the words of instruction from Jacaerys, hands adjusting your grip on the hilt, fingers brushing your own. 

Any effort to cast out thoughts of your horrid desires, the burning warmth that blossoms and festers at the thought of his hands on your skin, is futile. An exhale falls sharp from your lips, eyes tired as you swing again; nothing but an intact dummy and a ringing in your forearm, you curse quietly under your breath. Failure pricks at your pride, whispering inadequacy and impending danger. And so you push forward. After all, the blood of a Hightower is thick in ambition.

“Your footwork is abysmal,” comes a voice from the shadows – rich and familiar, though in your state, still you startle. 

Your turn is sharp to meet Jace, crossing the darkened edge of the yard under the faint light of torches. And perhaps, had you felt any less bristled, you would have admired the expression leaking from his visage – bemused, exasperated, but wholly and effortlessly handsome. 

Your affection translates rather seamlessly to irritation. “Shouldn’t you be abed?” You retort – a stubborn one you’ve always been, hoping to steady your breathing as memory of the last shared solitude between you resurfaces once more. Your huff is quiet, “It is quite late.” 

Boots drag against muddy gravel, and he hums a low thing, sending a warmth down your spine. 

“Perhaps. But here you are,” he counters, always one for a verbal spar – and his eyes rove rather slowly over your figure before flicking to the target of your anger in all its straw glory. “...Waging war against straw and sticks.” 

You pay little mind to the curling amusement in his countenance nor the uptick in your own lips that you school easily. A raise of your blade, hoping to recall any such stance that might belie half the skill you wish to possess. “I need the practice.” 

He is quick, dry. “For what, exactly?” A glossy curl falls into his eye as he tilts his head, lips twitching, “Cutting your own hand off?” 

And it is odd, for him to mask his worry with humour – you bristle in defiance, knowing if you succumb to his plot to distract you, you’ll be nothing more than a green-girl breaking in a blushing fit – and the emotion that pricks at your eyes is quelled by a tight swallow.

“Spar with me,” you demand instead. 

He seems to find this amusing – in a raised brow, he shakes his head. “You’ve held a blade for all of three days, Princess.” 

Your jaw sets. “Then this should be easy for you, Prince,” you shoot back with a half step towards where he lurks at the edge of the foggy courtyard, beside the bannister overlooking the restless sea. 

For a moment, he regards you – you, in a muddied dress, hair messed and cheeks rosy from the cold; and in that dark gaze, you feel warm and still chilled to the very bone. 

He exhales quite slowly, a light shake of his head. “I won’t.”

You resist a sharp sigh, ticking your jaw. The blade falls as you drop your arm, the tip dragging in the mud as you take another step towards him. 

“I’m not made of glass, Jace.” 

And at your tone, he takes on his own patience. “You are not,” he agrees, “But I’m no fool, either,” he purses lips, wettened with his tongue. “Grief and anger are poor sparring partners.”

You falter at his words, sage as they are hypocritical. 

Some burning anger still festers, some resentment for the world that has chewed you up in a shipwreck of loss and spat you back onto untread shores; some disdain that nests clear in your heart and threads a tale for future loss and future sorrow – that warns of dreams past, of dreams soon to come – it burns. 

The blade is lifted before you can even think twice. 

And he, staring at you for a brief moment as you levy the steel, and then down to the very blade that lies level just upon his nose. 

Your hand is not steady; for it is a stark memory, a mirror reversed in some sick trick of the eye, moon past and breaths far since fallen. 

His gaze locks onto your own, dark and searching again – and there is a flickering there. He remembers. 

A memory shared in twin agony; two sides of the same mad coin. 

He remembers, and you can see it in the way his lips part, the way his brow knits upwards; that moment, now long ago and yet so burned into you both — a blade held between you, a desperate attempt to wield control in the face of everything so very uncontrollable – and a shaking palm, a whispered defiance.

The faint scar across your palm that still lives. 

Jacaerys doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch – and with a signet ring glinting in the torchlight, he reaches up slowly. 

You cannot blink before he is taking the blade into his palm and gripping. 

There is no sound to the contact – your breath hitches, and the sight of his palm closing over the sharp steel stings; salt in a wound. Dots of dark blood well from where the blade bites into flesh, crimson and soon weeping gently down his wrist. 

You’re struck with some horror. “J-Jace,” you falter, words falling from your lips in a frosted whisper – and your grip falters, though he does not let go. 

A shiver falls down your spine as you swallow down the rush of anger arisen. 

At the thought of Jacaerys, at the thought of your father, long since burned and gone from the realm of men; at the thought of the man you once called brother – the one who sent that knife so willingly towards your throat. At the whispering voice of your mother, which still curls around the corners of your mind and spits sin into the shadows. 

It is Jacaerys, you remind yourself. And perhaps, you have both always bore this burden. 

And when his voice comes, it is firm.

“Skoros iksis aōhon iksis ñuhon.”

The sword is heavy; his words are heavier. What is yours is mine. 

Blood drips slow down his pale palm, steady as what you’ve done, what you did – what you will do. 

And then your grip slackens entirely; his fingers tighten around the blade, refusing to release it as emotion stings in your eyes, breathing heavy as you shake your head. 

The blood is slow but it is real, and it comes from your betrothed. 

A fear – one that scratches its talons down your spine and claws at your throat; the burden of sharing, of becoming one. 

You nearly whimper as the sword lowers, slipping from your hands as your arms fall limply to the side. “Kesā botagon syt ziry,” your words hang in the yard: You will suffer for it. 

And for a moment, he does not move; the blade is now in his own fingers, wrapped and bloody as you tremble, a leaf in the dawn of winter. 

The hilt hits the mud – and perhaps in his gaze you find the emotion you cannot name, that ache in your chest that pounds with each breath you struggle to find. 

When the blade finally falls, his blood-slicked fingers leave smears of crimson upon steel; and his hand falls to his side, eyes still locked and unrelenting upon you. 

It is this reverent stare – a whisper, one from when the day was still lit with lighter stormclouds – this morning, when it cleansed itself with torrential pours and you and your betrothed ducked your heads under the gaze of seven strange gods. 

It is this stare you find again, calling to you, whispering. For the future… That I might be worthy of it. 

Of the realm, and of those who are beside me.

And just as the echo of his words reverberate in your mind, the days catch up to you; in a dizzying spell of empty chested-gasping, your knees buckle rather ungracefully. 

Jacaerys catches your back swiftly, uncertain; as though he knows not where to purchase them without overstepping. And he murmurs your name low – the bloodied hand comes to rest at the small of your back, warm and firm despite the sting you know it must carry. 

Your own grasp his shoulders, pulling him into you, unable to bear the stare of his gaze.

Your apologies are swallowed by the threat of tears – vicious things that prick at your eyeline and tremble your lip, though you swallow hard and blink away the haze clouding your vision. His embrace is hesitant as it is welcoming, hands light but steady all the same. 

Your own shaky grasp curls into the affection you so desperately dreamt for in youth – from upturned chins of your kin, from the avoiding gaze of your father, from the unreachable hands of your half-sister, from the cold pity of your mother. 

But Jacaerys is here now; he is here because fate has brought him to you, as you have been brought to him. And tresspasses must be gone, forgotten, swallowed by the irascible pit of youth – and in its wake must bud something else entirely. 

Your hands hold him, and they feel cleansed. 

It is a long moment suspended in the embrace of each other – the moon dances shyly behind thin clouds, and the shadow of a beast tattered and wild flickers high upon the Mont in the East. 

“Come,” Jace says at last – a light brush of his palm to your sleeve – and he guides you towards the banister overlooking the steep walls of the castle. 

Down below the sprawled stone walls, the fog crawls back in retreat; a dance with the tides, a waltz whose steps you know quite well by now. Soon, the slow march of fog will retreat in the longer slumber of eve; and it will return hungry and crawling in the wake of morrow to claim the fishing boats which depart from the docks. 

Jacaerys is a warm pillar beside you, blocking the brunt of seabreeze and bringing back the warmth to your cheeks. 

Down the coast is a cluster – the fishing docks and a gaggle of homesteads, lit by specks of torches. The waves rock in a slow dance against rafts, and the lanterns bob gently in the lick of tide. The thought pangs at your stomach as grass blows down the mountain in ripples lit by the moon – Elina’s lover, the boy with the bubbling laugh and a heart of the sea –  does he look out upon the same glassy moonlit waters as you do now, and hear her name in the waves? 

When will he learn she is one of the first of many spoils of war? 

Your head turns to dip, hands braced against the cold stone bannister; Jacaerys does not speak. He waits for you to come to him, as if he knows in some way, you always do. And when you break the silence, your voice barely carries over a whisper to the wind. 

“What good am I,” you wonder, “if I cannot even wield a blade properly?”

His breath curls in the air just above your eyes and you watch it dissipate against the starry sky. “You cannot learn to fight in days,” He insists, your name lilting from his lips in a bitter release of truth. 

The words are honest, yet they chafe at you; and in defiance, your eyes flicker skyward and roll with exasperation.

“And that is precisely the problem,” you sigh; along the coast, a flock of small birds circle and dip beneath the glassy shore. “Why did I not, too, grow up with callouses on my palms and steel in my hand?” 

He has no words to soothe the bitterness upon your tongue. 

The fog ebbs; spare tresses loose from your tied hair flick across your vision – you tame them briskly with a hooked finger. 

Along the line of small village shacks far below the castle, there is one torch still lit, casting a tall shadow down the rocky path – and wavering just as its flame, your voice is not as strong as you hope. 

“The innocent have already begun to drop like flies, Jacaerys.” 

Wind whistles gently. “War is here,” you whisper; A vision of a stirring beast, high above, scorching the papery wings that float just above a raucous sea. War is here, and it looms with ancient breath. 

Your words seep into the night, a melted thing that burrows itself into your marrow and twists your heart into a frigid stone. 

“You are not the only one who… feels what’s to come,” his voice lacks heat – instead he delivers his position with a rigid sureness that merely gnaws at the guilt in your stomach. 

A hand remains curled against the stone, a crimson fist as he leans opposite you on the balcony, “But you’re not helpless, even if you believe so.”

The sea is tamed at this hour; it is quiet and shy, kissing the fog which rolls over it with a tender affection. “Helpless is precisely what I feel,” Your tone leaks a bitterness, “The gods demand so much, yet they do not arm us with the means to meet such expectations.” 

And your words are a shadow of that tall tower beaming green and watchful; backlit out on the moonkissed training yard, you stand to Jacaerys and watch with a hopeful dread that he might see past the leaking emerald in your veins. 

Jacaerys exhales – his breath curls into the air, his boots scuff softly against the stone. His gaze burns through your visage, and you dare not turn to face him. “Wars are not only fought with swords,” He reminds. “Your strength lies elsewhere.”

You glance at him, your brow furrowing; frustration pricks at you. Your strength. Eyes roll to the heavens once more, lips puffing a plume of breath as you scoff. “–And where is that, exactly? In words? Politics? In being a thorn in your side?” 

And though he does not bristle at your childish jab, he also finds no such answer to provide you in the wake of your small outburst besides a sigh. His breath plumes before you, a rosy blush upon his nose and nipping across his cheeks. The cold has seeped through and begun to weary your bones. Your nail carves along the bannister’s rough stone in an unknown pattern. 

You are bitter and you are sore – but he stands beside you still, watching you with that amber gaze, patient enough to drive you mad. Your lips purse and puff out a plume of breath. “Or, perhaps it is to stand idly by while others fight and die?” 

And you know this stirs him – he, too, itches for the wind on dragonback; for the blade, for blood. It is written into the gold cracking through amber irises – when he cannot provide words in solace, you shake your head. 

You glance at him, silvered and bright against a dark yard. Jacaerys stands in some weary beauty, a tragic gift of the gods in a crumbling world – and yet you find that look he’s so often levied and only of recent times attempted to conceal: exasperation. 

It bristles you once more, though a small part of you knows well that he is correct. 

Your eyes impose upon him a look of similar indignation, crossing your arms across your chest. A scoff comes from your lips. “You’re the heir, Jace. It’s not the same.”

Fingers flex along the stone before you and his signet ring glints in torchlight – Jacaerys does not hesitate when he levies his response to you this time, quiet and intent in the gentle wind. 

“And you’re meant to stand beside me,” his eyes meet your own and they permeate that film of worry, that fleeting heartbeat which skips under his slow stare. With a shake of his head, the line of his jaw cuts through the dark of his cloak. “Not as someone waiting idly for orders. The gods know just as well as I that you would not dare surrender to such a thing. Nor would I wish you to,” His voice is that stern cadence you know only superficially; but it permeates you, it strikes you with an understanding that he is the future King, and you are the future Queen. 

“We must win not just battles, but the war itself – and it is not with steel alone.”

Though he has not finished, and the words that follow strike you with quiet thought. “Do you think Baela any less strong merely because she can’t wield a sword? Rhaena?” He wonders, lips plump and bitten, “My mother?” 

Certainty lies within his words, and you’re struck once more with the weight of the crown not yet placed upon his brow – by the draw of his stare, by the stern curve of lip. 

He’s correct, and perhaps this is the most frustrating of all. 

A good thing, then, that you’ve a match just as stubborn and ardent as your own spirit; how boring it would be to marry one who shares no similar tenacity for resolve. 

And though neither of you dare speak it, the space between you has become a thing of the past – he inches closer still when you turn to face him, ruefully shaking your head and watching his gaze trace the curve of your cheek. You feel his breath and it feels right. 

“Winning wars with words,” your voice is a dry attempt to deflect from the growing tension, from the hitch in your breath. But still, your lips twitch. “You make it sound so very romantic.”

And in your small pride, his lips twitch too – a ghost of a smirk, some spectre of the boy he has no such time to be. But he simply leans his forearms against the chilled stone, tilting his head to regard you from this angle and sighs gently, curls straying and caught in the kiss of breeze. 

You do not tame them for him, though you watch enviously as his hands manage the task on their own. 

“And you make it sound quite tedious,” he counters in a soft timbre, one that vibrates in the wind and settles low within your breast. Your gaze has found the round swell of his bottom lip, and it strikes you that perhaps the conversation has transcended the subject of war and gone to more petrifying territories. 

And perhaps in fear of that very fragile thread which holds you together, your faint smile melts, leaning to rest your arms beside his own upon the bannister. “Perhaps because it is,” You murmur, a quiet and lingering whisper. 

And he knows this; he, of all, knows it well. A muscle tightens in his jaw – a betrayal of the restlessness that has sewn itself poorly constructed sutures into the still festering wound of Storm’s End; it is in the shift of his shoulders, the flex of hands stained in crimson – haunted, perhaps, by the weight of a sword he is desperate to wield. 

It is when the moon shines from behind a measly string of clouds that you jolt in guilt; a puff of breath that leaves almost as a sigh, and Jacaerys’ gaze follows your frame as you turn and stalk away, bending low to retrieve the flagon of water you’d disposed of in your endeavor to wield your iron. 

When you are beside Jacaerys again, it is a soft coaxing that guides his wounded palm from the stone and into your own hand, gently unfurling it in your grasp. You pour the water in a heavy silence, intent on ignoring the heat of his stare upon your face – you choose instead to study how the blood cleanses from his hand in a river of pink, falling quietly to the muddied earth. 

Thankfully the cuts are shallow, superficial; he ensures you he will visit Maester Gerardys this evening; you insist on attending if only to make sure he keeps true to his word. And though he gives you his eyes rolled to the heavens, you still can see the flush growing upon his visage in the wake of your insistence. 

The torches lining the upper bailey walls are burnt low. It approaches an hour unseemly to remain out, if not now; and in the dancing light that fades in the flicker of Jace’s gaze, there lies that same boy who grew too quickly into a man – a burden dragged down by a crown, by a war that neither of you wished for. 

And perhaps you would have done something rather reckless in this moment – for his hair is glossy and curled in the nightfall, and his eyes watch yours with such wide reverence; his cheeks are that same rosy red you’ve come to meet in each memory of your shared trysts, his eyes are wanting and warm – his lips pursed and curved with a wishing breath. 

Perhaps you would have done something reckless – but when your mouth opens, your gaze hitches upon something rather inconsequential in the foreground and you pause. 

A faint flicker of movement along the path leading down to the fishing docks; your visage must reflect the interest you harvest, as Jacaerys too turns to follow your gaze with a blink of interest. 

A hooded figure; faint, carrying a freshly lit torch. 

A cool breeze brings unease to your stomach as your eyes fight the dark to make out any such shape. 

“Who do you suppose walks at such an hour?” 

And perhaps it is merely paranoia – the castle walls are not safe as you once thought, and Jacaerys knows this just as well – though his eyes hook onto the figure and their deliberate steps, jaw ticking as he hums shortly. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, voice slow and pondering. 

It is quiet for a moment; paranoia is a lingering thing these days, curled in the corners in the shadows, in wait like a starved hound; And though you worry your lip with your teeth, Jacaerys sets his hand to brush your own upon the bannister, and you do not pull away. 

Not interlocked, though brushing, you remain – and the hooded figure is swallowed by the foggy outskirts of vision.

Neither of you speak again, your gazes set to the horizon and breaths set in a slow march towards the unknown. 

THE NEXT MORNING, THE SKY SWALLOWS ITS SORROW IN SHY BURSTS OF BLUE.

Clotted clouds roll over hills, pregnant with the quiet promise of rain and thunder; though sunshine peeks through gaps and dapples the waves of green around you. The body of wildgrass shifts in its current, swaying around your untamed tresses, arms of yellow and green grasping your ribs, tickling your knees and kissing your cheeks. 

Across the cliffside meadow, your curling beast rests in a pocket of sun, her scales glinting, ancient breaths echoing through your lungs. There is an eruption, sudden but silent in the distance, of blackened wings of ravens down the valley near Aegon’s Garden – and soon come the shivering ripple of grass along the cliff, trembling to the rhythmic beating of wings. 

Winds shift; smoke and salt come, then, over the cliffside. You’re eclipsed overhead by a great shadow, though you need not look; soon, Vermax’s claws thunder into the ground of the meadow beside his sister. 

You squint against the sunshine, watching great chests expand and deflate in unison; a rhythm written into their molten blood – a tether just as strong as the one that binds you to his rider. 

The shadow of his frame slips from great wings, and you press your palms to your lids to ease the ache of sun glare. 

You should rise – should greet him as propriety dictates, nod your head or at least look up as the Prince crosses to you – but your legs are heavy with the weight of the shy sun, and you instead remain rooted and evergreen in your spot overlooking the great valley of Dragonstone. 

The wind whispers into your ears as he approaches, and you stretch your weary limbs softly, a breath puffing through your lips. 

The cliffs are steep, and drop off into slates of charcoaled black; gleaming splinters of glass glinting in the splotched sunlight. 

It is quiet as Jacaerys lowers himself beside you, cloak pooling against the fabric of your dress. 

His lashes are long, lit by the sun that peeks so shyly from the clots of clouds above. He gazes out to the sea, where the waves swell and crash against jagged stone; a flock of gulls take the sky above you, their gray feathers glinting against the morning light. 

Vermax has begun to chirp to his sister – it is an easy thing, their companionship – and you breathe into the wildgrass that tickles your arms, shivering slightly in the high breeze, tugging your cloak tighter. 

Jacaerys says nothing. 

And, still unspoken, there is something between you; lingering in the gaps between words, in the careful way you glance at each other’s countenances when you believe the other is not aware; there is something in the memory of sharp tongues and sharper tempers. 

In all honesty, it should be gone, that thing; after all that has happened, the blood and death and memories of years spent in mutual condescension – and yet, it remains. 

A hunger, unfulfilled. A flame refusing to die.

You’re unsure as to what drives you to end such silence. 

Your voice slips from the mountaintop, soft and as whispering as the wind that curls around your skirts, driving waves of the wildgrass to ebb and flow. 

“Elina had a lover.”

At your words he turns to you at last. His stare is warm and wary upon your mourning countenance, though he waits for you to continue. 

High above, wisps of clouds stir and circle in a rainbow of mist.  

“A fisherman. He promised to marry her when the war was won.” 

Jacaerys exhales slowly, a thing heavy and knowing. He needs not say anything; for he knows, as well as you, how this tale ends. You wonder if he feels the foreboding in his gut just as you do on your own. 

Salt and earth are carried through the wind between you – and a small grace of the incense sticks he favours to burn in his chambers. Jacaerys’ fingers curl into the grass, grasping, dirt smudging over the bandage over his palm. 

He does this, sometimes. Allows you the grace of quiet, even when his head is filled with too many thoughts. Your hand drifts towards him on its own – a small hope for comfort under the chasm of the open sky – and with a ghosted touch, you feel the bandage beneath your fingertips. 

He does not pull away; instead his gaze anchors once more on your visage, searching as you lift his hand into your own. “So many things left waiting,” you murmur, tracing along the fabric that nurtures the split flesh of his palm – where your sword was grasped just the last eve. 

His voice is just as quiet as your own as his fingers flex beneath yours. It seems he knows where your mind is; Perhaps his has been there all along. “War has always taken more than lives.” 

Your throat tightens. He does not need to say more. 

His shoulder brushes your own, and, without a thought, your hand rises to curl around the fabric of his sleeve, wrapping around his bicep. 

And he does not pull away as you rest your head upon his shoulder, curling into the side of him. A slight hitch in breath, perhaps shared by you both; but he breathes slow and long, his head eventually falling to rest against the crown of your own. 

So you and your betrothed rest in the morning breeze, choppy sea glinting and winking from far below. 

And it happens so very gently — his own hand falls to rest upon the flat of your thigh, precarious but grounding; a heat spreads from it, though there is something so right about his body against yours, about his heart beating just beside your cheek, that you have no mind to pay attention to the guilt of your mother’s voice curling in your breast.

Your dragon takes flight off the cliff – soon, the reflective chartreuse of Vermax leaps in chase, catching the wind and diving in their playful spiral downwards. A gust of smoke and ash, and you watch the water far below ripple as the beating of wings dive in descent. 

Your stomach rumbles in a distant reminder of hunger – your lips purse, hand unintentionally tightening around Jace’s arm as you sigh into his doublet. The drag of his jaw against your unruly hair; and lips that press somewhere upon the crown of your head, a faint skip in your heart. 

“I dreamt of my father last night,” his whisper leaks into your heart, tugging painfully. “Laenor.” 

And it is a thing, you realize – that he clarifies. It is unspoken, that thing that lingers in bad blood and memories of whispers, taunting and cruel from childhood. 

Your eyes shut, swallowing back a thick strike of angst. “He was a good man,” You murmur, breath lost to the wind. Jacaerys hums and you feel it against the warm skin of his neck. It is only a moment before his voice comes again, softer than usual. 

“I wonder if that is enough, in the end.” 

His words bring a quiet; weighted by the shaky breath Jace levies, by the pull you feel, that urge to press against him and never be separated. 

You can only provide him that same gift he’s given you – a listening ear. And he accepts it. “Harwin Strong,” he murmurs then – and your heart lurches at the wavering in his voice. 

Your betrothed does not name his father; but he does not need to. You know who his father was. And you do not hold him any less tight because of it. 

“He was a good man as well,” Jace says weakly, a watery thing.

You pick your head from his shoulder, heart aching with the tremor of loss, of all that has been denied to your betrothed. Your voice comes, and you hope it is enough. “I think he would have liked to see you as you are now,” you whisper, a careful thing as your fingers trace over his tense muscled arm. 

Jacaerys’ fingers twitch; your own trail over the veins which trickle over his hand. His smile is bitter. “I think he would have liked to see me at all.”

And that unspoken thing, nestling in the crack of your hearts – your heart aches, mind tumbling down into a chasm of memory and youth. Your hair catches the sunlight when you turn to watch your dragons in the distance, fishing along the gleaming waters and skimming the surface with their claws. 

A distant memory – the dragons, not any older than a few years, nearly small enough to be lost at a distance, clamoring to bite at the shores of Blackwater Bay. How you’d loved to watch them, then. Youth, you think bitterly – what an odd thing to share. Your brothers, your sister – they are but echoes of you; reflections, bent and warped and twisted and reshaped, but still an echo of your own longing, your own scarcity in the life of abundance. And Jacaerys – he is the same. Blood, and name, and duty; these things, which mean so much and yet so little. 

And in the end, is that enough? 

You glance out to the skyline, where the sea warbles and glints against a line of thickened clouds. Out beyond the plane of rolling thunder, there lies a Keep of red, and a throne made of swords. 

Is that enough? 

Your ruminations are disturbed by a shift in your betrothed’s balance. Withdrawn from his belt comes a pouch – small, velvet; from the kitchens. Your stomach keens at the sight, though your brows furrow, a churning flicker of fear striking your heart. Poison, your mind whispers, tightening your throat and seizing the beats of your heart. 

You’ve scarcely entertained the thought in the days since Elina died; it’s a poor thing, you know; but you’ve been unable to bring yourself to do it, in fear of the curling grasp of your brother’s talons even across the bay. 

His sentence is punctuated by the opening of the bag; a fragrant smell, roasted and honeyed – almonds, just how you prefer them. Your cheeks are hot, heart thudding in your chest. 

“I know you’ve not eaten,” Jacaerys says, offering the candied almonds to you, eyes syrupy pools of amber and honey as they take in the slight lurch in your chest. 

“I’ve no appetite,” you counter, hoping he cannot hear the roar of your stomach. He levels you a stare which, in other times, might coax a stifled huff of amusement from you; though your defiance merely grows as you narrow your gaze to him. 

“I don’t.” You insist, resisting the urge to cross your arms across your chest. 

This bristles him. 

Your attitude, you know, is not a favorable one. Just as you were last night, you’re inclined to resist out of some last ditch for self preservation; Though admittedly, you grow weary. 

The frustration returns to Jace’s voice just slightly as he sighs, leveling you with a stare that belies his patience, despite the way his eyes roll to the heavens and back. It is not the first time such an action, a mirror of your own attitude, has sent your stomach in flutters – a handsome visage indeed, your heart chides. 

His tone is that of a chastising nursemaid as he says your name. “You cannot live on air alone.” 

You turn just so with a strike of defiance in your heart, leaning back on an arm as you glare half-heartedly at him. “It is not your concern, Jacaerys.” Your retort is as much a lie as it is childish, though you set your jaw in indignation. “I am not your concern.” 

The wind is gentle in the silence, and your cheeks heat under his stare. 

He, indeed, does not enjoy the falsities of your words either. It’s only a moment before he closes in – his gaze, darker in the shade of a rolling cloud overhead, and his breath almost kissing your own.

“You are.” 

And there is that fire in his stare, that flicker that should have been long lost or doused yet remains burning, hungry. Possessive. He tilts his head to level with your own, and your pulse quickens. 

His lips nearly brush against yours; and despite yourself, your breath catches. 

Jacaerys’ voice is slow when it meets your ears. “Whether we will it or not. You are.” 

The space between you is unbearably small, your cheeks quite hot – and Jacaerys, brow stern, gaze set upon you. His own cheeks are rosy, fingers twitching upon your thigh as if he just realized where they remain, heavy, purchased. The wind has died; the almonds rest still in their velvet pouch. 

Your jaw ticks in some half-exasperated, half-hungry way; and it is unmistakable when it happens. 

Though it is a quick flicker, you see it: Jacaerys’ gaze, frustrated, insistent – dropping to your lips and flickering with something. A quiet memory of the empty Sept yesterday morning, of the moments stolen in your chambers, of the painted table pressed into your back, his lips upon your own. 

And that flame, that thing that remains despite it all – it flickers in your stomach, sparking and igniting as your eyes lock onto his in the soft light of the late morning. 

You don’t look away. 

The silence is taut as you slowly reach out, still caught in the churning gaze of his stare, still breathing your breath into his own, still ignoring the flutter in your chest. 

You take the almonds from his palm, though your jaw is set and your stare is blazing into his own. 

The almonds are sweet – a welcomed taste to the bitter guilt that’s kept you petrified for a long time; and Jacaerys watches with heavy eyes, locked upon your own, sending a flip to your stomach. 

It takes little time before his contact is broken, his gaze dropping to your lips as you press a handful to them, lashes fluttering as he lets out a nearly imperceptible exhale. 

But you certainly hear the tremor, as his gaze hooks on the ease of your tongue across your lips. 

A tightened jaw, the flicker of eyes, and you burn. 

You break your own stare when the heat becomes too much; your pulse spikes, though perhaps Jacaerys has executed his trick – for the pouch is empty, and your stomach is satiated. Though in its wake grows a new kind of hunger, fresh and yet familiar, and burning much too bright. Perhaps that, too, was a trick – a welcomed one. 

A bite of a plush lip, and you no longer attempt to conceal the flames of desire which lick up your throat. 

Down below, within the ramparts, the old Sept’s bell begins to chime. 

The sun has hit its crest in the sky; you and Jacaerys watch as a flock of dark wings depart from the bell tower and take towards the wooded forest beyond the Dragon Bridge. 

The bell chimes once more, and your mind drifts with its toll, wondering if it will sound any different when the chimes are not to signify the apex of daylight, but instead the celebration of a union. 

Something stirs in the pit of your stomach, the shadow of dragons passing overhead. “It’s not fair,” you murmur – and as Jace shifts beside you gently, his hand still purchased light and warm upon your thigh. 

He hums in that way he often does, his bandaged palm tracing the subtle crease of fabric upon your leg; you feel the heat of him through the fabric and repress a shiver. 

A scoff-like sound, almost bitter in its descent, falls from your lips. You shake your head, tresses stray and blowing around your head. Waves crash into the slated walls of the cliffs down below. 

“I should have wanted the waiting,” you admit, cheeks hot, heart aching. 

He swallows, and you see it in the way his throat moves. The sun kisses his profile, that profile which was drawn in the vision of the gods, in the love of the realms, in the blood of the ancients; a profile which brings a sickening yearning to your heart. 

He smiles, and though it is bitter, it is still radiant. 

“And I should have had the time to.” 

That’s it, you realize quite suddenly; there is no time left. There is a horrible feeling in your gut when you glance from Jacaerys to the horizon, where boats dot the sea like flecks of mud upon boots; where invisible people pull invisible fish onto the docks and ship them to invisible soldiers who will soon march with the banners of your betrothed. 

Your lips press together, and you repeat the words you’ve had beat into your spine since the very night that your father departed the realm of the living. 

Your lips curl. “War does not wait.” 

Jacaerys laughs softly, and though it is humourless, it is soothing to your burning veins. It is a mirror of the passion, the anger in your heart. “No,” he agrees, “It does not.” 

His lips are pink. Freckles kiss the slope of his nose, peppering his jaw; The wind brushes his hair from his brow. His eyes seem to take in those delicate and distinct features which make up your own visage, and you are struck with an immense emotion for which you have no name. There is no time left – there never was. 

You are hesitant, though the words still fall from your lips as you glance at him, at the soft warm glow glaring right behind the haloed ring of light above his curls. War does not wait. 

“So why should we?” 

His breath catches with your words, the syrupy blink of long lashes, of searching, willing eyes. You watch back with a fire you see reflected in his own gaze.  

A swallow, the slide of his bandaged palm up your thigh, sending a shiver of want through you. 

You meet him as eagerly as ever before, your lips pressing to his own with the thirst of the tide. 

It is no long-awaited thing; it is no breathless, heart-stopping kiss, but it is you and Jacaerys, alone and together, desperate and hungry and vengefully direct. There is no time for waiting any longer – your body aches to be against his own, and his sings the same song of desire as he presses against you with a small noise. 

Against your lips he murmurs your name – barely a breath as he tilts back into you, not gentle nor hesitant. It is urgent, raw – it is written by the words unspoken, by the feelings that draw both of you to tremble in the darkest hours of night; sand, slipping through fingers. His lips are warm, and his tongue is insistent against your own. 

The press of his chest, the grasp of your fingers in his curls; a slow and languid slide of his mouth over your own. A thumb strokes at the hinge of your jaw and your stomach flutters as he coaxes your lips open further for him. 

His breath shakes with that same fire you saw yesterday – that vengeful look, which drove duty and wrath together and what builds an immense desire within you at his touch. 

You take what you want from each other, and you do it willingly. 

It does not take long. He shifts, pressing you back into the wildgrass; and the sky yawns wide above you as he comes to hover above you, freckles littering his cheeks and a flush creeping along the slope of a regal throat. 

Lips feather over your mouth, down to your jaw, dipping to the hollow of your throat; an overwhelming desire clutches you, your eyes falling to the distance as his teeth graze your pulse; the pale stones worn with wind and weather – the Sept. 

You’re struck with the vision of a slipping shadow, looming in the depths of the altar, watching with a hooded visage; watching again in the Great Hall as blood leaks red and warm from an expiring life. 

And yet, all you can think of is him – Jacaerys, his hands dragging along your curves, his lips pressing, his breath lingering warm and unsteady against your skin. 

Your own hands find him in a hunger unrivaled; tugging him, whispering his name, pressing into the hard line of his body. 

He drinks your sighs, inhaling your breaths as you tug him to your own waiting lips as if you are starved. 

And still, there is guilt: a familiar thing, that pressure festering below your ribs. The staining of your palms with blood, innocent and spilled. 

But there is also anger.

Anger that you will never have the chance to enjoy the pleasures of marriage, to revel in love, or whatever might bloom in its absence, without the looming shadow of war. Anger that your life is not your own; anger at the chains of duty and blood. And so you press into him, taking – because that is all war does, in the end. And you are done waiting. 

And he feels it too— you taste it upon his tongue, within his grasp; possessive, hungry, desperate. The meadow is warm in the cool morning, and you let Jacaerys press against you, you let your hand slide up his face, feeling the fresh shaved slope of his jaw, feel his tongue against your own and the soft sigh he lets against your own lips. 

You melt into Jacaerys as wings beat high above your heads, as the sea churns below you, as a Usurper sits across the bay on a throne of iron, as arms are gathered leagues away. 

The thought festers still, even as Jace’s palm glides up from your calf, catching on the fabric of your skirt and sliding it up with him. A fierce arousal licks up your core at his touch, and you keen – though still the thought lingers, and you have to say it; perhaps in the hopes that he will soothe such fears, that he will assure you that fate does not have such a grip on your bloodline as you dream. 

Dreams, dripping with terror and whispers of death, try to grasp at your mind with their spiny talons; but you are warm, now, and your mind as wrapped with Jacaerys. Still, your voice tremors against his lips. “This will change nothing.” 

And Jacaerys puffs a breath against your jaw – a grin, one rueful and yet knowing – and his words are whispered low into your ear. Soothing, vengeful, promising. 

“Then let it be nothing.” 

Gods. 

You shudder as his lips find your throat, his hands dragging up the fabric of your dress, skimming along your trembling, wanting skin. The sun is bright. Your fingers slide beneath his tunic, mapping muscle, dragging against warm skin, slowly tracing lines of tension and want.

Let it be nothing.

Let it be ruin. 

Let it be whatever it must be.

Fingers trail up your dress skirts, leaving raised goosebumps in their wake as he breathes into your neck. You tug him closer, sighing into his ear as he skims over the aching need that pools between your legs. “Please,” you beg of him, knowing he hears the unspoken words in your voice. 

And with a jolt of pleasure, his touch finds your heat. You arch into his fingers, thighs parting wider as he exhales in desire. 

The wildgrass billows in waves; Jacaerys cradles you, pressing his lips to your thundering pulse as you suck in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering. 

He shushes against your lips faintly, just as two fingers slide slowly into your warmth; you inhale sharply at the pleasure, his breath trembling against your skin.  

It is bliss. 

A hungry, raw thing – the desire to push him over and crawl onto his lap; to let him have you, to claim him as your own, to let him claim you as his – it strikes need hot within you, and you shiver when he presses his fingers fully into you. Deep, slow, euphoric. 

And after just one moment, he begins to move; a slow soothing rhythm to the aching throb of desire that grows when he shifts and nudges you, pressing you flat on the grass below.

He joins you when your palms grasp his shoulders, balanced on one arm with his fingers caressing your hair; and the other between your thighs, slow and intent, driving you closer to the bliss you so chase.  

Your hips move against his ministrations, a quiet shutter when he hums against your lips, murmuring your name and crooking his fingers. Your own grasp is tight in his hair, and at your insistence of tugging the curls through your fingers, his lips part in a low groan of his own. 

Pleasure is a simple thing, when it is with Jacaerys. 

The sun beats down upon his frame, pressed above you, curls kissing your warm cheeks as you shake through your pleasure, pulling him closer, whispering words of need, words of desire. 

Let it be nothing, his voice chides in your mind; and a moan of his name from your kiss-bruised lips, head tilting against the grass as his thumb finds you and presses gently. He swallows your sighs with his own, shushing you only once when you whimper into his throat. 

Let it be nothing. 

Your hips leave the grass below, and he is gentle in the way he pushes you back down, his stare reverent, lips parted, eyes taking in each small expression of pleasure upon your visage. He groans softly, pressing his forehead to yours, breath heavy, ragged. His fingers stroke, tease, and you arch against him, gasping at the slow, torturous pleasure. 

The sun climbs behind dappled clouds. His fingers work to unravel you, even as your eyes roll back once more. Even as the wind kicks and ruffles his curls; even as you tug him impossibly close. 

Even as the Sept bell begins to ring once more. 

Through the haze of desire, both you and Jacaerys falter only slightly – it is unusual to ring the bells after midday; though they strike a third time, and you know. 

War Council is called. 

Something in you deflates – though the chiming of the heavy bell far below does not seem to phase your betrothed, as he soon resumes his ministrations, bringing a sharp gasp to your lips as a hazy warmth of pleasure stirs once more. 

A huff of shock from you curbed by a dreamy sigh, his lips pressing to the soft spot below your ear. A wonderful distraction, he is – you feel yourself dangerously close upon the precipice of bliss as he quirks a small smirk, some flicker of aroused amusement at your quivering thighs. 

The bells continue, though so does Jacaerys. 

Your hips writhe as you near that very thing you chase; and he holds you tenderly with breaths falling into your ears, the wind gentle as you hold him against you. 

“C-c–” you try to spit out the words which wait on your tongue, and Jacaerys watches you with boyish amusement as his fingers do not cease within you, pressing as your eyes roll to the heavens, a short breath falling from your lips. 

“Fuck–” You mutter, and you do not miss how such a lewd word brings a shiver to Jace’s spine – you swallow thickly, fighting the rising pleasure as you stutter. Soon enough, though your chest trembles and heat coils so deliciously within you, you finally spit out your words. “Council,” You mutter breathlessly, “We need to go—“ you’re cut off with your own sigh of pleasure and Jacaerys grins. 

“—to council?” He finishes for you, tilting his head, gaze flickering over your form slowly. A coil of desire at his teasing lilt, though you sent him a sharp look. 

“Yes,” you bite out sharply, though your hands merely pull him closer, willing him to not move away from you. 

A flicker of amusement lit in his gaze as he hums, stroking you with his thumb and watching how your hips buck into his touch. “War can wait, princess,” He murmurs into the wind, eyes warm and defiant as they catch yours. 

And you grin, then too – in bliss, in wonder, in relief; because yes. War can wait. 

A breath leaves you as your fingers tread through the curls at the nape of his neck, tugging him to your lips. His fingers stroke within you and you whisper his name as he brings you to your peak, a tremoring sigh as you gaze hazily into his own stare, reverent, hungry – devoted. 

Let it be whatever it must be. 

And so you do. 

taglist & mutuals: @lovelyteenagebeard @lukehughes43 @kenna-the-cosmic @knight-of-flowerss @cregan-starks @dr9carys @aesteries @swordgrace @softspiderling @systraes @dipperscavern hiii ily @snow-blower @darylspersonalwhore @fluorescentadolescent1 @withlovenessie @annedub @feyres-fireheart @reyndaisy @glennussy @ladyofvelaryon @paasrin @kookjipao @miksde @falcvns @kitdjarin1 @bitchydragonparadisee @jottositto @uhnanix @lenadoerrer @saccharineseas @uniquelyabnormallyoriginal @darylspersonalwhore @taestrwbrry @withjinkoo @realporcelainkat @burningwitchobject @meowmeowmauve @bigolidioot

[amaris-whisperer]

The Silence Between Us l Superman x Mute!Reader

Pairing: Superman | Clark Kent x Mute!Reader Genre: Soft Angst, Romance, Emotional Slow Burn Warnings: Mutism (selective or medical), internalized grief Summary: You haven’t spoken a word since the explosion. The world sees you as fragile, broken. But Superman sees something else. He starts showing up during your therapy sessions, not as Clark Kent, but as himself, floating outside your window, bringing you books, and letting you sit in silence with him. Eventually, you start writing him letters. And he writes back. But what will happen when you realize he’s been hiding more than a cape? -- They tell me the silence is a prison, but they don't know that it has kept me safe. I live inside it now, wrapped in its familiarity, shielded from the noise that took everything.

I haven’t spoken in over a year. Not since the explosion. Not since the building crumbled and the sky filled with smoke and sirens and the last thing I heard was a child's scream that wasn't mine. Sometimes I still hear it in my dreams.

People talk around me like I can’t understand them. They call it selective mutism, psychological trauma, complex grief, and all the other technical labels they like to pin on broken things. But I’m not broken. Just... quiet.

Dr. Reynolds, my therapist, keeps a notebook between us. She asks questions and lets me write my answers. Our sessions are gentle, often boring. She says silence can be a conversation. I don’t tell her I already have one.

It started months ago. The first time, I thought I was imagining him. I looked up from the therapy room window and saw a figure hovering in the sky. Sunlight caught on blue fabric, the red of his cape barely rippling. Superman. Floating silently, watching.

I stared.

He didn’t wave or fly off. He stayed a few feet beyond the windowpane. I waited, unsure if I should look away. But he smiled then. Just a tilt of his mouth, something soft and small. Then he left.

The next week, he was back.

And again the week after that.

Eventually I stopped pretending not to look for him. I’d sit across from Dr. Reynolds, fingers curled around a pencil, and the moment she turned her head, my eyes would flick toward the window.

He always came during the last ten minutes. I wondered if he knew the schedule. I wondered how someone like him had time for someone like me.

One Tuesday, there was a knock on my apartment window. Third floor, no balcony. I went cold inside until I pulled back the curtain and saw him standing there. Not hovering this time, just... standing. Boots resting on the thin ledge as if it were solid ground. Arms at his sides. No threat, just presence.

I cracked the window open. Only an inch. The wind was soft behind him.

“I brought something,” he said.

He held up a book.

Jane Eyre.

I blinked.

“I read you liked it.”

I didn’t know what to do. My hands shook as I took it. He passed it through the open window, then took a step back.

He didn’t ask to come in.

“I’ll be back next week,” he said gently. “You can just leave it on the windowsill if you don’t like it.”

He was gone before I could figure out how to thank him.

We never spoke, not out loud, at least. I couldn’t. And he never pushed. He brought more books, some classic, some ridiculous. The Martian. The Little Prince. The Bell Jar. A Calvin and Hobbes collection.

One day, a pencil and notepad were resting on top of the stack.

I hesitated. Then wrote.

Why me?

I left the note where I knew he’d see it, right between the books and the wind. He returned three days later. This time, there was paper folded and creased in his hand.

Because you look at me like I’m not made of smoke and mirrors.

I held his answer in trembling fingers.

After that, we began to write.

Sometimes it was a sentence. Sometimes a page. Sometimes just a quote scribbled in the margin of a book he left behind. I didn’t know where he went after, how he carried so much quiet when the world always needed saving. But he came back. Always.

-- One morning, I found a small square of paper tucked into Leaves of Grass. My fingers brushed over the clean, decisive letters.

Can I sit with you?

He never asked for anything until then. I opened the window.

I didn’t need to nod. He knew.

He didn’t sit on the bed or the chair. Instead, he crossed his legs and settled on the floor beside me, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

It became our rhythm. Not daily. Not on a schedule. Just… often enough.

He’d bring something to read or lean against the wall with his eyes closed. I would write. Not always to him. Sometimes to myself. Sometimes about the explosion.

Sometimes about how I couldn’t stop remembering the sound of steel collapsing or the way light flickered between sirens. Sometimes about my fear that if I spoke again, it would all come crashing back.

He never looked at the pages I didn’t offer. And I never asked what haunted his silences.

But I started to hear more than quiet when he was near.

-- One night I caught him smiling at my cat, a lazy old calico who never liked strangers but slept curled beside him like they were old friends. He brushed her fur gently and said her name like it mattered.

Another time he told me a story about his dog. “He’s not really a dog,” he’d said, laughing quietly. “But he acts like one. Eats my socks. Sleeps on my head.”

It was one of the only times I’d seen him so unguarded.

“I like this,” he said once, when I handed him a note about a book of poems. “I like talking like this. I think if I didn’t have to talk so much out there,” he nodded toward the window, “I’d talk less, too.”

There was something in his voice that time. Not exhaustion, not regret, but maybe... loneliness. The kind that mirrors your own.

It was that same night I saw it. The tremor in his hand. Barely there. A muscle twitch. A delayed breath. Pain.

When I touched his wrist, he flinched. Then, ashamed, he smiled.

“I’m okay,” he said quickly. “Just a scratch.”

He was lying.

I tugged my sleeve over my hand and gently pressed against his side. He winced.

“I heal fast.”

But he didn’t leave.

I brought out the first aid kit. He let me.

It was the first time I saw the suit up close. The way it pulled across his chest, darker near the seams where blood had dried and faded. I cleaned the cut in silence. He never looked away from my face.

“You’re not afraid of me.”

It wasn’t a question.

I shook my head.

His voice dropped. “People don’t get quiet around me. Not like this. Not unless they’re afraid.”

I wrote slowly.

Maybe they’re not listening the right way.

He looked at me like I’d given him something sacred. --

It changed after that. Not all at once, but enough.

He stayed longer. He told me about space. About how stars sounded in his ears when he was above the atmosphere. How Earth was never really quiet, not even from space. He said when he was a child, he thought the world had a heartbeat. I wrote:

Maybe it’s yours.

He didn’t answer.

But that night he brushed his knuckles over my cheek before he left.

I felt it long after he was gone. --

One afternoon I opened the door to find Lois Lane standing in the hallway.

“I’m sorry,” she said, holding up a badge and a forced smile. “I don’t mean to intrude. I just… Clark talks about you. Not a lot. But enough that I needed to meet you.”

The name hit me like a slap.

Clark.

My mouth opened. Nothing came out.

She noticed.

“Oh,” she said softly. “He didn’t tell you.”

I shook my head.

She closed her eyes and swore under her breath.

“I shouldn’t have come.”

I reached out and caught her wrist before she could leave.

My hand trembled as I wrote: Clark Kent?

She nodded.

A laugh escaped her, small and sad. “You probably know him better than I do. He’s loved you for months. I think he just doesn’t know how to say it.” --

I waited that night.

When he arrived, I didn’t open the window.

He hovered for a while, watching, uncertain. When I finally opened it, I didn’t write anything. I just stepped back.

He entered quietly.

“I didn’t mean to lie.”

I looked at him, waiting.

He sighed. “Clark Kent is me. I thought if you knew, maybe you’d treat me differently. I didn’t want you to see the man who writes headlines. I wanted you to see me.”

I picked up the notebook. I did.

His face changed.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I wanted to. Every time. I just…”

I held up a hand. Wrote again. I’m not angry. I just wish you’d trusted me.

He took a slow breath and moved toward me. “I do trust you. More than anyone.”

He reached for my hand. “I never wanted to be a symbol to you. Or a secret. I just wanted to be… yours.”

The ache in my chest cracked wide open.

And I did something I hadn’t done in over a year.

I reached for his face.

Took a deep breath.

And I spoke.

Not loud. Not perfect. Just enough.

“Clark.”

His eyes filled.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispered. “You don’t owe me anything.”

But I shook my head.

“I want to.”

He took me into his arms and kissed me so gently it felt like floating.

We still sit by the window.

Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we write. Sometimes we say nothing at all.

But in the silence between us, there’s no more fear. Only presence. Only peace.

Only love.

[gayerthanevertbh]

teacher's pet.

chapter v: the touch of your hand, the mouth on my neck

n.r masterlist | teacher's pet series

summary: you were in her office again, but this time professor romanoff makes a huge turn.

parinings: professor!natasha romanoff x student!reader

warnings minors dni! teacher x student relationship, suggestive content (from natasha), sort of emotional manipulation, age difference (natasha is in her late 30s; reader is in her early 20s), forbidden attraction, dark!natasha, unresolved sexual tension.

note: you will enjoy this chapter.

"You seem very quiet."

You could hardly meet your mother’s eyes as you took small, mechanical bites of your dinner. The food was warm, familiar, and something you’d usually love—but it might as well have been cardboard. Outside, rain was tracing frantic lines down the windowpane, a soft percussive tapping filling the silence between you both. It had been raining for days—an unending deluge that made the world feel soggy, grey, and slightly off. You wondered when the sun would come back, when warmth would settle again across your skin and your bones.

You told yourself it was just the weather. Just a season. But something in you can’t help but feel that the rain was reflecting more than climate—something internal. Maybe the storm mirrored that complicated ache inside your chest, the one that started every time Professor Romanoff looked at you too long or not long enough.

But then you shake the thought away like water off a raincoat. It was too much. Too dramatic. Too... revealing.

Still, your silence stretched long enough for your mother to glance at you again. “Are you okay, honey? You’ve been quiet lately.”

You force a tiny smile, eyes fixed on the blurred cityscape outside. “Just kind of tired,” you said, keeping your voice casual, shrugging like it didn’t mean anything. “I’ve been focusing a lot on my subjects.”

Technically true, and rather technically safe. 

She hummed softly, concern lacing her tone. “I don’t want you to burn out, sweetheart. Yes, NYU is important, but it’s not worth drowning yourself over. I wouldn’t want you to push until there’s nothing left in you.”

“I’m not drowning,” you replied too quickly, then softened it. “It’s just the class I have. I don’t know. I feel like I’m failing, or... like I’m not doing enough.”

“Why would you say that?” she asked, her brow knitting with the same gentle worry she always wore. “You’ve never failed at anything in your life. You’re too smart for that; you always have been.”

You looked down at your plate, the compliment hitting like a pebble in a well—disappearing into something deeper. Was that all she saw when she looked at you? A bright girl? A diligent one? Someone who couldn’t possibly fall apart quietly in a seminar room while a red-haired woman with sharp eyes and a voice like velvet dissected Tolstoy and left you trembling in your seat without ever touching you?

Did she know you were reading Anna Karenina not for the syllabus but to learn her language? Did she know you were memorizing the curve of Natasha’s sentences the way some girls memorized love songs, just in case she ever asked what you thought?

You wanted to tell her. You want to say: There’s this professor, and I think she knows the parts of me I haven’t even named yet. But how do you explain that to your mother, who still packed you apples for long days and kissed your forehead like you were still ten? How do you explain a longing that doesn’t have a name, only a shape—the shape of a hand brushing yours in a car while rain fell hard outside?

Instead, you scraped the last of your dinner with your fork and said, “I’m just struggling.”

It was the safest version of the truth.

She nodded sympathetically, reaching over to squeeze your arm, and you leaned into it just enough to keep her from asking more. Then you stood, grabbing your tote bag from the floor. You kissed her cheek the way you always did before retreating to your room. “I’ll be fine, Mom. Don’t worry.”

And you meant it. At least, you wanted to.

Behind your bedroom door, the weight of the day pressed against your spine. You leaned against it, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, your thoughts still drifting back to the way Natasha had said goodbye—not with words, but with fingers slipping between yours like a secret she almost wished you would keep.

Outside, thunder rolled again. You couldn’t stop smiling.

You went to check your phone.

And for a moment, you weren’t just a girl with an essay due. You were something else. You were becoming a prey to someone's predator. 

Were you the teacher’s pet?

Maybe.

But tonight, that didn’t feel like a bad thing at all.

----

She did not look at you today.

It’s only been thirty minutes into her class, and still—nothing. Not even a flicker of eye contact. Not even that quiet, almost imperceptible smile she used to offer when your answers surprised her. Not even a nod when you slid into your usual seat, two rows closer than you needed to be.

You kept glancing at her anyway, like a fool begging for scraps. Maybe if you breathed a little louder, maybe if you shifted in your chair, maybe if you answered too quickly when she asked something rhetorical—maybe she’d glance over. Maybe something in her jaw would soften. Maybe you’d be seen again.

But she was ice today. And not in the way she usually was—sharp, elegant, and slow to melt. No, this was something else. This was withdrawal. Pure fucking withdrawal.

But lo and behold, Professor Romanoff kept her composure cold and didn’t even look at you.

She stood at the front of the room, tall and severe in black slacks and a navy blouse, her red hair tied back as if she couldn’t be bothered with softness today. She moved with her usual elegance, her hand slicing the air with each thought, chalk clicking delicately against the board, her words fluid and clipped and sure. She spoke of Tolstoy today—The Kreutzer Sonata—and how passion, when left unchecked, can rot into something monstrous. How love can masquerade as obsession. How destruction often comes dressed in devotion. Her voice was steady, professorial, and absolute, like nothing in the world could shake her—but you felt the shift, the difference. The subtle way she refused to even glance in your direction. Like you were radioactive now. Like the memory of you lived in her throat, and she was holding her breath.

It stung. It wasn’t just cold—it was clinical. A refusal of acknowledgment. You could’ve been a stranger, someone who hadn’t sat across from her in her office for hours on end, dissecting lines from Nabokov like secrets you both knew too well. Someone whose hands she hadn’t dared to touch in the dark, whose voice she hadn’t once said she found “oddly comforting.” All that tenderness, buried under her perfectly measured detachment.

You sat in your usual seat, front row, slightly to the left. You had chosen it because it was close to her, because from there, you could hear the undercurrent of warmth in her voice when she answered your questions and could feel the way her attention lingered just a little longer than it should have when you spoke. But today, it felt like you were invisible. Not even invisible—untouched, unwelcome, a name on the roster she was trying to forget how to pronounce.

She didn’t call on you, not once. Even when you raised your hand slowly, subtly, pretending like it was just a reflex. She ignored it and pivoted to another student. Some guy from the back row mumbled something half-baked about how passion is destructive, and she smiled at him. Smiled. It wasn’t the smile she used with you—it wasn’t the one she’d worn in the car that night, the one that flickered like she was afraid of how real it felt—but it still made your jaw clench, your pen tighten in your grip.

"The narrator believes that love is a form of ownership," she said, gesturing toward the quote scrawled in cursive behind her. "'She belonged to me,' he says, as if love gives us that right. As if intimacy erases autonomy." She paused, eyes moving from left to right, skipping right over you like a scratch on a vinyl record. "This is what Tolstoy feared—that obsession disguises itself as romance, and society lets it."

You stared at her hands. Obsession, you thought. Was she pointing out the fact that you have grown obsessed with her presence? How could she possibly know? 

She paused, letting the silence stretch, eyes moving from left to right, skipping right over you like a scratch on a vinyl record. “This is what Tolstoy feared—that obsession disguises itself as romance, and society lets it.”

You stared at her hands. Obsession, you thought. Was that her message? Was she pointing out the fact that you had grown obsessed with her presence? How could she possibly know? Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she did. Maybe she felt it, like a mirror fogged up from the inside.

You looked away because you knew that was safer. Her hands were always careful when she spoke—elegant, expressive. They were hands that had touched yours not long ago, when the rain was howling against the car windows and she told you to stay safe like she meant something else entirely. You thought of the way her fingers had lingered, how she held your hand like it was something she wasn’t supposed to want. How she’d let go too fast, and how it still didn’t feel like she really had.

“The language is deliberate,” she continued, pacing slowly in front of the whiteboard. “She belonged to me. Not ‘she was with me,’ or ‘she loved me.’ Belonged. It's the way one might talk about a watch, or a gun.”

A hand shot up near the middle row. Some boy—fresh-faced, probably a business major taking Lit for extra credit. She gave a clipped nod. “Yes?”

“I mean,” he said, shrugging, “isn’t it kind of romantic though? The narrator clearly loved her. I think it’s just intense passion. It’s dramatic, yeah, but that’s what love is sometimes.”

Something in Natasha’s jaw twitched. She smiled—that dangerous kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes. It was thin, almost surgical. She does not like his opinion, you thought. And heck, you wanted to laugh even. But you sat there, keeping your mouth shut. 

“Romantic,” she repeated slowly, like she was trying the word on her tongue and finding it sour. “Interesting.”

The room shifted with tension as you held your breath.

“Tell me,” she said, walking toward the center aisle now, that smile still tugging unnaturally at the corner of her mouth. “When someone tells you that you belong to them, do you find that flattering? Would you call that love?”

The student faltered. “I mean, I guess it depends—”

“No,” she cut in, her voice firm now, no softness left in it. “It doesn’t. Obsession is not love. Control is not care. There is no romance in possessiveness—there’s just fear. And fear has never been a substitute for love, not in life, and certainly not in literature.”

The room fell quiet. She turned back to the board like she hadn’t just peeled the skin off the moment before. But her movements were tighter now, her writing sharper, almost angry. You didn't want to see that version of her, you winced.

The lecture dragged on like a punishment. Your eyes traced the way she moved, how her heels clicked softly across the floor, and how her gaze floated past you over and over again like a border you weren’t allowed to cross. You didn’t ask a question, even when you wanted to. You didn’t say a word. If she was building a wall, you weren’t going to throw stones at it—you were just going to sit there and wonder what the hell had shifted since that night, since the warmth of her palm wrapped over yours like a secret.

When she dismissed the class, she didn’t look up—and you didn’t stay. You just walked out like a shadow slipping from its body—and yes, it hurt—but who were you to her? No one. Just a student. She’s a professor—composed, older, probably seeing someone who fits into her world—and you? You were the mistake she never made. Too young, too out of reach, and rather too much. You knew it. You did. Still, with every step toward your next class, something ached so badly inside you it almost buckled—and you wished, just for a second, that the ground would split open and take you whole.

Your class ended before you even realized it. The professor’s voice was just a blur by the final five minutes, and your eyes were already scanning the clock, timing your exit to catch the next bus.

Wanda had been beside you earlier, tugging at your arm, all bubbly energy and warnings: “Don’t be late for Peter’s party, okay? I’ll swing by your apartment around seven.” You smiled and agreed without hesitation. But walking alone now, you wondered—shouldn’t you be the one picking her up? Wanda always seemed to be darting from one borough to the next, like she’d swallowed the whole of New York and was still hungry.

You stood by the waiting shed, the late afternoon light settling over everything like a sigh. You were zoning out, staring down the street where your bus should’ve appeared by now, when your phone buzzed in your pocket. You didn’t expect much—maybe Wanda again. But when you pulled it out and saw the name on the screen, your heart shifted strangely in your chest.

NATASHA: I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you today in class, I've been having a rough day.

Where are you?

You stared at the message for a second too long. You hadn’t expected anything from her. Not today, especially the way she avoided your eyes the entire lecture. But there it was—her reaching out again. Like she always seems to do right when you are about to let go of the string between you.

You type quickly, your eyes flicking down the road again.

YOU: Just waiting for my bus. And that’s okay, I understand.

She replied almost immediately.

NATASHA: Do you want to stop by my office? Just for an hour. I have a meeting later tonight, but I’d like to see you.

You held the phone in your hand, hesitating. An hour. One hour. That’s all she was offering. You told yourself it was innocent, it's just her being kind. She didn’t owe you anything—you were just a student, a name on her head—a girl she sometimes smiled at too long. I want her to look at me like that again.

Still, the mention of a meeting stuck to your ribs like cold water. You wanted to ask: With who? But you didn’t. You wouldn’t. That wasn’t your place. Instead, you turned from the bench and began walking back to the building, your pace light, but your stomach fluttering.

Just an hour, you whispered to yourself.

When you walked into her office, the door clicked shut behind you. The room felt warm in the way only her spaces did—dim lighting, that constant smell of cinnamon and coffee beans, papers stacked in controlled chaos. There were papers everywhere on her desk, like it's been touched and untouched. And somehow, you found it peaceful.

“I made coffee,” she said softly, stepping around her desk with a mug in each hand. Her voice was calm, but something about her eyes—dark, tired—felt more raw than usual. “I wasn’t sure if you’d like it.”

You took the mug gratefully. The scent hit you before the heat did—strong, bitter. You peeked inside: no milk, no sugar. Not your thing at all. Still, you brought it to your lips, taking a cautious sip. The bitterness sliced across your tongue and made your jaw twitch, but you tried not to show it.

She chuckled under her breath. “You hate it.”

“I don’t—” you coughed gently. “I mean, it’s just… not what I’m used to.”

“I ran out of sugar, I'm sorry. It’s fine if you don’t want to finish it.”

“No, I’ll drink it,” you said quickly, like you were trying to prove something. “It’s good. Just… adult-tasting.”

She smiled at that, her lips curving in that slow, quiet way that made you want to hide under a blanket. “Adult-tasting, huh? So you like everything sweet?”

You nodded slowly, still holding the mug close to your chest. “Sugar makes me happy,” you murmured, almost embarrassed. “I guess people your age like it bitter.”

Her smile didn’t waver. She took the seat across from you, curling one leg beneath her, like she wasn’t your professor at all—just someone you liked talking to. “That’s a little stereotypical,” she said, “but fair.”

For a moment, the room went quiet, save for the occasional clink of your mugs and the low hum of the building’s air conditioner. You let yourself glance at her face as you noticed the shadows under her eyes, the slightly smudged mascara, the way her fingers tapped against the ceramic like she was holding something in. She looked so beautiful, yet underneath all of that persona—you don't know whether she is a real person or not. 

“Did you have a long day?” she asked finally, her voice darker than usual—you could feel your stomach churning from that voice. 

You nodded. “Had to do three group reports. It was... draining.”

She made a soft noise of sympathy as she placed her hand on your knee, like she would always do whenever you two were alone.

 “Poor thing.”

You looked down at her hand, barely brushing your knee, and something inside you fluttered—no, sank. Not because it hurt, but because it felt too good. You wanted her to press it down, to claim you in some silent, discreet way that said: I know. You were begging for it without saying a word, the way people beg when they know asking out loud might make the thing vanish altogether. In your head, something trembled. The thought of telling her—God, if you did, would she laugh? Smile politely? Call it what it is: inappropriate, foolish, immature. But the thing inside you kept blooming, uninvited. You imagine leaning in and saying, I think I’ve always liked you. Not just admired you, not just looked up to you—liked you. You imagined her turning away, and yet you longed for that moment anyway. You needed her hand, not just resting but holding. Because you were already held in ways you couldn’t explain, already undone by every accidental graze. Wanting her was like thirst you refused to name—it lived at the bottom of everything.

Then she added, quieter this time, “Smart girl.”

It slipped from her lips like a breath she hadn’t meant to take, the kind that startles you with how alive it feels the moment it leaves. A whisper—not just quiet, but confessional, unguarded, like something that had been waiting in the hollow of her throat for too long. You looked up, jolted—not by the volume but by the intimacy of it, the way it wrapped around the space between you two like steam rising from something too warm, too sudden.

She blinked, as if hearing her own voice for the first time, as if her mouth had outrun her mind. And you watched her, frozen, caught in that liminal moment when something has been said and you don't yet know what it means—if it’s a mistake, a doorway, or a cliff.

Inside you, panic and hope collided like waves on a sharp shore. Did she mean it? Did she regret it already? Were you supposed to pretend it hadn’t happened, or—worse—were you supposed to answer it? Something in you wanted to reach for her, to say, I heard you. I’m still here. But something else—something smaller, more cowardly, more sixteen years old than you’d like to admit—held you back. Because what if this was the moment that ruined everything? What if this wasn’t a gift, but a fracture? What if she hadn’t meant to let you see her at all?

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, her voice roughening. “About earlier. I should’ve said something in class. I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

You shake your head, brushing it off. “It’s okay, you don’t have to explain anything.”

“I do,” she said, more firmly. “I think I owe you that.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t know what she owed you, if anything. But hearing her say it still made your chest tighten with something unspoken.

You took another sip of the coffee—still terrible, still bitter—and forced a smile.

“At least it’s warm,” you said.

She laughed gently. “That’s the best I can offer right now.”

But you knew that wasn’t true. She was offering more than warmth—she always was. Every look, every message, every time she pulled you back in—even when it would’ve been easier to let you drift.

You leaned back on the couch and stared at the space between you, wondering how far you’d have to reach before it would no longer feel like crossing a line. Professor Romanoff looks at you deeply with her eyes, and her hand grazes up on your thigh, like she did a few days ago when you were in her office. She leaned close, and you could feel her breath on your collarbone. She wasn't too close, but the distance was no longer there.

"I'm intrigued by you," she said that almost felt like a confession. "You—I don't know, I can't even explain it myself. There's something about you that I want to crack open, something that I want to know more of. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

You swallowed, unsure if the breath caught in your chest was fear or desire. Maybe both. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharpening—not just curious, but ravenous in that restrained, clinical way only someone like her could manage. As if she were watching something flutter against glass and deciding whether to set it free or press harder until it stopped moving.

"You're too quiet around me now," she added, almost bitterly. “You think I haven’t noticed? You think I don’t see the way you’ve started to flinch when I look at you?”

She leaned in, just a fraction more, just enough for the scent of her perfume—clean, cold, almost metallic—to pull you into her orbit. You didn’t move—heck, you didn’t even breathe. She hadn’t touched you again, not yet, but every part of her felt like it was looming, circling.

“I should stop,” she murmured, and yet her fingers brushed your thigh like a dare. “I should pretend none of this ever happened. Should lecture you about boundaries.” A smile tugged at her lips, small, cruel, self-deprecating. “But all I keep thinking about is that night. The way your hand felt in mine. The way you looked at me like I was something sacred and dangerous all at once.”

You stayed silent, because what could you say that wouldn’t make things worse? Or better? Or both? You remember that night perfectly well when she took your hand, like it was a sacred prayer, until she let you go because it has gotten that obvious. You wanted to ask if there was something between you two, but you were far too scared to even open up about that discussion. You keep your mouth shut as you imagine her hand going higher until you come undone. 

“Do you know what I think about?” she said, voice quieter now, nearly confessional. “I think about pulling you into my lap, asking why the hell you looked at me like that. I think about grabbing your chin, telling you or rather asking what this is. You are so interesting, darling. So special.’”

Your breath caught.

“I’m too old for this,” she added, almost laughing. “And yet here I am, thinking about you like I’m twenty again. Like I don’t know better—I don’t have anything to lose.”

Her hand finally rested on your thigh again—fully this time. Possessive, almost. And the look in her eyes had changed. She wasn’t just intrigued. She was losing her grip on all the polished distance she’d kept like it was eternity.

“I shouldn’t want you,” she said, and it sounded like a prayer and a threat. “But I do, not just like this. I want to haunt you—I want to be the reason you stop seeing the world clearly.”

You looked at her then, and you saw it—the crack. The thing under the surface. Not a professor, not even a woman, but something older, more starved. Something that had held too many students too far away for too long and was now wondering what it felt like to finally touch one who didn’t run. You wanted to fall under her touch and ask her to kiss you, to become this desperate girl that has never been touched in her life—you wanted everything, but you were risking a lot.

You whimpered as she squeezed your thigh, moaning softly as her lips landed on your neck, giving it a small kiss.

"Professor—"

"Fuck," Professor Romanoff pulled away immediately as she removed her hand from your thigh. No, please. Don't do this. "Fuck, I’m—I'm sorry, Y/n. I just—"

She swallowed hard. Her hand hovered midair like she couldn’t decide whether to reach for you again or hide it forever.

"I’ve wanted to touch you for weeks,” she whispered as her voice was trembling now. “I think about you at night. I tell myself to stop—God, I try to stop—but you’re just… always there. In my head, in my fucking hands.”

Your breath hitched, the words sinking into your chest like heat.  "Professor Romanoff," you whispered, as there was no breath left in your throat, your hands aching to grab her hand and guide it right back to you, to where you needed her most. "I don't—"

But her eyes snapped shut like she was ashamed of what she’d let slip, of what she was still imagining.

“I need you to go,” she said suddenly, her voice now cold and distant, as though she’d rebuilt the wall in a single breath. “Now, before I forget who I’m supposed to be.”

And you stood, trembling slightly, unsure whether the shaking came from fear or the echo of something you’d wanted all along. You wanted to stay—desperately. You wanted to tell her this wasn’t wrong, that you wanted it too, that you weren’t scared of her. But nothing came out of your mouth. Nothing at all.

You watched as she fixed her hair with unsteady hands, placing her palm on her forehead like she had touched something sacred and ruined it. You wanted to kneel on the ground and tell her that she didn't do anything wrong, that this wasn't wrong. But you had no courage to. 

As you opened the door, she spoke—barely a whisper, like a secret meant only for the air between you. “Come back tomorrow, please.”

You didn’t look back.

You didn’t need to.

The line had already been crossed, and you don't know whether if she was more dangerous or you were. 

taglist: @aru-son@ihartnat@blackwidowbabe@snowdrop1026 @m4ddie3 @ciaoooooo111 @mrsrushman

[moonlight-joy]

A Storm Between Us

MASTERLIST

Fandom: Bridgerton

Request: Anon - Could I request some Anthony bridgerton x wife reader angst. Maybe they had a fight or something. It’s all up to you but maybe with a happy ending

Pairing: Reader/Anthony Bridgerton

The storm outside rattled the windows of Bridgerton House, but the real storm was brewing in the master bedroom.

"I do not understand why you must always be so stubborn!"

Anthony’s voice was sharp, his frustration laced into every syllable as he paced before the fireplace, running a hand through his already unruly dark hair. His movements were agitated, restless—the embodiment of barely contained exasperation.

"Must you question everything I do? Every decision I make?"

You stood near the vanity, arms crossed tightly over your chest, your own temper barely contained. The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows against the walls, mirroring the tension stretching between you.

"Because, Anthony, you act as if I am some fragile thing to be kept behind closed doors!" Your voice rose, your breath unsteady. "You do not discuss things with me—you dictate them."

Anthony inhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. He flexed his fingers at his sides as if trying to steady himself.

"Forgive me for wanting to protect my wife."

Wife.

The word struck you like a blow. That was what you were—his wife, his partner. And yet, in moments like these, you felt more like a possession.

"I do not need protecting, Anthony. I need to be heard." Your voice was quieter now, but no less firm.

Anthony’s expression hardened, the muscles in his jaw tightening.

"You do need protecting." His voice was clipped, as though the words burned his throat. "You do not see the way people look at you, whispering about how the Viscountess oversteps her bounds. I am simply trying to shield you from that."

The air between you shifted, the weight of his words settling like stone in your chest.

"So you wish to hide me away, then?" Your voice wavered, raw with hurt. "So that society does not find me… improper?"

Anthony hesitated. A flicker of something—uncertainty, regret—crossed his features. But he did not speak.

His silence was damning.

Your breath hitched, and you swallowed against the lump rising in your throat. "I see."

Anthony sighed, running a hand over his face. His anger was already fading, replaced by something more complicated—guilt, perhaps. He reached for you, fingers brushing the sleeve of your gown.

"That is not what I meant—"

But you stepped out of his grasp.

"Then perhaps you should think more carefully before you speak." The sharp edge of your words betrayed the ache you were trying so hard to mask.

A long silence stretched between you.

The fire crackled. The wind howled against the windowpanes. But neither of you spoke.

Finally, you exhaled shakily, your gaze dropping to the floor.

"I cannot fight with you tonight, Anthony."

Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it was enough.

Anthony’s chest tightened, the weight of the evening pressing against his ribs. He wanted to say something—to fix it, to take it all back—but the words refused to come.

Before he could gather himself, you turned away—your back to him, your heart pounding.

And for the first time since you had become his wife, you climbed into bed alone.

Anthony had never known a night so long.

He sat in his study, a glass of whiskey untouched on the desk before him. The fire before him had burned low, casting restless shadows along the walls, flickering with the same unease that coursed through him.

The house was quiet, save for the relentless ticking of the clock.

Each second dragged painfully.

His words replayed in his head, each one heavier than the last.

He had not meant to make you feel as though he wished to hide you away. God, that was the farthest thing from the truth.

He adored you, was utterly consumed by his love for you.

And it terrified him.

Anthony Bridgerton had spent his entire life being responsible for those he loved. He had watched his father die, had held his mother as she shattered. He had vowed never to let himself care so deeply that it might destroy him.

And then you had come into his life—fierce, stubborn, breathtaking.

And now, he was losing you.

And it was his own damn fault.

With newfound determination, he rose from his chair and strode toward your shared chambers.

The candle beside the bed had burned low, casting the room in soft golden hues.

You lay curled beneath the covers, your back to the door, your breathing slow but uneven.

Anthony hesitated, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

Then, quietly, he stepped inside, shutting the door with a soft click.

"Love."

His voice was barely above a whisper, but you stiffened nonetheless.

He approached the bed cautiously, as if afraid he might shatter the fragile truce between you.

You did not turn, but your voice reached him through the dark.

"Why are you here?"

Anthony swallowed. Then, without a word, he sank to his knees beside the bed.

"Because I cannot bear to be anywhere else."

Silence.

Then, slowly, you turned.

Your eyes—glassier than before, but just as strong—met his.

Anthony took a shaky breath.

"I was wrong."

Your lips parted slightly, but you said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

"I did not mean to make you feel as though I wished to silence you, to keep you from the world. That is not what I want."

He reached for your hand—relief flooding him when you did not pull away.

"I only wanted to protect you because the thought of losing you—"

His voice cracked, and he exhaled sharply before continuing.

"It terrifies me."

Your fingers tightened around his.

"You are not your father, Anthony," you said quietly.

"You do not have to carry every burden alone."

His eyes burned as your words settled deep within him.

"I am your wife, Anthony. I want to share the weight of it with you."

Anthony let out a shaky breath, pressing your hand to his lips.

He had spent so long believing that love was a weakness—something dangerous, something that could bring a man to his knees.

And here he was.

Kneeling before you.

Not because he was weak.

But because loving you made him stronger.

"Then let me start again," he murmured.

Your brow arched, amusement flickering beneath the fading hurt.

"How do you intend to do that?"

A small, self-deprecating smile tugged at his lips.

"For one, I will try listening before speaking."

Then, gently, he shifted onto the bed beside you, pulling you into his warm, steady embrace.

"And for another—"

He pressed a kiss to your temple, his breath a promise against your skin.

"I will never let another night pass where you feel alone."

You let out a soft breath, your head resting against his chest.

For a moment, you did not speak. You only listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. And then—so softly, he barely heard it—

"You promise?"

His arms tightened around you, his lips pressing into your hair.

"With everything I am."

And as the storm outside slowly faded, so too did the storm between you.

Because you had found your way back to each other.

As you always would.

Please support my work with like and comment

[faebled-stories]

The Book of Forbidden Pleasures

Kinkvember Day 24: Tentacles/DubCon

Billlie's Fukutomi Tsuki

12.8k

AN: the story is tagged tentacles but they are described more as appendages/limbs.

Also this story takes place in the same universe as the Karina story. While you don’t need to have read that one to enjoy this, there are a few references and cameos from the previous story. Enjoy 😉 💖

The rain drummed softly against the windowpane, a rhythmic lullaby that mirrored the exhaustion weighing on Tsuki’s every step as she pushed open the door to her shared dorm. Her shoulders sagged under the relentless pressure of hours spent perfecting choreography, each muscle in her body throbbing with the dull ache of overuse. Her mind felt clouded, worn thin by endless repetitions and sharp corrections that still echoed in her head.

With a tired sigh, Tsuki kicked off her sneakers, the soft thud of rubber against the floor blending seamlessly with the faint hum of quiet conversation drifting from one of the bedrooms. The voices were low and soothing, a distant reminder of her roommates’ presence. Yet the dorm itself felt still, untouched, offering Tsuki the comforting illusion of solitude.

She dropped her bag unceremoniously by the door, glancing around the dimly lit living space. The golden glow of late evening filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows across the room. The couch called to her, its soft embrace promising a reprieve from the day’s demands. She was just about to collapse into it, letting her exhaustion take over, when a buzz in her pocket startled her.

Her phone.

Suppressing a faint flicker of irritation, Tsuki fumbled for the device, her fingers sluggish from fatigue. The brightness of the screen made her squint as she opened her notifications.

It was from Ningning, one of her closest friends.

“Hey Tsuki! Are you free to do me a huuuuge favor?”

Tsuki frowned, her thumbs hesitating over the keyboard. After the day she’d had, the last thing she wanted was to be roped into something she couldn’t say no to.

“Depends… what kind of favor?”

The reply came almost immediately, as if Ningning had been waiting, bubbles flickering on the screen before her next message popped up:

“Karina unnie asked me to house-sit for her while she’s away with her boyfriend, but I totally forgot my parents are coming to visit! Can you take over for a couple of days? pleeeaaasse.”

Tsuki exhaled a long, heavy sigh, letting her head fall back against the couch. Her rare free moments were precious, a reprieve from her relentless schedule that she guarded fiercely. Spending them house-sitting for someone else didn’t exactly sound like her idea of rest.

“I don’t know…”

She hadn’t even put her phone down when another message appeared, almost as if Ningning had anticipated her hesitation.

“Come ooon it's totally your vibe. It’s a really cool old house. You’d love it. Super aesthetic. I’ll buy you a meal for every day you stay. Please?”

Tsuki stared at the screen, the faint ache in her limbs tempting her to refuse outright. But the phrase “super aesthetic” sparked a small flicker of curiosity in her otherwise exhausted mind. She imagined it already—a house with charming quirks and old-world beauty, the kind of place she might dream about escaping to in her quieter moments.

With a resigned sigh, she typed back:

“Fine. Just for a couple of days, though.”

Almost instantly, her screen flooded with heart emojis, the animated reactions filling the chat with Ningning’s uncontainable excitement. Despite herself, Tsuki’s lips quirked upward into a faint smile, the warmth of her friend’s enthusiasm momentarily softening the fatigue clinging to her.

A few days later, Tsuki arrived at Karina’s house just as the morning rain began to subside. The heavy clouds lingered stubbornly in the sky, only partially allowing pale beams of sunlight to filter through. Her footsteps echoed softly as she stepped onto the wide porch, the wood beneath her shoes aged and weathered but polished by years of care. The air was cool and damp, carrying the earthy scent of rain-soaked ivy and faint traces of varnish, remnants of the house’s enduring upkeep.

She paused, taking in the sight of the house before her. It was even more striking than she had imagined. The red-brick façade was cloaked in ivy that twisted and curled with deliberate elegance, framing the arched windows like a living picture frame. Ornate wrought-iron railings lined the balcony above, their intricate patterns reminiscent of an older, more graceful time. The wide wooden door, its surface darkened with age and wear, stood as an imposing yet inviting gateway into a space that seemed steeped in history.

“This place is amazing,” Tsuki murmured to herself, her voice nearly lost in the soft rustle of ivy in the breeze.

The sound of the door creaking open startled her, and Ningning appeared, waving her inside with a bright grin. “Right?” Ningning said, stepping aside to let Tsuki in. “Unnie and her boyfriend are obsessed with it. It’s basically their dream house.” She adjusted the strap of the bag on her shoulder, gesturing for Tsuki to follow her.

As soon as Tsuki stepped inside, the house seemed to come alive around her. The distinct scent of lavender lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the sharper aroma of wood polish, like a memory etched into the house itself. Her gaze swept over the interior, taking in the dark wood railings of the staircase and the antique furniture arranged with effortless charm. The floors, polished to a muted shine, creaked gently underfoot, each sound a subtle reminder of the home’s age and character.

The house felt expansive yet intimate, its design inviting exploration while maintaining an air of quiet mystery. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, bathing the space in a golden haze that seemed to soften the edges of the walls and furniture. The intricate carvings on the staircase bannister and the subtle wear on the doorframes whispered of the countless lives and stories the house had witnessed over the years.

Ningning led her on a brisk tour, her voice light and cheerful as she pointed out the key areas of the house. “Here’s the kitchen—you probably won’t need it much, but everything’s labeled. Over there’s the sitting room, super cozy in the evenings. And down this hall is the guest bedroom. You’ll love it; it gets the best light in the mornings.”

Every room exuded a distinct personality, from the heavy curtains in the sitting room that softened the outside light to the mismatched yet harmonious furniture pieces that seemed carefully curated over time. The faint hum of the house settled around them, a low, almost imperceptible sound that only added to its allure.

They stopped near the staircase, where Tsuki’s gaze was immediately drawn to a narrow, unassuming door tucked discreetly into the hallway. It was plain compared to the rest of the house, with a slightly scuffed surface and a handle worn smooth by years of use. A faint draft escaped through the crack at its base, brushing against her legs and sending a chill up her spine.

Ningning adjusted the bag on her shoulder and gestured toward the door with a half-nervous smile. “Oh, and one more thing,” she said, her tone shifting slightly. “Don’t open this door, okay? Like, seriously, just… leave it alone.”

Tsuki tilted her head, her curiosity instantly piqued. “Why not?” she asked, her voice cautious yet intrigued.

Ningning hesitated, her gaze flickering toward the door as if wary it might open on its own. “Jimin unnie told me not to mess with it. She was super firm about it, and honestly? I didn’t ask. She seemed… weird about it. I think it creeps her out or something.” She let out a nervous laugh, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Anyway, everything else is fine. Just keep the plants alive and, you know, make sure the place doesn’t burn down. Easy stuff.”

Tsuki nodded slowly, her eyes lingering on the door for a moment longer. The faint draft continued to slip through the gap, cool and insistent, stirring something she couldn’t quite place. But Ningning’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

“Come on,” Ningning said, her grin brightening as she motioned toward the main part of the house. “Let me show you where Karina keeps all the good snacks.”

With a final glance at the door, Tsuki followed Ningning down the hall. But even as Ningning chatted away, her words breezy and light, Tsuki couldn’t shake the faint, magnetic pull of the small, unassuming door.

Ningning’s voice was light and casual as she led Tsuki on a whirlwind tour, pointing out the essentials: the kitchen, the cozy living room with its well-loved sofa, and the guest bedroom. The house had a lived-in warmth to it, with soft rugs and mismatched furniture that seemed carefully chosen for comfort rather than style. Yet, beneath its charm, Tsuki couldn’t help but notice a subtle weight in the air, a quiet stillness that felt just a little too thick.

“Okay, that’s pretty much it,” Ningning said with a grin as they stopped near the staircase. “It’s an easy gig, really—just make sure the plants don’t die and, you know, no fires or anything.”

Tsuki chuckled softly, nodding as she glanced around the dim hallway. Her gaze flickered briefly to the narrow door tucked near the staircase, but Ningning quickly pulled her attention back.

“Oh, right,” Ningning said as they paused in front of another door. She gestured toward it with her free hand, shifting her bag higher on her shoulder. “This is the master bedroom. Karina unnie left a checklist on the kitchen counter—watering the plants in here is on it. She’s super into her plants, so don’t skip it, okay?”

“Got it,” Tsuki replied with a small smile, though her curiosity lingered as she glanced at the door.

Ningning gave a playful wink. “Well, that’s everything! Seriously, Tsuki, thanks for doing this. You’re a lifesaver. I owe you big-time.”

Tsuki grinned, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Don’t forget that when we go out to eat. I’m ordering the whole menu.”

Ningning laughed, shaking her head as she adjusted her bag one last time. “Fair enough. Just don’t bankrupt me, okay? See you soon!”

With that, Ningning headed out, the faint sound of the door clicking shut echoing through the house. Silence settled in, broken only by the soft rustle of the curtains as a gentle breeze drifted through the open window.

-----

Later that day, Tsuki stood in the doorway of the master bedroom, the faint light of late afternoon spilling through the sheer curtains. The room was neatly arranged, with an ornate wooden bed frame and matching furniture that gave the space an elegant, timeless feel.

In the corner, a collection of lush green plants thrived on a wooden stand near the window. Their leaves glistened faintly in the sunlight, a watering can sitting beside them like a waiting companion. The faint scent of lavender hung in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the plants, subtle and soothing.

Tsuki stepped inside, the floor creaking softly underfoot as she approached the plants. The quiet was profound, broken only by the sound of her footsteps and the soft clink of the watering can as she picked it up.

She crouched down, pouring water into the pots with careful precision, watching as the soil absorbed the moisture. The faint, earthy scent of damp soil mingled ever-present in the air, creating a soothing, almost hypnotic atmosphere. Her mind wandered absently, the rhythmic flow of water from the can lulling her into a quiet, unfocused state.

It was peaceful—too peaceful, Tsuki realized, as the quiet began to press on her, heavy and unsettling. Straightening up, she turned toward the next plant, her thoughts scattered, when her gaze landed on the far corner of the room—and she froze.

A figure sat in the shadows, perfectly still. Long, dark hair spilled over its slim shoulders, gleaming faintly in the dim light.

A scream tore from Tsuki’s throat, sharp and raw, shattering the fragile silence of the house. She stumbled backward, her foot catching on the edge of the rug, and she crashed to the floor with a jarring thud. The watering can slipped from her hand, clattering loudly as water splashed across the polished floorboards, the sound echoing in the oppressive stillness.

She sat there, chest heaving, her palms pressed against the cool wood for balance as her wide eyes remained locked on the figure. The adrenaline surged through her veins, making her limbs feel heavy and numb all at once.

“Unnie?” she called out instinctively, her voice trembling and hoarse. The word hung in the air, unanswered.

The figure didn’t move. The house remained eerily quiet, broken only by the faint drip of water pooling from the overturned can.

Her breath came in shallow, rapid bursts as the initial wave of panic ebbed, replaced by an unsettling confusion. She swallowed hard, her hands trembling as she gripped the edge of the rug and pushed herself upright. Her legs wobbled beneath her, the distance between her and the shadowy figure stretching impossibly wide and yet impossibly close.

Step by cautious step, she approached, her movements deliberate, her senses on high alert. The sunlight streaming through the window did little to banish the heavy shadows pooling in the corner, and as she drew nearer, the truth revealed itself.

It wasn’t Karina.

It was a doll.

A life-sized, eerily realistic doll, seated upright in an antique chair as though it had been posed with meticulous care.

Tsuki’s throat tightened as she took in the details. Its face was hauntingly lifelike, the craftsmanship unnervingly perfect. Softly flushed cheeks, delicately curved lips, and closed eyes framed by long, dark lashes gave it an uncanny resemblance to Karina. The resemblance was so striking it sent a shiver down Tsuki’s spine.

The doll wore a pale lavender dress, its fabric faded with age but pristine in condition. The lace trim at the edges was slightly frayed, but it only added to the unsettling authenticity. The faint lavender scent that clung to the house felt stronger now, as though it emanated from the doll itself.

“It looks so real…” Tsuki murmured, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart. “Like a wax statue, but…”

She hesitated, leaning closer, her fingers twitching at her sides as she fought the instinct to reach out and touch it. The texture of its skin caught her eye—it didn’t have the rigidity of wax. The surface appeared soft, pliable even, as though it might yield under pressure. The thought made her stomach twist.

The doll’s serene expression was too perfect, too intentional. It felt less like an inanimate object and more like a figure quietly observing her, its stillness unnerving in a way she couldn’t articulate. The longer she stared, the smaller the room seemed to feel, the air thickening with an unseen tension.

A sharp creak from the hallway broke the moment. Tsuki jumped, spinning around so quickly her knee bumped the edge of the chair. Her heart leapt into her throat, her wide eyes darting toward the open doorway.

Nothing. Just the house settling.

Her hand flew to her chest as she exhaled shakily, forcing her nerves to settle. “Get it together,” she muttered, glancing back at the doll.

The oppressive sensation of its presence still lingered. She crouched quickly, grabbing the watering can and finishing her task in rushed, clumsy movements. Each time she glanced over her shoulder, the doll was still there, perfectly posed, perfectly still. But that didn’t stop the irrational sense that it might spring to life at any moment.

When the last pot was watered, Tsuki stood and turned toward the door. She hesitated, the weight of the room pressing on her shoulders as her gaze flickered back to the doll one last time. The quiet lavender-scented air wrapped around her like a whisper, the moment hanging heavy and strange.

Her eyes lingered on the doll’s face. Its resemblance to Karina was so uncanny, so eerily perfect, that a strange reflex stirred within her. Without thinking, she dipped her head in a small, polite bow—a gesture born out of respect, habit, and the unsettling feeling that she was in the presence of someone, rather than something.

Straightening, she let out a faint, self-conscious laugh, her cheeks warming with embarrassment. “Why am I bowing to a doll?” she muttered under her breath, the absurdity of the moment making her shake her head.

With a final glance at the serene, unblinking face of the doll, she stepped out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her. The faint click of the latch echoed in the quiet hallway, but the weight of the doll’s presence lingered. As she walked down the corridor, its expression, its stillness, its unnerving presence—it was burned into her mind. And with every step, the unease that clung to her chest only grew heavier, like a shadow she couldn’t escape.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the house had settled into an eerie quiet. The golden hues of the late afternoon gave way to muted blues and grays, the darkness creeping into every corner as night took hold.

The guest bedroom offered a welcome reprieve, its modest furnishings a comforting contrast to the grandeur of the rest of the house. Tsuki sat on the edge of the neatly made bed, the dim glow of the bedside lamp casting soft, elongated shadows on the walls. The weight of the day pressed down on her like a heavy blanket, her body finally succumbing to the exhaustion that had built up over hours of unease.

The unique house scent seemed to follow her everywhere, clinging to her like a whisper. It hung in the air as she slipped under the covers, the crisp linens cool against her skin. She shifted restlessly, her thoughts unable to shake the memory of the doll’s lifelike features and the quiet, oppressive atmosphere of the master bedroom.

She closed her eyes, but sleep didn’t come easily. The creaks and groans of the old house kept her awake, their rhythm too deliberate to be random. Each sound seemed to carry meaning, like a whispered message just beyond her comprehension.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook her, pulling her into a restless sleep. Her dreams were fleeting and fragmented—shadows stretching across long hallways, faint whispers just out of reach, and always that door near the staircase, standing in the periphery of her mind. She woke suddenly in the early hours of the morning, her heart pounding as though she’d been running, though she couldn’t remember why.

For the next few days, she resumed her duties, going through the checklist Karina had left. Watering plants, checking windows, tidying rooms—simple tasks that should have kept her grounded. Yet, no matter how diligently she worked, she couldn’t shake the sensation that something was… watching.

Her steps became slower as she passed the basement door. The plain, unremarkable panel tucked near the staircase seemed to hum with an unspoken energy. She dismissed it at first, chalking it up to her imagination or the creaks of the old house. But as the days went on, the pull became stronger.

Whenever she neared the door, she felt it—a faint tug, like invisible fingers brushing against her chest, guiding her closer. At times, it was barely noticeable, a whisper at the edge of her awareness. Other times, it was almost overwhelming, making her pause mid-step as her hand drifted toward the handle without her realizing.

Then there was the sound.

It started as a faint rhythm, almost too soft to notice. A deep, steady thrum that seemed to rise from the floorboards themselves. At first, she thought it was her own heartbeat, quickened by the tension that gripped her whenever she passed the door. But as she stood there one afternoon, frozen with her ear tilted toward the frame, she realized it didn’t match the rhythm pounding in her chest.

It was something else.

The sound was faint but persistent, a slow and deliberate beat, like the pulse of something alive hidden beneath the house. She stepped back, shaking her head as if to clear it. “It’s just the pipes or something,” she muttered to herself, her voice thin and uncertain.

But the sound didn’t stop.

That night, she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as the silence of the house pressed in around her. The pull toward the basement door was stronger than ever, an invisible tether pulling at her thoughts, making her skin prickle with unease. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to ignore it.

By the next day, it was unbearable. Every time she passed the door, the thrum seemed louder, the pull more insistent. She found herself standing before it without realizing, her fingers brushing the cold handle. She yanked her hand back, her breath quickening as Ningning’s words rang in her ears: Don’t open this door.

But the warning wasn’t enough to keep her away.

Tsuki hesitated, Ningning’s earlier warning echoing in her mind. But something about the door pulled at her, a quiet insistence that she couldn’t ignore. Taking a deep breath, she turned the handle and stepped inside.

The stairs creaked beneath her as Tsuki descended into the basement, each step groaning under her weight, the sound sharp against the oppressive silence. The air grew cooler with every step, brushing against her skin like an unseen presence. A faint metallic tang mingled with the musty scent of old, forgotten things, and each breath she took felt heavier than the last.

At the bottom of the stairs, the dim space opened before her, cloaked in shadow and illuminated only by a single, flickering bulb that cast a weak, uneven light. Dust motes danced lazily in the air she’d disturbed, their slow movement amplifying the room’s stillness. The quiet was suffocating, as if the house itself had stopped breathing.

Shelves lined the walls, sagging under the weight of jars filled with murky substances. Some were capped with rusted lids, others empty but for a faint residue clinging to their interiors. The objects scattered among them were strange and unidentifiable—trinkets that seemed as though they belonged to a world just outside her understanding.

In the center of the room stood a large wooden table, its surface surprisingly clean amidst the surrounding layers of dust. The smooth, worn edges hinted at its age, while the faint outline of a rectangular shape in the dust suggested something had been there recently. The table dominated the space, drawing her gaze like a magnet.

The room felt untouched, frozen in time, but the table’s pristine condition made it feel out of place, as if waiting for something—or someone. Her fingers brushed the edge of the wood, and a shiver raced through her as the strange pull she’d felt earlier surged within her, stronger now.

Her gaze wandered back to the shelves, landing on a single book nestled among the clutter. Its dark leather cover seemed to glow faintly, the intricate silver filigree embossed into its surface shimmering as though alive in the flickering light.

She took a step closer, her breath quickening as her hand reached for the book. The leather felt unexpectedly warm under her trembling fingers, and the moment she touched it, a low hum vibrated through her palms, resonating softly in the still air.

Turning slowly, she noticed an old wooden chair tucked into the corner of the room. Dust stirred as she brushed it off, sending a faint puff into the cool air. It creaked softly as she sat, cradling the book in her lap, the hum growing louder with every second.

Tsuki hesitated, her fingers tracing the embossed designs on the cover. Taking a breath to steady herself, she opened it. The first page greeted her with intricate symbols, their swirling shapes shimmering faintly as if they held a life of their own. The text was unfamiliar, yet something about it stirred a flicker of recognition deep within her, as though she’d seen it in a dream she couldn’t quite remember.

As she turned the brittle, crackling pages, the air around her grew colder, pressing against her skin. Her eyes widened in disbelief at the macabre contents: meticulously penned spells and rituals, their elegant strokes intertwining with illustrations that seemed to shift and writhe under the dim light. The drawings were both haunting and mesmerizing—dark figures entangled in rituals of power, surrounded by arcane symbols that shimmered faintly with a sinister allure.

The book felt alive in her hands, the brittle paper exuding an unnatural warmth that prickled against her fingers. The room’s shadows seemed to deepen, pressing closer, as though drawn by the energy radiating from the tome.

“This has to be some kind of elaborate antique—or a stupid movie prop,” Tsuki muttered, her voice barely breaking the oppressive silence. The words sounded hollow to her ears, and the static-like prickle along her arms only heightened her unease. She tried to ignore how the symbols on the page glimmered whenever her eyes shifted, the intricate patterns teasing the edges of her vision.

Her eyes were drawn to ornate runes etched faintly into the margins of the pages, their curling shapes seeming to beg to be spoken. She didn’t know why, but her lips began to move, forming the unfamiliar words before she could stop herself.

The first syllable escaped hesitantly, hanging in the still air like a fragile thread. The second came more easily, flowing into the third, her voice rising in a rhythm that echoed softly against the basement walls.

As the final word slipped from her lips, the house seemed to exhale. Outside, the rain surged, pounding against the brick walls with renewed force. A sudden crash of thunder shook the foundation beneath her feet, and the light from the single bulb flickered violently, casting erratic, jittering shadows that danced across the walls.

The hum from the book intensified, vibrating through her hands and into her chest, as though the very air around her were alive, pulsing with the same energy as the tome in her lap.

The air thickened with an oppressive charge, an energy that seemed to ripple through her very bones. A sickly-sweet scent—like decaying fruit laced with a metallic tang—filled the room, overwhelming her senses. She gagged, her stomach churning as a low, guttural groan reverberated from somewhere deep within the dark corners of the basement.

Tsuki froze, her breath caught in her throat as her wide eyes darted toward the shadows just beyond the flickering light. Something was moving. The darkness itself seemed to ripple and writhe, its edges shifting as though it were alive. Her legs trembled, her body screaming for her to flee, but she couldn’t move, rooted in place by a fear so primal it felt as though it had wrapped around her soul.

The book in her lap began to pulse, its vibration growing stronger, more insistent, and a faint glow seeped from its pages, casting eerie patterns onto her hands. Her breath hitched as she saw it—a slick, glistening tendril slowly snaking its way out from between the yellowed pages.

A strangled cry burst from her lips as she flung the book away from her, her hands trembling violently. The tome landed with a heavy thud on the floor, its cover flapping open. For a moment, silence returned, the room holding its breath—but then the glow intensified, and the tendril continued to emerge, undeterred.

Tsuki scrambled back, her wide eyes fixed on the book as more appendages slithered forth, inky black and glistening wetly in the dim light. They moved with a terrible, unnatural grace, twisting and curling as though tasting the air. Their presence was suffocating, an affront to the space itself, and the oppressive energy in the room deepened, vibrating through her chest and setting her teeth on edge.

The air around her grew colder, thickening with a density that made it hard to breathe. She watched in horror as the appendages spilled onto the polished floor, their slick surfaces reflecting the faint glow of the book’s pulsing light.

Her scream caught in her throat a large one lashed out with terrifying speed. It wrapped around her ankle like a living vise, its texture alien—slick yet warm, pulsing faintly against her skin. A shuddering wave of revulsion coursed through her, but to her horror, so did something else: a strange, electric thrill that clashed violently with the primal terror gripping her heart.

“Let me go!” she gasped, her voice trembling as she thrashed against the sinuous limb. But her struggles only seemed to strengthen its grip, pulling her closer to the book.

The room seemed to shrink around her, the shelves and shadows pressing closer as though the space itself had come alive. The light from the flickering bulb dimmed further, replaced by the book’s eerie glow, which had grown impossibly bright.

A crimson sheen materialized at the edges of the doorframe, faintly luminous, as though painted by an unseen hand. It shimmered with a rhythmic pulse, synchronized with the thrumming energy radiating from the book. Tsuki’s eyes darted toward it, her chest tightening as she realized it wasn’t just light—it was a barrier.

The shimmering red aura stretched across the doorframe, sealing her inside. It seemed alive, pulsing and flickering as though aware of her. She screamed again, but the sound was swallowed by the air itself, the barrier promising absolute secrecy. No one would hear her cries, and no one would come.

The appendages tightened their grip, the largest curling upward to brush against her trembling hand. It was as though the book itself was alive, its energy thrumming with hunger, pulling her deeper into its inescapable hold. Tsuki’s mind raced, a storm of emotions churning within her—fear, confusion, and a flickering, inexplicable pull toward the power suffusing the air around her.

“No! Stop!” she cried, her voice raw with desperation as she twisted against the tendrils wrapped around her ankle. The slick surface of it pulsed faintly, their warmth a shocking contrast to the cold fear gripping her chest. Her thrashing only seemed to fuel the energy swirling around her, the room alive with an invisible force that crackled against her skin.

With a sinuous motion, two more appendages slithered from the shadows, their glossy surfaces catching the faint light as they coiled around her wrists. The grip was firm yet unhurried, lifting her effortlessly from the ground and suspending her in the charged air above the glowing tome.

Tsuki gasped, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts as she writhed in their hold. Her limbs trembled with exertion, her mind screaming for her to fight harder, to escape. Yet with each movement, the tendrils seemed to tighten, cradling her with an unnerving precision that made her struggles feel insignificant.

As the seconds stretched into eternity, a foreign sensation began to spread through her, igniting a strange heat in her core. The tendrils moved with deliberate slowness, their touch almost exploratory as they brushed against her exposed skin.

One of the tendrils slithered closer, its movements fluid and deliberate, like a predator assessing its prey. Tsuki flinched, her breath hitching as it hovered near her face, the faint shimmer of its slick surface catching the dim light. She turned her head away instinctively, her lips pressed tightly together, but the tendril moved with an eerie precision, brushing against her cheek with a warmth that sent her skin tingling.

“No…” she whispered, her voice trembling as the tendril’s tip traced the line of her jaw. The scent in the room grew thicker, suffusing the air with its intoxicating sweetness. It seemed to dull her resistance, the tension in her shoulders loosening even as her mind screamed at her to fight.

The tendril pressed lightly against her lips, and for a moment, she held her breath, clenching her mouth shut. But the pulsing warmth and insistent pressure became unbearable, and her resolve wavered. A gasp escaped her, her lips parting slightly, and it slipped inside with unsettling ease.

The texture was slick and alien, its presence invasive yet strangely gentle as it curled against her tongue. Tsuki gagged slightly, her body jerking in reflexive protest, but the appendage didn’t retreat. Instead, a faint warmth spread from where it touched, a strange, electric heat that seeped into her muscles and unfurled through her chest.

A faint hum resonated through her, vibrating softly against her skin as the tendril pulsed, releasing something she couldn’t identify. The effect was immediate—her body grew lighter, the tension in her limbs dissipating as a wave of heat pooled low in her abdomen.

Her head swam, the oppressive sweetness in the air blending with the warmth spreading through her, clouding her thoughts and softening her panic. Her lips tingled where it touched, the sensation lingering even as it withdrew, leaving her mouth empty and her breaths shallow.

Tsuki gasped for air, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to make sense of what was happening. Her fear remained, but it was now tangled with something deeper, something unfamiliar yet impossible to ignore. Her body felt alive in a way that was both exhilarating and terrifying, every nerve alight with sensation.

Before she could regain her composure, another tendril brushed against her arm, its slick surface gliding over her skin with a maddening slowness. Her pulse quickened, her body trembling as the warmth within her grew stronger, fanning into an insistent heat.

Her skirt was pushed upwards with an almost sentient deliberateness, the cool air brushing against her exposed thighs. The intimacy of the act sent a flush of mortification through her, her thoughts racing with conflicting emotions. The alien limb seemed to know her body in ways she could not comprehend, their movements unhurried but insistent, exploring her as though tracing a map only they could see.

“No… stop…” Tsuki whispered, her voice shaking with both fear and shame. The words felt powerless, swallowed by the oppressive stillness of the room. Her mind screamed at her to fight harder, to resist, but her body betrayed her. A faint, forbidden warmth coiled deep within her, a treacherous response that made her feel as though the book’s influence was seeping into her very soul.

The first appendage, slick and pulsating faintly, brushed against her inner thigh, moving with a slow, deliberate rhythm that left her trembling. It found her center, pressing lightly against her most intimate place with a surreal precision that felt invasive and deeply wrong. Yet, to her growing horror, the contact ignited a spark within her—a sensation she couldn’t explain, one that clashed violently with the revulsion knotting her stomach.

“Please… don’t…” Tsuki’s voice was barely more than a whisper, each word trembling with desperation. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she writhed against the tendrils, her struggles weak and futile. Yet, her protests faltered when an involuntary moan escaped her lips—a low, shameful sound that startled her with its rawness. It betrayed the turmoil within her, a storm she could neither deny nor suppress.

The tendril pressed further, its warmth a mirror of the growing heat coiling deep within her. Her body’s treacherous response filled her with shame, the telltale dampness between her thighs answering the intrusion even as she squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to block out the sensations. But it was impossible. The relentless tide of sensation swelled within her, drowning every rational thought beneath its rising waves.

As it explored with agonizing precision, others joined, their slick movements leaving trails of warmth and wetness along her exposed skin. Two curled around her heaving chest, their sinuous motions too deliberate to be accidental. Tsuki gasped as they wrapped around her breasts, their touch firm yet teasing, as though savoring the curves beneath their grasp.

They squeezed gently at first, testing her with rhythmic pulses that seemed to synchronize with her erratic heartbeat. Her nipples, already sensitive from the cool air, hardened under their touch. She bit her lip as one tendril tightened around a peak, the friction maddening as it tugged and teased with deliberate pressure. The slick texture of the appendage sent jolts of sensation straight to her core, each movement stoking the forbidden fire growing within her.

Tsuki’s body trembled, her breaths shallow and uneven as the sensations pushed her closer to the edge of reason. Shame burned in her chest, a searing reminder of how deeply her body had betrayed her. But beneath the shame was a bloom of arousal that defied her terror, growing stronger with every passing moment.

The appendage probing her most intimate place pressed deeper, its girth stretching her in ways she had never experienced. The sensation was overwhelming, teetering on the edge of pain yet blooming into a twisted pleasure that left her gasping. Her hips twitched involuntarily, her body reacting with a primal abandon that made her heart pound even harder.

The room around her blurred, fading into a whirl of shadows and flickering crimson light. The oppressive energy thickened, cocooning her in an isolating warmth that felt both suffocating and oddly comforting. The tome below her pulsed with an eerie, sickly glow, its pages fluttering as if alive, feeding on the maelstrom of emotion coursing through her.

Tsuki’s mind was a battlefield, torn between the instinct to escape and the dark, insidious allure of the magic enveloping her. Her thoughts fragmented, unable to form coherent resistance against the unrelenting onslaught of sensation. Each wave of pleasure crashed over her, stronger than the last, until the rational part of her mind began to fade.

Her toes curled, her back arching involuntarily as the sensations pushed her further toward the brink. A silent scream built in her throat, a raw sound that was equal parts anguish and ecstasy. Every nerve in her body felt alive, her muscles trembling under the weight of an experience so intense it defied her understanding.

As her consciousness frayed, the monstrous presence above her became clearer. its sinewy appendages glistening with an otherworldly sheen. It moved with a terrifying grace, its power undeniable as it plunged into her with an intensity that left her gasping.

The rhythm of its movements was overwhelming, a carnal dance that blurred the line between dominance and submission. Tsuki’s hips moved instinctively, bucking against the relentless assault as her body betrayed her once again. She couldn’t stop the way her core clenched around the intruding tendrils, her body grasping at them with a desperation that left her mind reeling.

The friction built with maddening precision, each thrust a crescendo of sensation that grew stronger, deeper. The heat in her core spiraled outward, consuming her as the storm within her reaches its peak. Tsuki’s mind splintered, caught between horror and exhilaration as the relentless onslaught pushed her closer to a release that she both dreaded and craved.

The tendrils, acting with a sentience all their own, twisted and writhed within her, exploring the depths of her most intimate places with an unsettling precision. Each movement seemed attuned to her every gasp, moan, and trembling shudder, adjusting their rhythm and pressure as though playing a symphony on her body. Every note resonated with her deepest desires, drawing out the pleasure buried in the darkest corners of her being.

Her body felt like a foreign entity, no longer under her control but an instrument in the hands of a masterful puppeteer. Each thrust, each twist of the tendrils, sent ripples of sensation coursing through her, building a crescendo that pulled her further into a sea of rapture. Tsuki’s thoughts, fragmented and fleeting, were lost amidst the overwhelming tide of sensation. She was helpless, suspended in a reality where time, fear, and reason had ceased to matter.

Her vision blurred, the world around her fading into insignificance as she climbed higher, propelled toward a peak that shimmered just beyond her reach. Every thrust, every deliberate motion of them pushed her closer, sending her spiraling upward into a stratosphere of ecstasy she had never dared imagine.

The monster’s relentless rhythm became her entire existence, a singular, primal focus that consumed her. Her breaths came in sharp, ragged gasps, each one a desperate attempt to ground herself against the waves of pleasure threatening to drown her. Her heart pounded in her chest like a frantic drumbeat, echoing the cadence of the creature’s movements, synchronizing with the primal, unrelenting rhythm.

As if sensing the growing tension within her, the tendrils adjusted their pace, their grip tightening as they moved with an intensity that defied human comprehension. They teased her with unrelenting precision, their slick surfaces sliding against her hypersensitive skin, coaxing her closer to the precipice. The overwhelming sensations threatened to break her apart, pulling at every fiber of her being.

Her body trembled violently, each thrust driving her closer to release. The tendrils pulsed with a heat that seemed to flow directly into her, igniting a fire deep within her core. Tsuki’s hips moved involuntarily, bucking against the onslaught, meeting the relentless force with a desperation that shocked even her.

“Oh, gods,” she panted, her voice a broken whisper lost amidst the wet, rhythmic sounds of their motion. “It’s… it’s so deep… I can’t… I can’t…”

Her words trailed into a strangled cry as the first wave of climax overtook her, shattering her remaining composure. It was as though every nerve in her body had been set aflame, an all-encompassing conflagration of pleasure that consumed her from the inside out. The tendrils, slick with her arousal, plunged into her depths with renewed vigor, their undulations sending shockwaves through her veins.

Her mind shattered into fragments of sensation and sound, each moment eclipsing the last in intensity. “Yes! Yes! Don’t stop! Please, don’t ever stop!” she begged, her voice a ragged mixture of delirium and surrender. Her fingers clawed uselessly at the air, seeking purchase on something—anything—tangible, as the unrelenting onslaught overwhelmed her senses.

The creature, whether driven by primal instinct or some malevolent intelligence, seemed to respond to her pleas. Its tendrils moved with a deliberate precision that suggested an endless capacity for this relentless assault, each motion calculated to drive her deeper into a state of unending bliss.

Tsuki’s climax stretched on, a cascade of ecstasy that defied comprehension. It wasn’t just pleasure—it was transcendence, a complete dissolution of self into the pure, unfiltered sensation. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, her body trembling as the boundaries between pain and pleasure, fear and desire, dissolved entirely.

“I love it… I love it so much,” she moaned, her voice barely audible yet resonating with a depth that betrayed her total surrender. The words tumbled from her lips unbidden, a raw confession that left her trembling.

Tsuki’s body convulsed, the sheer power of the release unlike anything she had ever known. It felt as though every muscle in her body had been electrified, her nerves alight with a searing, unrelenting pleasure that coursed through her like molten fire. Her back arched violently, her limbs trembling as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over her, each more overwhelming than the last.

The sensations were a storm, a cacophony of raw, primal bliss that left her gasping for air. Her vision blurred, her eyes fluttering shut as stars exploded behind her eyelids, bright and dazzling against the crimson haze of the room. Time lost meaning, each second stretching into eternity as her body trembled on the edge of unraveling completely.

Her breaths came in frantic, broken bursts, her chest heaving as if she’d been submerged underwater and was only now surfacing for air. The relentless pulsing of the appendage kept her hovering on the brink, her cries blending into the rhythmic thrum of the magic that filled the room. Her hands clawed helplessly at the ground, her fingers digging into the polished wood in search of some anchor, some way to tether herself to reality amidst the torrent of sensation.

The peak of her climax hit like a tidal wave, slamming into her with a force that left her utterly powerless. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, her body seizing as a flood of heat coursed through her, radiating outward from her core to every inch of her trembling frame. The pleasure was absolute, consuming her entirely, as though her very essence had been dissolved into the maelstrom.

Her heart thundered in her chest, its frantic rhythm echoing in her ears as the relentless pleasure stretched her to her limits. Her body burned, the heat of the moment fusing with the lingering warmth of the tendrils that held her captive, coaxing her to surrender completely. Every nerve, every cell, seemed to hum with an intoxicating energy, pushing her beyond the confines of physical sensation into something far more profound.

When the final waves began to subside, they left her trembling, her body wracked with aftershocks that rippled through her in diminishing pulses. The edges of the world blurred, her mind floating in a haze of exhaustion and disbelief. Slowly, they released their grip, letting her crumple bonelessly onto the ground.

Her body was slick with sweat, her skin flushed and glistening as she lay there, utterly spent. Her limbs refused to move, trembling faintly as though even the smallest effort was beyond her reach. The air around her was thick with the remnants of the energy that had consumed her, the faint hum of the magic in the tome a distant echo now.

Tsuki’s breaths came in slow, ragged bursts, her chest rising and falling as she struggled to recover. Her mind was blank, emptied of thought save for the echo of what she had just experienced. The pleasure still lingered in her veins, a phantom warmth that pulsed faintly in the aftermath, leaving her dazed and disoriented.

Her voice unfurled into the charged air, cutting through the stillness like a blade honed to perfection. The sound was raw, unrestrained, and so utterly human amidst the otherworldly backdrop. Her breath hitched, each gasp a testament to the shock and disbelief coursing through her. How could it be that, even after the tempest of sensations that had claimed her, she yearned for more?

"More… I need more! Please!" The words tumbled from her lips, unbidden and unfiltered, their weight pressing heavily into the space around her. Each syllable carried a desperation that was startling in its clarity, echoing through the stone walls of the chamber. The cold, unyielding surfaces seemed to absorb her cries, amplifying them into a haunting chorus that reverberated back to her as though the very room shared her longing.

She was consumed—utterly, completely. Her body no longer felt like her own, her mind adrift in a sea of sensations and emotions she could barely comprehend. The intoxicating grip of the creature’s presence had become an addiction, a force that seeped into every corner of her being. What had started as resistance had crumbled beneath the relentless tide of pleasure, leaving only this raw, unquenchable hunger that bound her to it in a pact she couldn’t, wouldn’t break.

It wasn’t just desire; it was something deeper, something primal and profound. With every passing moment, the lines separating her humanity and the creature’s ethereal nature blurred, dissolving into a haze of need and shared satisfaction. She no longer feared the loss of control—she welcomed it, craved it. The sensations transcended the physical, reaching into her very soul and pulling forth a truth she hadn’t dared to face: that this wasn’t just an assault on her body; it was a revelation of her most secret self.

Her voice rose again, filling the cavernous space with a fervor that seemed to draw the room itself into the throes of her transformation. It wasn’t a mere plea now—it was a declaration, an offering, a submission. The creature responded in kind, its movements unhurried yet deliberate, each touch carrying a weight that seemed to acknowledge her surrender.

The tendrils moved with an unsettling grace, their sinewy, cool surfaces coiling around her trembling frame as though choreographed. They encircled her limbs with deliberate precision, leaving no part of her untouched. Her arms were drawn firmly behind her back, her wrists bound together in a grip that was unyielding but not painful.

Her legs, guided with the same calculated care, were lifted and folded gracefully over her head, her knees brushing her shoulders as the tendrils positioned her into an impossibly flexible pose. The deep stretch pressed her body into a posture that felt both exposing and strangely reverent, the creature’s control molding her into a display of total surrender. Every inch of her was held aloft, suspended in midair, her form completely bared to the creature’s touch.

The tension in her body began to dissolve under the tendrils’ firm yet careful guidance. Her initial struggle gave way to a sense of weightless peace, a paradoxical comfort in being so thoroughly restrained. Suspended and bound, the vulnerability of her position was undeniable, but so was the strange intimacy of the creature’s control.

“Please…” she murmured, her voice trembling as her head tilted back, her flushed cheeks brushing against her folded knees. Her lips parted, her breath shallow and uneven as her eyes fluttered shut. “Take me. Use me. I’m yours.”

The words spilled from her unbidden, raw and unfiltered, carrying the weight of her submission. They hung in the air, trembling with an almost sacred longing, and the tendrils seemed to react, tightening around her slightly, as if acknowledging her surrender.

Her body quivered as the creature moved in response, the tendrils gliding along her exposed skin with a purpose that felt both methodical and intimate. The cool, sinewy appendage brushed along her thighs and the curve of her back, exploring her as though she were something fragile yet infinitely valuable.

“I need it,” she whispered, her tone barely audible yet thick with desperation. Each word carried an urgency that echoed in the charged air around her. “All of me… I want you to take everything.”

Her breathing quickened as the tendrils adjusted their hold, their movements becoming more deliberate, more intimate. The sensation of their exploration sent waves of warmth coursing through her bound form, each touch lighting a fire that spread through her in dizzying waves.

“You feel so… so good,” she gasped, her voice breaking as the overwhelming sensations consumed her. “Please… I want more… I need more.”

The tendrils moved with an unnerving awareness, their sinuous forms gliding over her trembling body as though they could sense her every thought, her every unspoken desire. Each caress seemed purposeful, teasing the edges of her mind and coaxing her deeper into the blissful haze that had overtaken her. The cool, slick texture of the tendrils against her heated skin created an intoxicating contrast, heightening her sensitivity with every passing moment.

Tsuki could feel them responding to her, their movements shifting and adjusting as though attuned to the rhythm of her need. Their presence was overwhelming, a constant press of sensations that blurred the line between her body and the creature’s control. Her breath came in shallow, erratic bursts, her chest rising and falling as the tension coiled tighter within her.

One tendril trailed down her inner thigh with a deliberate slowness, its slick surface leaving a cool, wet trail in its wake. The sensation sent shivers racing up her spine, her body arching instinctively to meet the touch. Her thighs quivered, her muscles clenching as it paused just at the entrance of her folds. The anticipation was maddening, her nerves alight with a fiery tension that only grew with every second of waiting.

When it finally slid inside, the sensation was indescribable. A gasp tore from her lips, her head snapping back as a jolt of pure ecstasy shot through her. “Ahhh! Yes… oh yes!” she squealed, her voice trembling with sheer delight as the fullness overwhelmed her. Her hips bucked instinctively, her body greedily welcoming the intrusion as the tendril moved with a slow, deliberate rhythm that left her gasping.

The pressure within her built with every pulse, the tendril’s movements precise and unrelenting. It teased her inner walls, stroking and exploring with an expertise that felt almost impossible, as though it knew exactly where to touch to unravel her completely.

“It feels… so good,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper but heavy with unmistakable contentment. Her head lolled to the side, her lips parting as moans spilled from her freely, raw and unfiltered. Her body responded eagerly, her hips rolling in time with the tendril’s rhythm, a silent plea for more.

Her skin glistened with a faint sheen of sweat, the heat coursing through her body mingling with the cool, slick sensations of the tendrils. Every movement drove her deeper into the haze of bliss, her mind unable to focus on anything but the unrelenting pleasure that consumed her. The world around her faded into insignificance, leaving only the tendrils’ embrace and the exquisite fullness that left her gasping for breath.

As her body adjusted to its rhythm, another tendril rose before her, its glossy surface catching the dim crimson light as it hovered near her lips. She barely had time to register its presence before it pressed gently against her mouth.

A startled gasp escaped her as her lips parted, the tendril slipping inside with surprising ease. The texture was slick and warm, its faint pulse vibrating against her tongue as it explored her. At first, the sensation was overwhelming, but as it moved deeper, her surprise melted into contentment.

“Mmmph… so… deep,” she murmured against it, her voice muffled but filled with an odd sense of satisfaction. Her tongue pressed against its surface instinctively, tasting its slick warmth as her lips closed tightly around it. “More,” she managed to hum softly, her muffled plea a testament to her growing acceptance.

The tendril filled her mouth with a deliberate rhythm, its movements teasing and steady, drawing soft whimpers of satisfaction from her throat. Her moans grew louder, muffled but fervent, as her body surrendered to the dual sensations.

Just as she thought her body couldn’t possibly handle more, another tendril coiled around her waist, its movements slow and deliberate as it slid lower. Her breath quickened as she felt it pressing against the tight, unused ring of her back entrance.

Her muffled moans faltered for a moment, her eyes widening as she realized its intent. “Mmmph! No… wait…” she tried to protest, her words barely audible around the tendril in her mouth. But the creature was unrelenting, its movements firm yet measured as it pressed forward with careful pressure.

The tendril began to slide into her tight ring, the sensation sending a shockwave through her. Her body tensed, her muffled squeal vibrating against the tendril in her mouth as it stretched her in ways she had never experienced. The pressure was intense, a blend of discomfort and startling pleasure that left her gasping.

“Mmhhh!” she cried out, her voice a mix of surprise and arousal. The sensation was overwhelming, but as the tendril moved deeper, her body began to adjust, the discomfort giving way to an intoxicating fullness.

Her hips bucked again, her arousal evident in the way her body responded, even to the new intrusion. The tendril in her mouth pulsed gently, coaxing her into a rhythm that felt strangely natural, while the one in her back moved with slow precision, its every motion sending sparks of heat radiating through her.

Her muffled cries grew softer, their tone shifting as the sensations blended into a symphony of pleasure that consumed her entirely. She moaned around the tendril in her mouth, her tongue moving against its surface as her hips rocked involuntarily, her body giving itself over to the relentless rhythm.

Tsuki’s moans deepened, her muffled cries of pleasure blending into the wet, rhythmic sounds that filled the room. She was lost in the overwhelming intensity, her body trembling as the tendrils brought her to the edge of another release.

Her mind fractured under the weight of the sensations, her thoughts dissolving into the raw, primal pleasure that consumed her. She could feel herself letting go completely, surrendering to the creature’s attentions as it claimed her in ways she had never thought possible.

Tsuki’s muffled cries grew softer, their tone shifting from resistance to surrender, as the sensations enveloped her in a symphony of pleasure that consumed her entirely. Her lips closed tightly around the tendril in her mouth, her tongue moving against its slick surface with a mind of its own. Each pulse, each deliberate motion, seemed to sync with the creature’s rhythm, its movements echoing through her as though it were orchestrating her very being.

She moaned helplessly, her hips rocking involuntarily against the tendril that filled her folds. Its movements were unyielding, stroking her inner walls with a maddening precision that left her trembling. The tendril at her back entrance stretched her relentlessly, its girth and depth pushing her to limits she hadn’t known existed. The fullness was all-consuming, her body stretched and claimed in ways that left her breathless.

Every hole was occupied, her body bound and plugged by the creature’s relentless attentions, and the sheer sensation of being used so completely sent waves of heat coursing through her. Her skin was flushed, a fiery warmth radiating outward from her core, spreading to every inch of her trembling frame. Sweat beaded on her skin, mingling with the slick trails left by the tendrils, and her body felt feverish, as though she were burning from the inside out.

Each time she tried to move, her bound limbs pulled against the sinewy hold of the tendrils encircling her wrists and ankles. The resistance heightened her awareness of her vulnerability, a sharp reminder of how completely she was at the creature’s mercy. But instead of fear, the restraint ignited an even deeper arousal, the inability to move amplifying the sensations that coursed through her. When she flexed her legs or attempted to shift her arms, the tendrils tightened briefly, their grip firm yet careful, sending jolts of heat straight to her core.

The tension in her muscles as she instinctively tested her bonds made her hyper aware of how securely she was held. The feel of the tendrils against her skin—slick, warm, and unyielding—only added to the electric current of arousal that pulsed through her. Her fingers twitched, her toes curled, but every attempt to exert control over her own body was met with the creature’s deliberate, commanding restraint. It wasn’t just physical—it's mental, a complete surrender that left her trembling with need.

Her mind spiraled, her thoughts teetering on the edge of coherence. For a brief moment, an image of Karina flickered through her mind—her friend, calm and composed, standing in this very space. This… this was in her basement? Tsuki’s lips twitched in a half-formed, disbelieving smile around the tendril in her mouth. The absurdity of it struck her even amidst the overwhelming sensations. How could Karina have lived above such a thing, so unaware—or worse, so unbothered?

The thought dissolved as the tendrils’ movements quickened, dragging her back into the maelstrom. Each of them found its rhythm, their synchronized motions intensifying as though responding to her growing need. The tendril in her folds thrust deeper, its strokes faster and more insistent, eliciting muffled moans that vibrated against the tendril in her mouth. The one at her back entrance stretched her further, its deliberate pace giving way to a primal urgency that sent shivers racing up her spine.

Tsuki’s body tensed, her muscles taut as the building pleasure became unbearable. Each movement she attempted, every twist or writhe, was met with the firm but almost loving grip of the tendrils holding her. The inability to move only fueled her arousal further, her body betraying her with each pulse of heat that radiated outward. Her breaths came in ragged bursts, her muffled cries rising in pitch as the tendrils drove her higher, their relentless rhythm consuming her entirely.

And then, the dam broke.

Her climax hit her like a tidal wave, crashing over her with an intensity that left her gasping and trembling. Every nerve in her body exploded with sensation, a blinding cascade of euphoria that obliterated every thought, every shred of control. Her back arched violently, her toes curling as the pleasure surged through her, wave after wave, unrelenting and overwhelming.

The fullness of the tendrils magnified everything, their pulsing, thrusting movements sending aftershocks rippling through her as her body convulsed in their grasp. She moaned deeply, her voice muffled but filled with raw, unrestrained ecstasy, the sound reverberating through the room.

Her consciousness seemed to splinter, dissolving into the sheer euphoria of the moment. The sensations blurred together, an all-encompassing bliss that left her trembling and breathless. Her body felt weightless, suspended in the haze of her release as the creature’s motions began to slow, guiding her down from the peak with a deliberate tenderness.

She collapsed against the tendrils’ support, her body slick with sweat and quivering from the force of her climax. Her mind was blank, save for the lingering warmth and satisfaction that pulsed through her, a glowing ember of pleasure that refused to fade.

Each breath she took was shaky, her chest heaving as her limbs lay limp in the tendrils’ grasp. The tension she’d felt moments ago was gone, replaced by a languid warmth that wrapped around her like a blanket. She couldn’t move, nor did she want to. The bonds that had held her captive now felt like an embrace, their presence a strange comfort in the aftermath of her release.

When the tendrils finally began to recede, they moved with a grace that belied their earlier fervor. Each one released her slowly, as if savoring the final moments of their connection. Tsuki’s limbs felt weightless as the tendrils carefully lowered her onto the cool floor, their motions deliberate and reverent. Her back met the ground gently, her sweat-slicked body sinking into the cold surface. For a moment, she lay there in suspended stillness, her breath coming in shallow gasps as the creature’s hold began to loosen.

The first tendril to withdraw was the one in her mouth. It slid back with a languid motion, its warmth fading from her lips as it retreated. She could feel its ridges trailing along the inside of her cheeks and the roof of her mouth, each sensation vivid and excruciatingly intimate. Her throat tightened reflexively as it exited the depths of her esophagus, the strange mix of relief and loss making her shudder. Her lips parted in a soft gasp as the slick appendage left her completely, and her tongue flicked out instinctively, as though searching for the lingering trace of its presence.

Next came the tendril from her back entrance. Tsuki whimpered softly as it began to pull free, the stretched, tight ring of muscle quivering in protest. Its girth had molded her, reshaped her in a way that left her painfully aware of the emptiness its absence would bring. The slow withdrawal was almost too much to bear, each inch dragging against her sensitive walls and sending residual shocks through her trembling frame. When it finally slipped out with a wet, obscene sound, she felt a sudden hollowness, the cool air brushing against her gaped entrance a sharp reminder of how thoroughly she had been claimed.

The last tendril lingered the longest, nestled deep within her folds as though reluctant to leave. Tsuki’s breath hitched as she felt it begin to move, every ridge and curve stroking against her inner walls with aching slowness. Her body clenched reflexively, unwilling to let go, and the friction sent jolts of pleasure spiraling through her even as her heart ached with the knowledge that it was ending.

“No… please…” she murmured, her voice hoarse and barely audible, a trembling plea that surprised even her.

When the tendril finally slid free, leaving her folds slick and quivering, the loss hit her like a blow. The emptiness was unbearable, a deep ache blooming in her chest as though her very soul mourned its departure. She felt as though she had been hollowed out, her body and mind suddenly bereft of the connection that had consumed her so completely. A wave of sadness crashed over her, sharp and unexpected, as she realized just how reliant she had become on the tendrils’ touch to feel anything close to happiness.

Tsuki’s eyes fluttered open, and she watched as the tendrils retreated toward the glowing book, their slick, sinuous forms folding into its open pages as if swallowed by the ancient tome itself. The glow from the book dimmed with each passing second, the rhythmic pulse that had filled the room fading into stillness. When the last tendril disappeared, the book’s cover snapped shut with a soft but definitive sound.

The crimson sheen on the doorframe flickered one last time before vanishing, leaving the basement shrouded in darkness save for the weak, flickering light of the single bulb above. The oppressive energy that had suffused the room dissipated, replaced by a deafening silence that pressed against her ears like a physical weight.

Tsuki lay there, her body trembling and spent, her skin slick with sweat and the faint, shimmering residue left by the creature’s touch. Her limbs felt impossibly heavy, yet her heart raced, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. Every muscle ached, her body marked by the intensity of what it had endured, yet it wasn’t pain that lingered—it was the ache of longing.

The ceiling above her seemed impossibly distant, its plaster patterns shifting and distorting as though mocking her attempts to ground herself in reality. Her thoughts whirled in disarray, fragments of exhilaration and shame twisting together until she could no longer separate them. Each ragged breath brought her closer to the memory of the tendrils’ touch, the unrelenting power of the entity that had claimed her so completely.

She closed her eyes, but the shadows behind her lids were no refuge. The sensations replayed in vivid detail, each ghostly caress and probing tendril etched into her mind with painful clarity. Her heart raced as a truth settled over her, cold and certain: she would never again be the same.

The weight of what she had experienced pressed down on her, and yet—shamefully, achingly—she felt a yearning for more. The creature had awakened something inside her, a deep and irrepressible hunger that no mere human touch could ever hope to satisfy. The pleasure it had granted her was beyond comprehension, an experience so profound it left her soul tethered to the ancient, leather-bound tome that rested silently nearby.

The book now sat quietly in the dim light, its symbols no longer glowing. The silence in the room was deafening, and yet Tsuki could feel it—a faint hum, a residual energy that whispered of its dark promise. A shiver ran through her as she gazed at its unassuming cover, her chest tightening with the certainty that she would return.

She sat up slowly, her trembling fingers brushing the shimmering residue that lingered on her skin. Her body still pulsed with the echoes of pleasure, but it was the ache in her heart that she couldn’t ignore—a longing she knew could only be satisfied by the creature she had left behind.

The realization struck her like a blow: she was bound to it now, tied to something greater and darker than she could comprehend.

-----

The rest of Tsuki’s stay in the house passed in a blur of careful routine. Each day, she busied herself with small tasks—tidying the already immaculate rooms, rearranging little details to feel productive, and watering the plants with deliberate focus. Yet she avoided the basement entirely, the weight of what had happened there too much to face. The house, with its subtle creaks and faint whispers, seemed to breathe around her, alive and aware, as if watching her every move.

But no other strange incidents occurred. The silence of the house felt almost accusatory, as though it knew what had happened and was daring her to confront it. Tsuki couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, though she was alone. At night, she would lie awake in the guest bedroom, staring at the ceiling, her mind spinning with fragmented memories of the tendrils’ touch, the forbidden ecstasy they had drawn from her.

The book’s presence haunted her. Though she left it untouched on its shelf in the basement, her thoughts often drifted to it, the dark leather cover etched into her memory. She could see it clearly in her mind’s eye, could feel its pulsing energy even from a distance. Each time her gaze lingered too long on the basement door, her heart quickened, the temptation to retrieve it tugging at her resolve.

Her mind was a battleground, torn between the dark allure of the book and the guilt that gnawed at her. She thought of Karina—so kind, so trusting. Tsuki respected her deeply, admired her quiet grace and the way she carried herself. Stealing the book would be a betrayal, a violation of the trust Karina had placed in her.

But it isn’t just a book, Tsuki thought one night, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweater as she sat at the kitchen table. The memory of the tendrils’ touch burned in her veins, the intensity of the pleasure they had granted her unlike anything she had ever known. The connection she felt to the book wasn’t mere temptation; it was a need, an ache that refused to fade. It’s mine. It belongs to me. Doesn’t it?

The thought lingered, seductive and insistent. But as the hours ticked by and the house remained still around her, another voice spoke—a quieter, steadier voice. It was Karina’s voice, her warm smile and genuine gratitude echoing in Tsuki’s mind. Stealing the book wasn’t just wrong—it was unthinkable.

The next morning, Tsuki forced herself to make a choice. She stood before the basement door, her hand trembling as she reached for the handle. She could feel the book’s pull even through the wood, its dark promise thrumming in her chest. But she stepped back, shaking her head.

“No,” she whispered to herself, the word barely audible in the empty hallway. Leaving the book behind felt like tearing away a part of herself, and yet, she knew it was the only choice. Respect for Karina, for her trust, outweighed the yearning that clawed at her heart.

By the time Karina and you returned to town, the house had settled into an almost oppressive stillness, as though it had been holding its breath in your absence. The warm sunlight spilled across the porch, highlighting the ivy trailing up the red-brick exterior, and casting a golden glow on Tsuki as she stood awkwardly in the entryway. Her hands were clasped neatly in front of her, her posture composed but betraying a hint of nervous energy.

When Karina stepped inside, her polished appearance and radiant smile instantly eased the lingering tension in the room, filling it with her signature warmth.

“Tsuki!” Karina greeted, setting her bag down with a graceful motion. “Thank you so much for helping out. Seriously, you saved us.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Tsuki replied quickly, her voice soft but earnest. “I actually… really enjoyed my time here. You have such a beautiful house.” Her gaze dropped to the floor for a moment, and a faint blush dusted her cheeks.

Karina tilted her head, her smile softening. “I’m so glad you think so. This house means a lot to me. There’s just something about it—it stays with you, doesn’t it?” She glanced around as she spoke, as though the familiar details—the carved wooden railings, the faint scent of lavender, and the way the light danced off the polished floors—reassured her.

Tsuki nodded, hesitating briefly before glancing at Karina with a curious smile. “Um… is your boyfriend here? Everyone’s been talking about you two since your news went public. I guess I’ve been wondering about the guy who managed to steal the Karina’s heart.”

Karina laughed lightly, her radiant smile showing as she waved a hand. “He’s out grabbing food. He insisted since I did most of the driving back.” She paused, her eyes brightening. “Next time, we should all go out to eat. My treat. I know he’d love to meet you—you really did us a huge favour.”

Tsuki’s blush deepened, and she ducked her head with a shy smile. “That sounds nice. I’d like that a lot.”

Karina smiled warmly and moved to open the door for her. “Thank you again, Tsuki. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask, okay?”

Tsuki bowed slightly, her movements graceful and instinctive. “Thank you, unnie. Have a good evening.”

With that, Tsuki stepped out into the golden afternoon light, her figure framed briefly by the glow before she disappeared down the walkway. Karina lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching her go with a thoughtful smile. The gentle creak of the closing door seemed to release the tension that had settled in the house.

Once the door clicked shut, the familiar stillness of the home returned, wrapping around Karina like an old, comfortable blanket. She exhaled deeply, the sound quiet and unhurried, as though she was letting the house welcome her back.

-----

You were seated at a small corner table in the restaurant, scrolling through your phone as you waited for the order. The familiar scent of spices and frying oil filled the air, and the hum of nearby conversations blended into a background buzz.

Your phone buzzed, and Karina’s name lit up the screen. Smiling, you picked up on the second ring.

“Hey, everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she said lightly, her voice soft and familiar. “Just wondering if you’re still at the restaurant.”

“Still waiting on the food,” you replied, leaning back in your chair. “Want me to grab anything else while I’m here?”

She hesitated briefly before humming thoughtfully. “Actually, could you grab me some boba? You know the flavors I like.”

“Of course,” you said with a chuckle. “Anything else?”

“Not really. Oh—actually, I was thinking of testing the security cameras. We should make sure they’re working properly, right?”

“Go for it,” you encouraged. “Check everything out. I’ll be home soon.”

“Okay, thanks, babe.” Her voice softened as she ended the call, and you slipped the phone back into your pocket.

A few minutes later, the cashier handed you the food and drinks, the boba cups clinking lightly in the bag as you carried them to the car. The drive home was quiet, the golden hues of sunset stretching over the empty streets. You couldn’t help but smile at the thought of finally relaxing with Karina after the long trip—sharing boba and maybe checking out the security footage together.

The house was dim when you opened the door, the faint scent of lavender and polished wood greeting you like an old friend. “I’m back!” you called out cheerfully, your voice cutting through the stillness as you stepped inside.

There was no reply.

You kicked off your shoes and carried the bags into the living room. The sight stopped you cold.

Karina sat frozen on the couch, her wide, unblinking eyes locked on the laptop screen. The faint glow illuminated her pale face, casting flickering shadows across the room.

“Karina?” you asked, your voice hesitant as unease crept into your chest.

She didn’t respond.

And then you heard it.

Moans—raw, breathless, and haunting—poured from the laptop speakers, filling the room with an intensity that made the air feel stifling. The sound swelled, growing louder with each passing second, an oppressive rhythm that clawed at the edges of your mind.

Amid the moans, a voice broke through, trembling yet fervent: “More… I want more!”

The bags slipped from your hands, hitting the floor with a muffled thud that barely registered. The cries reached a deafening crescendo, vibrating through the room as the glow from the laptop screen flickered erratically.

Karina’s lips parted slightly, her face pale and rigid, her wide eyes glassy with shock. Her trembling fingers hovered above the keyboard, frozen mid-air, as if the world around her had stopped. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, but she didn’t blink, didn’t move—she just stared, trapped in the haunting grip of whatever was unfolding on the screen.

You took a hesitant step forward, the sound assaulting your ears as the speakers blasted their relentless, desperate rhythm. The cries, the voice, the echoing moans—it clawed at something primal inside you, something that begged you not to see what she was seeing.

“Karina?” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the cacophony.

And then she turned her head.

Her wide eyes met yours, filled with something that sent ice through your veins—fear, disbelief, and something darker, something that made your stomach churn. Her lips moved, trembling as though she was trying to form words, but no sound came.

The moans from the laptop swelled one final time, reaching a crescendo so visceral it felt like the room itself might burst apart. And then it stopped.

Silence.

But Karina’s gaze didn’t waver, and in the suffocating stillness that followed, you knew. Whatever she had just seen, whatever she had uncovered—it had already changed everything.

[formulafanfics13]

Another day, another announcement - Toto Wolff 🔥

Masterlist || Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6

It was already warm when she arrived. Late morning, the kind of crisp northern Italian heat that clung to the windowpanes and made her mother open every curtain in the house before 10am. Her father had kissed her cheek when she walked in and returned to his espresso and newspaper. Her mother smiled, touched her face, said you look more grown up every time, then asked if she’d eaten. Classic.

Kimi was already home. Probably still half-asleep in his room, pretending not to exist.

She’d said hi to her parents, nodded toward the stairs, and gone straight up.

Her old bedroom was exactly the same. Soft lilac walls. Film prints on the pinboard. A stack of old photo books in the corner. The curtains were drawn halfway open. Her old mirror caught the gold of her necklace. And on her left hand, that ring. Bright, clean, quiet.

She kicked off her shoes, flopped onto the bed, and texted him. “Come to my room.”

Two minutes later, a knock. A second after that, the door creaked open. Kimi didn’t speak. Just walked in with his curls a mess and a lazy frown on his face, wearing joggers and one of their dad’s old race t-shirts.

He collapsed beside her like a human anvil, long legs half-hanging off the mattress.

She turned on her side, chin in her hand. “I need to talk to you.”

He stilled. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“…Is he okay?”

She snorted. “Yeah.”

Kimi squinted. “You didn’t get arrested, did you?”

“What? No.”

“Did you break the sim rig again?”

“That was once and it was your fault.”

“Did you accidentally text a nude to Bono?”

“…No, but honestly, that’s not impossible.”

Kimi threw a pillow at her. She caught it midair. Then, without a word, she reached her hand out, palm down, fingers relaxed.

Kimi frowned at it. Paused. Then reached out and shook it. Like a goddamn business agreement.

She burst out laughing. “No, Kimi-Jesus. Think about what I’m doing.”

He blinked. Frowned.

“Uhhh… handshake? A high fi—”

And then he froze. Mid-sentence. Eyes narrowing. Focus shifting. Then dropping. Down to her hand. To the ring. The silver band catching in the half-light. His jaw dropped. “No way.”

Her grin split her face.

“You’re-”

“Yeah.”

“Toto-”

She nodded.

“He-”

She snorted again.

“WHAT?” Kimi shouted, launching himself upright. “WHAT THE FUCK?!”

She held the ring out again, just to taunt him. “Looks good, right?”

“NO IT FUCKING DOESN’T IT LOOK LIKE MY BOSS IS TRYING TO BUY MY FAMILY.”

“Kimi.”

“DOES HE THINK THIS WILL HELP HIM IN CONSTRUCTOR POINTS?”

She rolled onto her back, laughing so hard she nearly dropped her phone. Kimi stood up, started pacing. She just stayed there, barefoot, hair a mess, ring glittering on her finger in her childhood bedroom, laughing like she’d just pulled off the most delicious prank in history.

Kimi spun around. “When did this happen?!”

“A couple days ago.”

“DID HE ASK ME FOR PERMISSION?”

“Are you my dad?”

“YES, IN THIS SPECIFIC CONTEXT.”

“Okay well, no.”

“DO I EVEN GET TO BE BEST MAN?!”

She paused. Tilted her head. Smirked. “I was thinking George.”

“YOU’RE DEAD TO ME.”

After ten minutes, she wasn’t laughing anymore. Not when Kimi sat back down at the edge of her bed, shoulders curved forward, head in his hands like the weight of her announcement had finally sunk in. At first, she thought he was just overwhelmed, a classic Kimi overreaction, dramatic and huffy, probably preparing some lecture about “adult responsibilities” or “keeping it out of the garage.”

But then he sniffled. And didn’t speak. And when she leaned forward to peek at his face, eyes still wet with laughter, grin still tugging at her lips, she froze.

He was crying. Not loud, not sobbing. Just… quiet, slow tears down both cheeks, hands over his face, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths. Her entire body stilled. “…Kimi?”

He didn’t move. Her smile dropped. “…Are you-wait, are you mad?” Her voice cracked, sudden and panicked. “Fuck, I thought you were joking, I-if this is really upsetting you, I’ll call him. I’ll call it off, okay? I’ll give the ring back, I’m not-”

Kimi’s head snapped up. His eyes were red, lashes soaked. He stared at her. "No,” he said. Voice hoarse. “Don’t do that.”

“But you’re-”

“I’m not crying because I’m angry.”

She blinked. “You’re not?”

He shook his head.

“Then why-”

“Because I’m happy for you.”

She stopped breathing. Kimi sniffled again and wiped the back of his wrist across his face, a clumsy, childlike gesture. His curls were a mess. His cheeks were blotchy. And his voice shook a little when he spoke again.

“I’m happy you’re with someone who gets it. Someone who knows this life. Who doesn’t want to change you. Who- who sees you the way I see you. Fierce. Stubborn. Brilliant. More.”

She blinked again. Felt the burn hit the backs of her eyes. “And I know I’ve been an asshole about it,” Kimi added, voice thinner now. “All the jokes. The sarcasm. The fake-gagging every time he touches you. I just… I didn’t know how to process it. He’s my boss, you’re my sister, it felt like too much. Like I was losing you to something I couldn’t control.”

“You’re not losing me,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“I’m still your sister.”

“I know,” he said louder, eyes wet again. “And you always will be. That’s why I’m crying. Because you’re my sister before you’re anything else. And I just want you to be happy.”

She couldn’t hold it in anymore. Tears slipped down her face as she slid across the bed and pulled him into a hug, hard, tight, messy. Kimi hugged her back without hesitation, one hand gripping the back of her shirt like he was trying to hold her in place. Her cheek pressed to his shoulder. His chin tucked into her hair.

They sat like that for a long time. No words. No timeline. Just siblings. Quiet and messy and together. Eventually, she mumbled, “I was gonna ask you to walk me down the aisle, you know.”

Kimi pulled back just enough to see her face. “You were?”

“Yeah. If I ever go through with the whole dress and aisle thing. No promises.”

He sniffled again. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll do it. But only if I get to wear sunglasses the entire time and not speak to Christian Horner.”

She snorted. “Deal.”

He looked at her hand again. At the ring. Then nodded. “It suits you.”

She smiled.  Her cheek was still warm against his shoulder.

The kind of silence had settled that only came after real conversations, the kind where the truth was all out in the open and there was no point pretending anymore. The air felt still. Safe. A little sacred.

She hadn’t moved. Her fingers were resting by her side, grazing the hem of her shorts. The ring on her hand still caught every fleck of afternoon light, twinkling like it knew something no one else did.

Then “…There’s one more thing I need to tell you.”

Her voice was softer this time. Not hesitant. Just weighted. 

Kimi shifted, barely. Lifted his head and looked down at her. Brow furrowed. “…Jesus,” he muttered, a weak attempt at humour. “You’re not about to tell me you’re pregnant, are you?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t speak. Didn’t laugh. Just looked down at her hand. And fiddled with the ring. Turning it slowly around her finger. Once. Twice. Then… she nodded. Tiny. Barely perceptible. But real.

Kimi blinked. His mouth fell open. “What.”

She looked up at him, finally. Eyes full. But calm. “Yeah.”

“No. No. You’re joking.”

She didn’t say anything. Just sat there. Still. Small. Ring glinting. Eyes too full of things to name.

Kimi stood up like he’d been electrocuted. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YEAH?!”

She winced. “Kimi-”

“YOU’RE ENGAGED AND PREGNANT?!”

“Kimi, calm the fuck down-”

“DOES HE KNOW?!”

“Not yet.”

“NOT YET?!”

“Kimi-”

“YOU’RE CARRYING TOTO WOLFF’S CHILD AND YOU HAVEN’T EVEN TOLD HIM?!”

“Kimi, please.”

He stopped. Because her voice cracked. Just slightly. Barely there. But enough. Kimi exhaled, long and ragged, dragging a hand down his face like he was aging five years in real time. And then he sank back down beside her on the bed, slower this time. Hands on his knees. Eyes wide. “Fuck,” he breathed.

She smiled, barely. “I know.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

Another long silence. Then “…Can I be godfather?”

She choked out a laugh.