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summerrainwinterbreeze · 3 years

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Sweet phantom (full)

Pairings↭ Taehyun x femme!reader

Genres↭ Fantasy, smut

Warnings↭ Blood, bit of melodrama, corporal punishment, gaslighting, distressing content (professors are literally insane. They've gone mad), slight yandere themes, dark themes, manipulation, scars, injuries, lacerations, mentions of death and torture, stalking, violence. Sexually: dubcon, edging, hand kink, quickie, bondage, d/s themes, kinda condescending dirty talk (it's teasing and sweetly phrased but mean, if that makes sense)

Synopsis↭ You’ve always wondered who it is that visits your bedside every night. Who it is that leaves tokens and letters at your desk for you to seek the subsequent morning. Tonight, You will find an answer.

Word count↭ 14k

A/N↭ Uhhhhhmm👉👈 'm sorry that this took so long. Went a bit off the rails with this one. I hope you still enjoy it. Warning: I'm going to have to re-read and re-edit this later. There are several grammar errors. Wanted to post it before I lost the momentum.

The crack of your voice synchronises with the whip’s burn, sharp and stinging against your bare back.

You know better than to stop singing — better than to lose focus.

Shaky fingers scamper across monochrome keys and it’s all you can do to chase the melody, lifting with every rise, following every turn. Not once have you gotten this part right. A jumble of keys and notes jumping and skipping over octaves like a madman’s drunken slur.

The very thought of it has you tensing, throat tightening, shoulders straightening, and you hunch over the piano, the vulture — the hunter — now prey to sweat-slicked palms, fingers beginning to shake.

You’ve been working too hard for this, you can’t afford a fuck up. Not now. Not again.

It’s all you can do to get the timing right, to jump, and swirl with the notes, but still, it’s not enough. It’s never enough, and you clench your teeth in wait.

Punishment is always a thing that fulfils its promise, coiling around your bicep, knarled edges slicing through your skin once pulled away, leaving blood to drip down your arm crimson tears.

At this, you hiss, and with your left arm stuttering, you press desperately, the weak touch of twitching fingers barely eliciting sound from the tear-blurred rectangles. Still, you’re stubborn enough to beg.

‘Not my right’, the words leave you as a prayer, one that swallows its own tail, a pained mantra composed of mumbled, hateful sobs.

It’s not often that your prayers get answered. Today is no exception.

It could be worse. The woman’s accuracy is deadly. She could aim at your chest, cut your throat bloody, then punish you for halting. She had before.

You stretch the final note, lulling it into a dreamy softness and tremble with a sigh, your frame slackening.

“Eleven, twelve,” Mrs Heejin’s simper has you alert, tongue waiting for her conclusion to dare a swipe against your dry lips.

“Thirteen. Excellent. That’s three less than last time, keep it up and you’ll be at the top soon enough.” Her spindly fingers swim through your hair, pressing into your scalp with enough pressure to ache, her voice somehow as shrill as a foul note, yet mixed with a calm elegance.

You do your best not to pull away from the touch. You know the penalty for doing so will be anything but pleasant — you know the answers to this test.

With as much sincerity you can muster, you part your lips. “Your encouragement has always motivated me. With words, I cannot express the success of your methods.” But I could with a knife.

She pulls you into her stomach, arms wrapping around the back of your head like the embrace of a mother. Her smile, if one did not know better, could be mistaken as genuine, blurred by the pain-fueled hallucinations — the ones that made her seem more ghostly than human.

“I’m so glad you feel that way, dear. Your growth fills me with pride.” She presses into the cuts at your back, spreading the open wounds further. “Let’s try ten lashes next time.” Her lips fall to a frown. “Though thirteen is such a lovely number, don’t you think, dearest?” You wish for nothing more than to slap the red paint off of her spread lips.

Restricting an eye-roll you say, “A tragic loss, indeed but it is my duty as your student to improve.”

Theatre has always been her strong suit. So when she sniffles, you know better than to believe it. Fingers curl around your chin, thumb burrowing deep enough to bruise, “Are you that eager to be rid of me, dear?” You are not prepared when she wrenches it up further. “Do you know that without me you are nothing?” You gaze at her for a moment, taking in the craze-hazed pupils, the whites that swallow the colour of her cornea, the features which naturally mimic that of a rapid street animal. This woman is mad. They all were. Mad and armed and holding the physical advantage. You drop your snarl, measures of greater subtlety were required.

“Oh!” She is not the only one gifted in the arts. “How could I wish to leave when you always were like a mother to me?” Tongue-caressed is the word ��mother.’

“Hmm.” Blown is her sigh. “You are the sweetest.”

You run your knuckles over the curves of her back, once, twice, then release, whispering words of honey to her soothed ear. “I’m afraid it is getting late.” Please listen. A shriek-filled half-hour rampage was not ideal right now. Your bruises are leaking blood onto the floor, gushing out of the gaping seams at your back without reprieve.

There’s trepidation matted in her movements as she slowly pulls away. “I’m afraid so,” she agrees, turning to the red velvet seats of the audience — to the grim yet wary faces of your classmates. “We will meet a little earlier tomorrow. Say midnight? Any protests?”

Her teeth are white as her skin and she all but bears them. A challenge. No response comes.

“None? Excellent.” She smooths over the lines of her dress. “I’ll see you all then”

***

“So?” Yeri has you seated on the wooden bathroom chair, grinning at you through her reflection in the mirror. “How’s your phantom lover been treating you?”

At this, you groan into your palms, legs lifting and kicking at the air. “I don’t have a phantom lover.” Your air quotes only bemuse her.

“If that’s the case, then who keeps giving you those presents?” Continuing, she feigns a dreamy sigh, clasping her hands together and quoting lines from the letters that you received. “Without you, my love, I am a sail without wind, drifting on a sea of ache and isolation.”

“Yeri,” you cringe, but she continues unfazed.

“You are the light to my darkness, the muse to my hopeless artist.” At this, you wince.

“Oh! And my favourite!” She clears her throat, patting her chest in an exaggerated display. “The scent of your skin is the sole thing that can sate the desire that churns within me, my love, I need so desperately to taste you.”

You press your thighs together, hoping to alleviate some of the heat that drips to your gut. Admittedly, his notes were never all that unpleasant.

Things like this never miss Yeri’s eye yet you pray that her silent smirk is all the torment that you receive.

“Heejin hit hard today, huh?” Yeri's fingers trace the lines of your cuts, swiping a pungent, amber, solution over the red-crusted edges.

It bites like a bitch.

“You’re gonna finish the whole packet y’know,” she mutters, tossing the stained wipe into the bin beside you.

With a wince, you retort, “You got more than I did, worry about yourself.”

She’s never been one to shy from a scoff and sets some extra pressure into the grove of the lines.

It has you apologizing quickly.

“If I didn’t worry about you, who would? You push away everyone who tries to get close, and never bat a lash at your own pain until it gets to this point. You bite yourself in the ass.”

“Maybe if I were good enough I wouldn’t have them in the first place.” Your exhale is slow. “It means that I need to keep practising”

“You’re so stupid.”

In the mirror, you stare at your dazed expression, her stubborn impassivity. “I- thanks." There's a silent exchange of words when your eyes meet, her hum soft as the tug she uses to pull a nightgown over your head.

It’s a flimsy little thing. The material manages to be both creamy in shade and translucent. Its sleeves are held in place by straps that grace the very edge of your collarbones, slipping down your shoulders, dripping into the daring plunging neckline. It leaves the swells of your breasts to peek past the floral lace, the same that skims the skin at your mid-thigh, coursing small shivers throughout your body every time you shift.

A flimsy little thing indeed.

“Shall we leave?” Yeri breaks you from your trance, and hurriedly, with a muttered sound of agreement, you stand.

It’s quick work to get to your dorms — to slip down the barren stone-floored halls, silent other than the soft padding of your slippers.

What you don’t anticipate, however, is how the drafts seem to worm their way through all nooks and crannies and the chill of it skates over every inch of your exposed skin, raising goosebumps along in cramped rows.

Cheeky things are drafts, travelling up the length of your calf, tangling — brushing the skin of your inner thigh. Like cool fingers, they trail circles over your flesh, rubbing — almost soothing — massaging the softness.

You force down a sigh, but not even that can stop the heat that flushes to your abdomen, flooding through your veins in a short, delightful rush.

You scrub your palms over your arms to heat yourself. Need to get out.

“Alright, my stop.” Yeri is already at her door, unceremoniously pushing it open enough to slip in.

“See you then.” Your dorm isn’t too far from hers. A few doors down to the left and you’re hit by the warmth of it, pulling you in, swaddling you like a newborn child.

Your room isn't much. Directly opposite the entry, your bed dominates the space, its ancient, rust-coloured frame creaking whenever you sit, along with the mini dresser at its foot. To its left, a bookshelf of wood to match, lined with pre-placed textbooks, organized in neat lines along its length, the two sharing the carpet. There are no windows inside the room. In place, a dust-stained mirror sits upon your cluttered desk.

You stroll to it languidly, picking up a dried rose, coffee brown petals smooth and dry beneath the pads of your fingers.

You recall the previous colour to be velvety obsidian, streaks of red pouring to its middle, its scent so strong that it had you a little lightheaded, swaying softly as you hugged it closer to your nostrils.

You think back to Yeri. It couldn’t be a phantom. Despite your school's structure — haunted was a polite way to place the rot-eaten wood, the constant fog surrounding its blackened, breaking building — and reputation, such a thing was not possible.

Phantoms do not exist.

But it did not negate the fact that someone was sneaking into your dorm whilst you slept — sleeping is a strong word considering that the door to your room was never locked. No keys. This place did not permit them — and you are going to figure out who said individual is.

You glance at the clock opposite the vase that the flower came from. 2:49 am. Whoever they were, they always came at three o'clock. After the music starts.

The thought of the piano’s soft melody stills you.

Maybe . . .

“No.” you shake your head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

You try not to hurry over to your beside, you try to control the shake of your hands as you lift the pillows and warily trace the cool, silver metal of the dagger glittering in the moon’s light. Absently, you drag a finger over the golden hilt, swirling it around the feather-shaped pommel. Swiping it from the treasure cove was half the risk and trouble. Not chickening out or accidentally cutting yourself was the other.

You pull a deep breath into your lungs, holding within you the tension that trembles your body, then let it go. This time you will be ready.

The song is one that starts as no more than a hum. Like feathered fingers tickling rather than applying pressure to the keys. Like the breath of a snowflake, the notes swirl together, dipping and dancing to a song of their own.

You count each one as it plays, waiting, an ache building at your cheek that you press firmly to the worn, warmed cotton pillows, grip tightening on the knife's hilt concealed beneath.

You anticipate the deceleration of pace, when it deepens, mellows, feeling rather than seeing the door open, the bed dip, the fingers that caress the duvet’s slopes. It’s a challenge to lay still when they follow the stitches of the fabric, hoisting it over your figure. The gush of chilled air that accompanies it only makes matters worse, tracing the lines of your left leg and arm, seeping through your gown's thin material, clinging to you.

"Well, there are fewer injuries this time.” You panic when you find yourself unable to connect the voice to an owner — a silken rasp that curls around each word.

Perhaps from another class? A teacher? Your heartbeat pounds the silence, and you beg your lucky stars. Don’t let him hear.

Him.

It doubles your original worry, and despite your best efforts, you grip at the hilt again. The press of the now warmed metal on your palm is the sole thing that comforts you.

What would the punishment be for the death of a teacher?

You've no clue about his size or strength, but it would be best if you never received the chance to learn firsthand.

This has to be quick.

One hit.

You only have one hit.

Soon. It’ll be over soon, but he needs to get closer, a single miss would be detrimental.

It’s almost as though he hears you, and you startle as he flips you to your back, biting back a vicious scream. There were no bandages to cover your wounds on your back — only your arms, and thighs the important part of you. The part that counts — only bloodmask, an ointment used to quickly heal all injuries. You would have recovered a day, maybe two, if the friction against your back didn't slowly scrape it off. His fingers come to rest at your ankle, grazing over the scabbing lines, outskirts still red and swollen. ‘Souvenirs’ from days prior. Ones he seems to believe deserve extra attention.

Attention that you do not appreciate.

Attention that you have no choice but to bear.

“They did this to you.” His comment lights fire to an irritation. Who else? Who else could have done this?

With a tsk, he draws his digits upward, “So many. So many lines. How do you stand this?”

Like you knew. Like he was expecting a genuine answer. Like he isn’t expecting a blade to his throat.

He isn’t. That's your one advantage.

“These are fresher. You got them today didn’t you?” You’re not sure when fear blossomed into irritation. Perhaps somewhere between his condescending conclusions, and unappreciated inspection.

He runs a cool finger over the gathering goosebumps.

His touch is so cold, ice that never drips? Water that never trickles? Who is he? What is he?

The thought alone has you shivering.

“I can’t. I can’t watch this.”

That you would appreciate. And you are more than ready for him to take his leave. To turn his back. To offer you a moment of weakness. But he doesn’t, and it is almost as though his fingers grow more frigid, as though he forces the bite of them into your flesh.

“I’m sorry.”

You didn’t realize that you were squirming until his spread palm finds its way to your hip, forcing you still.

“I know. But you need to keep still.” When he drags it down to your thigh, you lose the fight to embarrassment. The type that couples with a fear that the heat at your cheeks may not solely be the result of your body’s act to compensate for the temperature drop.

“You won’t need these bandages anymore.” His tug is gentle. Unweaving the blood-stained material with a hand so soft, you could bet it wasn’t there.

Well. Until he straightens a few fingers, forcing them turgid as they smooth over the revealed skin.

God, you want to hide. You want to run. Why must he humiliate you? Why couldn’t he speed this up?

You don’t know why you tested fate, the bastard already proved himself to be a mind reader.

“I know it’s cold.” No. It’s hot. Burning, searing through the skin at your thigh, sending shock after shock of murderous heat down your spine. You shiver, forcing them still.

‘Stop it.’ Your beg has no voice. You think of how his cool touch contrasts the smouldering pulse of the broken skin from the day received, the burn fading to all but a numb reprieve.

Your lungs have never been the kind to obey you. Sadistic little shits — pulling your breath into a gasp as his hands skim up your thigh's inners, spreading them slightly apart.

“There are fewer here.” Fingers trail tentatively over your skin, taming the raging goosebumps.

It’s terrible that you find yourself wishing for more pressure, for more scars that he could tend to. More excuses for his hands to slip that little bit further. You hate that you grow frustrated when they pull away. You scold yourself at the wish that the cloth separating him would melt like the ache of your cuts at every glide of his fingertips. And you’re ready to scream when your hand slackens around the dagger for a slight of a second.

You need to end this now.

“I hate this.” Something you could agree on. “I hate that they do this. I hate that I-” Lips press shut.

He’s left you curious, ears straining for the ghost of a conclusion. It ever comes.

“This one has to be quick. Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.”

Was that meant to be a pun?

It doesn't matter. It's not like you could entertain the thought any longer. Not when frost twists with the gown’s hem. Not when it drags over the surface of your hips. Not when it drapes just at your ribs. Not when everything inside of you is screaming.

How do sleeping bodies cover themselves?

How do sleeping bodies not flush with the humiliation of being so exposed?

How do sleeping bodies breathe when the only thing preventing someone from viewing all areas of vulnerability is the thin cotton of worn undergarments?

Perhaps now you wouldn’t have to feign unconsciousness. Perhaps now you would pass out and he would find the blade. Hopefully, he holds enough mercy to drive it through your chest.

“I need you to be still now," he says, not a hint of emotion, perfectly composed whilst you lay bark straight, clenching your muscles so tightly that you tremble with the force of it, had barely concealed beneath the pillow above you.

His palms glide over your hips, settling at your naval.

“Too many.” His voice blooms with an irritation that has you curling inward, freezing when you notice your mistake.

He doesn’t appear to mimic this concern, continuing without a sound. “They’re sick. All of them.”

You are as well.

He takes a finger to the newest wounds first, delicate in the way he traces its curvature. You’re as subtle as possible, feigning drowsiness, an innocent, sleepy stir when you bury your head at the bend of your elbow, giving a little sigh to hide suspicion.

“You’re more sensitive here aren’t you? I’ll be careful.”

You shudder when he follows to the hem of your underwear, the tips of his fingers barely tracing the line of it. Your nails believe themselves able to bite through metal, trying to prove this by digging into the grip’s silver hold.

“Just a little longer.” You wonder what 'a little' means in his vocabulary. Wonder why it’s taking so painstakingly long. “Good job.” Praise has never been something that you crave. Simply a luxury you had never been able to afford. Which makes it easy to blame the unfamiliarity of it for the low throb nestling at your core.

You force down a whine when he pulls the gown back to its original placing.

The unfamiliarity. That had to be it.

“Arms now.” He starts with the left, palm cupping the conjunct at your shoulder. It’s like a whisper, like mist. Almost as though it passes through you, almost as though it shrouds you. He strings it down to your wrist, inverting the path, settling at the dip of your collarbone. You didn’t think it possible to grow tenser. He, however, has been on an endless streak tonight — constantly proving you wrong. “Next one.”

It takes a while for the realization to hit you — the haze that settles over your mind making you sluggish, and it’s when he places a hand at your tricep, that your trance is broken.

Now. This is your chance.

If this is what you want, why do you suddenly feel so heavy? Why does your hold loosen?

Now. do it now.

“Only one here?" A sigh leaves him. "What a relief.”

He’s moving back down when your stomach sinks.

You hesitated. You hesitated.

“You’re doing so well, just one more.” The announcement has you practically singing to the heavens. “This one is a bit trickier though.” It is not even seconds after the words leave him that the reason why becomes clear to you.

He glides a thumb over your bottom lip, and you know fighting a shudder would be useless. You don’t stop it. You embrace the sweep of its sigh, curling your toes, rushing through your blood. It is only fair to allow your heart to rest for a beat, maybe two, right?

“Nuh-uh.” He pulls your reddened lip past your teeth. “Does it tickle?” Though the weight on the bed does not shift, you are painfully aware that he shuffles closer. “Tell me, love. For how long are we going to play pretend?” Your intake is sharp.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” fingers trace the line dividing your top lip from the bottom, dragging down your chin. “I’m quite enjoying this little game. However, I believe you should be aware that I am aware that you are awake.” His confession is smugly whispered.

He steals the breath from your lips, releasing it as a chuckle. “Do you believe that I am that naive?” his thumb locates your cheekbone, stoking in languid circles, “I-”

You don’t know why so much anger fuels your strike. Perhaps it’s the buildup of humiliation. Simply laying there while he luxuriated in knowing of your plan from the start. The nudge you threw to the deepest canal of your brain, the one that whispers ‘you liked it.

“Let’s not get violent now.”

Violent? Was his torture not violent enough?

Your attacks are anything but coordinated, continuously finding yourself slashing through nothing but the air that chills your palms, curving around your wrist. But not even that can stop you. Not when you want nothing more than to cut him down. To make him feel some semblance to what you felt.

How could someone be so uppish?

You’re barreling towards him when the skin at your wrist tightens. As though suddenly shrinking.

“Please, calm down.” Calm down? How could you?

“Don’t make me laugh,” comes your response. How could he suggest such a thing after a violation as bold as his own?

His face seems to fall, brows pinched. “I know what you’re thinking, but I believe a thank you would be more appropriate.”

“A thank you? Are you insane?” Of course, he is. Who but a creep would do such a thing? “What could I ever thank you for?”

“Well, we could start with your healed injuries.” It’s a near comical sight, you freeze, peering down at your freshened skin, eyes widening when there is not a scar to be found.

“How did you-” He does not give you time to inquire.

“It may be a bit on the snug side. I’m afraid that downside is beyond my control.” You’re still gaping, rubbing your palms over your skin, disbelief etched between the lines of your furrowed brows. You're at a loss for words, seaming lips that you were unaware lay agape.

At the lack of response, he continues, nodding towards your desk. “A thank you for those are far from required. It would have, however, been nice to receive a reply every now and then. Again, not an obligation, but I have found myself wondering about your styling. What words you would have used, how you would have phrased them, you know. Little things.”

He looks so at ease, hand crossed behind his back, eyes tracing the objects in the room.

Your focus drops to his attire. Complete ebony. He appeared dressed for a funeral. Black, hooded overcoat, breeches and boots all contrasting with the paleness of his skin, swathed in a haze as white as it appears frail. You find yourself unable to put words to it. Unlike anything, you’ve ever seen before comes closest. It’s only after moments that you drag your face to his, and this is when you confirm, he is not human. He couldn’t be. No human was, is, or could ever be so pristine so unflawed.

He brushes a hand through platinum blonde waves, careful not to brush off the tuft of raven tinted feathers tucked within a few strands. “No response?” His eyes find yours, azure and piercing, “How unfortunate. I was hoping our first time conversing would be a bit more interactive.”

You are quick to turn down his smile. “What are you?”

“No small talk then? Disappointing. I was looking forward to—”

“What are you?” Your breathing is more laboured than you would care to admit. The tremble of your fist enclosing the knife, hopefully not too on the obvious side.

“Me? My name is Taehyun. A pleasure to meet you.” With a stride in your direction, he continues, “Well, consciously, that is.”

With his every step forward, you take one back. “For the last time,” you’re grateful for the strength of your voice, “What are you?”

With an audible sigh, he says, “I am many things. Some call me a phantom, others call me a ghost, few dare to call me Casper.” He grimaces before a pause, “I prefer Taehyun. Kang Taehyun.”

“A phantom?” He doesn’t seem to appreciate your classification.

“Indeed.”

“What do you want with me?” Frazzled is the polite way to put your stance. To him, you're positive that you look all but ridiculous.

“Since you insist on cutting to the chase, I will hurry with my proposition. I would like to train you.”

“To what?” It blurts past your lips sooner than you anticipate. He couldn’t be serious. Train you? Why would he? It doesn’t make any sense.

“I understand your hesitation, but allow me to—”

“No.”

At the lift of his brow, you straighten. Shoulders back, chin skyward, “Look, phantom. I have no interest, so my answer is no. No, I do not want to train with you. No, I am not thankful for you healing me. No, I will not respond to your letters. No, I want no part in this. No.” It would not be an exaggeration to describe your walk as more of a pace. Shuffling from corner to corner with no specific destination in mind, you try your best to uphold a fraction at the least of the casualty so naturally flowing through him.

“I never offered for you to train alongside myself. I offered to train you.” Your jaw lay slack. He could not be serious.

“You must be kidding. Do you not understand how ridiculous this all is?” He moves to speak but you are quick to cut him off “Allow me to inform you Mr phantom, as you appear to be unaware. Shall we begin with the poems, and flowers you leave at my desk each morning?”

“I wouldn’t want you to have nothing when the old ones die.” You nearly believe his blank confusion.

“And then there is you sneaking into my dorm in the first place.”

“The doors weren’t necessarily closed, to begin with.”

“And that’s not even touching on the fact that you are not human!”

“I was once.”

“You're dead!”

“I believe that is how it works.”

“You have zero respect for boundaries.”

“Boundaries aren’t exactly all that easy to determine when you can walk through walls.”

“And then!” your thumb and forefinger roughly pinch the bridge of your nose. You take in a breath, long, and deep, it does nothing to soothe you. “Then you offer to train me? You can't tell me that you are unable to comprehend how bizarre all of this sounds?”

He dares to think, then says with a cocked brow, “I don’t believe I see the problem.”

You slump. Both mentally, and physically, muttering to yourself, "Crazy, all of it, should have known. A school like this? What did I expect? The professors are insane, the location is sketchy, the building is straight out of a goddamn horror film, It's three in the morning and I'm hallucinating, I can't remember a life before this, is there anything normal in this world? What even is normal?"

Taehyun takes a careful step forward, you don't bother to look up, he hesitates. “Don’t try to stab me. It won’t work, the knife would simply pass through, and I believe that would be a waste of time for the both of us, Don’t you?” He sits beside you, a softness replacing his earlier tension, palm placed on your shoulder. Or, at least he tries to, the result, however, is awkward more than anything, whisps of what you can only assume to be his body circling the joint rather than resting upon it, his thighs busy sinking beneath the sheets as he tries his utmost to readjust.

“It may be a lot to take in.” You do nothing to hide an eye roll, “But I urge you to take the time to think about it.”

You would do none of the sorts.

“Why me?” It should have been the first question you asked. It was the most reasonable of the lot after all. Perhaps, if he could explain why then you would have an excuse to forget your suspicions. Perhaps it would settle you.

“Why not you? Do you not want to be at the top of your class?” Of course, you did. Everyone did. The actual feat, though, is anything but easy. Only the top three performers out of two hundred graduated every year. The prize for such being a one-way ticket straight to the doors of 'HYBE Production Agency.' Full-time job, readily paid facilities, promised success, Yeri and yourself spent more time fantasizing about the impossibility than actually practising.

“What’s your current rank?” He asks as though the answer — a mere number — does not shame you.

“36.”

Taehyun does not laugh or tease. “Allow me a trial run. I’ll bring you to the top ten in no more than a few months” You laugh at that. You’ve been training here since you were 8 — the youngest age you remember yourself being. Any age below blurs into static grey, fading to black — a decade later and you’ve only managed to barely maintain your current ranking. How could he be so confident in your success, more accurately, his own?

“That’s the point of a trial run.” You suspect your sunken brows to be the cause of his reiteration. “Just give me a few months. I’ll prove it to you.”

You’re not quite sure when you began considering deals with phantoms, but as he stands to leave, you find it difficult not to stop him. “Why are you so confident in me?”

“Would it take from your anxiety to say that I am simply confident in myself?”

Despite the playful curve of his lips, you return, “No, but it would feed my anger.”

His grin is a genuine one, pulling his lips to the apples of his cheeks, pressing crowfeet to the corners of his eyes. “If you do wish to find me, all you must do is follow the tune.”

“Is that meant to be some corny riddle?”

He’s fading before you finish the sentence, hands planted firmly at his sides, eyes blank as they meet yours, “I hope to hear from you soon.”

***

“Taehyun? That’s his name?” Yeri had been needling you for a retelling of the night's events the very moment she picked you up from your dorm.

“Phantom,” you insist on keeping this all formal. His name is not, and will never be as important as what he is. A phantom. A dead man come to taunt you — tempt you with the promise of success and humiliate you when you bite. That is what he is. And you will never let yourself believe otherwise.

Yeri sits at the piano’s stool, pressing lazily at the keys she rests her cheek upon. “I think you should do it.”

You’re not quick enough to catch the strangled choke before it falls from your throat.

Had she gone mad?

“You think I should hang out with a phantom?”

“No,” She lifts herself, stretching her arms into the air, arching her back into a yawn. “I think you should train with Taehyun.”

To you, her rationality at times like this and never elsewhere had always served as an irritant. More so now than ever. “And what exactly has possessed you to think such a thing?”

“Don’t tell me that you don’t realize what a golden opportunity this is.”

“I-" That’s exactly the problem. You do, but—

“But you’re hesitating,” she sighs. “And for me, no less.” At the pinch of your brow, she continues, “Oh, don’t go acting clueless. You’ve never wanted to do anything without me. Ever since we first started.” She appears solemn for a moment, a half-scoff, half-laugh rumbling in her throat. “Little Y/N. Do you remember when you would fail on purpose? I was never any good. But you were adamant. ‘I’m not leaving you behind Yeri.’” with her fingers, she pulls quotation marks from the air. “‘We need to get out together.’” She takes a long pause, studying the art etched into the golden ceiling, “We were eight then. I’ll never forget it.”

It’s not an unfamiliar thing for her to leave you speechless, so when you come up short, she doesn’t hesitate to carry your slack. “If you care about me as much as you claim, then do it. You can teach me what you learn from him. This can be mutually beneficial but only if you take it. Do it for me if not yourself.”

You know exactly what she’s doing, and it’s working. She’s always had a knack for guilt-tripping you into helping yourself under the guise of helping her.

“Yeri . . .”

“We need to get out of here together.” Her smile lights her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re going back on your word. What a failure.”

You laugh, “Yep. A failure indeed.”

Moments like this always reminded you of how the two of you met, about this all started, glued hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, tending to each other's wounds, taking turns between practice and sleep, slaving away at the practice room after classes. Yeri would play while you sang until two am’s navy blue hour faded to passive pastel wisps of dawn, waving each other off when the sky bloomed — burst into sweet nectary gold, dripping into your eyes, sticking to your skin . . .

She had always been there.

“And I always will. The only way you're getting rid of me is by burning me off of your body. And don’t you even for a second take that as a joke.”

You don’t get the chance to respond before Mrs Heeejin walks in.

“Y/N, Yeri, why don’t you start us off? The two of you are already at the front of the class, play a little something while the others file in.”

Phrased like a request, but anything but.

“We would love to.” You force a tight smile.

Mrs Heejin is humming to herself now, the tick of her heels muted by the plush carpet when she strolls over to her closet. Named the ‘Incentive closet’ by her and the punishment box by everyone else.

With unhurried hands, Ms Heejin curls a few fingers around the closet’s knobbed handle. “What shall it be today?” Talking to herself, she traces over a few of her ‘Little helpers’ “This one is oh so tempting . . .” She wraps the fingers on her left around the tip of the crop, sliding them down to its base, then pulls them back up the length. She flicks her right wrist, landing a light tap on the closet’s polished wood. “Yes. This will do nicely.”

Looking to the rest of her devices solemnly, she says, “Oh, don’t look at me like that.” With a pout, she twirls a finger around one of her whips — the same one she had used on you all the day prior. “Next time.” She closes the door with a gentle click and turns once again to the class.

“Well?” Her steps are bold, demanding, strutting her over to the base of the platform. “Shall we get started?”

Yeri manages to toss a nod your way, the right side of her lips curling to form the slight of a smile. You return it by dipping your head in affirmation.

Mrs Heejin speaks, “Allow me to remind you all of the rules of ‘Two for one' If either of you fails, you both will receive a warning.” The smack of leather on wood is enough of a hint.

“The number of warnings you receive will be counted at the end of your session and play a major role in the determination of your overall rankings,” She smiles. “It is up to you to determine whether you rise or fall.”

Her eyes search for yours. You don't look up. “To reiterate," she pauses, a deceptive smile gracing her thin, thin lips. "Where you all stand at the end of this week is completely up to you.”

“Now.” She flashes her teeth to you all. “Yeri, Y/N, you are the first to play. Try your not to disappoint.”

Yeri curls the tips of her fingers, gingerly hovering them no more than a centimetre above the keys. Focusing intently, you realize as her brows pinch, bottom lip hauled between her teeth.

You’ve never quite understood which keys produce the sounds you hear, how to place and press, how to dance so effortlessly across them — you had always been placed in vocal-oriented classes, all you know about playing the piano came from Yeri — but she does, and the movements remind you of a snake charmer, lulling vicious serpentines, transforming them into a flock no more deadly than sheep.

You are no exception to her manipulations, only gaining awareness of the tune that floats from your opened mouth once the rhythm gains speed, strength, beating its wings like a bird prepping to take flight and coiling about lyrics at different intervals.

It twists around your throat as well, shortly followed by the distribution of two strikes. One falls on the back of your shoulder, softer than you expect yet sharp, and quick enough to leave behind a sting.

As Yeri’s hit lands on her fingers, you hide a wince. "Facial expressions" Mrs Heejin’s voice rings, "They are just as important." Putting your utmost into withholding a glare, you expel all guilt clogging your throat.

If you want to make it better then sing. Do it for her.

Do it for her.

Do it for us. Take it.

Yeri soothes the melody into a soft hum, cradling it between her fingers.

As it does every morning at 3:00.

It should go up now — like it always does — then cascade upon you like autumn showers, a sudden shock of chill crashing down in rushing waves, soaking through cinnamon cardigans, sending shivers up spines, leaving as quickly as it comes.

Another strike, this one to your cheek, its abruptness sending you searching, hand reaching for the bruise, but stopping when Mrs Heejin lands another to your knuckles.

You steal a glance at Yeri — had you sang the wrong song? You scarcely recall the lyrics that would accompany Taehyun’s piece —with it being sung at such a distance that the words seemed to mesh with the silk of the song itself, heightening it rather than serving a separate purpose.

But there were some nights. Those particularly difficult ones where the fog would thicken, the rain would bite, and his voice would pierce the very heavens. You would hear him through your restless sleep. How no one else did was a wonder in itself. But even so, you couldn't have managed to — the look Yeri gives you, however, tells a different story. You sang the wrong song, a single note threw you off. And it resulted in punishment for the both of you.

“Focus,” Yeri whispers. You hope that her warning is worth the strike you both receive on the tops of your thighs. You hope that it prevents further slip-ups. You doubt that it will. Still, you are thankful for the attempt. You need to ground yourself. You need to focus. You are not the only one suffering from your mistakes. Not today.

Give me a trial run, I assure you . . .

A strike to your chest has your muscles twitching, worming away from the touch as a Mollusca would salt.

Maybe you did need lessons. Maybe it was the only way. The only way —

Do it for me, then.

The top ten in a few months.

You want it, do you not?

You’re hesitating.

I am simply confident in myself.

The next strike finds purchase at your back, despite Taehyun's healing the blow is fueled with enough force to sting your still tender skin. “Y/N.” Mrs Heejin does not try to hide her taunt —encouragement, she calls it. “Is something the matter, or is it your wish to punish your friend with your inadequacy? ”

Your ribs feel too tight for your heart. Every word she speaks is true. You know it. Despite the bitterness coating your throat, you know it. You are the reason behind the majority of the penalties received so far. Yeri is being forced to put up with your incompetence —to play without reprieve. Excellently at that. You're riding on her back.

“Are my lessons not enough for you? Just yesterday you had performed so well!” She saunters closer, breath brushing the shell of your ear. You cringe, every muscle, bone, blood vessel recoiling. “How are you to make the top three? You’re slow.” It is almost as though her voice becomes a whisper itself, and you are far from sure whether you imagined it slow, your consciousness honing in on her following words. "You need more practice.” It feels like an insinuation. Too perfectly placed to be a coincidence. She knows nothing. You know that she doesn’t. There is no denying, however, the way your heart seems to drop to your feet, picking itself up just as suddenly, getting stuck in your throat mid-process.

Perhaps you did need extra help. On your own, you were nothing.

***

Making awkward glances at the clock atop your desk every quarter of a minute, you pretend that you’re not waiting for the moment that it strikes three.

It doesn’t matter how many times you scold yourself — how often you remind yourself that there’s no need. The music will play, then you will know, you'll follow. There's no mistaking it — your eyes always find their way back, teasing you, poking fun at your abrupt change of mind. Yesterday you wanted nothing to do with this. Now? Now you were scouring your brain for any plausible excuse that could spare you from certain humiliation.

Two fifty-seven, you wring your hands through your heavy cloak, silently fingering its soft, silken, fabric.

Two fifty-eight, you trill your lips, bouncing your thighs as you engage in a mini staring contest with the wall. It wins.

It must be three, now? Staring competitions take a significant amount of skill, and concentration, in which you so happened to be an expert. No one ever lasts more than a solid sixty seconds. You partook in three rounds — the wall, however, does not count, as clearly it was under the influence of some form of steroids — which means that it's time to leave.

You glance at the clock. It's two fifty-eight.

Okay so obviously Taehyun can read minds. He must be playing with yours. There could be no other reason. Perhaps he could change the time as well? Maybe freeze it? The limits and uses of a phantom's powers are unknown to you but his existence on its own is enough proof that a feat so simple is possible.

If he could read your mind, then he knows that you're waiting.

What if he was teasing you? You turned him down so fiercely, and now you’re minutes away from seeking him out. He must get a kick out of it. Some form of sick superiority.

No, you will not let him win this. You will not allow him to revel in the satisfaction of seeing you desperate.

Three o'clock and you’re already halfway out the door, clutching your hood, pulling your cloak impossibly tighter around your figure.

The typically tightly fixed stoned floors must have a mind of their own today, rising to meet the tip of your toes, stumbling you, as you run walk briskly down the halls.

It’s after you nearly fall flat on your face stumble for the nth time that you slow, when you place each step carefully before the other, when the soft twirl of the keys latch onto passing drafts, nibbling at your cheeks, licking up the shell of your ear, painting them in varying shades of pink and red.

You remind yourself to follow them as they circle about your head, lifting the hair at the back of your neck, twisting with your fingers.

They call you forward with a gentle tug, and with your fists forced at your sides, you follow. When they whisper to you, you let them. You let them dance about like little fairies, swaying to the intoxicating tune. When they slink between the crevices of your cloak, seeping into the thin, flaky material beneath, you brave a sigh. Pumping onwards as they lick up your thighs, brushing over your clothed heat, tasting the warmth of your skin. You let every shiver card through your frame, honey to the spreading warmth at your centre.

You let them coax you into the bliss but not the spell. You're here to take. To take every morsel of information — anything that proves to be useful. You're here to be selfish. You will not forget it.

It’s all too slow and all too soon that the little misfits have you to near the very end of the corridor. Where the dark of night cannot be penetrated by the moon’s hazy glow. Drawn across as a line along the stoned floor like a symbol, a choice. One that you hesitate to make.

Your eyes find it easier to linger to your right. To the large, wood-brown door stuffed between the endless walls. To take in the utter magnitude of it.

It’s difficult to pry yourself away. You feel so drawn — enchanted merely by its presence. You take slow steps to its golden knob, the hem of your cloak dragging against the floor as you do.

You would never enter.

Still, it would be a shame to deny your curiosity —to deny yourself a little look — rather, an impossibility.

You throw all the effort you can muster into not reaching out a finger to trace the gold-etched carvings. The language that they form is one that you could never hope to understand. Still, you find yourself marvelling at the print for the better part of five minutes.

You could go ten, twenty, thirty — if not for Taehyun. If not for his heavy presence behind you. If not for the way his heated stare forces the hair at your nape to stand on ends.

“I told you to follow. Not to laze about.” The authority of his tone feels animate as it tangles about you, strangling your voice in your throat. “And tell me Y/N, what did you do?”

You can’t help but lower your head, cheeks flushed. “I . . . " The words fail you, retreating to the safety of your chest, away from Taehyun’s scold.

If you were paying closer attention you’d have noticed the anxious glances he gives behind you. That the pace of his speech contrasts that of the one that eased past his lips the night prior.

He flicks a wrist, and immediately you feel the chill of his tendrils snake around your forearm. The frosty touch slides over your skin, triggering a rush of heat that pools at your stomach, dripping no quicker than molasses.

Hang on. Touch. He was touching you. “Tae — phantom, how?” You come up short on words, and Taehyun slowly follows your eyes to where he meets you.

He lets a smirk breakthrough, coy, confident. “What?” His fingers curl, flicking empty air in a ‘come here’ motion. The surprise of it has you stumbling forward, arms flailing for support when your feet fail you. “This? This is just a special feature.”

He catches sight of the wood behind you, and if you had regained your footing even a moment too late, you would have missed the muscle that jumps at his jaw.

“And that,” he catches your eyes, the gaze he casts you darkening, head nodding briefly behind you, “Is something you have no business with.”

The protest bubbles past your lips before you can stop it. “What’s behind it?” You couldn't be certain that he knew, but the way his grasp tightened around your arm, near to cutting into the skin, feeds you an inkling or two.

“Must I repeat myself?” You haven’t known Taehyun long — you don’t know him at all for that matter — yet the way in which his jaw falls set, determination cremating into borderline stubbornness behind the fixed lock of his gaze, have you swallowing thickly.

He doesn’t release you as he turns, setting a brisk pace down the hall’s remaining stretch, plunging into the darkness without so much as a flinch. It’s only seconds into his brutal pace that he extends a hand, a hidden door slinking open by some silent command.

Toss is one way to put how Taehyun sets you into the room. Brutal throw without a hint of concern is another. And you're left to vaguely acknowledge the door’s slide and shut behind you, busy blinking away the burn of the new light.

He reaches a hand again, and the bright fluorescent smothers to a muted blue-grey.

You don’t expect him to care, so his ask has you a bit shocked: simple, single-worded. “Better?”

“I . . . yeah. Thank you.” His acknowledgement comes as a soft grunt, and he makes his way to the — wow . . .

It's massive. The grand piano sitting upon the sole spot of carpet, ornate crystals strung together like wind chimes, dangling from the ceiling's centre above, circling mere feet above the rich ebony. At the far end, there are moats about 6 or so feet in length, and cascading into them, soft sheets of water foaming, hissing at contact. You incline your head, trying and failing to see where the waterfall begins.

Taehyun doesn’t wait to take a seat at the plush leather bench and you marvel at him when he doesn’t slip through. He looks as comfortable as any human in the same position would.

With steepled fingers, he waits on your question.

“How?” It comes again. It’s a valid inquiry. One he answers with a sigh.

“I’ve already told you. It’s a special feature.” He reaches out a hand, the glimpse he gives it far off. “These,” Taehyun twirls his middle and ring fingers and around them, a few wisps of chill follow, circling, twisting, dipping at his command, “Are all a part of me. Like an extra limb. One that I can stretch, and disconnect from my body. Therefore, I can control it as one.” You know not a single limb that matches that description.

His expression is bored when he flicks his wrist, tendrils galloping, jumping over, ducking under one another. They reach you before you can react. Mussing your attire, slipping through you as though you were intangible. It is then that you understand. “The drafts.”

It’s quaint, the way he smiles, “Clever girl.” Breaking them into minis. “I can pick things up.” They slip around your calves and biceps, picking you up for a few moments. It's a short second, but catches you off guard, a small squeak, and hurried ‘put me down’ the result.

Taehyun ccontinues, “I can touch anything with them, but it doesn't work with the rest of my body.” He drags one along your wrist. “I used them to heal you.” Observing you for a long moment, he speaks, “Would you like me to again? There are more,” he searches for the right words, “Injuries today than yesterday.”

Your cheeks heat at the memory. “Yeri already cleaned them.” You’re tight lipped when you finish, “I’m fine.”

Taehyun is hesitant to accept your answer, shaking his head, blowing a breath, “I won’t force you then.”

You want so desperately to change the subject. “What do you call them?”

The slopes between his brows grow, “Pardon?”

“Those things.”

“Was I meant to give them a name?”

“I just thought that maybe you did. ‘The drafts’ is more of a generalization than an actualization, so it left me curious.

“Would you like to name them?”

You let his question fall. “Can all phantoms do that?”

“No, but we do have various abilities.”

You go to part your lips. He lifts a hand. “Let me stop you there. No, I cannot read minds.” You’re a bit embarrassed by the way he pieced it together so quickly. It wasn’t like you gave any sort of indiction to your process of thought.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, his voice rings barely above a whisper. “Mind reading. It’s ridiculous really, why is it that people always assume that every supernatural being possesses the ability to read minds? Oh look, he can produce fire, I wonder if he can read minds as well.” His hands fly about in no particular direction, “Blasphemy all of it!”

There’s a long pause before he breathes. The way in which his frown deepens, and brow ticks, is the only indication of his softening. “Go ahead, ask me another question.”

You reach for your sleeves, pulling, tugging, twisting, distracting, “What else can you do?”

He doesn’t appear to think for too long. “Besides the obvious walking through walls?” His speech cuts off, and you blink. Where? Where did he go? "My physical abilities did get a bit of an upgrade.” The voice comes from behind you, whispering up your spine.

Startled is a kind way to put your reaction and Taehyun seems to find it amusing enough, daring a breath of a laugh. “Careful. We wouldn’t want you getting hurt, now would we?” He appears fairly fond of his mockery.

You try to part your lips — to retort, but all that tumbles through is huff.

“Is that all?” you say at last.

“You appear disappointed.”

“I’m just curious. What happens next?”

“Next,” he smiles, and although it is not required, he still walks around you. “You sing me something.”

“What?” You were not prepared for this. You hadn’t even begun to put something together.

“The piece you did today.” He ponders the keys. “Let’s try that one. ‘Phantom of the Opera' was it?” He finds the notes effortlessly, playing through your protest.

Deafetedly, you begin.

“Ah, no. You’re already wrong. Fix your posture.”

A few notes later: “No, no, try that again. Don’t shout the lyrics, sing them.”

Not even half a minute after that. “Is this your voice? Stop trying to mimic the voices of others when you have your own.”

You nearly scream when he stops altogether. “I see we have some work to do.”

He turns to you, tendrils slinking through his hair in what you assume must be his way of carding it back. “I’ll have to organize the rest of your lessons based on what I just heard.” You pout when he grimaces, “But let’s start with the first, Lesson one: using your own voice.”

You’re certain that had Taehyun been able to, he would have crossed his legs that moment. “You’re not making whale sounds, Y/N. You’re singing opera. It’s a genre, it’s music — and like all other forms of such, it tells a story. How can one tell a story without a voice?” You move to protest, but he cuts you short. “Yes, you do have a voice. But it’s hidden under layers and layers of others. You can’t steal someone else’s voice and sell it as your own. Don’t force the notes, high, or low. Of all vocalists, the best are those who can take their range and make something out of it.” He questions, “What is it you wish to make of yours?”

***

You throw a rock through Taehyun’s head, mouth drawing in awe when it plops at his heels. “It didn’t go straight through you this time. That's progress.” You’re not surprised when his lips twist in irritation. You were avoiding the point anyway.

Taehyun has been walking a dent into the floor for the past half hour. Hand under his chin sheltering his lips, he says, “We’ve tried lip trills, The ‘ah’s the ‘ee’s the ‘yah’s the ‘uh’s. We’ve attempted to pull your voice from your chest, your throat, and your palate, and still!” Yup. A beast is definitely the way you’d describe his stance, one trapped in a cage, claws and fangs bared and ready to kill. “Still you’re tense!”

You pick up a pen this time, throwing this one through his arm, landing directly behind him. “You see? It is slowing down. Why do you think that is?”

You see it in his eyes. He is one second away from mauling you. “Y/N.” With his fingers he rumples creased brows, voice unsettlingly calm. “That is not the point.”

You’re relentless, clueless even to yourself as to why you insist on pushing his buttons. “It is, Phantom. See, when we first met about two months ago, the pen would have fallen at least three to four feet behind you. Now it’s not even one.”

“Why are you being such a brat?”

“Why are you being such an ass?” A grumble is all you get as a response. You try again. "What's bothering you?" He lets your question fall, and with an exhaustingly difficult sigh, you stand. “Fine, then. What do you propose?”

He looks to you and says, “The problem is that you’re tense. You can’t sing properly if you’re tense. How we fix that,” He trails off, frustration evidently growing. “Is beyond me.” Taehyunn resumes his pace. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing-” Slowly, he lets his claws hands fall. “Wait.”

Your brows furrow. “Wait?” Taehyun, as you have learned, has a habit of staring into nothing. Not a single clue to his mind's inner workings ever play with his expression. And it’s no wonder that his following statement leaves you a little shocked. “Sing,” he says, hurrying to the leathered bench, guiding you to stand, facing him. “Let’s try this. Sing. No matter what. Don’t stop singing until I instruct you to. Understood?”

There’s trepidation lacing your tone when you finally answer, trying your utmost to remain still.

“Relax,” he says once. “You already know this.”

And with a final glance tossed your way, he begins to play.

The first few notes are the most difficult to pull past your ever-tightening throat but it's then that you feel Taehyun’s tendrils smoothing over your skin. Like a cool-kissed breeze.

He glances at you in a warning and despite your initial protest, you allow yourself to slip into his touch. After all, the little drafts were doing you no harm. Perhaps this was his plan. Perhaps he planned to ease the tension by directly eliminating it. Perhaps he didn’t mean to send a kiss of heat fluttering through your veins.

Perhaps.

You get lost in the motion, eventually. Just the lull of the keys, the sound of your voice, and the calm of the drafts. And you sigh in what you pray not to be frustration when they pull away.

The feeling doesn't last long enough to analyze. They return, taking full advantage of every inch of exposed skin, slinking around your fingers, stroking your wrist, your forearm, and appearing rather fond of your hair — combing through it, massaging your scalp.

In the past, had you tried to catch them between your fingers, they would simply slip past as they had before. This time, though? They feel more physical. Still, you cannot touch them but now they can touch you. Now it feels more like the caress of icy fingers, than the ghost of a simple draft.

They grow increasingly emboldened with every lick at your skin, deeming it time to slip past your garments, to graze every inch of you. You shouldn’t be surprised when they adjust your hair or when they lick at your nape or tease your collarbones. Even so, it sends heat licking at the base of your spine, your voice shooting an octave.

“Again,” Taehyun says. “Every time you mess it up we’re going again.” A tendril smothers your lips as they part, tracing over the curves until you bring your tongue to wet them — your breath having left them dry while singing.

It only pulls away when it’s your cue to sing, finding it more exciting to slip underneath your garments, kissing up your thigh. The chill of it nearly makes you jerk away, but the little misfit holds you steady, coiling around the meat of your leg as slinks slowly upward, its breath cool against your skin, tasting you, stroking up and down in languid slides. It doesn’t care for your complaints, slipping closer and closer to the pitiful pulse of your heat. Rather, it encourages its friend to join in. This one secures your other thigh, following the set motion. They’re breaking you and you know it. Drawing up oh so close, dancing, the frosted wisps shimmering as their bodies butterfly at your clad sex. Against you, they undulate like the ocean’s waves, their bodies, forever swirling, teasing, but never applying enough pressure.

You end up gasping in both frustration and relief when the sensation pulls away completely, followed by the soft pitter-patter that signals the song’s beginning.

“Focus, Y/n.” You envy Taehyun’s voice. Strong and certain. A complete contrast to your breathy gasps and strangled whimpers.

The drafts have you teetering over the edge of explosion. There are more now. The two at your thighs remain in place, doing nothing but holding you still as a few others trace your sides. They meander along your goosebump riddled skin, crossing paths every now and then, their touch like that of a lover. They’re gentle with you, feeding you whatever you wish, kissing up your spine, curling around your waist. Like two flattened palms stroking up your ribcage's rippling expanse, they cup the swells of your breasts with icy fingers.

You sigh internally, trying to keep to singing on key, trying to keep the sweet torture flowing just a little longer.

You made a mistake believing that they were kind. And they delight in proving you wrong as they slip into the cups of your bra. Impossible to stop. Helpless to their touch. You practically plead them to move, thrusting your chest forward for anything. Any stimulation at all. Pouting when they remain stagnant, realizing only moments later that it’s your own fault: you stopped singing.

“Is there a problem?” Taehyun’s voice could almost pass as genuine. Almost. Only if he didn’t start the tune over. Only if he didn’t break the tendrils into eight. Only if he didn’t flutter them over your helpless frame.

You do nothing to hide this time. Cheering them on with a mental chant. Please please, please.

It’s shameless, how you grind your hips, body fueled solely by unadulterated need. And you cry your thanks to the heavens when the stupid, wonderful, misfits swirl about your nipples.

You had completely forgotten the other four until two find your wrist, holding them at your sides, keeping your fingers from rolling your pulsating clit. The final two locate your shoulders, untangling the knots that force them straight. You gasp. You’ve experienced nothing like this. Not once has your tongue nearly lolled past your lips. Not once have you had a moan so lewd tear free from your throat. Not once have you been victim to the pure, erotic, bliss waving through you, drenching you in more arousal than you think you’ve ever accumulated.

It’s a challenge like no other to suffocate a scream when they pull away.

“Again,” Taehyun says.

They return full force shortly after, sucking your nipples into hungry mouths, cold biting over the tips. The drafts at your thighs finally take pity on you, burying past your drenched undergarments, smothering a long lustful stroke against your heat. They tongue at your clit, circling relentlessly, pushing past the seam of your fluttering entrance, pistoning in and out at such a brutal pace that white blurs the corners of your vision.

There are more drafts than before, so many you can’t count. Tasting, sucking, kissing, nipping the salt off your skin, teasing all your pleasure points. It’s too much and not enough and when the misfits at your shoulders and press into the flesh, massaging out the knots, turning you to nothing but a melted mess, you scream jerking against your restraints, whimpering as they tighten and pull your arms behind your back, spreading your thighs farther. They give enough access for the tendrils to curl upward, to press at the spongy spot inside you, dragging — hauling you to your pinnacle. You writhe, body tensing, the taste of your orgasm sweet on your lips and you suck it in greedily, needing it like water, like breath.

Then it stops.

Taehyun’s state is nearly as rugged as yours, and he takes a minute to smooth his palms over his trousers.

Long moments pass, with you both inhaling softly, gathering yourselves. “Again,” he says.

You want to cry, bawl, but the misfits suck the salt of your tears into still hungry mouths. Each word sang is shaky, chest heaving, trembling with the effort.

They almost appear apologetic. Tugging on your nipples tenderly, painting them with syrupy kisses. At your heat, they fuck you to the beat of your heart. Plunging in until you think they will wind up in your stomach, then dragging out ever so slowly. They surround you in their tender embrace, coaxing you to your climax, feeding you sugary kisses and sweet nothings.

The pace keeps until the piece nears its end.

“Nearly there.” Taehyun blows a sigh, muscles strained under his dress shirt.

As if on cue, the tendrils redouble their efforts. Plunging in and out of your drooling heat, the stimulation at your clit fucks you in broad circles, and you moan into the lyrics. They’re holding nothing back. The figurative damn bursting as it all kicks into overdrive, as it all seems so endless. They’re not stopping. They’re never going to stop. And you’re caught in the middle of it. You’re caught between the whirl at your swollen clit and the suck at your nipples and the never-ending hands that hold you down and make you take it. All of it.

No, no, no, you can’t, you can’t.

You shriek, muscles tensing, then releasing. Your body shakes, nearly tearing your limbs when you fight against the restraints. You gasp when the coil at your stomach snaps, pleasure wracking through you. A cry tears past your lips as your orgasm reaches its peak. You’re still stuttering with the force of it all, pulling deep mouthfuls of air into your lungs.

With a shaky sigh, your eyelids slowly flutter apart. “Hey?” You say and nearly cringe when you find Taeyun's fingers digging into the keys. With his head hung low, body taut, you walk to him, no longer held back by the tendril's grasp.

You slide a hand over his, gasping. You touched him. You’re touching him. You can feel it.

“Is it an effect of the room?” You try to keep the disbelieve from your lips, still, it fails.

It couldn’t have been the room. It’s never worked like that before. Never.

Taehyun yanks his hand away like he had been stung. “Don’t.” There’s a snarl behind his voice. He stands, albeit unsteadily. Rushing to no particular destination.

“Taehyun, Talk to me.” It’s when he goes rigid that you realize. You’ve never called him by his name. Not aloud anyway.

“Lesson’s over.” His response is curt. “You know where to find the door.”

“No.” How could he even suggest it? “We’re talking about this, Taehyun.”

Taehyun. There was his name again. Curled around your tongue, falling off the tip. He turns to you then, Ridgid. “What is there to discuss? You failed the warmup. We will try again tomorrow.”

You thought yourself to be more stubborn than him. You thought he’d handle this appropriately. You thought wrong.

"Why are you acting like an asshole?” It’s difficult to school your face to neutrality. All for the sake of pretending that his words did not hurt you. “What is this about?” You’re already nearing your limit with this. His unwavering silence is only furthering your irritation. “Taehyun,” you try again. The muscle at his jaw ticks. “Taehyun.” He groans, hands rough, ploughing against his scalp. He feels the hair between his fingers, eyes widening. “Taehyun.”

He snaps, “Why must you always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Why must you always be so difficult?”

“I’m being difficult?”

“Why can’t you understand?”

Fury ignites at the pit of your stomach, burning any semblance of composure — reason. “How am I supposed to understand when you won’t tell me anything! Why won’t you communicate! That’s how this works!” His words broiled something ugly in you. Something that leaves you nauseous, leaves tears pricking behind your eyes, nails biting bloody crescents into your palm.

“You’re not ready.”

Did he think of you as a child? “Taehyun.” You walk towards him, not minding how he flinches, caring for nothing more than an explanation. He was not going to stop you from getting one. “We’re not doing this bullshit, Taehyun. Explain. Now.”

Taehyun tenses at the sight of you, arms crossed, hip set, and brow cocked. With a sigh, “I’m a phantom.”

You roll your eyes, grunting.

“Wait.” he cuts you off. “ So are all your teachers.” At this, you freeze. Taehyun nods. “It’s a trick, Y/n, all of it. There is no such thing as HYBE production agency or whatever they're calling it these days, there's no special job for the top three, nothing of the sort.”

Physically, you’re frozen. Mentally, you’re running a mile a minute — scratch that: three. “Don’t lie to me Taehyun. The top three are rewarded every year. The entire school walks them out the door. We’re all forced to wave them off.”

“To their deaths Y/n.” He sighs, “I told you that you weren’t ready.”

It leaves you paralysed. “What?”

“The brown door: it’s a labyrinth. Humans can enter, but never leave,” he says, “That’s where they’re taken — tortured. Souls trapped, forced to watch their bodies humiliated.” He breathes deeply. “The top three every year are none but mice to prod and tease. Hares to experiment on.

“And you were training me to join them? You betrayed me, Taehun.” Your voice comes as whispered a curse. “You betrayed me.”

He wishes that your every word were coated with hate. It would be easier than the ache. Then the tears that dibble into each one. He doesn’t know how to place a hand on your shoulder. How to wipe your cheeks. How to say I’m sorry. How to say If I only had a choice, if only. He doesn’t know how to comfort you.

Instead, he says, “I had to. I had no choice. You were selected. From the very start. We’re sent to train you all — trick you into believing that you had a future, something special, then debauch in the fear that settles with the realization. that’s what we're supposed to do.” Taehyun is gasping at the end of it. Gulping large intakes, trying to soothe himself. His voice cracks, “I didn’t want any of this.”

Your laugh is bitter, spat from your tongue to his heart. “You would have liked it wouldn’t you? How does it feel, Taehyun? You succeeded, you tricked me.”

You're halfway out the door when he catches your wrist.

“No.” His voice is firm despite his body’s quivers.

“Why! Why, Taehyun? Why can’t I have this? If you’re so sorry then let me go.” It’s shrill, your voice. Ringing strongly enough to bounce about in the heavy tension.

“No.” He can no longer withhold his quiver.

“Why!”

“Because I love you." His words are simple but certain.

Slick heat falls to your wrist and only then do you recognize them as tears — crying. You’re crying. A sharp tug liberates you from his hold, his arm falling limp at his side, the heels of your palms scrubbing away the unwanted vulnerability. You let yourself consider him for a moment, a flutter so light, so heavy, tightening your ribcage to the point of aching. Then you shut it down. “No.” It’s beautiful — his physical form. Every silent shudder, every heaved breath that pulls and pushes his chest. As though you held the very strings — the tether — that moves him like a puppet beneath your fingers.

Kang Taehyun. So beautiful when he breaks. And alongside him, you do the same. “If you loved me, Taehyun.” He winces, eyes glossed, head sagging. Like he couldn’t — can’t. Can’t bear to hear you say it. A voice of sharpened steel claws, dragging against such a tender part of him. Like scissors to paper, flame to wood, shredding and burning. You say it again, “Taehyun.” Maybe it’s cruel. A sadistic part of you that wishes to instil as much hurt in him as he’s done to you. Maybe it’s wrong. “Taehyun. If you loved me. You would have gotten me out. You would have tried for me.”

He doesn’t speak, and for the moment that he lifts his eyes to yours, it flashes — his hurt. Taehyun doesn’t look away as trembling fingers clasp the first button of his jacket. You’re choking. Choking on nothing. On something. On a thing that you cannot explain. On a thing that feels a lot like a void. An emptiness. Deep and merciless as it lances through you, blocks the words at your throat as you watch him shrug off the cloth. Lacerations. Brands.

“I tried.” The sound is so broken, so destroyed. “Every night I tried. I tried to convince myself that they wouldn’t find us, that they wouldn’t find you. I tried to move, I tried to breathe, but the risk, it suffocated me, drowned me upon dry land because if they, those monsters, those nightmares, if they so much as suspected, Y/N, you would be dead.” The crack of his voice, it’s just like the whip, and it’s not blood, but saline warmth now dripping down your skin. “They would make me watch. Everything. Watch as your screamed, watch as you cried and render me useless. Completely useless. And I know that it’s selfish but I didn’t want to feel such pain. I would not shatter, Y/N, I would detonate. I would burn from within, I would be consumed whole by the bitter wrath that simmers at the very thought. I am sorry. I’m sorry. But I couldn’t take it.”

At that moment, Taehyun turns and you take it all in — him, you take him in. From the puckered pink scars to the still-raging red mark embedded on his chest. That crest. It’s the same. The markings on the door.

One foot before the other and your hands find the smooth flesh, tracing over each one, together with him, you tense, his eyes scanning you like a predator, the motion of your fingers slight but sure. You ride each wave of grief that your touch elicits, you experience the memory behind each curled ridge as you crash and sink and shake. He doesn’t respond, only a gentle tremor moving his muscles at the press of your lips to his gnarled skin.

A jagged breath and his eyes flutter shut, head falling skyward. “You shouldn’t,” he groans, but you’re too far gone, too mesmerised by his unsteady swallow, how it moves his dew-slick skin. You wrap your fingers around his chin, tugging it downwards until you’re face to face.

The firm press of your lips to his has the air rushing past his lungs, tangling with your own, warm as it slips down your throat. Immediately, he startles, body coiling to rigidity, the sharp beat of his heart pounding against you. You retract only to loop your arms about his neck, fingers locked and resting on his back, sighing softly at the feel of him, the heat against your skin, his breath against your lips. “You talk too much shit.” No time. You give him no time to return the snarky comment, shifting your weight until you’re fully together, sliding your thumb along his bottom lip only to replace it with your tongue.

You feel it as he softens, sinking into you, movements certain, hands finding purchase at the small of your back. As they slip beneath his shirt, you note the heat of them. Honestly, despite his near-human state, you expected him to be cooler — cold like the chilled caress of his tendrils. You ask, “Do you still have them? Your,” you smile, “Friends.”

Taehyun studies you for a moment, brow ticking before meeting the other, concentration rimming his handsome face. “You tell me.”

You feel it then, like the burst of a snowball to your back, splintering through your skin and spurring from you a sharp yelp. The fist you bring to hit his bicep is caught before making its mark, hauled with your other and returned to his nape by the cool hold you know all too well. “Bastard I-” Taehyun’s lips curl smugly against your own, pulling goosebumps from your skin at the trail of his fingers up and down your back, his touch like a delicious flutter.

“Tell me,” he sings, hands shifting to your hips and you shiver with every upward stroke along your sides, groan when they reverse their path, dragging with them honeyed slick from your churning core. “How do you like those shivers down your spine, love?” You don’t bother to question the skin that can still hold you, or how this form can co-exist with his powers. Another time, perhaps, you would make sense of it, but now you wanted to feel him.

With a deep hunger, you smash your lips against his and lose yourself to the slide of tongues, the sweet, soft grunts, and his heavy, strong hands fondling your ass, your thighs. “We don’t have much time,” he groans, and you mewl into the hot press of his mouth, hands trailing down, down.

“We only need a few minutes.” You palm him through his trousers, navigating your way around his shape, fingers gaining the sticky heat of his precum. “You’re already so hard.” Indeed, he was, and for a man of so much brazen pride and indifference, Taehyun’s current state completely wowed you.

You press your lips to his chest. He shudders, a quick powerful thing that leaves him panting into your hair, forearm wrapped loosely the back of your head, a hand on your waist. “Faster,” he pleads, “Please.” You don’t hesitate, licking a smooth strip up his sternum, dragging the heel of your palm roughly upward, cupping his length, placing extra pressure upon his spurting tip that lay flatly against his abdomen. He grinds into you, a sharp, forceful roll of his hips, and your core keens in response, throbbing harshly with each following thrust.

You pick up the pace. Faster and faster and he responds to each movement, each stroke, nose nuzzling your neck, nipping carefully at your skin, clamping his teeth roughly into your shoulder when you bare yourself to him, demanding more, craving it.

“Hurry.” Your strokes are brutal, unforgiving, and his hips buck into each one, following your touch, chasing it, demanding it. Through the tightness of the material that binds him, you feel him twitch. It jolts straight to your heat.

“Fuck.” Taehyun throws his head back, chest heaving, limbs buckling. “Keep doing that.” His chest. It’s too well defined, too chiselled to bite and mark as you wish. Instead, you dig your fingers into his locks of hair, keeping your hands at a steady rhythm, lips tasting, licking the heat that coats his body, swallowing his grunts of pleasure whole, clamping down onto the pretty spot beneath his ear.

Taehyun comes in a roar of release that soaks you to your very core, leaving nothing behind but vicious primal hunger.

Your very knees buck at the sound of him and without a second thought, you sit him onto the stool before the piano, freeing him from his boxers, marvelling at his utter thickness.

He beats you to it, pulling your hips to his, aligning his throbbing cock with your soft, slick folds. “I wish I had the time to taste every inch of you before this,” he says. You moan. “I wish that I could make love to you right now but,” Shadows dim his eyes. “Another time. You have my word.” You kiss the hand that he presses to your cheek, peering down at him with a sad sort of understanding.

“Later, for sure,” you say. “But for now, I want you to destroy me.” His body gives his response, a shaky breath, and slowly, with your aid, he eases himself into you. You and Taehyun share a single guttural groan once he’s sheathed himself fully inside of you, and even without him moving, it’s still difficult to reign in your occasional twitch or jerk.

He’s lifting you before you can adjust, easing the stretch with fingers on your clit, fluttering tender circles, lips relocating your neck, your collarbone.

You peer down at the hand between your sweat-lined bodies, the bulging veins, the steady confidence, the sheer strength. You despise the part of you that folds at the masculinity. The dominance. Taehyun notes your stare. “Ah, you like that?” You don’t dare to respond. His other hand finds your throat, gently but firmly wrapped around it — ownership. Claiming. Marking. “Answer me.” You quail at the face of his burning gaze, throwing him a meek nod. His fingers slide to your chin, to your lips, to your tongue, pulling it past your mouth, pressing against the sides, spit dribbling down his fingers. He smirks. Smug, evil. “Answer me.” You try and fail to form words around him, gagging when he forces himself deeper, brutal, torment, utter satisfaction lining his features when your tongue curls hopelessly around his digits, another gag pulled past your throat.

You reach a hand around his wrist. Taehyun doesn’t bother to remove you. He smiles, teeth white and glinting, eyes alight with savage amusement. “I-” Another gag chokes you. Taehyun thrusts his hips upward in time with it, fingers on your clit picking up speed — purpose. “Don’t tell me you’re going to come without permission? And after defying me as well?” You gasp, both hands now wrapped around his wrist, neither pulling him away. “Thought you knew better than that, sweetheart.” You glare at him through tear-blurred vision. He laughs.

“Nesh.” Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.

“Sorry, sweetheart, what was that?”

Every force of nature holds your strike. “Yesh.”

Taehyun gives you a second's reprieve, just enough for you to cough, gasp, “Yes!” Your skin flushes red. Pathetic. Smouldering embarrassment. “Yes, I like it, please.”

“Please what, love?” Taehyun is the picture of aloof arrogance. “What do you want?’

“Please, need to cum, please.” You kiss his fingers, licking, lapping and moaning against them. Something within him fractures at that, a beast awoke, and a sharp hiss later Taehyun is plunging in and out of you, hand returning to your throat, placing pressure against the sides, fingers roughly flicking your clit, teeth gnawing at a nipple through the barrier of cloth.

“I’ve waited so long,” he says, and you grip his shoulders, thighs burning with each bounce. “Love how you clench around me, love, trying to milk me dry?” You’re unable to form comprehensive sentences, a hand returning to his wrist when his thrusts strengthen. “Cute little baby can’t even form proper words, huh? Talk to me, sweetheart.” Words come as a gargled slur. Taehyun beams, but you feel him twitch, his body tense, you know that he’s as close as you are. You clamp down on him, moving with more fervour. “Cum with me,” he sighs, releasing you only to capture your lips in a crushing kiss of teeth and tongue and heat.

Your body trembles with the force of your orgasm before you feel it. And you delight in that silent moment, the eye before the storm, the quiet before your piercing scream, body trembling, slackening, tensing, then releasing again as your thrown to merciless waves, crashing against you, chorus after chorus. Taehyun follows instantaneously and the hot flood of his seed warms you from the inside out. He peppers soft kisses to your face, running kind fingers along your body. “We need to go.” He’s completely breathless.

You’re the same. “What about Yeri? What will they do?”

“She’ll be safer if we leave first.”

“We’re friends, they could torture her and-”

“They’ll be after us.” You know the ‘they’ he speaks of. “Our best bet is to keep them busy for long enough for them to run. There’s a main road twelve miles to the east. I left Yeri a note. Told her to save as many as she could.”

“Yeri would not so easily agree.”

“She hadn’t. I had to assure your safety. Again and again and again.” He repeats, “We need to leave now.”

A solemn nod bobs your head and with a final sigh, you stand, arranging your garments as Taehyun does the same. He glides to the waterfall on the far left, a hand stretched towards it, exhaustion creasing his brow as he concentrates. A gate of shimmering blue-grey light forms. Your jaw slackens, drooping.

“Shall we?” Taehyun extends a hand towards you and without a glance back, you take it.

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