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arilevenatz · 4 months ago

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Ruthless Desire | C.S

Pairing: King!San x princess!Reader

Genre: Forced marriage

Word count: 19.2k

Warnings: dark stuff, captivity, stockholm syndrome vibes, injury by glass shards, manipulation, san is kinda scary, and hot, the reader is a dancer, yeah I still dk how to do this

AN: If you are sensitive to things like this please don't read it. This has some dark stuff. @kymimi I kinda slipped and wrote san instead of the member we discussed BUT dw I'll write him another one :)

Masterlist

The kingdom of Eldoria was like a painting come to life. Pastel-colored houses lined the streets, their rooftops reflecting the golden hues of the sun. Flowers of every shade bloomed along the cobbled paths, filling the air with a sweet fragrance. Towering trees provided shade to the people who gathered in the plazas, laughing and conversing freely. The kingdom was peaceful, its people content, and at the heart of it all was their beloved princess—YN.

YN was the embodiment of grace and perfection. Her long, flowing hair shimmered in the sunlight, and her warm smile was enough to bring comfort to anyone who crossed her path. She was not only admired for her beauty but also for her sharp mind and kind heart. Unlike the sheltered royals of other lands, YN roamed freely among her people, visiting markets, studying at the grand library, and even lending a hand at the flower fields when she wished to.

Her days were spent in harmony with the kingdom, and her nights were filled with dreams of the future. But even in a perfect kingdom, change was inevitable.

But that was not it. You see, Princess YN had a great talent—one that set her apart even more. She was a dancer.

From the moment she took her first steps as a child, it was clear that movement came naturally to her. As she grew, so did her love for dance. She dedicated a good portion of her day to perfecting her skills, attending classes with the finest instructors in the kingdom. But it wasn’t just about learning techniques or rehearsing steps—dancing was her freedom, her escape, her way of expressing emotions words could not.

In the grand ballroom of the palace, with its gleaming marble floors and towering windows, she would practice tirelessly. The music would swell, and she would lose herself in it, her body moving with effortless grace. The palace staff often paused to watch in quiet admiration, for when their princess danced, it was as if the entire world held its breath.

But YN never danced for attention or praise. She danced because it made her feel alive. And if she had it her way, she would dance forever.

But beyond the peaceful lands of Eldoria, past the rolling green hills and glistening rivers, lay another kingdom—one far greater in size, power, and influence.

The Kingdom of Celestara.

Unlike Eldoria, which flourished with soft colors and open gardens, Celestara stood as a testament to strength. Its towering castles were made of dark stone, its capital bustling with soldiers and scholars alike. The people of Celestara were strong and disciplined, raised with a deep sense of duty to their homeland. Their kingdom thrived under an unshakable rule, one that had made Celestara the most feared and respected land across the continent.

And at the heart of it all sat King Choi San.

San was no ordinary ruler. He was a king who valued power above all else—not just for himself, but for his kingdom. He had inherited a land that had been built on blood and steel, and he ruled it with an iron will. His people loved him, for under his reign, Celestara never knew famine, never fell to invaders, and never saw weakness. But to outsiders, he was a name that sent shivers down their spines.

Because King San did not tolerate defiance.

It was not cruelty for the sake of cruelty. No, San saw his punishments as necessary—tools to maintain order. A merchant caught cheating his people was stripped of his wealth and cast into the dungeons. A noble who conspired against him found their house burned to the ground, their name erased from history. And if a kingdom dared to challenge Celestara, they were met with fire and steel. His warriors, trained from childhood, were unmatched, and his war strategies were so ruthless that no one dared to question his rule.

No one opposed King Choi San and lived to tell the tale.

He was ruthless, reckless even. A man who did not just command power—he relished in it. King Choi San was not content with ruling Celestara alone. No, he wanted more. He wanted everything.

War was not just a necessity to him; it was a thrill. The sight of his enemies kneeling before him, their once-proud banners torn and trampled beneath his boots, brought him a satisfaction that nothing else could. He did not believe in mercy. He did not believe in compromise. He believed in dominance, in bending the world to his will.

His father, the former king, had shared that same hunger. Before his death, he had left behind a list—a detailed record of the lands he had set his sights on, the territories he had dreamed of conquering but never had the chance to. It was a king’s unfinished legacy, a vision left incomplete.

San did not just inherit his father’s kingdom. He inherited his ambitions.

And he would see them through.

The list had dozens of names written in careful ink, each representing a kingdom, a nation, a people who had yet to bow to Celestara’s might. Some had already fallen, their lands absorbed into San’s ever-growing empire. But there were still many left to claim.

One of them was Eldoria.

A peaceful kingdom, untouched by war, ruled by a gentle king and adored by its people. A land that had never known the weight of a conqueror’s hand.

San had heard of Eldoria before. A place where flowers bloomed endlessly, where the streets were painted in soft pastels. It was the complete opposite of Celestara. A kingdom so delicate, so naïve, that it almost amused him.

Almost.

Because at the end of the day, Eldoria was just another name on his father’s list. Another land that would soon belong to him.

And King Choi San never left things unfinished.

So that was what happened to Eldoria.

One fateful evening, King Choi San arrived at the gates of the peaceful kingdom, not as a guest, but as a conqueror in waiting. He did not come alone—his army, clad in dark armor, stood behind him like an unshakable force, their banners casting long shadows over Eldoria’s pastel streets. The moment his presence was announced in the royal palace, a chill ran through the halls.

King Eldrin, YN’s father, knew why San had come. He had heard the stories, knew the fate of the kingdoms that had stood in Celestara’s path. But still, he held onto hope.

Inside the grand throne room, the two kings faced each other.

“I will give you one chance,” San said, his voice calm yet laced with authority. “Surrender Eldoria to Celestara. Swear your allegiance, and I will allow your people to live under my rule without bloodshed.”

King Eldrin did not hesitate. “I will not surrender my land,” he said firmly, but his voice held no arrogance—only reason. “However, I propose an alliance. We do not have to be enemies. Our kingdoms can stand together, share trade, strengthen each other.”

San chuckled, a slow, amused sound. “An alliance?” He leaned forward, his dark eyes glinting. “Tell me, King Eldrin, what does your peaceful kingdom have to offer me that I do not already have?”

“We have wisdom, knowledge, and beauty. We have—”

“I do not need beauty,” San interrupted, his amusement vanishing. “I need power. Strength. Land.” His fingers tapped against the hilt of his sword. “And I will not ask twice.”

Eldrin’s jaw tightened. “Then you have my answer.”

San exhaled, a mockery of disappointment. “A shame,” he murmured. Then, with a glance at his general, he spoke the words that sealed Eldoria’s fate.

“We march at dawn.”

The war did not last long.

Eldoria, despite its beauty, was not built for battle. Its people were artists, scholars, farmers—not warriors. They fought bravely, but Celestara’s army was relentless. Swords clashed, fires burned, and the soft-colored streets of Eldoria were soon painted in shades of ash and crimson.

Within days, the palace fell.

King Choi San did what he always did—he erased the royal family.

The moment the palace fell, there was no room for mercy. The king was the first to go, struck down in his own throne room, his crown rolling across the marble floor. The queen followed soon after, her desperate pleas for peace silenced forever. The crown prince, the last hope for Eldoria’s future, fought bravely, but bravery alone could not save him from Celestara’s steel.

San watched it all with a cold, unwavering gaze. Another kingdom conquered. Another royal bloodline wiped from existence. Just as it should be.

With the palace now under Celestara’s control, he prepared to leave. There was no need for him to stay any longer. His men would handle the rest—securing the city, ensuring the people understood that they now belonged to him. He had no interest in Eldoria’s ruins; his work here was done.

Or so he thought.

A soldier rushed into the war room, his armor still stained with battle. He bowed quickly, his breath uneven.

“My king,” he said. “There is word of another.”

San barely spared him a glance. “Another what?”

“A survivor. A princess.”

The words made him pause.

A princess?

San had not known Eldoria had a princess. He frowned, turning fully to the soldier. “And where is she?”

“We do not know.”

San’s expression darkened. “Explain.”

“She was not in the palace when we arrived,” the soldier admitted. “We searched every room, every hall. But she was nowhere to be found.”

The air in the room grew heavy. San’s grip on his sword tightened. He had never left a royal family unfinished. No loose ends. No survivors. And yet, here was a piece of Eldoria’s bloodline still unaccounted for.

His jaw clenched. “Find her.”

Thus began the search.

San’s men scoured every corner of the palace, tearing through lavish chambers, hidden passages, and forgotten halls. San was not a man who accepted failure. He ordered a deeper search—every stone overturned, every locked door broken open.

And finally, they found it.

A hidden room, tucked away behind the grand library. The entrance had been expertly concealed, nearly impossible to notice unless one was searching for it. But now, the secret was uncovered.

San arrived immediately.

The heavy bookcase that had once hidden the doorway was now pushed aside, revealing a narrow passage leading into a small chamber. It was nothing like the lavish royal rooms he had seen before. This space was simple—bare walls, a single candle flickering in the dim light, and a modest wooden desk placed in the center.

And sitting at that desk was a girl.

She had not heard them enter at first, her focus entirely on the parchment before her. Her delicate hand moved swiftly, ink staining her fingertips as she wrote something with quiet urgency. It was only when she sensed the shift in the air—when the heavy presence of someone else filled the room—that she finally looked up.

Her eyes widened.

San met her gaze, and in that instant, he knew.

This was her.

The missing princess. The last surviving member of Eldoria’s royal family.

She had been here all along, hidden away while her kingdom burned. Sheltered while her family perished.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The candlelight cast shadows across her face, highlighting the quiet shock in her expression. San took a step forward, his boots echoing in the small space. The girl did not move, her fingers still curled around the quill, as if caught between fight and flight.

He exhaled slowly.

“Found you.”

San was a terrifying man. His presence alone filled the small room with an unshakable weight, his dark eyes locked onto YN with an intensity that made her stomach twist. She had heard of him before—King Choi San, the ruthless conqueror. The man who had taken her home, erased her family, and claimed Eldoria as his own.

Her hands trembled, but she forced herself to move. Slowly, she stood from her chair, her gaze dropping to the ground as if in surrender.

But she was not surrendering.

Her fingers tightened around the ink glass on the desk. And before she could think twice, she threw it.

The small bottle spun through the air, aimed directly at his knees.

San’s reflexes were fast—too fast. He shifted at the last second, the ink missing its target. Instead, it crashed against the floor, shattering into tiny pieces. Black ink spilled in a messy puddle between them, staining the stone beneath their feet.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then San exhaled, his lips curling into something unreadable. Not quite amusement, not quite anger.

Slowly, he stepped forward, his boots avoiding the ink, his piercing gaze never leaving her face.

“Cute,” he murmured, voice low. “You thought that would stop me?”

YN looked up just as San took another step closer, his presence suffocating in the small room. Her heart pounded against her ribs, but she didn’t let her fear show. Instead, she lifted her chin and met his gaze.

“No,” she said, voice steady. “But this will.”

Before he could react, she pulled a small knife from the folds of her dress and lunged forward.

She moved fast, aiming for his chest, but he was faster.

San’s hand shot out, catching her wrist mid-strike. With effortless strength, he twisted it, forcing her to drop the knife. A sharp gasp escaped her lips as pain shot through her arm, but she refused to cry out. The blade clattered against the floor, useless now.

San’s grip remained firm as he pushed her down, forcing her onto her knees before him. YN struggled, but it was no use. He was stronger, unmovable.

Then, to her shock, he reached out and brushed the strands of hair from her face. It was a gentle touch, almost delicate. If it were anyone else, it might have seemed comforting. But this was King Choi San.

And from him, it was terrifying.

His fingers trailed along her cheek before tucking her hair behind her ear. His dark eyes studied her, unreadable, as if he were trying to understand something.

“You’ve got fight in you,” he murmured, his voice quiet, almost amused. “I like that.”

His words sent a shiver down her spine. This man had slaughtered her family, burned her kingdom to the ground, and now, here he was, treating her as if she were something… interesting.

Her hands clenched into fists. She wanted to scream, to fight, to run. But she was trapped.

San tilted his head slightly, watching her reaction. Then, he leaned down, just enough to whisper,

“But fighting me is useless.”

San looked down at her, his expression unreadable. His grip on her wrist loosened just slightly, but the weight of his presence remained suffocating.

“You know,” he said casually, as if discussing the weather, “I came here to kill you.”

YN’s breath caught in her throat.

Of course, he did. That was what he always did. He had erased her family, wiped out her kingdom, and now, it was her turn.

She lowered her gaze, staring at the ink-stained floor. Her hands trembled slightly in her lap, but she did not beg. She would not give him that satisfaction. There was nothing left for her anymore. No family. No home. No future.

So she closed her eyes and accepted her fate.

But then—

“But,” San mused, tilting his head, “you’re too pretty to kill.”

Her eyes snapped open, looking up at him in shock.

He smirked, his fingers once again brushing her cheek, this time lingering just a bit longer. “It would be a shame to waste something so… delicate.”

She stiffened, her stomach twisting with disgust. Was he toying with her? Mocking her? What was worse—death, or whatever fate he had in mind?

“No,” she whispered, barely realizing she had spoken. Then, louder, her voice rising in panic, “No—just kill me.”

San chuckled. Low, dark, entertained.

“Oh?” He crouched in front of her, their faces now painfully close. “Is that what you want?”

Her lips parted, but no words came out.

San’s smirk widened. He was enjoying this—her fear, her resistance, her despair.

“Too bad,” he murmured, gripping her chin lightly and forcing her to hold his gaze. “I think I’ll take you instead.”

YN stood up slowly, her legs shaking beneath her, but her gaze remained locked onto his. She expected him to rise as well, to tower over her like the conqueror he was, but he didn’t.

San remained crouched, looking up at her from his lower position, his dark eyes steady and sharp. It was unsettling—how comfortable he was, how unbothered by her defiance. His face was close—too close. Close enough that if she moved even slightly, he would be able to feel the fabric of her dress brush against him.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.

And then, she moved.

She dashed to the side, making a sharp turn around him. Her feet barely touched the ground as she made her escape, her breath caught in her throat. For a split second, she thought she had done it. She had gone around him. She had gotten past him.

But she had forgotten.

The shattered glass. The ink. The mess on the floor from when she had thrown the ink bottle at him earlier.

The moment her bare foot touched the shards, a sharp, searing pain shot up her leg.

She sucked in a breath, but she didn’t stop. She forced herself forward, reaching the doorway that led out of the hidden chamber. She had made it—just barely.

But then, her body betrayed her.

The pain was too much. Her legs gave out, and she collapsed just outside the room, her breath coming in short gasps. Her feet throbbed violently, fresh blood pooling beneath her.

The pain in her feet was unbearable. Tiny shards of glass had pierced into her skin, some embedding deep into the soles of her feet, while others cut shallow but still bled. Ink mixed with her blood, creating a dark, messy trail behind her.

She couldn’t run anymore.

Her feet throbbed, her breaths were uneven, and she could already feel the warm trickle of blood running down her heels. Every movement sent fresh pain through her body.

Behind her, the room remained silent.

She could feel him still there. Watching. Waiting.

And then—

A slow, deliberate sound.

The sound of boots shifting against the stone floor.

San was standing up.

He stood up, the slow, deliberate movement filling the space with an unspoken finality. His boots pressed against the shattered glass on the floor, the sharp shards crunching beneath the heavy soles. The sound echoed in the small chamber, a cruel reminder of the difference between them—her bare, bloodied feet and his untouched, armored ones.

He took a step forward.

Then another.

Slow. Steady. As if he had all the time in the world.

YN could feel the weight of his gaze on her, sharp and unyielding, like a predator toying with its prey. She knew—he knew—that she wouldn’t make it far. Even if she ran, even if she forced herself to her feet and pushed through the pain, it wouldn’t matter. He would catch her. He would always catch her.

But she wasn’t going to just sit there.

The moment his shadow loomed over her, she pushed herself back. Her hands scraped against the cold stone floor as she tried to crawl away, her injured feet dragging behind her, leaving smudges of inky blood in her wake. It hurt—oh, it hurt—but she didn’t care. She would rather die trying than just sit there and accept whatever fate he had planned for her.

Outside the room, the few guards stationed there shifted uncertainly. One of them stepped forward as if to intervene, as if to do something.

San didn’t even look at them. He simply flicked his fingers, a lazy motion, and they immediately hesitated. Then, without a word, they stepped back, leaving him to handle this alone.

YN’s breath was ragged as she dragged herself further, her palms burning against the rough stone. She felt helpless, weak, but she refused to stop. Even if it was useless, even if he reached her within seconds, she would not just sit there like a caged animal.

Her fingers curled against the cold floor as she lifted her head, looking up at him.

And there he was.

Towering over her now, his expression unreadable, his lips slightly curled as if in amusement.

San exhaled, tilting his head.

"Still fighting?" he mused, his voice low, smooth—dangerous.

His slow steps finally came to a stop.

She had barely gotten anywhere.

And now, he was standing right in front of her.

San sighed, his patience thinning. He crouched slightly, looking down at her with that same amused expression, but now there was something else in his gaze—impatience.

“Let’s not fight,” he murmured, his voice deceptively soft. “Come now. Let’s go home.”

Home.

The word sent a shiver down YN’s spine. Home didn’t exist anymore. Her home had been burned, her family slaughtered, her people forced under his rule. Wherever he wanted to take her, it wasn’t home.

Still lying on the cold stone floor, she shook her head weakly. “No.”

San’s jaw tightened. The amusement in his eyes dimmed slightly, replaced with something colder. He exhaled sharply through his nose, as if he were growing tired of this game.

"Fine," he muttered.

Before she could react, she saw a flash of silver—something in his hand.

Her body tensed. She didn’t know what it was, but she knew better than to wait and find out. Instinctively, she raised her arms to shield her face, bracing for impact.

Wrong move.

A sharp prick shot through the side of her neck.

Her eyes widened in shock as she felt something thin and metallic buried into her skin. It wasn’t a knife—it didn’t slice or tear. It just pricked, leaving a dull, numbing sensation in its wake.

A syringe.

San had stabbed a syringe into her neck.

Her breath hitched as a strange dizziness washed over her. The world around her blurred, her limbs suddenly feeling heavy, too heavy to move. She tried to lift her hand, tried to reach for the object lodged in her skin, but her fingers barely twitched before her body gave out.

Her head fell against the cold floor, her vision swimming.

Above her, the last thing she saw was San’s face, watching her with a knowing smirk as the darkness swallowed her whole.

San looked down at her unconscious form, his smirk lingering as he admired his work. She had fought, resisted until the very last second, but in the end, it hadn’t mattered. He was always going to win.

He exhaled, standing to his full height as he observed her limp body sprawled across the cold floor. The ink and blood smeared across the ground were the only remnants of her struggle.

Satisfied, he crouched down and slipped an arm beneath her, effortlessly lifting her into his arms. She was light—far too light for someone with so much fight in her. Her head lolled slightly against his shoulder, her breath slow and steady as the sedative coursed through her veins.

Holding her securely, San turned and walked towards the door.

The guards outside immediately straightened at the sight of their king emerging from the hidden room with the unconscious princess in his arms. They glanced at each other, uncertainty flickering in their eyes, but none dared to question him.

San stepped past them, his grip on YN firm but casual, as if carrying her was no different from carrying a mere possession.

Because that’s exactly what she was now.

San stepped out into the open, the cool night air washing over him as he carried YN in his arms. The moment his men saw him, they stiffened, their expressions betraying their shock.

They had all expected him to emerge alone, having finished the job like he always did. Instead, here he was—carrying the princess, unconscious but very much alive.

One of the lead guards, a seasoned warrior with a deep scar across his cheek, stepped forward hesitantly. His gaze flickered between San and the girl in his arms before he spoke.

"Your Majesty," he began carefully, "should we finish her?"

The other guards waited in tense silence, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. It was a reasonable assumption—San had slaughtered the rest of the royal family without hesitation. Why would the princess be any different?

But San had already made his decision.

Without looking at the guard, he spoke, his voice calm yet unwavering.

"No."

The single word sent a ripple of confusion through the men.

San shifted YN slightly in his arms, glancing down at her unconscious face before turning his sharp gaze back to the guard.

"I'm taking her back to Celestara," he declared, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The guards exchanged uncertain glances, but no one dared to question him further.

San smirked, satisfied by their obedience. Then, without another word, he began walking towards his waiting carriage.

This war was over. The kingdom was his. And now, so was she.

With the princess in his grasp, he set off on the journey back to Celestara—his kingdom, his home.

And soon enough, hers as well.

YN blinked slowly, her mind hazy as she tried to make sense of her surroundings. Her body felt heavy, her limbs sluggish, as if she had been asleep for far too long.

Where was she?

She forced herself to sit up, her fingers gripping the soft yet unfamiliar sheets beneath her. The bed was large—far larger than the one she had in Eldoria. And the room…

Her heart sank.

This wasn’t Eldoria.

Eldoria was warm and bright, filled with pastel colors, soft fabrics, and the gentle scent of flowers in the air. But this place—this place felt suffocating. The walls were dark, nearly black, with gold accents that gleamed under the dim lighting. Heavy drapes covered the windows, letting in only slivers of light. The furniture was grand, elegant, yet cold, as if meant to intimidate rather than comfort.

She hated it.

Perhaps it was because she had spent her entire life surrounded by brightness, but the darkness of this place made her uneasy. It felt foreign, unfamiliar—wrong.

Her breath quickened as she swung her legs over the bed, only to wince as a sharp pain shot through her feet.

The glass.

She had run through shattered glass.

Carefully, she lifted her feet and saw the bandages wrapped around them, fresh and neatly done. Someone had treated her injuries.

Someone had—

Her stomach twisted.

San.

Memories of what had happened before she blacked out came rushing back. The invasion. The loss. His voice, smooth and taunting. The sharp prick of the syringe in her neck.

Panic clawed at her chest as she looked around frantically, searching for a way out.

But the door was closed.

And she had no doubt—it was locked.

YN sat at the edge of the massive bed, her fingers digging into the sheets as she tried to steady herself. The weight of everything crashed down on her all at once.

Her family was gone.

Her home was gone.

And now, she was here—trapped in a place that wasn’t hers, surrounded by walls that felt like they were closing in on her.

Her vision blurred as her throat tightened. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. But what good would that do?

She lowered her gaze to her bandaged feet. She couldn’t even walk. She had been so desperate to escape, but in the end, she had only hurt herself. And now, she was left completely vulnerable, at the mercy of the very man who had taken everything from her.

San.

The thought of his name sent a shiver down her spine.

The ruthless king of Celestara. The man who had murdered her family without hesitation. The man who had stolen her home and claimed it as his own.

And now, she was his captive.

A bitter laugh almost escaped her lips, but it got caught in her throat. There was nothing amusing about this. There was no way out.

She was truly, utterly defeated.

YN sat there for what felt like hours, unmoving, lost in the crushing weight of her thoughts. The silence of the room only made it worse, suffocating her, making her feel even more trapped.

Then—

Click.

The door creaked open.

Her entire body tensed.

Her fingers curled into the sheets, her heart pounding as she stared at the entrance, dreading what—or who—might step inside.

And then she saw him.

San.

He walked in like he owned the place. Which, of course, he did.

But that didn’t make it any less infuriating.

His presence filled the room instantly, his posture relaxed, confident—completely at ease, as if nothing was out of place. As if he hadn’t just destroyed her entire life.

YN swallowed hard, her throat dry.

She hated him.

She hated the way he moved so carelessly, as if everything was just a game to him. She hated the way he looked at her, like he knew she was powerless against him. She hated that even though she wanted to scream, to throw something, to fight—she couldn’t.

Not like this.

Not when she could barely even stand.

Fear crept up her spine, mixing with the anger burning in her chest. She hated him. She feared him. But most of all—she resented the fact that he had complete control over her now.

San stood in the doorway, his sharp eyes scanning the room before settling on her. A smirk tugged at his lips, slow and deliberate, as if he was enjoying the sight of her—small, wounded, and utterly trapped.

He took a step inside, and even though his movements were unhurried, they carried an undeniable authority. Every step he took echoed in the large, darkened room, the soft click of his boots against the floor sending a shiver down YN’s spine.

She gripped the sheets tighter.

He was terrifying.

And that was exactly what made him so dangerous.

He wasn’t just some brute who barked orders and swung his sword mindlessly. No, San was something much worse. He was calculated. He was smart. And worst of all, he enjoyed having control over people.

“You’re awake,” he mused, his voice smooth yet dripping with something sinister.

YN didn’t respond.

He didn’t need her to. He was already closing the distance between them, his movements slow, predatory, as if he wanted her to feel the power he held over her.

Her breath hitched as he stopped right in front of her.

She refused to look up at him. She refused to give him the satisfaction.

But San wasn’t the type to be ignored.

With an amused chuckle, he crouched down so that he was eye-level with her.

“Not going to greet your king?” he murmured, tilting his head. His voice was deep, teasing, but there was an undeniable edge to it. A warning.

YN finally forced herself to meet his gaze—and immediately regretted it.

He was too close.

Far too close.

His dark eyes gleamed under the dim lighting, filled with something unreadable. His sharp jawline, the way his lips curled ever so slightly—it was unfair how someone so cruel could look so good.

She hated it.

She hated that her heart pounded for reasons beyond just fear.

When she still didn’t speak, San exhaled sharply and reached out.

She flinched as his fingers brushed against her jaw, tilting her face up. His touch was surprisingly gentle, but that only made it worse.

“You’re trembling,” he noted, his voice quiet, almost mocking. “Scared of me, little princess?”

YN clenched her jaw, trying to will away the fear in her expression.

San chuckled. “Good. You should be.”

His grip tightened, just enough for her to feel it, just enough to remind her that she was at his mercy.

And yet—

The way he looked at her, the slow drag of his eyes down her face, the way his lips parted slightly as if he was enjoying every second of this—

He was terrifying.

And that made him even more dangerous.

San watched her, his lips quirking up in amusement at her stubbornness. She was scared, angry, and exhausted, yet still refused to take anything from him. It was almost admirable. Almost.

With a sigh, he reached for the glass of water sitting on the bedside desk. His fingers wrapped around the crystal, and he swirled the liquid inside lazily before turning back to her.

“Why don’t you drink some?” His voice was smooth, deep, like velvet laced with something dangerous.

“I don’t want water,” YN muttered, looking away.

San chuckled, low and rich. “Come on, princess. I didn’t poison it.”

He lifted the glass to his own lips, tilting it back ever so slightly.

YN couldn’t look away.

The way he drank—slow, deliberate—was unfair. A bit of water slipped past the corner of his lips, trailing down his jaw. He swiped his thumb across his mouth, wiping away the stray droplet before licking it off his thumb without a second thought.

Her stomach twisted, and heat crept up her neck.

San caught the way her eyes flickered to his lips, and his smirk deepened.

“See?” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. He leaned in, holding the glass out to her, his fingers brushing against hers. “It’s not poisoned.”

She hesitated.

San sighed dramatically. “Drink up, princess. I don’t want you to die.”

His words should have been comforting, but the way he said them—slow, teasing, like he enjoyed her discomfort—only made her more unsettled.

Still, she knew she had no choice.

With shaky fingers, she took the glass from him.

San didn’t move back.

He stayed close, watching her with dark, expectant eyes, waiting to see if she would obey.

And that was the worst part.

Because as much as she hated him, as much as she wanted to fight—he always got what he wanted.

San had no shame. Not even a shred of it.

As YN lifted the glass to her lips, tilting her head back slightly to drink, his eyes shamelessly trailed down to her neck.

He watched the way her throat moved with each swallow, the soft curve of her collarbone barely peeking from the loose neckline of her dress. His gaze lingered, unbothered, unapologetic.

San was no saint.

He never pretended to be one.

And right now, he wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that he was enjoying the sight in front of him.

He tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening as he let his gaze drag over her slowly, taking in every little detail. The way her lips parted slightly after drinking, the way a stray droplet of water slipped down the side of her mouth.

Before she could wipe it away, he reached out.

His thumb brushed against her chin, slow, deliberate.

YN froze.

San’s eyes flickered to hers, his touch lingering just a second too long before he finally pulled away.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice smooth like honey, but laced with something undeniably sinful. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

YN clenched her jaw, gripping the empty glass tightly.

She hated him.

But the way he looked at her, like he could devour her whole, made her feel things she shouldn’t be feeling.

And San?

San knew exactly what he was doing.

“What do you want from me?” YN’s voice was sharp, filled with both exhaustion and defiance.

San simply stared at her, his dark eyes glinting with something unreadable. Then, with a slow, almost innocent tilt of his head, he said, “Nothing.”

Liar.

She knew he was toying with her. She felt it in the way he spoke, in the way he looked at her—as if she was some intriguing puzzle he wanted to take apart piece by piece.

She couldn’t let him do this.

Without thinking, she lifted her hand, aiming to strike him, to wipe that infuriating expression off his face.

But San was faster.

Much faster.

Before she could make contact, his hand shot up, fingers curling around her neck with practiced ease. He wasn’t squeezing—he didn’t need to. The sheer weight of his touch, the way his thumb pressed lightly against the delicate skin of her throat, was enough to steal the breath from her lungs.

With effortless strength, he pushed her back.

She fell against the pillows, her body sinking into the soft mattress as he hovered over her.

And then, for the briefest moment, San stilled.

His grip loosened slightly as he took her in.

Her doe eyes, wide and glaring up at him, holding a mix of fury and something he couldn’t quite place. Her lips, parted ever so slightly, her breath coming in uneven puffs. And her hair—God, her hair—spilled in every direction, a wild halo of silk against the dark sheets.

Beautiful.

He had always admired beautiful things.

But this—her, beneath him, looking like something he wanted to ruin—this was something else entirely.

His fingers twitched against her throat, and he let out a quiet hum, his gaze darkening as he leaned in just a fraction.

YN could barely breathe.

Not because of his hold—no, he wasn’t choking her. But because of the way he looked at her, like he was memorizing every detail, like he owned her already.

San smirked, his voice dangerously soft as he murmured, “You’re breathtaking, princess.”

San let go of her slowly, his fingers trailing from her throat to her collarbone before finally pulling away. He watched her for a second longer, his smirk never faltering, then—just like that—he backed up.

No words. No explanation.

He simply turned on his heel and walked away.

YN lay there, her heart hammering against her ribs as she stared at the ceiling, trying to process what had just happened.

The door creaked open.

For a moment, she thought he might say something, might throw one last taunt her way. But he didn’t.

He left.

The door shut behind him with a soft click, leaving her alone in the deafening silence of the room.

And yet, even with him gone, the ghost of his touch lingered on her skin.

A few days has passed. YN had barely slept, her mind too clouded with the events of that night. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. The way he had looked at her, the way he had touched her—the way he had enjoyed watching her squirm beneath him. She hated him.

She hated that she was here, hated that she was still alive when her family wasn’t.

A soft knock at the door startled her. A maid entered, bowing slightly before speaking. “His Majesty requests your presence for breakfast.”

YN frowned. A maid? She hadn’t expected anyone to treat her with respect—she thought she would be tossed into a dungeon, starved, forgotten. But no. She was being served. It unsettled her.

Still, she said nothing and complied, following the maid through the grand halls of the palace. The castle was just as dark and overbearing as she had thought it would be, its walls decorated with deep gold accents and tall, menacing windows. Nothing about it was warm. Just like him.

When they reached the dining hall, the large doors were pushed open, revealing an elegant table set with more food than she had seen in days. Her stomach twisted, but not from hunger. Because there, seated at the head of the table, was San. And he was already watching her. Her appetite vanished instantly.

San smirked, leaning forward slightly as he rested his chin on his hand. “Good morning, princess.”

YN swallowed, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

She refused to answer.

Instead, she slowly walked toward the table, forcing herself to keep her back straight as she sat down. The maid moved to pour her a drink, but she barely noticed.

All she could feel was his gaze.

San chuckled, clearly amused by her discomfort. “What’s wrong? Not hungry?”

YN clenched her jaw. Hungry? How could she eat in front of the very man who had stolen her kingdom, who had killed her family? She gripped the silverware in front of her, trying to steady herself, trying not to snap. But the longer she sat there, the more unbearable it became.

San leaned in slightly, eyes glinting with amusement.

“Eat, princess,” he murmured, voice dripping with mockery. “I don’t want you starving on me.”

YN clenched her jaw, her hands gripping the fabric of her dress beneath the table. She forced a smile, though her teeth were gritted in pure loathing.

"I wouldn't dare eat before His Majesty," she said, her voice laced with sarcasm.

San only smirked at her response, clearly entertained. He leaned back, drumming his fingers on the table before tilting his head. "That’s sweet of you, princess," he mused. "But I insist. I want my little princess to eat first."

Before she could protest, he reached for a piece of meat, slicing it with ease. He speared the piece with a fork and, without hesitation, held it up to her lips.

"Open."

YN stared at him, unimpressed. "I don’t eat meat."

San’s smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened.

"Too bad," he said, his voice void of sympathy. "You need to follow orders, princess."

His tone was firm now, leaving no room for argument. He wasn’t asking. He was commanding.

YN swallowed, her breath steady despite the way her stomach churned. She didn’t want to obey him—she refused to. But she knew how dangerous he was. She had seen it with her own eyes.

San was ruthless. And he would enjoy making her suffer if she disobeyed.

Still, she didn’t move.

San sighed dramatically, lowering the fork slightly. "Do I need to feed you myself?" he teased, his voice dripping with amusement.

YN clenched her fists beneath the table.

She had lost her kingdom. She had lost her family.

And now, she was losing control.

But what choice did she have?

YN hesitated for a moment, her stomach twisting in revulsion. But the look in San’s eyes told her there was no room for negotiation.

Slowly, reluctantly, she parted her lips.

San smirked in satisfaction and pushed the piece of meat into her mouth. His fingers brushed against her lips ever so slightly, lingering for just a second too long before pulling away.

She wanted to spit it out. Gods, she wanted to spit it out. But she didn’t. She forced herself to chew, swallowing the bite with as much grace as she could muster.

San watched her the entire time, his gaze sharp and unrelenting.

"Good girl," he murmured.

Her fingers twitched. She wanted to slap that smirk right off his face.

Instead, she reached for the glass of water beside her, desperately trying to wash away the taste of the meat that burned her throat like poison.

San leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he studied her. "That wasn’t so hard, was it?"

YN didn’t answer. She refused to give him the satisfaction.

San chuckled. He could see the anger burning in her eyes, the way her entire body tensed with barely restrained rage. Oh, how he enjoyed this. Watching her fight against her own pride, watching her struggle between her hatred for him and her will to survive.

"You’ll get used to it," he said lazily, taking another bite of his own food.

YN swallowed down her fury. She had to be careful. She had to be smart.

She wasn’t just a prisoner in this palace—she was a captive in his hands. And San was playing a game.

She just didn’t know the rules yet.

YN sat stiffly in her seat, her stomach churning with disgust—not just from the food, but from him.

San, on the other hand, looked completely at ease. He ate slowly, savoring every bite, his sharp eyes flickering toward her every now and then, like a predator keeping an eye on his prey.

When he was done, he wiped his mouth with a cloth, then tossed it onto the table carelessly. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world.

Then, without warning, he stood.

YN instinctively tensed as he walked around the table. His boots echoed against the marble floor, each step heavy, purposeful. She kept her gaze locked on the table, her fingers gripping the edge of her seat. But San didn’t stop until he was standing right behind her.

She felt his presence before she saw him. The heat radiating from him, the way the air around her seemed to shift. Then—

A hand.

Slow, deliberate fingers brushing over her shoulder.

YN flinched, but she refused to move. She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her react.

San leaned down, his breath warm against the side of her neck.

"You surprise me, princess," he murmured, his voice smooth, deep. "I thought you’d be more difficult. But you listened. You obeyed." His fingers trailed up, brushing the strands of her hair away from her neck. YN’s breath hitched, but she kept her face blank, forcing herself to stare at the empty plate in front of her.

"Maybe you're smarter than I thought," San mused, his tone dripping with amusement.

Then, without warning, he grabbed her chin, tilting her head back so she was forced to look at him.

Her breath caught in her throat.

His eyes. Dark. Intense. Amused.

A smirk played at his lips, and for a terrifying moment, she swore he looked entirely too pleased with himself.

"Or maybe," he whispered, tilting his head slightly, "you’re just waiting for the right moment to fight back."

YN’s pulse pounded in her ears. San chuckled, his grip on her chin tightening just slightly before he let go. He straightened, taking a step back, but his presence still loomed over her.

"Either way," he said, voice smooth, "I’m looking forward to it."

As San spoke, his fingers lazily twirled a lock of her hair between them. The contrast was eerie—the way his voice was dark and commanding, yet his touch was almost gentle. Almost.

YN swallowed hard, keeping her expression blank, but inside, she was unraveling.

Why was he doing this? Why was he toying with her like this?

San hummed, his fingers drifting lower, brushing through the strands like he had all the time in the world. "Soft," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

She clenched her fists under the table. She wanted to jerk away, but his grip tightened just enough to keep her still. Not painfully—no, that wasn’t his style. He didn’t need to use force. His presence alone was enough to keep her frozen. He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against the top of her head.

"You have no idea how much I enjoy this," he mused, his voice a dangerous whisper. "Seeing you like this. Trying so hard to keep your composure, when I know—" he tugged her hair lightly, making her tilt her head back just enough to meet his gaze "—that inside, you’re burning."

YN gritted her teeth.

San smirked, his fingers giving one last slow glide through her hair before finally—finally—he let go.

"Keep up the act, princess," he murmured, straightening. "Let’s see how long you last." And with that, he walked away, leaving YN sitting there, her breath uneven, her body tense.

Her hair still tingled from his touch.

She hated it. She hated him.

It had been days since YN had been trapped in this dark, unfamiliar place. The once-proud princess of Eldoria, now nothing more than a caged bird under the watchful eye of a ruthless king.

During those days, she had no purpose. No books to read, no people to talk to, nothing. Just the sound of the ticking clock and the occasional knock of a servant bringing her food.

And then there was him.

San.

He would come in whenever he pleased. Sometimes, he would simply stand there, watching her like she was some fascinating puzzle he was trying to solve. Other times, he would speak, his voice smooth and teasing, dripping with manipulation.

"Are you lonely, princess? You don’t have to be. You just have to behave."

"What a shame. You were once so free, and now you have nothing. But don’t worry—I can give you something. You only have to ask."

And then he would leave, always before she could snap back, before she could gather her words.

It was driving her insane.

Not the captivity, not even the fear—the boredom.

He wouldn't let her do anything. No dancing, no walking outside, no distractions.

She was starting to feel like a doll left on a shelf, waiting for the moment he decided to pick her up and play his twisted little games.

She hated him.

She hated how he controlled everything—her time, her space, even the very air she breathed in his presence.

And she hated that, despite everything, he still had the nerve to act like he was enjoying this more than she was suffering.

San sat in his grand chamber, the dim candlelight casting sharp shadows over his sharp features. He leaned back in his chair, one arm resting lazily on the armrest while the other traced the rim of his wine glass. His thoughts, however, were far from idle.

She was going to be here for a while. That much was certain. And since she was his now—his possession, his captive, his—it was only natural that he knew everything about her. So, he had sent his right-hand man to dig into her past.

It wasn’t an easy task. After all, he had razed Eldoria to the ground, left nothing but ashes and ruins in his wake. Most of her kingdom’s history had burned with it.

But his man was efficient, and somehow, he had managed to unearth something.

San read through the parchment, his sharp eyes scanning every word. YN—once a beloved princess, a figure of grace and kindness. People had adored her, and not just because she was royalty. She had been… good. She had spent her days tending to the kingdom’s gardens, running her fingers through delicate petals, ensuring that life flourished around her. She had a habit of visiting the commoners, speaking to them as if she were one of them.

She had been everything a ruler should be. San scoffed, amused. How naive. But what intrigued him the most was the last detail.

She had been a dancer. A dedicated one. Trained, disciplined, someone who had spent hours perfecting her craft.

San tapped his fingers against the table. A princess who danced. A girl who once moved freely, who now sat caged in his palace with nowhere to go.

He smirked. Oh, how he could use this.

San leaned back in his chair, his smirk deepening as he thought about it. A princess who danced, who tended to flowers, who was gentle—a true princess in every sense. She was nothing like the women he had encountered before, hardened by war or desperate for power.

She was delicate. Refined. Soft. And she was his now.

The idea of her being his personal entertainer amused him. The once-proud princess, forced to dance solely for his pleasure. The same girl who had glared at him with pure hatred, who had tried to fight him—kneeling before him, moving gracefully under his command. The thought alone sent a thrill down his spine. He wanted to see it. Wanted to watch her move, watch her surrender that grace to him.

His fingers drummed against the table as he made up his mind.

He would give her no choice. If she was going to be here, if she was going to belong to him, then she would have to earn her place.

And what better way than by using the very thing that once made her special?

The heavy doors to her room slammed open without warning, the force of it making the walls tremble. YN flinched, her fingers tightening around the book she had been reading. She barely had a moment to process before San strode in, his presence overwhelming, suffocating even. He moved with that effortless confidence, like a predator who knew nothing could touch him. His dark clothing contrasted sharply against the golden glow of the candles, his sharp jawline cast in perfect shadow. His eyes—cold, calculating—pinned her in place as he approached. He stopped right in front of her.

She had been sitting on the bed, legs tucked beneath her, the book resting in her lap. Now, she sat frozen under his piercing gaze.

San tilted his head slightly, studying her. His dark hair was slightly tousled, as if he had run his fingers through it moments ago. His lips curled, not in kindness, but in something far more sinister—amusement, control, ownership.

"You look so comfortable," he mused, voice dangerously smooth. "It almost makes me forget you're a captive." She swallowed, trying not to react.

He reached forward, slow and deliberate, and plucked the book from her hands. His fingers ghosted over hers for a second, a contrast of warmth and chill. He flipped through the pages lazily, before his smirk deepened.

"Interesting," he murmured, snapping the book shut with one hand. YN clenched her jaw. "You gave that to me." San let out a low chuckle, the sound sending a shiver down her spine.

"I did," he admitted, stepping even closer. His knee brushed against the edge of the mattress. He leaned down slightly, enough that she could feel the heat of him, smell the faint scent of leather and spice. He reached out, his fingers skimming through her hair—something he seemed to love doing.

YN clenched her fists. She hated how he touched her so freely, how he invaded her space like he owned it. But most of all—she hated the way he made it impossible to breathe.

San watched her closely, his eyes dark with amusement. He had noticed it—the way she sat idly for days, locked in this golden cage he had given her. She had nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to talk to. So of course, she was bored.

But YN didn’t trust him, and she had every reason not to.

Still, when he spoke, his voice was almost casual. "I was thinking," he said, tilting his head slightly, "you must be getting bored."

She stiffened. Of course, she was. But admitting anything to him felt like a loss. She remained still, watching him warily. San exhaled sharply, as if her silence annoyed him. He shifted slightly, bringing a gloved hand up to her chin. His fingers were deceptively gentle as they tilted her face up, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Are you?" he asked again.

For a moment, she debated whether or not to answer. But the way his grip tightened—just a fraction—told her it wasn’t a request. Reluctantly, she gave a small nod.

San clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "That won’t do." His thumb brushed over her bottom lip, lingering just long enough to make her tense. His smirk deepened at her reaction. "If I ask a question, little princess, I expect words," he murmured. "Try again."

YN swallowed hard, her voice quieter than she would have liked. "Yes."

San grinned. "See? That wasn’t so hard." He released her, taking a step back as if satisfied.

"Since you’re bored," he mused, turning slightly, "I think I’ll give you something to do."

She narrowed her eyes. "And what would that be?"

He glanced at her over his shoulder, that wicked smirk never fading. "You’re going to dance for me."

YN was furious. “You're making me do this act of shame for what?”

San merely raised a brow at her outburst, completely unfazed. If anything, he looked amused.

"Shaming you?" he repeated, stepping closer. His voice was as smooth as silk, but there was something sharp beneath it. "You think I’m asking you to shame yourself?"

YN clenched her fists. "You’re making me put on a show for you like a performer, like some—"

"Like a princess," he interrupted, tilting his head slightly. His smirk deepened as he took another slow step toward her. "And isn't that what you are?"

She was furious now. "This dance is part of my kingdom’s culture," she snapped. "You’ve already taken everything from me. I won’t let you exploit this too."

San chuckled, dark and quiet. "Exploit?" he mused. "You call it exploitation. I call it appreciation." Her glare only fueled his amusement.

She furiously stood up "By making me dance in front of you for your entertainment? You think that’s appreciation?"

He didn’t move. He just stood there, watching her, his expression unreadable. Then, in one swift motion, he reached out, grabbing her wrist and pulling her flush against him.

YN gasped, her hands instinctively landing on his chest. His grip was firm but not painful, his warmth radiating through his clothes. She struggled, but he didn’t let go. His eyes bore into hers.

"Do you really think I see you as just some performer?" he murmured, voice dropping lower. "I could have killed you, little princess. I should have."

His fingers trailed up her arm, slow and deliberate. "But I didn’t. I kept you. And now, I want to see you—your kingdom’s pride, your so-called untouchable grace." He leaned in slightly, his breath ghosting over her skin. "You can call it whatever you want," he whispered, "but in the end, you will dance for me."

YN felt the weight of defeat settle deep in her chest. It was suffocating. She had nothing left—no kingdom, no family, no power. Even her pride, the one thing she had tried so desperately to hold onto, was slipping through her fingers.

San had taken everything from her. And now, even in this moment, he stood before her, completely in control. Her shoulders slumped as she took a slow step back, gaze falling to the floor. She hated this. Hated him. Hated how powerless she was.

San watched her reaction closely, his smirk unwavering.

"See?" he murmured. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" Then, to her surprise, he took a step closer—not with the same overwhelming dominance he usually carried, but with something else. Something almost teasing.

"Here," he said suddenly, reaching for her hair. "I'll even braid your hair to make it beautiful."

YN’s breath hitched. "What—"

But she couldn’t even finish before she felt his fingers threading through her locks.

He was gentle.

She wanted to recoil, to shove him away, but her body wouldn’t move. She stood frozen as he worked, weaving her long strands between his fingers, moving with ease as if he had done this a hundred times before. San was good at it. Too good.

"Surprised?" he mused, clearly amused by her silence. "You think a king can’t do something as simple as braiding hair?" His fingers moved slowly, carefully, as if savoring the feeling.

YN hated how calming it was.

He was quiet for a moment before he murmured, "My mother used to do this for me when I was young. Before she died." That caught her off guard.

She dared to glance at him, but his expression was unreadable.

Then, as if remembering himself, San smirked again. "But I suppose that doesn't matter now."

He tied off the end of the braid, admiring his work. "There," he said, stepping back. "Now you look even more like a princess."

YN clenched her fists at her sides. "You're cruel," she whispered.

San only chuckled, dark and low. "And yet, here you are—letting me braid your hair."

The music played softly in the grand hall, but to YN, it felt like a cruel command rather than a melody. Her bare feet hesitated against the cold marble floor. Her body still ached, her legs not fully recovered from the injuries. Every step sent a dull pain through her, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.

San sat on his throne, legs spread lazily, elbow resting on the armrest, fingers curled under his chin. His dark eyes never left her. They followed every movement, every step, every sway of her body with an intensity that made her skin crawl.

He looked hungry. Not for food. Not for violence.

For her.

YN’s breath was uneven, but she forced herself to keep going. The dance that once brought her joy, the tradition of her people, now felt like shackles binding her to his will.

San exhaled slowly, his gaze dragging over her form. “Keep going,” he murmured, voice low and smooth, yet laced with authority.

Her knees almost buckled.

His gaze burned into her skin, drinking in every movement like a man who had been deprived for too long.

YN gritted her teeth, forcing herself to continue. She could feel his eyes tracing the curve of her waist, the arch of her neck, the way her braid swayed with her movements. He was enjoying this.

Not just the dance itself, but the fact that he was the reason she was dancing.

San leaned forward slightly, his smirk deepening. "It’s almost a shame," he mused. "That a princess like you should be wasted on a throne when you were clearly born to move like this.”

YN nearly stumbled. And the moment she stumbled, she knew something was wrong. Her vision blurred, the golden chandeliers above melting into streaks of light. The grand hall, once a suffocating prison, now felt like it was spinning around her, pulling her deeper into an abyss she couldn't escape.

Her legs trembled beneath her, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She tried to focus—on the cold marble beneath her feet, on the heavy silence that replaced the music, on anything that could ground her. But all she could see was him.

San.

He remained seated, watching her with an expression that sent chills down her spine. His dark eyes gleamed with amusement, lips curling into that damned smirk. The world tilted again. Her body swayed uncontrollably, her limbs heavy, her strength slipping away.

Then—darkness.

The last thing she saw before her knees buckled was San’s sinister smile.

He didn’t move to catch her. He didn’t call for help. He simply watched as she crumpled to the floor.

San exhaled slowly as he crouched beside her, his sharp eyes drinking in every delicate feature. Her long lashes fluttered slightly, her lips parted as she breathed weakly, and her hair, now slightly disheveled from the fall, fanned out around her like ink spilled on the cold marble.

She was beautiful. Too beautiful to let go.

His gloved fingers traced a strand of her hair, twisting it between his fingers as he studied her face. She had danced until she collapsed—until her body could no longer obey her. And all for him. A slow smirk curled on his lips.

"You really are something, little princess," he murmured, his voice deep, filled with an almost lazy amusement.

His hand moved to her cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear that had slipped down. Even unconscious, she looked defiant—like she was fighting even in her sleep. San leaned closer, his lips hovering just near her ear.

"I will break you," he whispered, his voice laced with a dangerous promise. "But I will put you back together as mine."

He pulled away slightly, his gaze sweeping over her unconscious form. Then, with no sense of urgency, he slipped his arms beneath her and lifted her effortlessly into his arms.

She was light. Too light. San clicked his tongue.

"You're still weak," he mused, as if speaking to himself. "I’ll have to fix that."

With long, unhurried strides, he carried her toward the grand doors. His boots echoed against the empty hall, the only sound accompanying them. The princess belonged to him now. And San always got what he wanted.

When YN's eyes fluttered open, she was met with a sight she did not expect.

The room around her was nothing like the one she had been confined to before. It was magnificent—grander, richer, almost suffocating in its opulence. Deep crimson drapes cascaded from the towering windows, gold accents lining every carved detail of the walls. The bed she lay on was vast, the silk sheets beneath her softer than anything she had ever known.

But none of that mattered. Because he was there.

San.

He sat on the bed, resting against the bedpost with one arm draped over the carved wood, watching her with unreadable eyes. But the problem wasn’t just that he was there.

The problem was that he was shirtless.

The flickering candlelight cast sharp shadows across his toned torso, emphasizing every defined muscle, every scar carved into his skin like war medals. He looked relaxed—too relaxed—as if he had all the time in the world to simply watch her. Panic surged through her veins like fire.

Her breath hitched, and before her mind could even catch up, her body reacted. She immediately sat up, the sheets pooling around her, and scrambled off the bed. Her bare feet hit the cool floor as she backed away, putting as much distance as she could between herself and the terrifyingly alluring man before her. San exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips as he lazily tilted his head.

"Running away again?" he mused, his voice deep, teasing. "How adorable." YN swallowed hard. She knew better now. Running wasn’t an option.

But being near him? That was just as dangerous.

YN's voice was hoarse when she finally found the courage to speak. "Why am I here?"

San didn’t answer right away. He simply stretched, his muscles flexing as he let out a lazy sigh, before tilting his head toward her. “Does it matter?” he said casually, as if her presence in his chambers was the most natural thing in the world. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, frustration simmering beneath her fear. “Of course, it matters—”

But before she could continue, San suddenly chuckled, his sharp gaze locking onto hers. “Why are you so scared?” he teased, lips curling into that familiar, maddening smirk. “I haven’t done anything. Yet.”

Her breath hitched, but she forced herself to stand her ground. She hesitated for a moment before finally answering, her voice quieter now. “In my kingdom… it is inappropriate for an unmarried woman to share a bed with a man.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then San let out a low hum, tapping his fingers against the bedpost as if deep in thought. His smirk grew wider.

"Ah… so that's what’s bothering you," he mused. His eyes darkened with amusement as he leaned forward just slightly. "Then I suppose… you should be grateful I let you sleep alone last night.”

YN’s breath caught in her throat.

San was playing with her. And he was enjoying it.

San chuckled, the sound deep and rich, sending a shiver down YN’s spine. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees as he watched her with that ever-present glint of amusement.

“You won’t be unmarried for long,” he said casually, as if he were discussing the weather.

YN blinked. “What?” Her voice came out quieter than she intended, confusion flickering in her eyes.

San didn’t hesitate. He met her gaze head-on, his smirk sharpening into something more dangerous. “I’m going to marry you.”

Silence.

The words hit her like a blow, knocking the air from her lungs. She stared at him, waiting for him to take it back, to tell her it was another one of his cruel jokes. But he didn’t. Instead, he tilted his head, his expression unreadable now. Deadly serious. “I’ve already decided,” he continued, as if that was the end of the discussion. “You’ll be my queen.”

YN took a step back, shaking her head in disbelief. “No,” she breathed. “You’re insane if you think—”

San suddenly stood, and she immediately froze. He wasn’t smirking anymore.

His gaze was intense, piercing through her like a blade. “I think you’re forgetting something, little princess.” His voice dropped lower, the weight of his authority pressing down on her. “Everything here… belongs to me.”

He took a slow step toward her.

“The palace.” Another step.

“The people.” Another.

“And you.”

YN’s back hit the wall, her breath caught in her throat as San loomed over her.

“There’s no escape, YN,” he murmured, reaching out to trace a strand of her hair between his fingers. “So don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

His lips curled into a smirk again, but his eyes?

They promised that he never said things he didn’t mean.

YN clenched her fists, gathering the courage to speak. “I won’t marry you,” she said firmly, though there was still a tremor in her voice. “You’re… you’re way older than me.”

San raised a brow, his lips twitching in amusement. “Older?” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, little princess, that’s hardly an issue. A few years mean nothing in the grand scheme of things.”

He took a step closer, his presence overwhelming. “Besides,” he continued, tilting his head slightly, “older men are wiser. Stronger. More capable of protecting what’s theirs.” His voice dropped, smooth like silk but laced with quiet dominance. “And you? You are mine now, aren’t you?”

YN swallowed, refusing to be rattled. “Marriage is supposed to be based on love,” she blurted out, gripping the fabric of her dress.

San stilled for a moment before exhaling a soft laugh. “Love?” He said the word like it was foreign to him, like it amused him. His fingers reached out, ghosting over the ends of her hair as he watched her intently. “You think love is what keeps a marriage strong?” His voice was deceptively soft, almost hypnotic. “No, little princess. Love is fragile. It crumbles. But power? Loyalty? Fear?” His gaze darkened. “Those are unshakable.”

He leaned in just enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath. “And don’t worry,” he murmured, his smirk returning. “You’ll learn to love me eventually.” He pulled away then, as if the conversation was already settled.

YN’s heart pounded in her chest. She wanted to argue, to fight back, but deep down, she knew—

San never changed his mind.

San’s voice was smooth, almost reassuring. “You don’t need to worry,” he said, as if his words could magically erase her fears. “I’ll take care of you. Give you everything you could ever want. Shower you with fortune, with power.” His fingers traced the edge of a gold-embroidered pillow as he spoke, his gaze never leaving her.

But YN didn’t want that. She never had.

She clenched her fists at her sides, her heart twisting painfully. This was not what she had dreamed of. She had always wanted love—real love, the kind her parents had. She had spent her childhood watching the way her father would soften whenever he looked at her mother, the way they laughed together, the way they held each other with warmth and affection. She had wanted that for herself one day. Not this.

Not a forced marriage with a ruthless king who saw love as a weakness.

Her throat felt tight, but she managed to whisper, “This isn’t what I imagined.” San tilted his head, watching her with unreadable eyes. “What did you imagine, then?” His voice was calm, but there was something lurking beneath it.

YN hesitated. She didn’t want to tell him. Didn’t want to give him more power over her. But at the same time, she needed him to understand. “I imagined… a family,” she admitted softly. “A husband who loves me. Who looks at me the way my father looked at my mother. I don’t want riches or power. I just wanted…” She trailed off, unable to finish.

San’s smirk faded slightly, his expression darkening.

Then he chuckled, shaking his head. “Love,” he mused, almost to himself. “You really think love is enough to build a life on?”

His fingers suddenly caught her chin, tilting her face up so she had no choice but to meet his gaze. His grip wasn’t painful, but it was firm, unyielding.

“You’ll learn, little princess,” he murmured. “You’ll see that love is nothing but a fragile illusion.” His thumb brushed against her lower lip before he released her. “But don’t worry. I’ll give you something much better.”

He stepped back. “You’ll have me. And in time, that will be all you need.”

YN’s stomach twisted in despair. Because deep down, she knew—San never said things he didn’t mean.

YN took a deep breath, steadying herself. She knew San wasn’t someone she could reason with. He was a man who took what he wanted, who bent the world to his will without a second thought. And clearly, he had decided that she would be his.

But that didn’t mean she would accept it.

She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with quiet defiance. “I know I can’t change your mind,” she admitted, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll be happily married to you.”

San's smile didn't waver, but something flickered in his eyes—something unreadable, something dark. He took a slow step toward her, closing the space between them with effortless ease.

“You say that now,” he murmured, his voice low and almost amused. “But things change, little princess. People change.” His fingers reached out, barely grazing a lock of her hair before he let it slip through his fingers. “You’ll come to understand soon enough.”

YN clenched her fists, resisting the shiver that threatened to crawl down her spine. “I will never love you,” she stated firmly.

San simply chuckled, stepping even closer until she had no choice but to tilt her head up to keep looking at him. “Who said anything about love?” he whispered. His breath was warm against her skin. “You’ll belong to me—whether you love me or not.”

YN’s heart pounded, but she forced herself not to look away. If he thought she would break that easily, he was wrong. San studied her for a moment, then let out a small hum of amusement. “I like that fire in your eyes,” he mused. “I wonder how long it’ll last.”

Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving her standing there—trapped in a fate she wanted no part of.

YN lay stiffly in the bed, her back turned to him. The mattress was soft, far more luxurious than anything she had ever slept on before, yet she couldn’t relax. Not when the very man who had destroyed her life was lying so close behind her.

She flinched when she felt a strong arm wrap around her waist, pulling her back against a solid chest. San held her close, his grip firm yet strangely gentle, as if he was claiming her but didn’t want to break her—at least not yet. His warmth surrounded her, but it wasn’t comforting. It was suffocating.

“Tell me something,” his voice was softer now, almost coaxing, as he rested his chin lightly near her shoulder. “Before all of this… before I came and took what was mine… what did you think your married life would be like?”

YN hesitated. She didn’t want to answer him. She didn’t want to let him in, to give him even a glimpse of the dreams she once held so dearly. But his grip around her waist tightened just slightly, a silent warning that he expected her to answer.

Taking a shaky breath, she finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “I… I wanted a loving husband,” she admitted reluctantly. “Someone who would cherish me, not own me.”

San didn’t say anything, so she continued, her voice quieter now, as if she were speaking more to herself than to him. “I always imagined a peaceful life. A home filled with laughter. Two children… an older son and a younger daughter.” A small, sad smile ghosted her lips. “I thought I’d marry someone who truly loved me, and we would raise them together, surrounded by warmth and kindness.”

San hummed thoughtfully. His fingers absentmindedly traced patterns on her side, a stark contrast to the dangerous man she knew he was. “A husband who loves you, two perfect children… how sweet.” He chuckled softly, though there was something unreadable in his tone. “You dream too softly for this cruel world, little princess.”

YN swallowed hard, gripping the silk sheets beneath her. She didn’t want to hear that from him. She didn’t want him to mock what little hope she had left.

San sighed, his warm breath fanning against her neck. “Love is an illusion,” he murmured, his lips barely grazing her skin. “Power, control… those are real. And I am real. You are mine, whether you accept it or not.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, a single tear slipping down her cheek.

San felt it. His thumb brushed against her waist, but he said nothing more. Instead, he simply held her tighter, as if he could mold her into his world through sheer force alone. And YN, despite everything, lay there in silence, trapped in the arms of the man who had stolen her future.

Days passed, and to YN’s surprise, San was… different. Not entirely, of course. He was still terrifying, still the man who had destroyed everything she knew. But he wasn’t as cruel as before.

He no longer forced her into uncomfortable situations just to see her squirm. He didn’t toy with her pride as much, nor did he threaten her with the same intensity. He was still controlling, still possessive, but something had shifted.

San was still bad. Just… not as bad.

He still made her dance for him, but now, he ensured that she had the proper shoes for it. He still forced her to eat at his table, but he no longer demanded she eat meat. He even went as far as making sure her meals were tailored to her tastes.

And then there were the moments in between—when he wasn’t being the ruthless king, the tyrant she had come to loathe. Moments where he would sit with her, watching her read, commenting lazily on the books she chose. Sometimes, he would run his fingers through her hair absentmindedly, braiding and unbraiding it as if it was his personal pastime. Other times, he would simply exist in the same space as her, not demanding, not pushing—just watching.

It was unsettling.

Because YN didn’t know what he wanted. She didn’t know what his end goal was. He had taken her, claimed her as his future bride, yet he wasn’t forcing her into marriage immediately. It was as if he was waiting for something.

San had been lounging beside her, his usual confident smirk in place as his sharp eyes flickered to the book in her hands. “That book,” he mused, tilting his head, “seems dreadfully boring.”

YN instinctively wanted to argue, to tell him how wrong he was, but then she remembered where she stood. She wasn’t in her home, in her kingdom. She was here, in his palace, a prisoner no matter how much luxury surrounded her. So instead of fighting back, she simply lowered her gaze, her grip on the book tightening as sadness settled over her features. San noticed.

His smirk faltered for a brief second before he leaned forward, his voice shifting into something lighter, almost teasing. “Alright then, tell me—what is it about?”

She hesitated, her fingers playing with the edge of the pages. But after a moment, she softly answered, “It’s about a girl who lost everything and had to rebuild her life somewhere new.”

San hummed, watching her carefully. “Sounds familiar.” She stiffened, but before he could ruin the moment, he continued, “And? What does she do?”

YN glanced at him cautiously before her eyes flickered back to the book. “She learns. She makes friends. She finds purpose again.”

Something shifted in her tone—just the smallest change, but San caught it. Her voice grew steadier, her words flowing more freely as she continued. “She thought she would never find happiness again, but little by little, she discovers new things that make her smile. Even in a place she once feared, she finds something worth holding onto.”

Her eyes lit up as she spoke, the weight on her shoulders seeming to lift, if only for a moment. She wasn’t talking to the cruel king who had stolen her life. She was simply speaking about something she loved.

San didn’t miss it.

He leaned back, resting his chin on his hand as he smirked. “You really like this book, don’t you?”

She blinked, suddenly realizing how much she had said. The light in her eyes dimmed as she clutched the book close to her chest, lips pressing into a thin line.

San clicked his tongue. “Tsk. There it is again.”

She looked at him, confused. “What?”

He tilted his head. “You’re always holding yourself back around me. But just now? You weren’t.”

YN swallowed, unsure how to respond.

San let out a breath, reaching forward before she could react. His fingers brushed against the strands of her hair, twirling a lock between his fingers as he murmured, “I think I like you better when you talk freely.”

YN stiffened, heart pounding. But San just smirked, letting the hair slip from his fingers as he leaned back.

“Keep reading, little princess.”

San grabbed a towel and slung it over his shoulder, stretching slightly before making his way toward the bathroom. YN watched him go but didn’t say anything, just lowering her gaze back to her book. The sound of water running filled the room, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. A while later, the door creaked open, and steam drifted out as San stepped back into the room.

He was fresh out of the bath, his damp hair slightly tousled, strands sticking to his forehead. Water still clung to his skin, glistening under the warm light as droplets trailed down his chest. His robe hung loosely on his shoulders, revealing glimpses of his toned frame, and his presence alone seemed to take up all the space in the room.

But his sharp eyes immediately found her.

YN was sitting in front of the mirror, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the ends of her hair. She looked deep in thought, her brows slightly furrowed, lips pressed together as if she was hesitating over something.

San smirked.

He walked up behind her, his reflection appearing in the mirror as he placed both hands on the table, leaning down slightly. His voice was smooth, teasing.

“You want to ask something.”

YN jolted a little, her fingers tightening around her hair as she met his gaze in the reflection. He tilted his head, eyes flickering over her expression. “Go on,” he murmured, voice dropping lower. “Ask away.”

YN hesitated, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. It was obvious she felt embarrassed, her posture stiff as if she was trying to disappear into herself. San watched her through the mirror, waiting with an amused yet patient look, though there was a glint of curiosity in his dark eyes. After a long silence, she finally spoke, voice barely above a whisper.

“Can I… talk to a maid?”

San straightened slightly, tilting his head. His smirk remained, but his eyes darkened just a little. “A maid?” he repeated, sounding unimpressed. She nodded quickly, still not meeting his gaze.

He scoffed, stepping around her so that he was now facing her directly. “Why?”

“I just need to ask her something,” she murmured.

San didn’t like that answer. He was nosy about her. He wanted to know everything—her thoughts, her feelings, even the small things that made her nervous like this. And this? This was something she was clearly reluctant to share. That only made him more curious.

He leaned in slightly, one brow raising. “Ask her what?”

YN swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. “It’s not important.”

“Then why can’t you tell me?” he shot back smoothly.

She tensed, her grip tightening on her sleeve. She knew he wasn’t going to drop this. San was persistent, and if she continued dodging, he’d only make things worse for her.

With a deep breath, she finally looked down and muttered, “My period is going to start soon.”

Silence.

Her face burned. She didn’t want to say it—especially not to him—but she had no choice. She wished the ground would swallow her whole.

San, however, was anything but embarrassed. In fact, he looked entertained. His lips curved into a knowing smile arms crossing over his broad chest.

“That’s what you were so shy about?” he chuckled. “You act like I don’t know what a period is.”

YN glared at him, her cheeks still hot. “I just wanted to ask a maid for supplies, not tell you about it.”

San hummed, stepping even closer. “You need something? I can have it brought to you.”

She clenched her jaw. “I don’t need you to handle it.”

He grinned. “Too bad. You belong to me now, which means everything you need comes from me.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping lower. “Even this.”

YN shut her eyes, exhaling sharply. There was no winning against him.

San let out a low chuckle. “I’ll have the maids bring you what you need. Next time, just tell me. No need to be so shy.”

She turned away, wishing this conversation would end. But as she heard him chuckle again, she knew one thing—he was enjoying this way too much.

San’s chuckle lingered in the air as he turned away from her, still clearly entertained by the whole situation. YN, on the other hand, felt like sinking into the floor. Why did it have to be him she had to tell? Why couldn’t he just let her talk to a maid like a normal person? Still, at least he said he’d send someone with what she needed. That was enough for now.

She remained sitting in front of the mirror, her hands still gripping the fabric of her dress as San walked to his side of the room. He dried his damp hair lazily with a towel, the glow from the lanterns casting soft shadows across his bare torso. YN forced herself to look anywhere but at him, but it was hard when he was the only moving presence in the dimly lit room. San finally tossed the towel aside and stretched, rolling his shoulders. He caught her reflection in the mirror, smirking at the way she was avoiding his gaze.

“You look so tense,” he commented, stepping behind her again. “Still embarrassed?”

She didn’t answer.

San tsked and placed his hands on the vanity, caging her in. “We’re going to be married, little princess,” he murmured. “You don’t have to be shy with me.”

Her hands clenched into fists, and she swallowed down the frustration rising in her throat. She hated how he spoke so casually about it. As if her opinion didn’t matter. As if she had no choice but to accept it. She took a shaky breath. “You keep talking about this marriage, but I don’t remember agreeing to it.”

San let out a low hum, his fingers tracing the wooden surface beside her. “You’ll come around.”

YN finally met his gaze in the mirror, her expression sharp. “What if I don’t?”

San grinned, but it wasn’t the playful kind—it was dark, knowing, almost dangerous. He leaned in, so close that his breath brushed against her ear.

“Then I’ll make sure you do.”

A shiver ran down her spine. She wasn’t sure if it was fear, frustration, or something else entirely, but she hated how easily he got under her skin.

San finally pulled away, stepping toward the bed. “Enough talking. Get some rest,” he said as he slid under the covers.

YN remained frozen for a moment before finally standing up and making her way to the bed as well. She didn’t want to sleep beside him, but what choice did she have? He had made it clear before—she wasn’t allowed to sleep anywhere else.

As she lay down, she kept her back to him, her body stiff. But just as she was beginning to relax, she felt an arm snake around her waist, pulling her against his chest. San let out a satisfied sigh, nuzzling into her hair. “Good night, princess,” he murmured, his voice laced with amusement.

YN clenched her eyes shut, willing herself to ignore the way her heart pounded in her chest.

The grand wedding was too much for her. It was lavish, flamboyant, and overwhelming in every possible way. The palace was adorned with the finest silks, golden drapes cascading from the ceilings, and chandeliers that glowed like captured stardust. The scent of exotic flowers filled the air, blending with the rich aroma of feast preparations. It was a celebration fit for a queen—his queen.

Everybody took part. Nobles from distant lands arrived in their most extravagant attire, offering their congratulations to the man who had conquered not only kingdoms but now a bride. The halls echoed with the sound of music, laughter, and endless chatter about the union of King San and the fallen princess of Eldoria.

YN felt suffocated. She stood stiffly in her wedding attire, the fabric embroidered with gold, heavy on her shoulders, as if it were trying to crush her under its weight. Her hands trembled in her lap, fingers tightening around the delicate bouquet she held.

This was it.

There was no escape now.

San was standing tall beside her, dressed in his royal robes, his dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He looked utterly at ease, smirking at the guests as if this was just another victory in his long list of triumphs. His hand found hers, his grip firm, possessive.

"Smile," he whispered in her ear, his voice dripping with amusement. "It’s your big day, after all."

YN forced her lips to curve slightly, but she knew it didn’t reach her eyes.

The ceremony proceeded like a dream—a slow, painful one. Vows were exchanged, oaths were sealed, and with a smirk playing on his lips, San lifted her veil.

Her breath hitched as he leaned in, his fingers tilting her chin up, his gaze burning into hers before he finally captured her lips in a deep, claiming kiss.

The crowd erupted into cheers.

She closed her eyes, feeling the world spin.

She was no longer Princess YN of Eldoria.

She was now Queen YN of his empire.

The wedding feast stretched late into the night, filled with music, laughter, and the glow of golden candlelight. YN sat beside San, her hands folded neatly in her lap, feeling the weight of the rings on her fingers—symbols of a union she had never wished for. The grand hall was alive with celebration, nobles raising their goblets in toasts to their new king and queen, but YN barely touched her food. She felt like an outsider at her own wedding, trapped in a gilded cage.

San, however, was completely at ease. He carried himself like a man who had won—not just a war, but her. He accepted congratulations with his usual smirk, his presence commanding the room. Yet, no matter how many people spoke to him, his gaze always found its way back to her. Watching her. Studying her. As if trying to figure out what was going on inside that stubborn little head of hers.

As the night drew to a close, he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “Time to go, princess.” His voice was softer than usual, almost teasing, but it sent a shiver down her spine nonetheless.

She hesitated, but he took her hand, guiding her through the grand halls. His grip was firm but not forceful. People bowed as they passed, whispering about how stunning she looked, how perfect they seemed together. But only she knew the truth.

When they reached the royal bedchamber, the doors shut behind them with a quiet finality. The room was breathtaking—grand and luxurious, with deep crimson drapes and gold accents, the massive bed taking up the center like a throne of its own. The air was thick with the scent of burning candles and something else—something distinctly him.

She stood there, frozen, unsure of what to do.

San turned to her, watching her closely. “You look tense,” he murmured, taking a step forward.

She refused to respond.

He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. Then, with an ease that made her heart stutter, he started undoing the layers of his royal attire. The heavy coat was the first to go, then the rings on his fingers, the golden chains around his neck. By the time he was left in just his loose white shirt and dark pants, he looked almost… different. Less like a conqueror. More like a man.

Still, she took a small step back.

She swallowed, forcing herself to glare at him. “Marriage doesn’t mean you own me.”

He exhaled a soft chuckle, his fingers brushing through his dark hair before he looked at her again—this time, without mockery. “I know.” His voice was quiet, honest. “But I will take care of you. No matter what you think of me.”

She blinked, taken aback.

San moved to the other side of the room, pulling off his rings and setting them on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked at her once more, this time without the sharpness he usually carried.

YN stood in the center of the grand chamber, the weight of her wedding dress suddenly unbearable. Layers of embroidered silk and heavy jewels clung to her like a second skin, suffocating her. She barely had the energy to stand, let alone deal with the exhaustion creeping into her bones.

San, lounging on the edge of the bed, watched her with an unreadable expression. She hesitated, gripping the delicate embroidery of her sleeves. She needed to take it off, but she wasn’t exactly comfortable stripping in front of him.

San, as if reading her mind, let out a quiet chuckle. “You’re struggling.” He pushed off the bed, walking towards her with slow, confident steps. “Want my help?”

“No,” she answered quickly, stepping back.

He smirked but said nothing. Instead, he strolled toward a corner of the room, where a silk robe had been neatly placed. He grabbed it and held it out to her. “Wear this after.”

She stared at it for a moment before snatching it from his hands. She expected him to watch, but instead, he turned his back to her.

Surprised by his rare display of restraint, she wasted no time undoing the dozens of tiny clasps running down the back of her dress. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She hurriedly pulled the robe over herself, the soft material a welcome relief against her skin.

“I’m done,” she muttered.

San turned back around, his gaze flickering over her once before he let out a satisfied hum. “Better.” Then, without another word, he strolled back to the bed, lying down like he owned the world.

She hesitated before following, keeping to the very edge of the mattress.

San turned his head to look at her, his dark eyes holding a glint of amusement. “You act like I bite.”

“You do bite,” she shot back.

He laughed, low and deep, before closing his eyes. “Only when necessary.”

She rolled her eyes and turned her back to him, ignoring the way his voice sent an annoying warmth through her.

As she tried to sleep, she could still feel the weight of his presence behind her—the king who had taken everything from her. And yet, for some reason, he hadn’t taken this.

Not yet.

As she lay on the vast bed, wrapped in the silk robe he had given her, YN couldn’t help but let her thoughts wander. She had read enough books to know how forced marriages usually played out. The stories always spoke of cruelty, of brides being nothing more than prizes to be taken. She had braced herself for that kind of fate.

But San… didn’t do it.

Instead, he was—dare she even think it?—soft. Not in the way a gentle prince would be, not in the way fairytales promised love and warmth. No, San was still dangerous, still sharp-edged, but there was something different about him tonight.

She had expected him to take what he wanted without question. To claim her the way men like him always did in stories. But instead, he had turned his back when she changed. He had given her space. He had simply laid down, his presence commanding yet oddly non-threatening.

Like a kitten, she thought absently, though the image almost made her want to laugh. A very large, very terrifying kitten with claws that could tear you apart.

She shifted slightly, stealing a glance at him. He was lying on his back, one arm lazily draped behind his head, his dark eyes half-lidded as he stared at the ceiling. He looked… relaxed.

Not once had he touched her inappropriately. Not once had he made any crude remarks. (He literally choked you but ok ig)

Why?

She turned her face away, staring at the soft glow of the lanterns instead. Maybe this was just another manipulation tactic. Maybe he was waiting for her to let her guard down. Or maybe… maybe some small part of him actually saw her as more than just a prize.

The thought unsettled her.

Because deep down, she knew that if San ever decided he wanted something, nothing in the world could stop him from taking it. And she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know what would happen if he ever decided he truly wanted her.

YN blinked sleepily, her vision still hazy from sleep. She stretched her arms lazily, her long sleeves slipping past her hands as she let out a small, muffled yawn. Her hair was a complete mess, strands sticking out in every direction, framing her sleepy face in an unintentionally adorable way.

Her eyes, still heavy with sleep, searched the room, expecting to see San beside her—but his side of the bed was empty. Still wrapped in the warmth of the blankets, she turned her head, and there he was.

San sat at his desk, his posture relaxed but commanding, one hand holding a pen as he wrote something with effortless ease. The soft glow of the morning light caught his features just right—his sharp jawline, his dark tousled hair, the way his white shirt clung to his frame, the top few buttons left undone, revealing a glimpse of his collarbone.

For the first time, he didn’t look like a monster. He looked… almost like a king should. Regal, composed, focused. Normal.

YN rubbed her eyes, still trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep. She tilted her head slightly, observing him, her lips unconsciously forming a small pout.

Why did he have to look that good in the morning? It was unfair.

As if sensing her gaze, San suddenly looked up. His piercing eyes met hers instantly, and for a second, neither of them spoke. His lips curled into a small, amused smirk as he leaned back in his chair.

“Did you sleep well, little princess?” His voice was deep, still carrying the remnants of sleep, and for some reason, it made her stomach do a weird little flip.

She blinked at him, still too groggy to properly respond, and just gave a slow, sleepy nod.

San chuckled, shaking his head. “You look like a little kitten.”

“I do not.”

But with her messy hair, half-lidded eyes, and small, sleepy pout, she absolutely did. And San looked far too entertained by it.

YN groggily got out of bed, her bare feet touching the cold floor as she stumbled slightly. She was still shaking off sleep, her body not fully awake yet. Without thinking, she made her way to the bathroom, craving the warmth of a shower to clear her mind.

By the time she emerged, she felt fresher, more alert. Her damp hair clung to her shoulders, the scent of soap and flowers lingering around her. But now, standing in the middle of the grand room, she realized—she had no idea what to do next.

Her life had always been structured, filled with responsibilities, duties, and expectations. But here? She had nothing. No routine, no obligations. No real freedom, either. Without really thinking, she turned towards the only person who did know what to do.

San.

He was still at his desk, leaning back in his chair, one hand propped under his chin as he watched her approach. His sharp eyes scanned her from head to toe, taking in her fresh appearance, his lips twitching into something close to a smirk. She stopped in front of him, hesitating. Now fully awake, she felt slightly embarrassed that she had come to him of all people. But she pushed past it and, in a soft voice, asked,

“…What should I do now?”

San’s smirk deepened, his gaze flickering with amusement. He rested his elbow on the arm of his chair, tilting his head as he looked up at her.

“You’re asking me?” he mused, his voice slow, teasing. “What a good little wife you are.”

YN’s cheeks heated instantly. “That’s not—!”

San chuckled, waving a hand. “Relax, princess. You’re free to do whatever you want.”

Her brows furrowed. Free? That word felt strange coming from his mouth.

San, sensing her doubt, leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to something softer. “Go walk around. Read. Sit by the window and braid your hair, since you love doing that.” His eyes glinted with something unreadable. “Or… you can just sit here and keep me company.”

YN bit her lip. None of those things felt fulfilling. But at least now, she knew one thing—San wasn’t planning to throw her back into isolation. For now.

YN stood there, fidgeting slightly, as the realization settled in. She didn’t know what to do. It was a strange, unsettling feeling—one she had never truly experienced before.

Back in her kingdom, her days were always planned for her. From the moment she woke up to the moment she went to bed, every decision had already been made—what she wore, what she studied, where she went, how she behaved. And now, standing here with the freedom to choose, she felt... lost.

San, who had been watching her closely, let out a small chuckle. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded over his chest, looking effortlessly regal even in his relaxed posture. “What’s with that face, princess?” he mused. “You act like I just handed you the entire world.”

YN glanced at him, biting her lip. Maybe because, in a way, you did.

San tilted his head, studying her. Then, in a softer voice, he said, “You’re older now. You don’t need someone to tell you what to do every second of the day.” He tapped his fingers against the armrest. “So, tell me, what do you want to do?”

YN hesitated. She had never really been asked that before. What did she want? Then, almost instinctively, she looked up at him and answered, “I want to cook.” San blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. Then, slowly, a smirk stretched across his lips. “Cook?” he repeated, amusement dancing in his dark eyes.

She nodded, a bit more firmly this time. “Yes.”

San exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Of all things…” He stood up, towering over her, before placing a hand under her chin, tilting her face up to look at him properly. “You really are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

YN swallowed, her breath hitching at how close he was. His fingers were warm against her skin, his touch gentle despite the sheer power he held.

Then, after a beat of silence, he let go and stepped back. “Fine,” he said lazily. “Let’s see what my little wife can do in the kitchen.”

YN had never felt this kind of nervousness before. She had fought battles of words, endured royal duties, and faced San’s unnerving presence more times than she could count. But this? Watching him take the first bite of the food she cooked with her own hands? It was a different kind of pressure.

She sat stiffly across from him at the long dining table, pretending to focus on her plate, but her eyes kept flickering toward him. He hadn’t said a word yet, just cutting into the dish and bringing a bite to his lips.

San chewed slowly, his face unreadable. YN gripped the fabric of her dress beneath the table. Is it bad?

Then, finally, he swallowed. He set his fork down, wiping the corner of his mouth with deliberate ease before turning his gaze to her.

“You were a princess,” he mused, voice slow and deep. “Raised in luxury, surrounded by servants to do everything for you.”

YN tensed, unsure where this was going.

“And yet,” he continued, dragging his thumb across the table absentmindedly, “you can cook like this?”

Her lips parted slightly. “I… I learned from the palace chefs,” she admitted. “They were kind enough to teach me when I was younger.” San hummed, leaning back in his chair. Then, to her shock, he smirked. “You’re full of surprises, wife.”

YN blinked, heat creeping up her neck. “So… does that mean you like it?”

San tilted his head, his smirk deepening as he picked up his fork again. “I don’t just like it,” he said, taking another bite. “I might just keep you in the kitchen forever.”

She frowned. “That’s not funny.”

San chuckled, the sound smooth and rich. “Oh, but it is.” He motioned toward her plate. “Now eat. You put in all that effort—don’t let it go to waste.”

YN exhaled, shaking her head but finally picking up her utensils.

And though she wouldn’t admit it, a small, almost unnoticeable smile played on her lips as she started eating.

San never thought he was capable of feeling guilt. He was a man who took what he wanted, ruled with an iron fist, and never once looked back at the wreckage he left behind. But YN… she had undone something in him. What started as twisted obsession had transformed into something deeper—something he couldn't even name. Love wasn't enough to describe it. He adored her, worshipped her in ways that made even him question his sanity. And yet, with every stolen glance, every soft sigh that escaped her lips when she thought he wasn’t listening, he felt the weight of his past actions press down on him. He had humiliated her. Broken her pride. Forced her into this marriage without a choice.

And yet, here she was. Cooking for him. Talking to him. Looking at him like he was a person, not a monster.

San watched her as she ate, completely unaware of the war raging in his mind. He could see the faint traces of her old self still lingering—the stubbornness, the quiet grace, the warmth she carried even when she tried to keep it from him. And for the first time, he found himself wanting something different. He wanted her to look at him without fear. He wanted her to choose him, not just accept him as an unchangeable fate.

San clenched his jaw, setting his fork down. He was not a man who apologized, not a man who begged for forgiveness. But for her? He would find a way to make things right, even if he didn’t deserve it.

San stood near the dresser, watching her through the mirror’s reflection. Her legs dangled off the edge of the bed, her bare feet swinging slightly. She looked small like this, lost in thought, her fingers absentmindedly fidgeting with the hem of her nightgown.

He sighed softly, running a hand through his dark hair before walking over to her. He crouched down, resting his forearms on his knees so they were at eye level. “You look tired,” he murmured, voice softer than usual.

YN blinked at him, a little caught off guard. He was always intense—dangerous—but tonight, there was something different about him. His eyes weren’t as sharp, his usual arrogance replaced with something quieter.

She shrugged, looking away. “I suppose”.

San hummed, tilting his head slightly. Then, without warning, he reached for her foot, gently holding her ankle in his large hand. YN stiffened, watching him closely, but he only smirked. “Relax,” he said, sliding his thumb in slow circles over her skin.

“What are you doing?” she asked, wary.

He lifted her foot slightly, resting it on his knee. “Something a loving husband would do.”

Her breath caught.

San’s touch was uncharacteristically gentle as he began to massage her foot, his fingers pressing into the arch, kneading away the tension she hadn’t realized she was holding. The warmth of his hands sent a shiver up her spine, and she had to remind herself to breathe.

She swallowed hard. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument.

YN’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. She only watched as he worked, her heart pounding against her ribs.

San’s gaze flickered up to hers, and for once, there was no wicked glint in his eyes, no teasing smirk. Just something raw and real. “I know I’ve been… cruel,” he admitted, his voice low. “But I want to be better for you.”

Her breath hitched. She wasn’t sure what to say—wasn’t sure if she believed him. But for now, she let him hold her foot in his hands, let herself enjoy the rare moment of peace between them.

Because, for the first time, San wasn’t just claiming her.

He was asking for her.

YN sat there, her legs dangling over the edge of the tall bed, watching San with cautious eyes. She didn’t know what to expect from him anymore. He had been cruel, manipulative—everything about him had terrified her. And yet, in these past days, she had seen glimpses of something else. Something she didn’t understand.

And now, he was kneeling in front of her, holding her leg in his strong yet gentle grasp, his forehead pressed against her knee.

Her breath caught in her throat. The mighty king, the man who had stolen her life away, was bowing his head as if he was asking for forgiveness. It felt unreal.

San’s voice was quiet when he finally spoke, like he was afraid to break whatever fragile moment had settled between them. “I’ve hurt you so much, haven’t I?”

YN stiffened, her fingers clutching the fabric of her nightgown.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

San lifted his head slightly, just enough to look up at her. His dark eyes were no longer filled with their usual amusement, arrogance, or hunger. Instead, they held something else—something softer, more vulnerable. And the way he looked at her... how did he make his eyes look like that? Like a desperate plea. Like an apology.

She hated that it made her feel something.

His thumb brushed over her ankle, slow and deliberate, as if grounding himself in the touch. “I can’t take it back,” he murmured. “Everything I’ve done to you… I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness.” He exhaled shakily, closing his eyes for a brief moment before looking up again. “But I want to change. For you.”

YN’s heart betrayed her by skipping a beat.

No. No, she couldn’t let herself believe this.

This was the same man who had humiliated her, who had forced her into a life she never wanted. She should push him away, tell him that no matter what he did, she would never forgive him. And yet…

Her fingers twitched in her lap. And for some reason, she didn’t move.

She felt lost. Confused. Torn between everything she knew and everything she was starting to feel. Her chest tightened, her throat burned, and before she could stop it, her eyes welled up with frustration. “Why?” Her voice was quiet, shaky. “Why do you do this to me?”

San looked at her, his grip on her leg tightening just slightly. His face remained unreadable, but his fingers betrayed him, twitching against her skin as if he feared she’d pull away.

YN swallowed hard, blinking back the tears threatening to spill. “Why do you make it so hard to hate you?”

She wanted to. She was supposed to. She should hate him for taking her from her home, for forcing her into this life, for every cruel smirk, every mocking word, every time he made her feel powerless. She should despise him for turning her world upside down. And yet—

He was the only one in her world now. No family. No kingdom. No one else. Just him. And somehow, that realization terrified her more than anything else.

She broke.

Tears spilled down her cheeks, one after another, until she couldn't stop them. Her shoulders shook, her breathing came out in ragged gasps, and all the pain, all the frustration, all the confusion poured out of her in waves.

San couldn’t watch it. He couldn’t bear it. He got up and pulled her into his arms without hesitation. His grip was tight—desperate, almost—as if he wanted to merge with her, to keep her so close that nothing, not even the pain he had caused, could separate them.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was low, rough, yet softer than she had ever heard it before. He pressed his face against her hair, holding her tighter, rocking her slightly. “I’m so sorry.”

She cried even harder.

Hearing that from him—this man who had only ever taken from her, who had controlled her life in ways she never imagined—made her sob until she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

And then his next words came, whispered against her temple, like a vow only she was meant to hear.

“I promise you, YN. I’ll be a good husband.”

His arms tightened around her. “I’ll make this right.”

She wanted to believe him.

She clung to him.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tightly as if he was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely. She buried her face into his shoulder, her sobs muffled against his warmth.

San felt it. The way she held onto him—not out of love, not yet, but out of a desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he could make the pain go away. That he could fix what he had broken.

His arms wrapped around her even tighter, his hand stroking her back in slow, steady motions. “I know,” he whispered, his voice laced with regret. “I know I hurt you.”

She didn’t respond. Just held on.

And San swore, in that moment, he would do anything—anything—to make it better. To deserve the way she was holding him now.

Divider from @/cafekitsune

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morverenmaybewrites · 8 months ago

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Jason Todd | Jealousy and Insecurity Headcanons

“How do they handle jealousy or insecurity?”

I think it’s fair to say at any point post-torture, Jason is just a tangled mess of emotions, and because of his trauma, he often neglects (or refuses) to be introspective with his own feelings. Self-reflection is hard, and it’s even harder when your own psyche is a minefield of terrible memories.

He can look at a slice of chocolate cake and feel bile rise in the back of his throat, and he’ll jolt away before he could even start to remember that it’s because Joker had served him rotten cake on his birthday

(If he looks closely, in his mind’s eye, he can see it with startling clarity: the worms wriggling underneath the pale light, so white they looked like shards of bone bone)

(He doesn’t want to remember how, at that time, he had been so hungry that he nearly asked for a bite because nothing could be worse than the empty, gnawing feeling in his belly. He doesn’t want to remember how his mouth nearly watered at the sight.)

And so–just like his reflection–Jason makes a habit of not looking at his own emotions too closely. It’s part of the reason why things like jealousy, envy, insecurity tend to manifest as the emotions he’s most familiar with: anger, disgust, self-loathing.

So, for example, pre-relationship, someone walks into the diner.

(Someone scarless, someone with an easy smile, someone whose past is not so heavy that it feels like a weight on their shoulders.)

Maybe they flirt with you, maybe they don’t. It doesn’t even have to be anything big to set his teeth on edge because I feel like Jason is, on a fundamental level, jealous of the people around him.

(Jealous of their normal lives, their horror-free past, jealous of their unbranded faces.)

It’s highly likely that he wouldn’t even recognize the emotion for what it is, instead, it will manifest as anger–

(Because anger is familiar, anger is easy, and it is almost as natural as breathing, he’ll accept it without even a second thought.)

It will manifest as self-loathing

(Because a stranger can make you smile so easily, because a stranger wouldn’t have to deal with his dangerous life, because a simple stranger who walked into the diner is a better fit for you than he ever will be.).

And because he doesn’t know how to process it, he’ll let his emotions simmer for days, bubbling just underneath his skin. He’ll be quicker to anger, perhaps a little more reckless during patrols.

(Knuckles cracked and bleeding after a brutal scuffle, lips split where it had smashed against his teeth, and he can’t help but think to himself that this is all he’d ever known, all he’d ever deserve.)

(Certainly, he doesn’t deserve someone like you.)

And it will take someone like Dick or Barbara piecing together what’s happening and sitting him down. Maybe Dick, ever cheerful and ever willing to help, who is practically ecstatic at being able to do the Big Brother talk of Talking About Girls with Jason.

Only to be met with an awkward silence, a blank stare.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

And it will sink in, the knowledge burning like acid in his stomach.

Jason doesn’t even know.

He doesn’t even know that he’s jealous, doesn’t know the reason for his sudden aggression, his bursts of recklessness.

So used is Jason to burying what he feels and what he thinks that he couldn’t even identify why he felt so angry, why bile rises up in his throat at the sight of you speaking with someone else.

And Dick would feel a sudden pain lance across his forehead.

And maybe he’d sigh.

Because it’s going to be a long night.

#jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #arkham knight x reader #jason todd #red hood #arkham knight #i was going to do a pre and post relationship analysis but rly didn't want to sit on this for longer than i did

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ankol-heap · 4 months ago

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» in a room full of art, he'd rather look at you; itoshi rin x gn!reader

synopsis; itoshi rin is failing his art class. in order to graduate his senior year of high school, he needs to pass the class with at least a b grade. you're assigned to tutor the hot-headed soccer athlete—kind and eccentric, you throw rin's entire world off axis.

a/n; my first post on here! this is set after sae abandons rin, but he still goes to school. enter stage left, front and center—asshole, but very much in need of some love, itoshi rin!

word count: 5.0 k words | now playing every breath you take, by the police

itoshi rin didn't have any friends. it's a fact all his teachers know by now. he's a stoic student, one that doesn't participate in group projects and eats his lunch alone in the library. normally, this type of behavior exhibited by students should have been noticed by his teachers and counselors. but rin was seemingly well behaved, and he had straight a's in most of his classes—so nobody took notice of him. he felt like a ghost, drifting through the walls of his high school without a single person by his side. it was his first day of senior year, and itoshi rin had no expectations for this year.

the phantom ache in his chest is harder to ignore nowadays. he doesn't realize he's been spacing out again until the bell rings, signaling the start of the next class period. rin is snapped violently out of his daze. he glances at the blank canvas in front of him before realizing he's spent the past fifty five minutes doing absolutely nothing. the students around him file out of the room—chatting and laughing as he stands there, a bit dumbfounded with how this class seemed to suck the life out of him.

when itoshi rin was little, he loved drawing. his imagination would run wild, and sometimes—he couldn't always act out the magnificent battles he wanted his toys to perform. dragons and princes and volcanos—his medium of choice used to be these scratchy crayons his brother, sae, would get for rin from the corner store. rin remembers how his parents had to force him to put his crayons down just to make him eat dinner. and now, he can't even manage to put a single mark on a canvas.

during his teacher's instructions at the beginning of class, he was, quite vaguely told at that, to use whatever colors and styles he wanted to on a 12 by 12 canvas to reflect his soul. bitterly, rin thinks his canvas reflects him perfectly. he'll turn this in tomorrow, he decides. a blank canvas—no feelings, no purpose, nothing. just like him.

he'll take the shitty grade and move on with his life. rin wonders if there's even a language that exists to put his feelings into something other people can comprehend. he doesn't think there is. if he wants anyone to understand how he feels, they'll have to tear his ribs out one by one to reach the barely alive beat lying inside.

itoshi rin is seventeen years old when he falls in love.

"do you need some help cleaning up?"

rin glances away from his blank canvas, looking up to meet whomever it is speaking. the class is empty now. his art teacher is busying herself in the back of the classroom, unboxing a new pack of paintbrushes when rin swallows the lump in his throat.

"i'm fine,"

your smile is hesitant. understanding, almost, as you look at rin's canvas and the tubes of unopened acrylic paint surrounding him. the window panes hanging high towards the ceiling welcome in the rising sun outside, and rin can see the light shimmering in your eyes—glittering shards of gold gleam like morning stars in your irises as you wordlessly pick up the neglected paint and brushes on his desk—carrying them over to the back of the classroom and putting them away as rin watches silently.

slowly, he picks up his own canvas—and he stares at his classmates' drying ones with an almost envious kind of sadness as he places his untouched canvas beside theirs. where they had explosions of colors, reds and yellows and greens and blues blending and combining into the most wonderful art—rin didn't. he had nothing.

rin turns around to where he'd seen you last in the back of the classroom, before clearing his throat. he doesn't lift his gaze from the tiled floor beneath him, pressing his hand flat against the surface of a nearby table to steady himself before speaking up

"thanks..." he begins, but his voice trails off when he realizes you've already left.

—

rin was sitting in english class when he heard your voice again. to be completely honest, he had no idea you were in this class. rin didn't talk to anyone in all of his classes, so hearing the sound of your voice was a surprise. and where he sat in the back of the classroom, you sat towards the front. you're asking the teacher a question on last night's homework, and rin takes his chance to watch you freely.

you have a tote bag slung over your shoulder. there's a landscape painted on it, with little pins placed all over. you have your hair down today compared to the updo you wore yesterday. it's only when you turn towards your seat that rin finally makes eye contact with you.

time slows, and the conversation around rin drowns out as if he's ducked his head underwater. his brain is nothing but white static for that one second you look into his eyes.

actually, you didn't even hold his gaze for a full second, it was more like a fraction of one—but rin's heart rate didn't calm until the bell rang, and he was the first student out the door. he left class that day with clammy palms and pink-tinted cheeks.

rin didn't have art class today, but he was called down regardless during study hall. his art teacher was an old woman with a wrinkly smile who always wore colorful cardigans. rin enters the room, moving through the empty desks and chairs before he stops in front of her with a quiet greeting.

"rin! it's so nice of you to come so quickly, students aren't usually so courteous! please have a seat," she says warmly, and rin eyes the blank canvas—his blank canvas—laying beside her on the desk.

rin takes a seat, fading in and out of the conversation as she talks. he already knew what to expect, and of course, he was right. akamatsu sensei had the type of voice rin imagines story tellers have, or lullaby singers do. she tells him that she's having trouble seeing signs of progress in his art and wanted him to be doing better. but her last sentence is what catches rin off gaurd. this he did not predict.

"a tutor?"

akamatsu sensei nods her head slowly, folding her hands in her lap at rin's apprehensive expression. she watches his delicate brows pinch together in discomfort, soft lips pulled into a small frown filled with silent frustration. rin didn't understand why he had to get another person to tutor him—he thought art was subjective.

"i promise you, rin, i have just the perfect person in mind. they're my best student—i think if anyone can get your imagination flowing again, it's them."

—

akamatsu sensei introduces you and rin to each other the following morning—and rin's learns that your name is y/n. he repeats it in his head a few times, committing it to memory before you speak his name in the sweetest voice he'll ever have the pleasure of hearing.

"rin-san, i think we're going to get along well! we can sit together in class and work on assignments with each other, but we'll also have to meet after school. what days are you free?" you question, and rin's heart positively plummets to his feet when you grab his hand and lead him towards his seat—you occupy the usually empty chair beside him, and he follows your lead.

"that's fine. i'm free every friday, every other day of the week i have football practice."

rin's hands clutch his knees under his desk when you pull your hand out of his, a fruitless attempt to try and calm himself after you so casually held his hand. your fingers curved around his perfectly—and while the gesture might not have meant anything to you, it meant so much to rin. he doesn't hold hands, he can't even hold a conversation—but you're bubbly and bright in a way that has him submitting in one second flat.

"football? that sounds like fun! i'm sorry, i'm not very well versed with sports. do you like it?" you ask, organizing the paints in front of you as rin nods wordlessly, staring at the gentle manner in which you treat the art materials. you smile at his confirmation, grabbing a tube of a radiant midnight blue and placing a dollop of it on rin's blank canvas with a grin

"when we're in doubt, it's like our minds subconsciously pull away. they shut down and sorta refuse to do anything, right? i want to push you out of your comfort zone and give you a blue canvas to work with rather than a white one. we'll see what you do with that, okay?"

rin nods, fingers moving to take the paintbrush you hand him before he turns to the awaiting paint in front of him. his brushstrokes are slow and a little messy, but five minutes later—the canvas is entirely blue.

"what do you see?" you question softly as rin stares at his canvas. he stays silent for a heartbeat, two heartbeats, and then—

"i don't see anything."

rin's inner turmoil is a storm. was he supposed to be seeing something? all he sees is blue. there's nothing coming to his mind, no connection being made—his bites the inside of his cheek, angry at himself and his clear lack of creativity.

"that's okay. let's think together, okay? what do you think of when you think of the color blue? it can be the simplest thing of all, rin-san. anything at all," you assure, gently scooting your chair closer to his as he nods, clenching his jaw as he thinks. blue. blue. blue. what the hell is blue?

"the sky."

you're silent a for a few moments before he hears it. it's soft and muffled with the back of your hand, but you're laughing at him. his cheeks burn in an instant, and his lips transform into a scowl immediately

"whatever, i know it's stupid—"

"no, no! i was thinking the same thing, that's why i laughed! now, the sky is a painting all in its own! think about it—it's orange and pink during sunrise, like a fruity drink on the beach. it can be a misty, pale haze during snow storms. but, i want you to think of a time you saw the sky like this—an inky void, like a dark blue veil's been put over the world. can you do that?"

rin doesn't respond. he stares at the sea of blue in front of him—blue blue blue.

"...sometimes, football practice gets cut short on rainy days. the sky sorta looks like this blue on those days. dark. blurry—but it's still...i can see some stars. and the moon peaking out from behind the clouds, too. i guess this kind of looks like that."

rin's brows furrow together in concentration as he stares at the canvas after speaking. he turns away from it and towards you after another moment—and he's met with your gentle lips parted in awe. he blinks rapidly a few times to confirm the sight of your awe struck face in front of him is real, not something his imagination made up, before you break into a breathtaking smile.

"well then, let's get some black to add some darker shading to the sky! and some white—for the stars and moon...come on!"

—

itoshi rin is attentive. it's something you would come to learn soon enough. you're an avid artist—truly, it was your passion. rin can watch you scribble away in your sketchbook from where he sits in the back. english class is droning on, and for once, he's not paying attention.

you tilt your head over your notebook, staring at your drawing before you erase something and redraw it. rin watches the way your hair shifts and moves around you as you look at your sketchbook from different angles—perfecting your art. his lips twitch at the sight of your pout when the tip of your pencil breaks. you're restless, quickly sharpening it and continuing your drawing when the teacher's voice breaks him out of his daze.

"all right class, partner up! i'll let you chose your partners this time. please don't make me regret it," she sighs, and the excited chatter of the students quickly fills the once silent room.

rin straightens in his seat. he had absolutely no idea what the assignment was since he wasn't paying attention—but, right now, he didn't care. his eyes stayed glued on you, waiting to see who you would partner up with. rin has to crane his neck a bit as his classmates moved around and shifted seats—effectively blocking his view. once everyone settled down with their partners, rin was able to see you again.

and you're sitting by yourself.

rin doesn't know what urged him to walk towards you. he can hear his heart pounding—tugging him closer and closer towards where you sat. he swallows the lump in his throat, standing behind you silently before he taps your shoulder

you turn around, obviously not expecting him—because your eyes widen a bit when you see rin. and rin just...stares. he doesn't say anything, and it's like the two of you were sucked into a bubble, separating you from everyone else—you both stare at each other, blinking blankly and staying absolutely silent

"do you want to—"

"are you—"

rin wants to crawl into a hole and die. he shakes his head, pressing his lips into a firm line before speaking again. the flush of embarrassment in your cheeks was making him feel flustered.

"sorry. i was asking if you wanted to be partners with me," he speaks. rin places an awkward palm on the nape of his neck, silently questioning where he got the sudden boost of confidence to approach you from, because it had suddenly, and very inconveniently, vanished into thin air—leaving him defenseless. you smile warmly at him, quickly moving over and beckoning to the open seat beside yours.

"yes! i'd love to be partners," you say, quickly closing your sketchbook and putting it away as he nods gratefully, taking the seat beside you.

"thank you," rin says. and then, it's quiet again. the tension is as thick as butter, and you look around awkwardly before laughing, nervously.

"so...do you know what we're supposed to be doing, rin-san?"

this was the first time you saw rin smile. and laugh. well, not laugh, per say. but he snorts, and it's almost as if he was surprised by his own reaction as he shakes his head with a soft grin.

"not a clue."

the rest of class consisted of the two of you leaning towards each other with bowed heads, you soft giggles and rin's low voice filling the void between you two.

—

itoshi rin has a friend.

this is what friends are, he decides. people who smile at you when they see you, people who help you with your homework and expect nothing in return. slowly, but surely, fall turned into winter, and winter turned into spring. friendship is a blossoming thing, he thinks. because it felt like every day that passed, you and rin became closer. like a knot tightening further and further—he was growing closer and closer to you.

your guidance is what rin needs. direction and kindness—you helped rin navigate his own mind through art, a language he could use to spill his heart's deepest desires. every stroke of his brush came straight from the core of his soul.

charcoal was your current medium of choice this friday afternoon. every harsh fingertip pressed into rin's paper and ever gentle brush of his knuckles against the page has its own meaning—its own purpose. his tongue is poked out in concentration, and you watch rin work quietly as the quiet sound of akamatsu sensei's record player filled the silence. rin thinks of the way your delicate fingers transverse and move when you make art, and he mimics your movements—your gentle voice reassuring him.

"beautiful," you breathe breathlessly, tentative hands carefully taking the paper rin hands you as you stare at the art piece he'd just created. a battle field—it's set up like a football field, but instead of players, there were towering presences instead. swords and shields, a storm in the background, long blades of grass and a constellation of stars—rin's spark and love for art had been rekindled.

"thank you, y/n. i...i couldn't have done any of this without you. you're the only reason i'm not failing right now," he says softly, his voice almost sheepish as your eyes flit towards his—welling with pride.

"i wish i could frame this! it's beautiful...akamatsu sensei is going to be so proud of you, rin-san! this talent has always been with you. i just got the wheels rolling. you're very talented, i hope you understand." you smile softly, your eyes crinkling with the motion as rin's heart rate spikes at the sight

"rin," he whispers, and you blink in confusion before he clarifies himself

"call me just rin, please."

"oh! okay, rin," you smile, the familiar flush returning to your cheeks as rin smiles softly. if he moves even an inch closer to you, his knee will bump against yours under the table. rin is suddenly hyper aware of the space between you two. the music playing in the back ground fades to nothing, just like the world did, when rin stares at you. your eyes soften, and rin's positive his heart is going to burst right out of his chest and into your lap.

friends don't want to kiss their friends. the realization is chilling, and rin's eyes dart towards your lips for a split second—he couldn't stop himself, and the sight makes his breath hitch. soft, pink, plump—he wants to kiss you. rin really wants to kiss you.

the screeching sound of his chair against the floor shatters the serene moment of peace. you blink rapidly from the loud interruption as rin wordlessly picks his bag off the floor, slinging it over his shoulder in a single, fluid motion before exiting the classroom. you're left stunned and alone, your smile falling as he leaves without saying goodbye,

alone again.

—

rin is not familiar with love, you have to understand this.

in his eyes—love was a transaction. a give or take scenario, and if you can't give something useful—you get your heart trampled on. a certain brother taught rin that. he leaves school that day sullen and empty, his heart physically hurting in his chest as he walked home.

rin started ignoring you after that day. he didn't show up to your after school tutoring sessions on friday, he stopped turning towards you when your english teacher told the class to partner up—and your seat in art class beside him was now occupied by his backpack, a clear message telling you he didn't want you sitting near him.

you have to understand—rin didn't have anything to give. he'd taken your kindness, your love, your guidance—but what did he have to offer? he's not very gentle, and as graceful as his movements may be, he can't always control the bite in his tongue. and he's sensitive. his humor borderlines between dry and downright crude. and he's not used to having a friend, forget a lover—so, itoshi rin will ignore you. he will love you from afar, but he won't so much as glance in your direction anymore. because he cares too much, and rin thinks you deserve better. he doesn't thrive like you do, he destroys. and he's certainly not your mess to clean up.

"y/n,"

you glance away from rin's retreating figure. once again, he didn't bother to look at you all day or say goodbye—he simply left class. akamatsu sensei's voice pulls you away from rin as you quickly approach her desk, bowing your head in greeting.

"sensei," you greet with a weary smile as her gaze softens. she hands you a slip of paper, her voice gentle as she speaks

"rin has been leaving class far too quickly for me to catch up with! would you be a dear and give this to him for me, please? it's a permission slip he must sign for our upcoming field trip,"

the words otsuka museum of art were printed neatly at the top. you'd been looking forward to this trip for months—you vaguely remember mentioning your excitement for it to rin at some point when he still spoke to you.

the otsuka museum of art scaled five floors, three underground and two above—of the richest art history ever. there were reportedly over a thousand paintings—masterpieces ranging from ancient times to the present day from all over the world. it was your dream to have your own art in a museum like the otsuka museum one day.

"okay! that's not a problem at all for, akamatsu sensei," you reply softly, bidding her goodbye as she waves enthusiastically to you. you manage a meek wave, offering a small smile as you exit the classroom.

this was your chance to talk to rin. determined to find him before he left school for the day, you move swiftly through the crowded hallways—keeping a firm grip on your tote bag and the slip of paper between your fingertips as you push open the front doors of the school

and there he is. his strides are slow and long as he walks on the sidewalk about a dozen meters away from you. your feet hit the pavement as you quickly make your way towards him. he doesn't look up from his path to the school's football field—his hands remain shoved deep in his pockets and completely unaware of your approaching steps

"rin! rin, wait!"

rin pauses mid step, and you watch every muscle in his back tense the moment your voice reached his ears. he swallows the lump forming in his throat, closing his eyes for a moment before reluctantly turning around. his eyes are round in an almost childlike manner as you approach him.

you take a deep breath before grabbing his hand—and he's startled for a moment before you place the field trip slip in his hand. he blinks down at it in confusion, squinting at the small text before they widen a bit in realization

"akamatsu sensei couldn't give it to you earlier, so, uh, she asked me to," you quickly say, wringing your hands together nervously as rin stays silent, blinking at the paper in his hand.

"i...i'd be really happy if you came. of course, it's a voluntary thing but..."

even though rin won't look at you, resorting to burning a hole through the paper slip in his hands again, you continue with your words.

"rin, i don't know if i did something wrong to upset you, or if i said something you didn't like—but...i'm sorry."

rin's jaw clenches, and a frown digs its way onto his face as he stares at you. he shakes his head as if to say no, and just when he opens his mouth to say something—a loud voice comes barreling your way.

"itoshi! you're late! on the field, now!"

rin's coach's voice is booming and demanding of attention—and you're startled enough to flinch. rin exhales sharply through his nose, a vein threatening to pop on his forehead as he fights to keep himself from cursing out his coach, something he'd done many times before, in front of you.

"...we'll talk another time, all right?"

he doesn't seem to want to leave until he gets your confirmation, and you quickly nod

"i...okay."

he frowns at your hesitance, taking a half hearted step back, sparing you one last glance, before walking away. his shoulders are slumping just the slightest bit with defeat, and you don't have the strength to keep watching. you begin the walk home, thoughts scattered and heart hurt.

—

thankfully, rin did show up the day of the trip.

your breath hitched when you saw him board the bus—his dark, inky strands mused from the wind outside as he huffed, handing akamatsu sensei his field trip form before he turned towards the open seats. yes, there was one right beside you—but rin took the seat on the other side of the aisle.

doing this, he kept himself both near you and faraway—you heart sinks at the silent rejection. you spend the bus ride sketching in your notebook, trying your best to not look at rin.

—

you fell asleep on the two hour drive there. rin thinks you look a lot like an angel when you sleep. your face is composed entirely of peace. your sketchbook lays idly in your lap, and rin frowns when he notices it's slipping from your grasp.

he waits for the bus to approach a red light before slipping into the vacant spot beside you. he grabs your sketchbook, prepared to close it and put it safely away into your tote bag, when he sees what you were drawing

it was him.

—

everyone arrives to the museum after another fifteen minutes. and after going through security, your classmates and akamatsu sensei stand in the foyer—buzzing with excitement. you leave the group the second you're given the green light. everyone is given ninety minutes to explore the museum on their own before you all have to regroup and grab lunch. you slip away as quietly as you can, moving through the crowd of people in search of some much needed solitude.

you let out a breath of relief once you escape rin's presence. now, you can't see him at all—all you can see is the hundreds of art pieces and hallways waiting to be explored. they beckon you forward and call your name. your first step is hesitant as you remember how much you wanted to explore this beautiful building with rin just a month ago, but you take it anyway.

you move through the museum slowly, allowing your body to sink into the moment and absorb the entirely new world around you. the domed ceilings themselves have art painted on them, and you twirl and waltz through the halls, taking it all in.

your heartbeat calms. your nerves, fears, sadness—it fades to background noise as you take it all in.

unbeknownst to you, rin follows you the entire time.

his movements are precise and elegant. he can duck behind a nearby family or statue the moment he anticipates your gaze nearing his vicinity. he keeps a healthy distance, his eyes never leaving your form.

there's a soft smile on your face as you explore the museum. rin can't help but watch the way you excitedly chat to the security guards posted by the arts and explain each piece's history. he watches your animated gestures to the enormous structures as you explain the myths and stories behind them.

you're far too kind for this world. truthfully, rin thinks your heart is bigger than the entire museum—bigger than the entire world, really. you give, and you give, and you give—but you don't ask for anything in return. you're selfless—offering your sweet smiles to passerby’s and dorky art facts to anyone willing to hear.

rin would soon learn the love you offered was unconditional.

you're moving from exhibit to exhibit, before you finally enter an empty one. he stands by the entrance where your back is facing him. rin is nervous beyond belief—but he takes the step inside, anyway. you don't notice him at first, too busy staring at a painting the same height as you with a feverish type of awe.

he steps beside you, not meeting your gaze as he peers up at the painting. a man and a woman sit at a piano, playing together in harmony. they're in a ballroom of some sort, both dressed in formal wear. rin can tell they're in love with the way they look at each other.

"i'm sorry."

rin can feel you go rigid beside him—he can hear the silent hitch in your breath as you keep your gaze glued to the painting, your fingers tensing at your sides as rin looks away from the painting, turning towards you.

he takes a moment to admire you. your lips, your lashes, the slope of your nose and the curve of your neck—before speaking

"i'm not good with my feelings. i push people away before they get to close, but it was like you slipped through the gaps—i...thought i'd hurt you if i stayed. but i hurt you by leaving. i like you, y/n. i like you more than any person i've ever known—i-i think i love you,"

the words fall from his lips in a broken whisper, and he wants to reach out and play with your fingers—have something to fidget with as he awaits your response. he wasn't going to shy away from admitting his feelings anymore, that wasn't rin. the only reason he messed up with you the first time was because he's never been in love before. but, he was willing to learn everything about it with you—he didn't want to do it with anyone else.

his eyes are glazed with unshed tears, because not once, not ever—has itoshi rin so clearly expressed his heart to another person.

this moment would forever be engraved into his heart, brain, and soul—but the sight of your face when you finally look at him steals the air from his lungs.

your lip trembles in disbelief for a moment, tears of joy springing from your eyes as you laugh—the sound a melody all in its own to rin's ears as you smile with all your teeth.

his mouth slots over yours a moment later. soft and oh so sweet—itoshi rin's kiss was like pressing your mouth against the petal of a flower. his hands cradle your face, his breathing coming out uneven and quick—he kisses you hard, and you laugh into his mouth as your hands wrap around his neck. he tugs you infinitely closer, molding his form against yours.

"i love you too, itoshi rin..!"

rin's eyes crinkle with a rare show of genuine joy. his eyes don't leave yours as he watches your thumb gently caress his cheek. because in a room full of art—itoshi rin would rather look at you.

426 notes · View notes

youthguk · 28 days ago

Text

Dream eater | jjk (m) | one-shot

Jungkook is a Dream eater, and you, unknowingly, are his favorite feast.

· Dream fantasy (slightly) · Smut · Angst · Emotional intimacy ·

wc: 15k

warnings: smut (minors do not interact!), oral sex (f receiving), penetrative sex (f/m), intense mutual yearning and vulnerability, depressive undertones, angst

an: this one is for those who have ever felt like the world is generous to you with nothing but solitude.

Shards of diamond bright stars pierce Seoul's obsidian sky, their cold light drowning in the city's neon glow. Jungkook leaves his window open, it is not a choice, but rather a necessity. He stares at his ceiling, counting seconds until the hunt begins. Another night, another feast of fears.

Darkness claims him with a lover's embrace. Seoul's infamous nightmare eater surrenders to sleep, his consciousness already splitting at the seams. A traitorous thought whispers: what if tonight will be different.

But it won’t. Reality fractures and he watches his mortal shell from above: a sight that still unnerves him after so many years. Two versions of one being: the peaceful sleeper below, the predator above. His ethereal form sneers at its human disguise. He observes his sleeping form with dark amusement. Such innocent appearance, such deadly truth. With serpentine grace, he slides through the window into the night's waiting arms. The night was young.

His humanity dissolves, leaving only hollow echoes where warmth once dwelled. He exists between heartbeats now, a creature born of twilight and shadow. They call his kind Dream Eaters - night's elite hunters. He doesn't waste time with sweet dreams; terror is his sustenance. Each nightmare consumed fills the endless void within, a momentary relief for an immortal hunger. True sleep eludes him now. Instead, dusk shatters his being like black ice, releasing his hunting self into the dark.

Seoul spreads beneath him, a fever dream in concrete and steel. Skyscrapers rise like obsidian monoliths, their windows gleaming with artificial souls. In their depths, forgotten screens pulse with electric prayers, while he glides past - a phantom in this vast urban wilderness that still hasn't discovered his true name, even after countless nights of feeding.

Like a shadow made of stardust, he dances across Seoul's skyline, his ethereal form weaving between moonlit spires and rain-slicked rooftops. The city breathes beneath him, each exhalation carrying whispers of secrets too delicate for mortal ears. In his wake, silence blooms, the rich stillness of midnight possibility.

Night after night, he slips into dreams uninvited yet inexorably summoned. These sleeping minds call to him like sirens, their fears pulsing like dark beacons through the city's unconscious web. He moves between them with practiced grace, a thief of terrors, collecting their darkness like black pearls.

The nightmares he finds are symphonies of fear, each uniquely haunting. Here, a father's dream crystalizes into gray horror: baby's breath turned to cinders. There, a bride-who-never-was wanders an infinite gallery of white gowns, each mirror reflecting a different life unlived. A child runs through corridors of betrayal, pursued by a mother's face worn like a mask by something ancient and hungry.

Some dreams twist reality until it snaps: vast oceans swallow the sky whole, wolves with mirror-glass eyes hunt through endless forests, smiles split open to reveal universes of teeth. Each nightmare carries its own signature of dread, and each feeds him differently- sending electric shivers through his being, temporarily filling the endless void within.

Yet this beautiful, terrible dance leaves him hollower with each performance. The feast brings no joy, only momentary relief from an hunger old as starlight. In the quietest hours, when the city holds its breath, he questions whether he has become the very nightmare that haunts other nightmares- a shadow feeding on shadows.

Though neither mercy nor comfort fall within his nature, he continues his eternal duty as a void that consumes the dark.

In the waking world, he is barely there- an outline at best, a quiet presence with a heartbeat too soft to echo. His voice, when used, never quite fills a room. His laughter, when forced, folds in on itself before it reaches the walls.

His sanctuary lies behind walls of code and LED glow, where ones and zeros don't ask questions. IT specialist: the perfect camouflage for someone who exists in binary- human by day, nightmare-devourer by night. Here, in this digital cocoon, the absence of human connection isn't loneliness- it's salvation.

Jimin shows up sometimes, arms full of takeout and stories that move faster than time itself. Taehyung lounges on his couch like he owns it, flipping through half-read books Jungkook never finished. Jin nags him to open the windows and let light in. Yoongi doesn’t say much, but when he does, it lands heavy- sharp and unafraid. Hoseok once cried laughing on Jungkook’s kitchen floor after too much wine. Namjoon leaves poems folded in the spines of Jungkook’s abandoned notebooks, like quiet offerings to whatever ghost he’s become.

He’s grateful for them- a bittersweet anchor to reality- but even in their presence, he feels like a thread unraveling just beyond the edge of fabric. They don’t ask why he’s always tired, always pale, always late in answering, because they know better than to push. Still, none of them understand the weight he drags through each day, the way his hands tremble when someone mentions a dream too vividly.

The thought of accidentally stumbling into their dreams haunts him like a shadow he can't shake. Because what if- what if one night he sees Namjoon trapped beneath dark waters, lungs filling with infinity? Or finds Jimin screaming silently behind walls of glass that won't break no matter how hard he pounds his fists against them? Or watches, paralyzed, as Taehyung runs through endless corridors of flame, feet leaving burning footprints in his wake? He simply couldn't.

Sometimes, in moments when the night feels particularly heavy, he whispers desperate prayers to deities who've long since stopped listening, begging them to keep his friends' dreams far, far away from his hunger.

Reality slips through his fingers like smoke these days, all gossamer-thin and just as substantial. The walls breathe shadows, rooms fold in on themselves. Time stumbles forward in awkward lurches, dragging its feet across calendar pages that mean nothing anymore. The windows collect fog like secrets, exhaling quiet confessions into the dawn. His journals - half-burned, because some truths are too heavy to keep whole- gather dust in corners where light fears to tread. And that mirror in the hallway? It only remembers his face if he stares long enough to make it nervous, catching glimpses of himself like static between channels.

The only thing that ever feels real is the ache beneath his ribs followed by the loneliness: faithful shadows that never leaves.

And the slow, exquisite agony of wearing humanity like an ill-fitting coat.

It begins like breathing - not the shallow gasps of the living, but that bone-deep exhale when your body finally remembers how to let go. The surrender comes easy now, practiced as a prayer, inevitable as nightfall. His consciousness unspools like silk in water, each thread of reality slipping loose until he's floating free of flesh and bone and all those heavy human things.

The city cradles him in her concrete arms as he rises, weightless as midnight fog. Through layers of rust-worn pipes and grief-stained walls he drifts, each molecule of his being singing that ancient song of untethering. Seoul stretches below like a tired goddess, her neon veins pulsing dim beneath a blanket of shadow, her streets winding like whispered secrets. The streetlights flicker their morse code confessions to no one, while towers pierce the darkness like broken teeth, watching with eyes gone dull from seeing too much.

He drifts aimlessly through the night, a moth drawn to the flickering flames of human fear. It's funny, really, how terror became his true north- the only compass that ever made sense anymore. Because fear? That's the sweet poison that keeps his kind alive, the dark nectar they trade in whispers and shadows.

The night unfolds like delicate origami, each dream a different shade of darkness. First comes a whispered tragedy: woman dreams of her mother's voice echoes through a phone's dead silence, each unanswered scream carving valleys of helplessness into her soul. Then, a nightmare painted in motion - man’s caught in an infinite loop of terror, hands white-knuckled on a steering wheel that won't save anyone, least of all the child who keeps appearing in his headlights like a recurring heartbreak. And finally, there's the boy who could be a metaphor for longing itself, standing before an eternally closed door while flowers wilt and die in his grasp, hope rotting petal by petal in time-lapse agony.

He moves through dreams like a ghost through fog - quick, quiet, taking only what he needs to survive. Never lingering. Never looking too long at the faces of those whose fears he consumes. The moment that hollow ache inside him dulls to something bearable, he's already fading away, a shadow slipping between minds like smoke through fingers, nameless and untraceable as midnight itself.

And then your presence washes over him, unexpected and unmistakable in the dark. You are beautiful, he thinks, and the thought flutters like a trapped bird in his chest before he crushes it between his ribs. Dream eaters aren't meant for love, aren't built for the delicate dance of attraction. They consume fear, devour nightmares - they don't yearn for the very souls they feed upon.

It hits different this time. There's no screaming terror clawing at his consciousness, no desperate siren song of fear pulling him in. Your dream? It's barely a whisper, soft and hesitant like the ghost of a first kiss, tugging at something deep in his chest that he thought he'd buried years ago. And gods, isn't that the most terrifying thing of all?

The dream unfolds like an old photograph bleached by time - a street stretching endlessly into nothing, all washed-out greys and misted edges. Faceless figures move in perfect, terrible synchronization, their bodies flowing like water around invisible obstacles. There's something deeply wrong about the way they move, each step too precise, too rehearsed. Their features are smudged away by sleep's careless hand. They march onward, an army of beautiful emptiness, never breaking stride, never glancing down.

And then he sees you, a lonely figure kneeling in the heart of this indifferent choreography. The world spins madly on around you- a blur of faceless bodies moving in their perfect, terrible dance- but you remain still, an island of grief in an ocean of motion. Your hands- trembling like autumn leaves in a storm- cradle something (someone?) in your lap, the weight of it pressing crescents into your palms. A body, maybe, though the face is blurred into nothing, like your mind couldn’t bear to fill in the details.

He lingers at the edges of your dream like a half-formed thought, wrapped in shadows. He shouldn't care- you're just another dreamer, another midnight soul crying out in the dark. But here he is, watching the way grief pools in your hands like liquid silver, listening to the way your voice breaks around words meant for Death's ears alone.

"I'm here... I'm trying..." Your voice catches, breaks, shatters like glass in your throat. "please just- please wake up."

Your hands move with the desperate rhythm of someone trying to hold water, pressing against the faceless form again and again and again. Each motion is a prayer, each touch a plea bargaining with whatever gods might be listening. You're begging for warmth, for breath, for any sign that this horror cradled in your lap isn't as permanent as it feels. But the figure remains still, already dissolving. The crowd around you moves faster now, a tide of indifference with undertow teeth. Their gazes slide past you like oil on water, heads tilting just enough to say: we saw you fail, and we'll remember.

Jungkook can't help but lean closer, magnetized by something raw and familiar in your expression that makes his chest ache in ways he doesn't have words for. There's no panic painted across your features, no desperate thrashing against fate's cruel hand. Just pure, crystalline despair - the kind that settles in your bones like an old friend. He recognizes it instantly: the hollow resignation of someone who's danced this dance before, who knows with certainty that they'll waltz with failure again until the universe finally tires of their stumbling steps.

The colors begin to fade. That’s how it always goes, dreams eroding at the edges once the fear peaks, once the ending arrives. He's about to retreat into the safety of shadows, into the familiar dance of watching-but-never-seen, when something impossible happens.

Your head lifts, eyes finding him with unerring precision through the crowd - not searching, not begging the universe for mercy, but piercing straight through every careful barrier he's built, through the ancient veil between watchers and dreamers. Your gaze meets his with the quiet certainty of a key sliding home, soft as a secret yet steady as truth, seeing him with a clarity that defies all the rules that were ever written.

Jungkook stills.

His breath catches in his throat like a half-formed prayer. His body freezes mid-existence, every particle of his being suspended in perfect, terrible stillness. Because this? This is wrong. Impossible. This breaks every rule written in stardust and shadow.

Dreamers don't see Dream Eaters - it's the first law of their twisted existence, carved into the bones of reality itself. He is meant to be nothing more than a whisper between heartbeats, a shadow's shadow, the thief that slips between dreams like silk through trembling fingers. But your eyes don't look away.

“I’m sorry,” you say, the words barely above a whisper. “I really wanted to help. But I couldn’t. I guess I’m not good enough.”

And with that the dream shatters. Like a mirror hit with reality's sledgehammer. Reality folds like wet origami, space and time collapsing into themselves with the grace of a dying star. The sound doesn't just stop, it un-becomes, each frequency turning to static before dissolving into the void. Gravity forgets its own name, light breaks its promises, and the whole world turns itself inside out like a glove made of nightmares.

And Jungkook wakes.

He bolts upright in a body that suddenly feels too small for him. His breath comes in sharp, broken waves. The room around him doesn’t make sense for several long moments.

The digital clock's red glow illuminates 03:41 as moonlight streams through the perpetually open window, the silence broken only by his thundering heartbeat. His throat constricts as the impossible reality sinks in - dreamers aren't supposed to see Dream Eaters, yet you had not only seen him but acknowledged his presence with an apology that now echoes through his mind.

And he can’t even fall back to sleep now as his body and mind feel fully recharged for the first time in…years?

What the hell even happened and who are you?

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

　　　. 　　˚　✭　　　*　　　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　✭　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　　　　　　 ✦

Daylight always arrived like a mistake in Jungkook’s world.

It slipped in sideways through the window, pale and apologetic, illuminating the floating dust and the edges of his too-quiet apartment. He lay there for a long time, not moving, watching the ceiling blur and sharpen as his vision shifted, over and over again. The sheets clung to him like a second skin, damp with the sweat of something he couldn’t name.

Your voice had followed him into waking. ‘I really wanted to help.”

His chest ached like he’d run miles in a body he hadn’t worn right in years. His limbs felt heavier than usual, but it wasn’t the familiar hunger. It was something deeper. Something quieter. A seed of longing lodged beneath his sternum, pulsing.

When he finally sat up, it was with the dazed caution of someone who’d witnessed a miracle and didn’t trust himself to speak of it aloud. The morning passed in a blur - coffee untouched, the hum of his computer ignored, a dozen emails blinking like signals from a world he no longer felt part of.

By noon, desperation overruled disbelief. He sat cross-legged on the floor, laptop glowing in the dim cave of his living room, typing with fingers that trembled too much to be steady.

dreamers seeing things in dreams?

lucid dreaming hallucination?

can dream figures see you back

person spoke to me in dream is it real

can people share dreams??

dreamwalking

spiritual visitation

ancient dream lore

Each query returned pages filled with contradictions and crystal shops. Forums full of strangers comparing stories of sleep paralysis and shadow men, Reddit threads dissecting shared hallucinations and “astral projection for beginners.” The phrase Dream Eater brought up one anime character, a few urban legends, and a horrifying deep-sea fish.

Each search result felt like chasing smoke - close enough to see but too insubstantial to grasp. None of it rang with resonance of truth, that quiet certainty that whispers "here, finally, are the answers you seek." How could it, really, when his entire existence was a footnote in reality's margins, a story written in invisible ink between the lines of what most people called "normal"? Still, he had to try. Had to know. The soft click of the laptop closing felt like admitting defeat.

But the memory of your eyes finding his through that veil of unreality haunted him like a half-remembered lullaby. You had seen him and that impossible fact echoed through his mind.

For the first time since forever, his thumb hovered over the cursed group chat icon.

[Jungkook]: anyone wanna hang out tonight?

[Jin]: the prophecy.... it's happening

[Taehyung]: screenshots or it didn't happen

[Hoseok]: HELLO??? WHO IS THIS AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH OUR HERMIT

[Yoongi]: squints suspiciously in elder

[Namjoon]: hold up let me check if hell froze over

[Jimin]: do we bring wine or whiskey

[Jimin]: omw with Both because this is clearly an emergency

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

　　　. 　　˚　✭　　　*　　　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　✭　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　　　　　　 ✦

By seven, they arrived- five different energies orbiting his living room like planets around something newly magnetic.

Jimin swept in with enough takeout to feed an army and Taehyung materialized with his camera (because god forbid a moment go undocumented) and approximately one hundred and one questions burning holes in his tongue. Hoseok didn't just enter - he arrived, carrying sunshine in his pockets like it was spare change. Jin brought his particular flavor of chaos wrapped in sarcasm and perfect timing. Yoongi slipped in like a shadow with eyes that read novels in the spaces between words. And Namjoon brought books he forgot to give back two years ago and didn’t mention it.

And they all brought their eyes: wide and curious. Like they were witnessing the birth of something rare and wild and wonderful.

“You look… different,” Jimin said, biting into a tangerine like he was studying Jungkook instead of the fruit.

“Yeah,” Taehyung added, leaning in with narrowed eyes. “You sleeping now or what? The purple zombie rings are gone.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes, though a quiet thrill climbed up his spine at the idea that maybe, just maybe, something in him had shifted enough for them to notice.

“Must be lighting,” he muttered, sinking deeper into the couch.

“Oh, he bites now.” Jin gasped. “Our boy’s got fight in him again.”

There was laughter. Real, echoing warmth. For the first time in ages, Jungkook didn’t feel like he was watching through glass. He spoke and laughed, carelessly. He accepted the second drink and let himself answer questions without flinching. And for a few minutes, the ache inside his chest dimmed, dulled into something almost human. But beneath the buzz and the hum, the stories and the teasing, something itched.

You weren’t there. He needed to try again. Not to see you. Not to hold you. Just… for research. Just to know whether it was a fluke. A misfire. A one-time glitch in a cursed existence.

"Hey," he said, halfway through Jin's story about a botched blind date, "hypothetically…how would you find someone if you only knew their face?"

The silence stretched for exactly 0.3 seconds - just long enough for his words to sink into their collective consciousness.

And then, like a dam breaking under the weight of six years' worth of pent-up matchmaking energy, chaos erupted: “You met someone?”, “Wait, is this about a girl?”, “Who is she? What does she look like?”, “Oh my God, finally!”, “Is she real, or one of your AI clients?”

Jungkook tried to look annoyed, but the heat in his cheeks betrayed him. “She’s just someone I saw… briefly,” he said, and it wasn’t a lie.

Jimin leaned in. “Where?”

Jungkook blinked, the weight of their expectant stares pressing against his skin like static electricity. The truth sat heavy on his tongue, a leaden thing threatening to spill past his lips. "Somewhere near... Jongno," he managed, the lie tasting like copper. It wasn't completely false. "I think."

"You should go back," Namjoon offered with that gentle wisdom of his, like he was suggesting something as simple as retracing steps to find lost keys. "If it was fate or whatever, maybe it'll happen again."

He nodded mechanically, swallowing back a laugh that might have come out too bitter. Fate? No, this was something else entirely - something written in the spaces between sleeping and waking. This was you.

They didn't know. And this should always stay like that. The truth was a luxury he couldn't afford, not when it meant risking the warmth in their eyes turning to horror. Not when it meant watching their smiles crack like porcelain hitting concrete. Better to keep this cursed existence locked behind his sleep deprived eyes where it belonged, where it couldn't hurt anyone but himself.

But after they left- after the dishes were cleaned and the last echoes of laughter faded into memory- he found himself drawn to the window like a moth to streetlight, watching Seoul's fog paint poetry across the skyline in shades of maybe.

His reflection stared back at him, a ghost caught between worlds, and wasn't that just perfectly fitting? Because how do you find someone who exists in the space between sleeping and waking? How do you trace footprints left in dreams?

You looked at his cursed existence and didn't turn away. The fog crawled closer, wrapping the city in its gentle suffocation, and he pressed his forehead against the cold glass. The worst part wasn't the not knowing. It wasn't even the ache of remembering.

No, the worst part was the quiet voice in his head whispering: what if that was it? What if that single moment of being truly seen was all he'd ever get?

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The next few nights unfolded like a punishment disguised as routine. Jungkook slipped into the dark as he always had, body hollowed out and spirit stretched thin, the hunger beneath his ribs pulsing like it had a voice of its own. But tonight? Tonight wasn't about feeding on fear. Tonight was about finding you.

Never in his years of navigating dreamscapes had he been picky about whose nightmares he consumed. Before you, he'd been content to drift through the dark like some cosmic vacuum cleaner of terror, taking whatever scraps of fear the universe saw fit to give him.

But now he moved through dreams like a lovesick ghost, all his usual grace replaced by desperate yearning. Each mind he touched was just another disappointment, another "sorry, wrong nightmare" in his endless search for you.

A boy dreamed of being trapped in a theater where the seats whispered his secrets aloud. A woman dreamt she was back in her wedding dress, but the aisle stretched endlessly, her legs frozen mid-step. A faceless man sprinted down a corridor made entirely of mirrors, each one showing his worst mistake on loop.

He fed, but it was a hollow thing. Like trying to fill an ocean with raindrops. His essence ghosted through their nightmares as he searched their unseeing faces for something. Recognition? A glimpse of what you'd given him? But their eyes slid past him, unseeing and unknowing.

And wasn't that just the way of things? The natural order he'd accepted since forever? He was meant to be unseen, unnoticed - a shadow between heartbeats, a whisper between worlds, the thing that makes you question whether that nightmare was real or just another bad dream.

So why had you looked right at him and seen straight through to his core?

The ache followed him into daylight like a particularly clingy ghost, settling somewhere between his ribcage and his common sense. It wasn't just hunger anymore, this was yearning - and isn't that just the most inconvenient thing for a nightmare eater to catch?

So he did what any sleep-deprived supernatural being would do when faced with emotions: something absolutely ridiculous.

The notebook emerged from its tomb of tangled cables like some ancient artifact, blank pages accusingly white. The pencil felt wrong in his hands, like trying to hold onto stardust or catch morning fog in a jar.

He tried to draw you. And it was a foolish idea for someone whose artistic peak was stick figures in middle school. But how do you capture the way someone's soul looks when it's breaking? How do you sketch the sound of a voice that doesn't shake even when the world is falling apart?

The first attempt looked like something between a sleep paralysis demon and a badly photographed ghost. Your jaw came out looking like it belonged in a geometry textbook and your eyes were all wrong, missing that galaxy of sadness he'd seen. The mouth was either too soft or too harsh, never quite the perfect paradox he remembered.

But he kept going: page after page, like some possessed art student during finals week. It wasn't about getting it right. It was about holding onto that impossible second when warmth and sorrow danced together in your eyes, when your voice carried steel wrapped in silk, when your apology felt like a key turning in a lock he didn't know existed.

The final result looked less like a portrait and more like someone had given a pencil to a particularly emotional rain cloud. He stared at it, tasting failure like burnt coffee on his tongue, and wondered when exactly he'd lost his mind.

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Then, four nights later, the universe shifted on its axis. The feeling hit like a punch to the soul - not the usual gnawing hunger, but something electric. Something that made his phantom form vibrate like a tuning fork struck against destiny. The very air seemed to bend around him, dream-light filtering through reality's cracks in that impossible shade of lilac that screamed you.

He moved like a man possessed through the dreamscape, muscle memory pulling him across a city that existed only in shadow-space. Past landmarks that belonged to no waking map: a metal spire wearing its rust like a crown of thorns, obsidian rooftops with their hearts of green glass, a water tower that sang silence into the void.

And there you were.

You looked different in this light - clearer, sharper, like someone had wiped fog from a mirror. He watched you with the kind of intensity that would've been criminal in daylight, cataloging every detail like a drowning man counting his last breaths.

God, I'm literally stalking someone through their dreams, he thought, and the realization should've tasted like shame but monsters don't get to play by human rules, do they? And that's what he was now - something that lived in the spaces between heartbeats, feeding on fear like others fed on bread. So maybe this wasn't an obsession at all. Maybe this was devotion with teeth.

He stepped forward, and reality bent. The dream opened its arms like a lover welcoming him home, and he fell into your nightmare like he was always meant to be there.

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He feels it in his bones before his eyes catch up - that telltale whisper of wrong that makes the dream-edges curl like burning paper. Not because anything looks off. But because nightmares are patient things, content to wait until the perfect moment to shatter your happiness into glass.

The lights hit him like a physical thing, a cascade of stark white that makes his world spin sideways for a heartbeat. The air practically vibrates with sound - thunderous applause that seems to shake the very foundations of this dream-space, making reality tremble at its seams. His fingers part heavy velvet curtains just enough to see.

There you are, bathed in spotlight like some ethereal being stepped straight out of a fairytale. Silver and gold paint you in glory as you stand among your fellow dancers, clutching flowers like they're made of starlight. Your smile is soft and wide as you wave to the faceless crowd. Their features are a blur- a sea of mouths and hands and sound- but their adoration is unmistakable. The stage is yours.

And Jungkook forgets how to exist for a moment. Because you're not just beautiful, you're incandescent. Free. The weight of the world has slipped from your shoulders and left pure joy in its wake.

His heart stutters in his chest as he watches you spin across the stage, accepting another armful of flowers with a laugh that could make flowers grow in winter. Your happiness is a living thing, spilling from every movement, every gesture, until you're practically glowing brighter than the stage lights themselves.

This isn't fear or darkness or anything close to a nightmare. For a heartbeat, a dangerous sort of hope unfurls in his chest - what if the rules have changed? What if whatever cosmic force lets him devour nightmares has finally decided to let him taste sweeter dreams too?

Something shifts in the air like a record scratch in slow motion, like the moment before a glass hits concrete. A shiver crawls down his spine with icy fingers, and there's that familiar weight settling behind his ribs, cold and heavy as a tomb.

The applause warps, twisting into something wrong, something hungry. It's too sharp now, too insistent, like a thousand hands clapping in perfect, terrible synchronization. The lights stutter and snap, a violent morse code of white-hot panic. And the audience? Their faces blur and stretch like melting wax, features running together until they're nothing but a grotesque sea of emptiness. Then, cutting through it all like a knife through silk, a voice:

"Get off that stage." The words slice through the dreamlight like shattered glass, and then she materializes - all sharp angles and barely contained rage, heels striking the floorboards. She's a storm in human form, fury written in every line of her face, and when she reaches for you, her fingers are iron bands around your wrist.

"Mom, stop!" Your scream tears through the air, raw and desperate, but she's unmovable as marble.

The scene fractures - dancers reaching with helpless hands, voices rising in a desperate chorus. "Mrs. Y/L/N, don't take her away!" someone pleads into the chaos. "She has a god-given talent- please!"

But she might as well be carved from stone, deaf to everything but her own determination as she drags you backstage. Your sobs echo off the walls like broken music, and Jungkook follows because gravity itself couldn't hold him back now.

The dream twists and writhes around both of you, corridors sprouting like dark veins lined with ghostly posters and mirrors that reflect nothing but shadows. You're fracturing at the edges, voice splintering like crystal as you stumble in her wake, and something in Jungkook's chest aches with an intensity that threatens to tear him apart.

"Why?" Your voice breaks like shattered dreams. "Why are you destroying everything I've worked for?"

"A doctor,"she spits the word like venom, her grip a steel trap around your wrist. "That's what you'll be. This little... Dance fantasy? It dies. Tonight."

And your heart shatters. The sound of it must echo through the dreamscape because your next words come out raw, bleeding, "Please, I can't! I won't survive there. Don't make me live inside someone else's story, please, I'm begging you!"

"Your grandfather's deathbed wish," she wielded the words like a blade, each syllable precise and cutting. "Or did you forget? Did you think you could trade his legacy for…What exactly? Spotlights and pirouettes?"

The word “grandfather” hits you like a physical blow. Your soul folds in on itself like a dying star, grief and guilt gravitational forces too strong to escape. Your sobs aren't just sound anymore - they're poetry written in pain, each breath a verse of despair.

That's when Jungkook materializes from shadow and starlight, his presence suddenly solid as truth between worlds.

"Enough." Just one word, but it does the work. He moves like darkness given form, placing himself between you and her like a shield. And suddenly your dream bows to his will and your mother dissolves.

Reality bends. The backstage dissolves into the empty stage, now a hollow cathedral of shadows. You're there, crumpled on the floor like a discarded dream, flowers scattered around you like fallen stars. A single petal trembles by your ankle, then stills.

Moving silently across the stage, he watches your tears glisten like silver rivers on feverish skin until you lift your head and speak with a raw yet steady voice,"It's you again."

Those three words cascade through his reality like an avalanche, shattering every certainty he's ever known - this isn't merely coincidence or imagination or some flaw in the dream-fabric, but rather an impossible truth: among the billions of dreamers who forget him nightly, you alone can pierce his invisibility, can know him.

In that very moment Jungkook understands something terrifying and beautiful:

You’re not some glitch in his world.

He’s an aberration in yours.

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You're curled into yourself like a wounded bird when you finally meet his gaze again, your eyes tracing the planes of his face with the hesitant reverence of someone trying to piece together a dream from morning-fog memories.

"Where have I seen you before?" The words slip from your lips like a secret.

Jungkook's throat constricts around unspoken truths, but he plays his part like the supernatural being he is. He settles beside you- close enough to count your heartbeats, far enough that the space between you aches like a physical thing. Your sadness wraps around him like smoke, familiar as his own shadow.

"Nowhere," he breathes, the lie tasting like stardust on his tongue. "We're strangers."

But you just laugh, soft and worn around the edges, brushing away a wayward strand of hair with fingers that tremble ever so slightly.

“No way,” you say, shaking your head. “There’s no way I could make up a face like that.

His heart does this stupid little stumble in his chest at your words. You catch his expression, that deer-in-headlights look that makes him seem impossibly young for half a second and suddenly you're laughing, the sound pure and bright enough to make the dream-shadows retreat.

"Oh my god," you say, and there's a warmth in your voice he hasn't heard before, like honey in sunlight. "My subconscious really said 'here's an ethereally beautiful boy who blushes when you compliment him.' That's just... devastating, actually."

He turns away, but not before you catch the way his ears flush pink. It's not the embarrassment that makes his chest ache but the cruel irony of being seen so clearly by someone who thinks you're nothing but a dream.

"I'm nobody special," he murmurs to the floorboards, voice rough with something he can't name. "Just... just a guy."

The laugh you share is gentle as twilight. A fragile thread connecting two souls who shouldn't be able to touch at all.

But beneath his smile, something in Jungkook splinters like stained glass catching sunlight. Because you still don't know. How could you? To you, he's nothing but a beautiful fever dream, a figment spun from stardust and desperate wishes. Just another coping mechanism your mind conjured from the static between sleeping and waking. And maybe that's easier and safer. But it still burns.

He wants to say something about what just happened: about stages and spotlights and the way your mother's ghost left bruises on your dreams, but the words catch in his throat like broken wings.

"This was... a lot," he manages with a soft voice.

You laugh, but it's the kind of laugh that bleeds at the edges. Your eyes find the darkness above, searching for answers in the void.

"This?" The word falls from your lips like a tired prayer. "This is nothing compared to my real life."

And something in him shatters completely. "So this is just the tip of the iceberg?" he whispers, afraid of the answer.

"Yeah." You don’t elaborate further.

The dream-lights have long since faded, the phantom flowers scattered to dust. You sit there in the hollow dark, a masterpiece painted in shades of exhaustion, looking like the world took everything that made you shine and left behind only shadows.

"I haven't danced in six years," you confess to the darkness, each word heavy as lead. "Haven't even stepped on a stage. Med school swallowed me whole right after graduation. Now I work part-time in the emergency department. Night shifts, mostly." Your voice cracks on those last words like ice in spring.

His breath catches. The kind of work where Death sits in the break room, drinking coffee like just another coworker.

"I see things," you continue, voice hollow as autumn wind through dead leaves. "People bleeding out. Crying. Dying. Alone. I patch them up with steady hands and pretend my soul isn't unraveling stitch by stitch." The silence between you grows teeth. "Six years," you whisper to the shadows. "Six years of my life fed to the machine of parental pride while I slowly forget how to breathe."

Something ancient and wounded bleeds into Jungkook's voice. "You don't deserve to be anyone's sacrifice."

Your laugh sounds like glass breaking in slow motion. "And yet."

Then your eyes find his and the world tilts on its axis because you're looking at him like you can see straight through to where his soul should be. Not as shadow-walker or dream-fragment. As something terrifyingly, wonderfully real.

"I remember your last dream," Jungkook's entire being stutters to a halt. "The nightmare with the faceless thing."

"Please don't," you breathe, folding smaller, as if you could origami yourself out of existence. "I don’t want to talk about it."

He watches your breath catch like fabric on thorns and nods. Some wounds are still too fresh to name and he can wait. Or never bring it up again if you wish.

“You know,” he says gently, “this is a dream. You’re not a prisoner here. This world is your world, it can be whatever you want.”

He rises to his feet like morning mist, extending a hand that holds universes in its palm. For a heartbeat, you hesitate, but some offers transcend thought and your fingers find his.

"You can wish," he whispers, voice soft as starlight, and snaps.

In a blink, the lights return. So does the thunderous ovation. The spotlight glows around you like a blessing. Cameras flash, dancers reappear like smoke. The energy floods back into the dream like breath into a drowning chest.

A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside you: pure, untamed, tasting of forgotten summers, and you throw up a hand against the brilliant chaos of it all.

Before you can think better of it, your fingers are tangled with his and you're running backstage, dragging this beautiful fever dream behind you. Your giggles echo off the walls like wind chimes, and for a moment you're seventeen again, before the world taught you how to be silent.

“That was fun,” you breathe, brushing rebel strands from your flushed face. "Wish I could handle my nightmares with that kind of flair."

His answering grin is soft at the edges, but something in your expression shifts before he can speak. "I don't... I don't actually want this anymore."

He blinks, starlit eyes questioning. "Why?"

"Because I grew up," you say, voice barely a whisper now. "I have responsibilities. Real ones. Dreams like this... they're not for people like me anymore. Back then I was seventeen and stupid and…" Your voice catches. "I can't afford to be that person now."

"What do you want, then?" The question hangs between you like suspended stardust.

"Nothing," you finally breathe, the word falling like autumn leaves. "I just want to stop existing in the real world for a while."

And the way you say it - there's no bitterness there. Just bone-deep exhaustion and raw honesty. Something in him fractures, and the words spill out before he can catch them.

"Can I…" he pauses, voice going soft. "I know it's weird but... can I hug you?"

Your eyebrow arches, a spark of mischief dancing in your eyes. "Look at you, consent-king behavior,” you tease, lips curving. "Of course you can, you absolute masterpiece of my subconscious."

He lets out a soft laugh that catches in his throat. His arms find their way around you with gentleness, but when you lean into him something ancient and lonely inside his chest just shatters. The hug deepens and suddenly there's nothing ethereal about it anymore; it's all solid warmth and thundering heartbeats and the impossible reality of two souls finding anchor in each other through the veil of dreams.

For the first time since this curse claimed him, Jungkook feels real. Not a dream-walker, not nightmare-eater, just a boy being held like he matters. You stay tangled in each other's gravity as the dreamscape bleeds away like watercolors in rain, both pretending you can't feel the way your fingers clutch a little tighter with each fading second.

When consciousness claims him back, dragging him gasping into dawn's tender light, something's different. The usual hollow ache is gone, replaced by something electric and alive that makes his whole being sing. And in that moment, with Seoul's sunrise painting his walls in gold, Jungkook knows it with the certainty usually reserved for natural laws:

Even if it takes lifetimes, he's going to find his way back to you.

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Jungkook can't stop thinking about you.

You linger in his mind, seeping into every crack and crevice of his consciousness. Your presence is a ghost that haunts the spaces between keystrokes, between breaths, between the mundane moments when his hands forget their purpose and his thoughts spiral back to you like moths to flame.

He's memorized the cadence of your voice, cataloged every micro-expression that crossed your face, archived the exact weight of you against his chest like it's precious data his heart can't bear to lose. Time stretches like pulled taffy as he sits on his floor, back pressed against an unforgiving wall, absently tracing infinity symbols on a coffee mug that's as cold and forgotten as his attempts at productivity.

There's a quiet irony in how his relationship with sleep has transformed. What was once a velvet-lined prison cell where he performed his gim duty - has become something sacred. Something anticipated. Now he's a lovesick teenager checking his phone every five minutes, except instead of waiting for a text, he's waiting for consciousness to slip away so he can find you again.

But of course - of fucking course - that's when his brain decides to throw an absolute rebellion. Excitement pulses through him like caffeine. His body begs for rest while his mind runs circles. The very thing that once came without effort now eludes him.

When sleep finally deigns to take him, it's with all the grace of a drunk trying to fit a key in a lock. But none of that matters because he finds you. He knows the path now, could walk it blindfolded: past the skylight with its spiderweb cracks, around the chimney that leans like a tired soldier, beneath the neon sign that flickers like a dying firefly. This isn't wandering anymore, it’s muscle memory, this is gravity, the inevitable pull of two stars caught in each other's orbit. And there it is again - your window, soft light spilling through curtains, you're dreaming already.

He steps inside.

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The dream whispers into existence like a secret. Sterile white walls stretch endlessly, their fluorescent veins humming a synthetic lullaby that only hospitals know how to sing. The air tastes of antiseptic and quiet desperation.

You materialize before him - a warrior in wrinkled scrubs, squaring off against a bureaucrat whose clipboard might as well be a shield. Exhaustion paints shadows beneath your eyes, but defiance burns brighter.

"I need a day off," you say, each word precise as a scalpel.

The administrator's sigh could fill a balloon with disappointment. "We're understaffed. Again. Find someone to switch with you, then we'll talk."

Your jaw sets like concrete, shoulders bearing the weight of too many sleepless nights. "I've been on four night shifts in a row," you breathe, your voice carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken pleas.

He shrugs, armor-plated in indifference. "It's not personal."

Your laugh is sharp as broken glass. "It's exhaustion."

But then - your gaze catches on something beyond him, where Jungkook stands like a shadow. Your expression softens, relief bleeding into your features. "Oh, finally. Maybe you'll help me figure out a perfect excuse to give my boss so I can sleep for more than four hours."

Jungkook glides forward, midnight grace in human form. His head tilts, curiosity dancing in his eyes. "Exploitative boss?" he inquires, voice smooth as silk.

You nod, grave as a judge. "Master manipulator."

He considers this cosmic injustice for a heartbeat. Then, with elegant precision, he lifts a hand. One snap - and reality fractures. The administrator dissolves, leaving only empty air where bureaucracy once stood.

Your eyes spark with indignation. "Hey! I wanted to yell at him. At least here."

Jungkook's smile curves like a crescent moon. "Why waste dream energy on that?"

Before protest can bloom on your lips, the world begins to melt. Hospital walls dissolve like watercolors, sterile white bleeding into impossible color and the air transforms, becoming warm.

And suddenly - sky. Endless, infinite sky. Clouds drift beneath your feet like islands of sugar, while aurora colors paint the heavens in sweeping brushstrokes of pink and violet. You turn slowly, wonder breaking across your face like dawn.

Jungkook watches, memorizing the way joy transforms you. Then, with the gentleness of falling snow, he extends his hand, and you accept it. And together, you run.

You dance through dreams like starlight on water. No destination guides your steps - just pure, unbridled motion and laughter that tastes like champagne bubbles. Each leap between clouds is poetry, your movements fluid as mercury, untethered by earthly constraints. He watches, mesmerized, as this version of you. untouched by life's sharp edges, paints joy across the sky.

When exhaustion finally claims you both, you collapse onto a cloud that feels like silk, your hair a halo against the white. Jungkook settles beside you with careful grace, his hands folded in his lap. Silence stretches between you, sweet and elastic.

A laugh, soft as windchimes, escapes your lips. "I've been dreaming wrong my whole life."

He reclines, moonlight caught in his smile. "Most do."

You pluck a piece of cloud, tossing the ephemeral fluff at his chest. It dissolves like a secret.

"Rude," he grins, starlight dancing in his eyes.

Your gaze lingers on him now, wonder replacing mischief. "You came back."

"I did." His voice carries the weight of secrets that you are not ready to face yet.

"This is different," you murmur. "These dreams... seeing you again and again... it's never happened before."

Something tightens in his chest but he has to ask the terrifying question. "When you wake," he breathes, "do you remember me?"

"Yes." Simple and certain, you don’t even hesitate. The word ripples through him like waves through still water. "I remember all of it," you continue. "Every dream with you. And I never remember dreams - they usually fade."

Relief softens his shoulders; he hadn't realized they were carved from tension.

Your eyes find his, curious as cats. "So," you tease, "who are you, really?"

He hesitates, the question stinging more than expected. "I'm a Dream Eater," he says, leaning forward. "And my name is Jungkook. Did you know that already?"

You catch your lower lip between your teeth, considering. "Dream Eaters? Never heard of them. How did my mind even come up with that?"

He rolls his eyes skyward as you laugh, the sound pure as bells.

"Well then," you say, "I'm Y/N. A pleasure, Mr. Dream Eater."

He nods, something warm unfurling in his chest. "Likewise. Tell me about yourself.”

You hum thoughtfully, stretching like a cat in sunlight. “Imagine a very lonely girl,” you begin. “A girl who has a big, noisy family and few friends, but still feels like no one ever really gets her. Someone who works in a place where everyone is kind but exhausted. We bond over how much we hate what we do. I read romance novels when I’m not too tired, I go on runs to get out of my head, and the only time I feel like I’m me is when I’m asleep and nobody wants anything from me.”

Jungkook watches you as you speak. Every word feels like a note in a song he doesn’t realize he’s memorizing.

“And you, Dream Eater Jungkook?” you ask, inching closer. “Who are you?”

He stares at your hands, then up. “I’m an IT guy. I have friends. I’m not that close with my family, but we stay in touch. And as cliché as it is… I always feel alone. Not in the obvious way. It’s more like… the universe misjudged me somehow. Like I was born with the wrong fate. Like I’m stuck carrying something I never chose, cursed or something.”

You nod. “I know.” Your hand rises, slow and careful, and runs through his hair.

Jungkook's breath catches in his throat, every muscle going taut like a bowstring.

“No,” you state firmly now. “Someone with eyes like yours can’t be cursed.”

He laughs is that kind that wraps around your bones like honey-warm sunlight. His fingers find your retreating hand, catching you in a grip that's gentle as a prayer but sure as gravity. And there's something in your eyes that makes his heart stutter in his chest.

The world tilts and spins as he pulls you both down into the cloud-soft darkness, your combined laughter painting silver ribbons through the air. You land in a tangle of limbs and breathless giggles, his body half-draped over yours like the world's most perfect blanket.

Time stops. Or maybe it's just that neither of you remembers how to breathe properly anymore. His arm brackets your head, careful and strong, while his other hand hovers near your ribs like he's afraid you might shatter if he touches you. Your chest rises and falls beneath him in quick, butterfly-wing movements.

The silence between you crackles like lightning before a storm.

And then you look at him with eyes that Jungkook swears could drown worlds, lashes frozen mid-flutter, and his heart forgets every rhythm it's ever known. Your gaze drops to his lips just for a heartbeat, long enough to set his blood on fire. And he watches your hair catch the dream-light like captured aurora, wondering if his thundering heart might give him away.

Neither of you dares to move. His eyes trace constellations across your features - mapping the soft curve of your mouth, the way your breath catches when his thigh brushes yours. You don't pull away. Instead, you tilt your head, an invitation written in the language of almost-touches.

When you speak, your words ghost across his skin like butterfly kisses. "So..." Your smile returns, shy and knowing all at once. "Can you take me to other places too?"

His lips part but words fail him spectacularly, too busy fighting the gravitational pull of your mouth. You're watching him like he's something ethereal, something that exists beyond dreams and reality.

Words claw their way past the symphony of want thrumming through his veins. "I could," he whispers, each syllable a caress against your skin. "If you wanted me to."

"I think I do," you breathe, and your fingers that are still tangled with his against cloud-silk, tighten slightly. Something inside him unspools at that tiny pressure.

He shifts closer until the space between you becomes nothing but shared breath and possibility. His body settles against yours, solid and real in a way dreams aren't supposed to be. Your noses almost brush. But neither of you bridges that final gap.

The wanting hangs there between you, delicate as sugar, sweet as sin waiting.

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Jungkook wakes like shattered stained glass - all sharp edges and holy remnants, dragged from dreams by reality's merciless hands.

The dream bleeds away too cruel. Your phantom warmth haunts him still. Reality crashes through his consciousness like an uninvited guest: sheets cold as winter frost, his forgotten computer screen humming its electronic lullaby, dawn's sickly green fingers creeping through the blinds like unwanted prophecies. He lies there, a marble statue in rumpled sheets, watching the ceiling as if it holds the secrets to finding you in the waking world.

Time, he thinks, is the cruelest god of all - stretching endless in solitude, slipping through desperate fingers the moment joy takes root.

When the sun claims its throne in the sky, he moves. And it’s not from want but from the mundane tyranny of hours that refuse to pass unmarked. Emails become white noise, lines of code blur into meaningless symbols, breakfast turns to ash on his tongue. There's only one truth that keeps his heart beating: the promise of nightfall.

He counts heartbeats disguised as hours. The light softens like old photographs, his eyes burn like prayer candles. And finally sleep claims him like a lover's kiss.

And there you are, waiting for him.

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In dreams, you are free.

Jungkook makes sure of it: crafts entire universes with gentle hands and a craftsman's devotion. He builds you realms where gravity is just a suggestion, where shame dissolves like morning mist. The rules here drape around you like ribbons, weightless enough to forget they ever existed.

One night you're both cosmic wanderers, dancing through star-scattered void, your laughter echoing across light years as you spin through technicolor nebulae. "My knees!" you shout, delighted, breathless, "They don't even know what pain is here!" and his joy bubbles up like stardust, infectious and pure.

Another dream finds you towering like a goddess, him shrunk to pocket-size, playing an elaborate game of chase through a garden where teacups bloom like flowers. when you (deliberately) crush him beneath your heel, he gives an Oscar-worthy performance of despair.

He shows you the art of dream-weaving. How to coax reality into new shapes, how to whisper your desires into existence, to believe with your whole heart that anything is possible.

"This universe," he reminds you, voice soft with wonder, "it's yours. Completely yours. What do you want to make of it?"

So you create.

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One night, you materialize in wrinkled scrubs, your essence dimmed like a star fighting through smog. "I want something stupid tonight," you whisper, voice raw with reality's weight. So he gives it to you.

The air crystallizes into luxury - a red carpet unfurls like a dragon's tongue beneath your feet. Light fragments into a thousand camera flashes, each one capturing your metamorphosis as couture and tailoring dance across your form. The Met Gala rises behind you like a palace of dreams, while the Oscars beckon ahead, and somewhere beyond the marble horizon, Nobel laureates await your arrival. Your laughter cascades like champagne bubbles.

"We're absolutely shameless," you wheeze through tears of mirth. "Not a humble bone between us."

He sweeps into a bow that would make monarchs envious. “Welcome to your ego’s highlight reel.”

Pure delight propels you forward, arm threaded through his like a lifeline to sanity. The elite of every era gravitate toward you - Einstein debates quantum mechanics while you school him on cellular biology, Rihanna takes notes on your impromptu TED talk about mitochondrial DNA. Jungkook observes your radiance, wondering if happiness has ever worn a face so beautiful.

Then shadow creeps in, subtle as twilight. "If only reality had such magic," you murmur to no one.

The words strike like arrows. What can he say? His power extends to the horizon of dreams - he can architect castles in clouds, orchestrate symphonies in starlight, birth entire cosmos from your smallest smile. But he cannot heal the wounds reality has carved: the suffocating job, the mother's bitter words, the six years stolen from your timeline.

His domain ends where consciousness begins. In these ephemeral realms where you dismiss him as fantasy, a figment born of neurons firing in the dark.

Perhaps that's mercy's greatest gift because knowing his truth would shatter more than the dream. So he offers only a gentle smile.

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That night, he materializes behind you like stardust taking form, his presence a whisper against your skin.

"Close your eyes," he breathes, the words a spell woven in twilight.

His hands eclipse your vision with butterfly-gentle pressure, as if touching a dream too precious to risk breaking. The world shifts beneath his will - air crystallizing with electric possibility, carrying notes of steel and starlight and synthetic sweetness, like neon memories dissolved in rain. He speaks to reality itself, and reality bends.

"Okay, now open," he commands softly. Your eyes flutter open and the gasp tears itself from your throat, pure wonder given voice.

Before you unfolds an empire of light and shadow - a metropolis that touches the stars. Streams of vehicles paint luminous rivers through the sky, weaving between towers that pierce the heavens like silver needles. Landing platforms hover like geometric clouds, while the stars themselves peek through the urban tapestry, diamonds scattered on black velvet.

"Is this…Coruscant?" The question trembles with awe. His silence speaks volumes, curved in a smile you feel more than see.

Laughter bubbles up, bright with revelation. "You remember everything I say?" But reality's chains rattle, even here. Your hand cuts through the air, dismissing magic. "Well, of course. You're just my mind playing tricks, recycling old dreams."

His smile fractures at the edges. "Right," he whispers. "Just mind tricks."

But when your fingers find his, intertwining like fate's own threads, none of that matters.

"Quick," you grin, the universe reflected in your eyes, "we've got worlds to explore before morning steals you away."

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Jungkook melts watching you stumble through broken alien phrases, your pronunciation absolutely butchering three different languages at once. There's this six-eyed creature that just stares at your earnest bow, probably wondering what strange cosmic phenomenon dropped you into their path. And then, an absolute menace of a droid, barely reaching your knees, starts chasing you down demanding payment, beep-screaming about galactic credits. You scramble behind Jungkook like he's your last hope in the universe, fingers clutching his jacket, breathless giggles muffled against his shoulder. (He pays your debt with a shirt button because of course he does, you disaster.)

Later, you both claim a spot on the edge of a glowing walkway. Your feet dangle over an ocean of lights, streams of vehicles painting stories beneath you like shooting stars learning to dance. The sky above is alive, breathing with the pulse of ship lights, and sometimes a cruiser glides past like a metal whale, momentarily stealing the stars.

Your laughter settles into something softer now, something that fits in the spaces between heartbeats. Neither of you speak. Neither of you need to.

And if Jungkook knows the dream is slipping away like stardust through his fingers? Well. He keeps that knowledge locked behind his teeth. Instead, he drinks in the sight of you: the way city lights paint constellations across your skin, how perfectly you slot into this impossible moment like you were born to exist in worlds that break physics. Like you were meant to dream in technicolor.

But there's a question that haunts him, cruel as dawn's first light: When the sun rises and reality claims you back...

…will even a whisper of him linger in your waking thoughts?

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Jungkook's life has shifted in ways that feel like poetry written in invisible ink- you can only see it if you know where to look.

On paper, everything's the same: same apartment with its midnight creaks and perpetual scent of dust-and-tea memories. Same 7:30 alarm that screams into existence like an unwanted prophecy. Same mundane rituals: toast crumbs, news static, lines of code marching across screens like obedient soldiers. (And yes, that one stubborn fern that refuses to surrender to his chronic plant neglect.)

But there's something different now that whispers instead of shouts. Something that feels like stardust caught in his bones.

You see it in the way he carries himself, like gravity's finally made peace with his soul. In the way he moves through space like he's remembered how to belong in it. He's incandescent now, lit from within by some strange, soft fire.

His friends notice because of course they do, they're annoyingly observant like that.

"You look," Jimin declares one night, sprawled across Jungkook's couch like he owns it, soju bottle dancing between his fingers, "like God himself came down and gave you a spa day."

"Sleep," Namjoon squints at him, "you're actually sleeping?"

Jungkook's lips twitch. A maybe floats between them like a secret.

"Oh my god," Taehyung breathes, dramatic as always, "you're in LOVE."

The way Jungkook's eyes skitter away is all the confession they need. And then they're all talking at once, voices tumbling over each other like eager puppies: "Who is she?" and "Does she live here?" and "When do WE get to meet her?"

Jungkook smiles, sleeve-covered hands hiding trembles, letting them believe the flush on his face comes from the heater's gentle rage.

But there's this soft, aching thing in his chest. Because how do you tell your best friends that the person who rewrote your whole existence lives in a different layer of reality? That the only one who's ever seen past your skin and bones and into the truth of you... only exists in dreams?

Later, when his apartment's empty except for shadows and memory-echoes, he stands at his window. Forehead pressed to glass like a prayer, watching Seoul's heartbeat flutter beneath him.

The loneliness has evolved into something gentler now - no longer the razor-edged beast that once tore through his chest, nor the arctic waste that froze his bones.

But it's there. Because no matter how many times you laugh in his arms, no matter how many universes you explore together, you're not here. And he is. You both exist but in different verses of the same impossible song.

And sometimes he wonders if he's asking too much of the universe. If he's being greedy. Before you, he was nothing but shadow-stuff and nightmare-fuel, cursed to feed on other people's fears. He couldn't even dream of being perceived, let alone loved. And now he has the audacity to want more? To want daylight happiness?

Greedy, absurd boy.

But every moment he spends awake feels like holding his breath underwater. Every sunlit hour is just time he could've spent learning the constellations of your smile. So he closes his eyes. And waits for sleep to bring him to you.

The moment he slips into the dreamscape he feels your presence hitting him like the first breath after drowning, like gravity remembering its own name. And then you're there, crashing into him with the force of a supernova, arms wrapping around him as if he might dissolve into stardust. He catches you and pulls you close like you're made of moonlight and wishes.

"Thought you wouldn't come," you whisper into his collar, voice rough like you've been holding back for too long.

A laugh escapes him, soft and broken-edged. His hands trace constellations up your spine. "Do you ever…" he starts, then swallows hard. "Do you ever worry that one night we just... won't find each other here anymore?"

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes and there are already tears catching in your lashes. "Every single time I close my eyes."

His smile cracks at the corners because it’s exactly the same for him. Every night he lies awake wondering if the universe will finally notice its mistake- if whatever cosmic glitch allowed him to find you will correct itself. Maybe you'll stop dreaming of him and he'll be left holding nothing but memories and maybes. It's too perfect. You're too perfect. And he's never learned how to trust perfect things to stay.

"Jungkook." Your voice drops to something serious, something that makes his heart stutter in his chest. He meets your gaze. "I don't…I can't," You take a shaking breath. "I don't think I can face reality anymore if I'm not sure you'll be waiting here."

His heart stops. Instead of answering, he lifts his hand and traces your cheek with feather-light fingers, trying to memorize you in atoms and angles.

"I'll be here," he breathes, like a prayer, like a promise. "I don't understand any of this, but I swear I'll find you. Every night. No matter what."

Your eyes flutter closed at his touch, and in that moment, he knows exactly what tonight's dream should be.

The dreamscape ripples like disturbed water, reality shifting beneath your feet with all the grace of a universe rewriting itself. The salt-sweet breeze finds you first, carrying whispers of infinity, and when your eyes flutter open, the night sky stretches above you like a confession written in starlight.

The ocean sprawls before you, endless and moonlit, each wave a silvered promise rolling towards shore. You're both barefoot in the sand, the wind playing with your hair like an old friend while the sea hums ancient lullabies. Jungkook watches you the way people watch miracles unfold - careful, afraid to blink.

You're statue-still, eyes locked on the horizon like it might vanish if you dare to look away. The air between you tastes like possibility.

"You mentioned wanting to see the sea," he murmurs. "Why?"

You sink to the sand, pulling your knees to your chest like armor. "I've never seen it before."

His heart stumbles. "Never?"

A shake of your head, eyes still drinking in the waves that reach for your toes like shy lovers. He wants to ask more - what landlocked piece of the world kept you from this? But dreams have their own grammar, and some questions dissolve like sugar on the tongue. So he sits beside you in comfortable silence, letting the night wrap around you both like a blanket woven from sea spray.

When you finally turn to him, your eyes hold the weight of unspoken galaxies. And gravity seems to lose its grip on reality - the space between you collapses until you're breathing the same air, until his hands find your face like they've mapped this path in a thousand previous lives.

Your lips meet in a hesitant dance of breath and longing until something breaks inside the moment like a dam of restraint giving way to raw need. His hands tangle in your hair as your mouth parts with a soft, stuttering sound, fingers clutching desperately at his shirt while the kiss transforms into something urgent and wild, teeth grazing and breaths mingling as he tilts your head back to taste you deeper.

The sea's roar crescendos with your passion while you shift into his lap, knees straddling him and hands sliding up the curve of his neck, the weight of your body against his making him finally feel real. Your shared heat and the pressure of your hips leaving him dizzy with want.

Jungkook pulls back only enough to look at you, eyes tracing your face like it’s something sacred. Your skin is flushed, glowing under the silver wash of the moon, hair tangled from his hands. You’re still straddling him, your chest rising and falling in rhythm with his. There’s a silence that lives in that moment, but it’s not empty.

Then he grins, soft and breathless. “Good thing this is a dream,” he murmurs, brushing his lips across your jaw. “Sand won’t bother us here.”

You laugh, quiet and giddy, the sound catching in your throat as he leans in again, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then lower. He shifts, laying you back gently onto the soft, impossible sand. Moonlight spills across your skin like liquid silver, turning you into some ancient deity's forgotten masterpiece. He freezes, a worshipper before an altar, lungs forgetting their purpose as his eyes trace the sacred geometry of your existence. Time holds its breath with him.

Then he’s kissing your neck, slow and open-mouthed, leaving heat wherever his lips touch. His hands slide over your body like he’s memorizing you, like he’s terrified you’ll disappear. When he begins to undress you, his fingers move with a kind of careful urgency- unwrapping you like something he’s dreamed of holding all his life.

His lips trail down your collarbone, your chest, and lower, leaving warmth. Your breath catches sharply in your throat as pleasure ripples through you, your back arching delicately from the sand as a soft, yearning moan escapes your lips into the star-strewn night.

And when he comes back to you, body pressed to yours, both of you tangled in breath and want, you meet him with the same hunger. You pull him close, undress him with shaking hands, touch every inch of him with awe.

When Jungkook moves inside you, it feels less like an act of desire and more like the inevitable culmination of something the two of you had been building quietly between shared glances, trembling silences, and the quiet ache of always parting too soon. There is nothing rushed in the way your bodies meet: only a slow, deliberate joining, a stretch of time that suspends itself in the hush between heartbeats, as if the dream itself knows to hold its breath for you.

His weight settles gently over you, his mouth still hovering just above yours, the warmth of his breath mixing with your own as his hands frame your face with a tenderness that feels as overwhelming as it is fragile. Your eyes lock for a long moment, and in them there is no fear, only the echo of something deeper - yearning, devotion, maybe even a kind of wonder neither of you dares to name aloud. And then, without speaking, you arch toward him, and he begins to move.

The rhythm he finds is unhurried but purposeful, a slow, steady push and pull. His body presses against yours with the kind of urgency that isn’t frantic but is no less desperate - an urgency born from knowing how fleeting dreams are, how quickly time unravels beauty when it’s finally within reach.

His lips don’t stay still for long; they trace your collarbone, your throat, the curve of your jaw, trailing warmth that pools and spreads through your chest until your breath begins to shake beneath him. You can feel the way his body trembles slightly as he deepens the rhythm with intensity, as though every inch of his skin aches to be closer to yours, as though touching you more completely could somehow anchor him here.

When you moan his name, it comes out cracked at the edges, too soft and too honest to be anything but real, and he answers not with words but with a kiss that claims nothing, demands nothing, only offers himself and his quiet awe that you are here with him.

The dream sky above flickers faintly as a gentle reminder that even eternity here is borrowed. You feel it in your bones that this moment, as vivid and consuming as it is, will dissolve like sea foam the moment morning claims him back. That awareness sharpens everything. It makes each thrust feel more tender, each stroke of his hands across your sides more necessary, more desperate to memorize. Your fingers slide up into his hair, tugging him closer, your mouths finding each other again with increasing hunger, and when your hips rise to meet his, your bodies move in perfect synchrony.

It builds slowly, swelling until you can’t distinguish where you end and he begins, until the world narrows to the slick heat between your thighs, the throb of his heartbeat against your chest, the soft, breathless groans that pass between your lips like confessions. The pleasure comes in waves: deep and consuming, rising with every movement and whispered sound, until the moment it crests and breaks, flooding through you with a force so overwhelming you have no choice but to let go and ride it.

He follows you into it, burying his face in your neck as he comes undone, his body trembling with the effort of holding back everything he feels and failing in the most beautiful way. There are no words left, only breath and warmth and the weight of his arms around you as he collapses gently beside you, pulling you into him like something he’s afraid to lose.

A blanket materializes like a whispered wish, impossibly soft and warm against your skin. Jungkook pulls you closer, your bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces finally finding home. Your hands can't help but wander, mapping his skin in the aftermath, memorizing the geography of this moment. His lips ghost against your temple while you rest your cheek against his heart, letting its steady rhythm become your anchor.

The ocean serenades you both with its ancient song, waves kissing the shore in perfect tempo. Above, the stars hang in velvet darkness, too perfect to be anything but dreamscape magic. Words feel redundant here, in this pocket of forever where touch and breath say everything your voices can't.

But dreams, those cruel architects of almost-reality, never let you linger long enough.

The world starts to unravel: the sky loses its certainty, the breeze thins to whispers, and the ocean's voice becomes a distant echo of itself. Reality is calling, persistent as always. You tilt your face up to his, and his fingers find their way to your hair, tucking it behind your ear with a tenderness that aches.

"I wish this part didn't end so soon," you breathe out, voice trembling not with fear but with the weight of knowing what comes next.

He brings his forehead to rest against yours, eyes closed like he's trying to freeze time through sheer will. "So do I," he whispers back.

As the dream dissolves: the beach, the stars, your shared warmth all fading into morning light, he holds onto everything: the curve of your body against his, the ghost of your kiss, and the exquisite agony of loving someone who only exists in the space between sleeping and waking.

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When the dream opens again, it does so like a breath drawn after drowning- sharp and sudden and full of overwhelming relief. You’re already there, standing beneath a sky that isn’t real, though it holds more meaning than any sunrise you’ve ever seen. The moment your eyes meet Jungkook’s, you don’t wait, and neither does he. There is no hesitation or unsure beginning. You run into each other’s arms like you’ve been holding your breath for days, like everything depends on this collision of bodies.

“I don’t want to waste one second of the limited time we have here,” you whisper into the space between his breaths, your arms wound tight around his neck and your chest pressed firmly to his.

He nods, his voice caught somewhere between a laugh and a vow, and with a single brush of his hand against the air, the world changes.

Like mist before sunlight, the dreamscape dissolves - first the endless ocean retreating into nothingness, then the wind falling silent as if holding its breath, and finally the star-strewn horizon melting away.

And in its place appears something smaller and impossibly intimate: a bedroom, quiet and warm, the walls washed in golden light, the sheets still slightly rumpled like they’ve been waiting for you. It’s not dramatic, not grand, but it feels like a secret dream you never dared to say aloud.

“This feels so real,” you murmur, your voice already faltering as his hands begin to move slowly, working their way beneath your clothes as if they’re peeling away layers of exhaustion and everything that’s ever kept you from peace.

He undresses you without words, his fingers trailing down your sides with a patience that makes your skin tremble. When his lips touch your collarbone, your breath catches. When his hands slide lower, your knees weaken. And when he kneels before you, his eyes dark and full of something deeper than want, you whisper his name like it’s a confession.

His mouth is already on you, and he’s not simply tasting but studying the language of your body with the kind of patience that feels rarer than touch itself. Every movement is deliberate, almost aching in its care, as though he knows this is a dream and still doesn’t want to rush through it. His hands grip the backs of your thighs with that same quiet devotion, fingers spreading you open.

He dives in like a man starved of connection, like every slow drag of his tongue is an attempt to carve himself into your memory, so that even when you're awake, some part of your body will still pulse with the imprint of him.

At first, it’s soft, barely there, just the warm press of his mouth against you, lips brushing your folds. But then, when you gasp and your hips lift slightly, when your fingers curl in the sheets beneath you, he groans softly into you, like the sound of your need fuels something deeper in him, something greedy*.*

He licks you slowly at first, flat strokes that leave you trembling, your thighs tensing around his head even as his hands hold you open. But soon he changes rhythm, finding the place where your body begins to stutter and focus, and he stays there, working his tongue in tight, purposeful circles, pausing only to suck gently, and then again, firmer, just enough to make your voice crack when you call his name.

You reach for him without thinking, fingers sliding into his hair, anchoring yourself in him as the heat begins to mount. Your breath comes in shallow bursts, thighs shaking around him, and still he doesn’t let up. He wants this - to see you unravel, to taste what the world outside has never let you give.

“Why…” you whisper, the words breaking apart as your thighs begin to shake. “Why can’t this be real?”

It’s not a question you expect him to answer, it’s rather a confession or cry of longing too deep for reason. And if he hears it, he doesn’t stop, only moans into you, as if your heartbreak feeds his hunger, as if the taste of your pain is folded into your pleasure.

His tongue moves faster now, more focused, and the tension inside you coils to a near-breaking and all-consuming point

Your body begins to shake; can’t form words anymore. Your moans become breathless sounds, fingers digging into his scalp as your hips lift in desperate rhythm with the wave he’s building inside you. His grip tightens, keeping you grounded, and when he draws your clit into his mouth again, sucking slowly, deeply, your entire body snaps.

You come with a cry so raw it doesn’t even sound like your voice. It shudders through you, thighs clenching, stomach fluttering, your hands fisting the sheets and his hair and nothing at all, your back arching as the dream holds you still in its palm.

But he doesn't leave you. Jungkook stays between your legs, lapping at you gently, slowly, kissing you through the aftershocks like he’s coaxing every last tremble from your bones, like your pleasure is the only thing that matters in this moment.

When he finally pulls away and rises to meet you again, his mouth shines with you, and his eyes are dark with a mix of tenderness and awe that stirs something so deep in your chest it almost hurts.

He kisses you slowly and deeply, and you taste yourself on his tongue. You pull him closer, hands sliding down his bare back, and you know that even if this is only a dream, it is more real than anything else your life has ever given you.

When Jungkook enters you, it’s like the world narrowing to a single point of gravity, your body drawing him in with a heat that pulses low and deep in your belly. He presses into you with a slow, deliberate movement, his length stretching you inch by aching inch, and it’s enough to make your mouth fall open with a breathless gasp that doesn’t even sound like your voice. He’s thick and warm and impossibly hard, and the way he completely fills you sends a tremor through your thighs that you can’t control.

Your folds part for him, slick and open, your body welcoming him with the kind of wet, desperate readiness that makes his breath hitch above you. He pauses once he’s buried fully inside, one hand gripping your hip as the other slides beneath your spine, grounding you against the slow burn of pleasure already curling through your abdomen. The stretch stings in the most exquisite way, that sharp-edged fullness melting quickly into something sweeter, something deeper, something that makes your body cry out for more before you even realize what you're asking for.

When he begins to move, it’s a rhythm that’s devastating in its precision: deep, dragging thrusts that grind against your most sensitive places with such focused care you’re not sure whether you want to weep or scream. Each roll of his hips draws a whimper from your throat, your legs trembling as your body adjusts to him again and again, as though each motion is a new kind of claim. He kisses you through it: your shoulder, your jaw, your lips, his mouth greedy and soft and utterly wrecked with affection, like he wants to press himself into every inch of your skin and never come up for air.

He shifts you gently, guiding your body into his hands, pulling your hips back into his lap as he settles you onto all fours. You sink into the soft sheets, your spine curving as his hand steadies your waist, and when he slides back inside you from behind, the angle is so deep and so precise it knocks the breath from your lungs. You clench helplessly around him, the sound of your bodies joining filling the room with a rhythm that feels ancient, necessary, almost holy. His name leaves your mouth again as a cry drawn out and trembling, the only word that still feels real in the haze of heat and motion and want.

Your hands fist the sheets, your knees spreading wider, every nerve ending in your body tuned to the relentless drive of his thrusts. His grip on your hips tightens, and he leans over your back, the heat of his chest brushing your spine, his voice a broken thing in your ear.

“You feel… so fucking good,” he murmurs, not as a boast, but as a reverent truth, like he still can’t believe the way your body accepts him - tight and slick, made perfectly for him.

When his hand slips beneath you again, finding that swollen, throbbing place that already pulses from his mouth and now from his cock, you come apart so quickly and so violently, your entire body stutters around him. You cry out, broken and breathless, your climax crashing through you with a force that turns the world white at the edges. You feel yourself clench around him, wet and pulsing, and it takes everything in him not to follow you right then.

But he’s close and with a few more thrusts, rougher now, less controlled, he spills into you with a sound so low and guttural it feels like it echoes inside your own chest. He collapses against your back, his arms wrapping around your middle as you both breathe through the aftermath, tangled and shivering, still connected, still pulsing with the echo of each other’s release.

And when the high fades and the pleasure ebbs into something slower, quieter, he doesn’t pull away. He stays inside you for as long as he can, holding you in his arms like he’s afraid that if he lets go, you’ll dissolve into smoke with the rest of the dream.

You fall together onto your sides, your legs entwined, the thin dream-woven blanket curling around your bodies, soft and warm as moonlight. You press your cheek against his chest. His hand strokes your back slowly, like he’s still trying to memorize you. The sea outside the window murmurs, and stars flicker faintly above, but neither of you speaks because nothing could possibly be enough.

"I don't want the real world." Your voice cracks. "It doesn't have you in it."

He pulls you closer, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, reality won't be able to pry you apart. When he finally speaks, his voice carries the weight of every 3AM thought that's ever kept anyone awake, "I know. Me too."

You look up at him, moonlight catching on unshed tears. Not crying because what's the point when the sun will rise anyway? Your fingers twist in the blanket like you're trying to anchor yourself to this moment, to him, to anything that might let you stay. "Please," you whisper, "I want to stay here. With you."

This isn't just a dream anymore. It's the truest thing you've ever known, wrapped in fiction because reality doesn't know what to do with something this raw. He says nothing, only presses his forehead to yours and breathes you in like he's trying to memorize the way your souls fit together.

And just as the dream begins to thin at the edges: flickering like film exposed to light, you look up at him, eyes full of that same pleading ache, and he lowers his forehead to yours. If you could stay, you would.

But dreams never ask permission before ending.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

　　　. 　　˚　✭　　　*　　　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　✭　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　　　　　　 ✦

Jungkook wakes to emptiness, the kind that sits heavy in your lungs like smoke. The silence wraps around him like a second skin, suffocating in its completeness. There's no gentle transition between dreams and reality today - just a harsh snap from one world to another, leaving him raw and aching.

The bed feels too big, too cold, sheets twisted around him like they're trying to hold something that isn't there anymore. His chest feels hollow, carved out, each breath a little too shallow to fill the spaces where warmth used to live.

He lies there, staring at a ceiling he's known his whole life but suddenly feels like it belongs to someone else's story. His body shakes, not from cold (never from cold), but from something that lives deeper, something that has made a home in his bones and refuses to leave.

When he finally moves, it's pure instinct - frustration and grief tangled into one sharp motion. The pillow hits the floor with a soft thud that gets swallowed by the morning quiet. It doesn't help. Nothing helps. He sits up, fingers threading through his hair like he's trying to hold his thoughts together, eyes fixed on the slice of pre-dawn darkness outside his window.

His voice breaks the silence like glass shattering in slow motion, barely a whisper: "Why is it like this..."

But there's no answer waiting in the shadows. And yet, somewhere beneath the weight of his despair, something small flickered: thin, untrustworthy, but still breathing. He told himself he would see you again. A new day would bring a new night, and with it, the possibility of return. That had been the pattern, and though dreams rarely followed logic, hope was a creature that clung to even the most frayed of patterns.

The hours that followed passed in a haze. He moved through the day as though he had been placed behind a pane of glass: everything visible but inaccessible, everyone’s voices distant, every color dull. His body obeyed routine, but his mind remained curled around the shape of your absence.

When darkness finally returned, he didn’t hesitate. Sleep claimed him without struggle, and with it, the familiar ritual unfolded: the rooftops that stretched like memory, the path laid down by repetition and longing, the same constellation of buildings that had always, without fail, led him to your window.

But it was dark. No light pierced the glass, no shadows moved within. The bed lay pristine, untouched - a monument to absence. He waited. Minutes bled into hours as the dream stretched around him, but your silhouette never materialized. The emptiness felt louder than any scream.

Night after night, he returned. Each visit more desperate than the last. The room remained a void, sterile and cold as a tomb. His hope withered, then died. No trace that you'd ever existed. The question gnawed at him: had you been real? Or worse: had something taken you?

The days blurred together, each one weighted with loss and questions that found no answers. Had you chosen to vanish, or had the choice been stolen from you? The uncertainty was acid in his veins.

Before you, he'd been a ghost among the living, feeding on others' darkness, trapped in endless observation. But that emptiness was nothing compared to this. This was different. This was knowing paradise and being exiled. This was having his soul split open, filled with light, then sewn shut around the void you left behind.

The universe had cursed him twice: first with invisibility, then with the memory of being seen. Being known and loved by you. Only to have it ripped away without warning or farewell.

And now, more than ever, Jungkook felt the weight of solitude like a second skin - in a universe that had always been generous in showing him different angles of emptiness.

there’s a final part to this story already finished and available exclusively here .

Thank you very much for reading my stories. Finding readers who resonate with my writing means the world to me. I can't even put into words how grateful I am. 🖤

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elikajinnie · 6 months ago

Text

Cold Touch, Sharp Mirror - P.S

P: Dead By Daylight Killer!Sunghoon X Survivor!Reader (recommended age 17+)

Warnings: Death, Murder, Suggestive Content, Blood/Injury, Obsession, Chasing, Fixation, Temperature Play?

Synopsis: You’ve always liked snow, but you never liked the idea of being chased through it—too loud, too slippery. Luckily, the Entity’s maps were more muddy than snowy. That is, until a new killer arrived, bringing with him a snowy map. And it seems like he’s fixated on finding the perfect beauty to complement him and you're exactly what he’s looking for.

a/n: im so happy my pookies @aceheexx and @concerned-terrapin got dbd :3 also i went a bit overboard with the ending???

heeseung version | jay version

now playing: like a dream by thomas larosa | frzzn by ozzie | chills -dark version by mickey valen

Now, normally, you loved snow. Back before you were taken by the entity, you’d always be thrilled when it snowed—watching the snowflakes drift from the sky, each one unique and delicate, settling on the ground and transforming it into a soft, white wonderland. It felt comforting, like nature’s own little gift. But time doesn’t follow the same rules in the entity’s realm. Seasons don’t change, and winter becomes a distant memory, a concept rather than a feeling. You haven’t felt real snow in what feels like forever.

So, when you first saw it again you felt a flicker of joy. You landed on the ground, expecting that chill on your skin, the cold air filling your lungs. But instead, you were met with something... wrong. The snow didn’t fall naturally, but seemed to be pasted onto the world, cold only in appearance. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t alive. The snowflakes didn’t twirl through the air, and the ground beneath your feet felt too solid, too still. No crisp bite in the air, no damp chill seeping through your clothes. Just a hollow echo of the winter you once loved. The excitement quickly faded, replaced by a bitter disappointment. It wasn't real. It never was.

You didn’t expect much when you were called for a trial. They were all the same at this point—different maps, same routine. But as soon as you arrived, something felt… off. The air was sharp and biting, your breath fogged in front of you, and a chill ran down your spine as you took in your surroundings. You were standing outside a massive manor, its roof blanketed with thick snow and sharp icicles hanging from the edges like teeth. Snow drifted lazily from the sky, it was quiet and the crunch of snow under your boots felt too loud. You hugged yourself against the cold, shivering as it nipped at your skin.

This was new.

Your eyes scanned the manor, its grandness both stunning and foreboding. You didn’t recognize it from any previous trials, and that only made your chest tighten. This map was new. And if it was new, there was only one explanation.

A new killer.

You took a hesitant step forward, your nerves on edge as you climbed the steps to the manor’s entrance. The door creaked open with little effort and your heart sank as you took in the strange décor. The walls were lined with mirrors—some shattered, their jagged shards glinting menacingly, others cracked just enough to distort your reflection. A few were pristine, their surfaces smooth and unbroken, but something about them felt wrong. The reflections didn’t look quite right.

Your breath came out in quick puffs, the cold seeming to seep through the walls themselves. You forced yourself to keep moving, knowing you had to find a generator. The sooner you started, the sooner this trial could be over.

Your search led you to a massive ballroom, and your breath caught in your throat. It was unlike anything you’d seen before. The floor was a sheet of ice, polished to a mirror-like shine, and the room seemed to stretch endlessly. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling, but instead of glass, it was crafted entirely from icicles, their razor-sharp points glistening as they swayed ever so slightly. The windows—or where the windows should have been—were replaced with cracked mirrors.

You stepped carefully onto the icy floor, your boots slipping slightly as you made your way further in. The cold seemed to deepen here, clawing at your skin and making you shudder uncontrollably. You glanced around, half-expecting to see a generator, but there was none in sight.

You huffed in frustration as you slid across the icy floor, your footing unstable. The sharp cold gnawed at your fingers and toes, even through your clothes. Just as you steadied yourself, a scream tore through the air, slicing through the quiet like a blade. It was distant but blood-curdling, the cry of a survivor encountering the killer.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you moved forward, walking through a pair of wide, icy double doors that led to a balcony. The scene that greeted you stopped you in your tracks.

Below you stretched a massive, frozen garden. Rows of tall hedges loomed like the skeletal remains of a long-dead maze, their branches brittle and crusted with frost. The labyrinth twisted and turned, the pathways obscured by fog that clung to the ground like ghostly tendrils. Scattered throughout the garden were ice statues—figures frozen mid-motion—but the distance made it hard to tell if they were just art.

Movement in the maze caught your eye. You squinted and leaned over the balcony’s edge. It was Nancy. She was running through the labyrinth, her hands flailing as she waved desperately in your direction. Panic was written all over her face, her wide eyes darting between you and something behind you.

It took a moment for you to process what she was trying to convey. That’s when it hit you—a cold breeze that wrapped around your body like icy fingers. Your breath caught as you shivered violently, your teeth chattering. Slowly, as if against your own will, you turned around.

And there he was.

A tall man loomed behind you, unnervingly still, his presence so cold. He was clad in a tailored suit, though it was torn and frayed in places. An icy sheen coated the fabric, frost clinging to him as if he were part of winter. His hair was white, and the tips seemed frozen, as though frost had begun to consume him from the edges.

But it was his face that sent chills down your spine.

The left side of his face was hauntingly beautiful—sharp, elegant features carved from pale skin, veins of icy blue tracing faintly on his neck. His lips, pale and slightly blue, parted slightly as a frosty mist escaped with every breath, and his eye, an unnatural, glowing blue, fixed on you with an intensity that rooted you in place.

The right side of his face, however, was hidden beneath a mask of cracked mirrors, the shards reflecting distorted images of yourself. The fragments shifted slightly, catching the dim light as if they were alive, twisting your reflection into a grotesque parody.

In his right hand, he held a massive shard of glass, its edges jagged and sharp, covered in frost that glittered like deadly diamonds. Ice crawled along the surface, spiraling down to the hilt where his gloved hand gripped it tightly. His other hand, bare and pale as death itself, hung loosely at his side, frost coating his fingertips.

He tilted his head slowly, the motion unnatural. You couldn’t tell if the sound you heard was the creak of his neck or the faint crackle of ice forming in the air around him.

Your breath hitched as you took a shaky step back, the icy floor beneath you making it nearly impossible to find stable footing. The cold wasn’t just external anymore; it was inside you, crawling through your veins almost like a parasite.

The killer took a step forward, the shard of glass dragging across the ground, leaving a thin trail of frost in its wake. The sound it made was sharp and grating, like nails on a chalkboard.

The only thought screaming in your mind was run.

And you didn’t hesitate. Your survival instincts kicked in, and you pushed off the icy floor, sliding awkwardly toward the edge of the balcony. Without a second thought, you vaulted over, your heart leaping into your throat as you braced for the impact below. The landing was rough but the adrenaline forcing you to ignore the ache.

As you straightened up, you glanced back over your shoulder, just for a split second, and froze.

He was leaning over the balcony, his hand resting on the icy railing, his head tilted again. He wasn’t rushing after you. He wasn’t angry or even fazed. Instead, he watched you with a cold calmness, like a predator confident in its prey’s inevitable capture.

That made it worse.

You didn’t wait to see what he’d do next. Turning on your heel, you took off running into the labyrinth, the snow crunching loudly beneath your boots. Every step a reminder of how exposed you were.

You didn’t know where you were going—just away. Away from him. Away from the cold and the glass shard that promised pain and death. Your breath came in quick, visible puffs as you ran, your lungs burning from the freezing air.

The labyrinth was a maze in every sense of the word, the fog making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. You turned left, then right, your boots sliding on patches of ice hidden beneath the snow. Your mind raced as you tried to recall the layout you’d glimpsed from the balcony, but it was no use. Every path looked the same—dead and endless.

Another scream rang out, sharper and closer this time. Your heart sank. You couldn’t tell who it was, so you forced yourself to keep going, your legs burning with the effort of running on the uneven, frozen ground.

Your legs burned, your lungs screamed for air, and the cold gnawed relentlessly at your skin. You finally skidded to a halt, leaning against the icy hedge for support. The snow beneath you crunched as you shifted, each breath coming out as shaky puffs of mist. You sniffled, shivering as you tried to gather your thoughts.

That’s when you saw it.

To your right, standing innocently against the frozen hedge, was a tall mirror. It was pristine, untouched by the cracks, the frame was silver, almost shimmering, and frost curled delicately along its edges like it had been painted there. The glass itself was so smooth it reflected everything perfectly, capturing your wide-eyed, disheveled image with startling clarity.

You tilted your head, your breath hitching as you stared. It had been so long since you’d seen your reflection—so long since you’d stopped to even think about what you looked like. The sight was strange, foreign even. You didn’t recognize the exhausted, frost-bitten figure staring back at you, but something about the mirror pulled you in.

Your feet moved before your mind could stop them, carrying you closer. You stood before the mirror, your breath fogging the glass slightly as you studied yourself. Hesitantly, your hand lifted, trembling as your fingertips hovered just above the icy surface. You shouldn’t touch it. You knew you shouldn’t. But something about it was calling to you, drawing you in like the lure of a siren.

The instant your fingers brushed the glass, it happened.

A sudden force yanked you forward, your breath stolen as your vision blurred. You didn’t even have time to cry out as the cold wrapped around you, dragging you into the mirror. The world flipped and spun, shards of glass and light flashing all around you. Your reflection fractured into countless pieces, each one distorting your image—your face twisted, stretched, broken in ways that made your stomach lurch.

When you finally came to, the spinning stopped. You opened your eyes, but the sight that greeted you was nothing like the labyrinth you’d been running through.

You were inside the mirror.

The world around you was endless and disorienting. Shards of glass floated in the air, twisting and turning, each one reflecting a fractured image of you. Some pieces were small, no larger than a coin, while others were enormous, towering over you like walls. Each shard seemed to hum faintly, a sound that vibrated through your skull and made your head throb. You reached out to steady yourself, but there was nothing solid to hold on to—just the endless, shifting glass.

You felt dizzy, your legs weak as you struggled to comprehend where you were. The reflections moved strangely, showing parts of yourself that weren’t in the same position as the rest of you. It was like watching a puzzle where the pieces didn’t quite fit.

Then, a voice.

It cut through the humming like a blade, low and smooth, with an icy edge that sent a chill straight to your core.

“Oh, you poor thing,” the voice purred, dripping with mockery. “So eager to touch what you shouldn’t. Did you really think the mirror was just for show?”

You whipped your head around, searching for the source, but there was no one there—just more glass reflecting your panicked face.

The voice chuckled, soft and cold. “Do you like it in here? It’s my little masterpiece. Every broken shard tells a story, you see. And now, you’ve become part of it.”

You spun in place, your breaths coming faster. “Where are you?!”

The laughter grew louder, echoing all around you, each shard vibrating with the sound, but he did not answer you.

Instead the glass around you began to shift, the shards rearranging themselves into new patterns. They moved closer, boxing you in, the reflections multiplying until it felt like you were being watched by a thousand versions of yourself—and something else.

In one of the largest shards, his reflection appeared. The killer.

He stood just on the other side of the glass, staring at you with a calm expression. Slowly, he raised his gloved hand and pressed it to the glass, the icy surface fogging slightly under his touch.

Your breath hitched as you stumbled back, you moved until your back hit something solid—the mirror you’d touched before.

Before you could process what was happening, the glass behind you pulled you in again. The world spun, shards flying past your vision as you felt that same sickening tug. A freezing chill washed over you, and then suddenly—

You were out.

Your feet hit solid ground, and you collapsed forward onto your hands and knees, gasping for air. The disorientation left you dizzy, your head pounding as you tried to steady yourself. The cold still clung to you, biting at your skin like a lingering phantom of the mirror world.

You forced yourself to your feet, legs shaky and unsteady, your breath coming out in frantic clouds. As you looked around, you froze.

This wasn’t where you’d been before.

Instead, you were in a dark, underground section of the estate. The air here was thicker, heavier. The walls around you were frozen, their icy surfaces glinting faintly.

Above you, sharp icicles hung dangerously from the ceiling. They were long and jagged, some as thick as your arm, and looked as though they could fall at the slightest provocation.

You took a cautious step forward, the crunch of snow under your boot echoing unnaturally loud. Your eyes darted upward, watching the icicles sway ever so slightly. You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening. One wrong move, one too-loud sound, and those deadly spikes could come crashing down.

“Stay calm,” you thought to yourself.

You continued forward, your steps careful and measured. The way revealed more of the icy corridor ahead, branching off into several paths.

Then you heard it.

A faint, distant crack.

Footsteps.

Your blood ran cold. He was here.

You turned, your eyes darting around for any sign of an escape, but you were offered nothing more but dead ends.

Then his voice cut through the air, smooth and taunting.

“You can’t run forever.”

You turned sharply, picking a path at random and running, your boots sliding on the slick ground.

Behind you, the footsteps quickened, you didn’t dare look back, the sense of him closing in enough to keep you moving forward.

You rounded a corner and skidded to a halt.

A dead end.

And the only way out was the way you’d come. You spun around, your back pressed against the frozen wall, your breath ragged as you watched the corridor you’d just come from.

The footsteps stopped.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, slowly, he stepped into view, his towering frame filling the narrow passage as he took a step forward.

You pressed harder against the wall, your fingers numb from the cold, your mind racing for a way out. But there was none.

He stopped just a few feet from you, his breath visible in the icy air.

He tilted his head ever so slightly, his gloved fingers brushing along the edge of the mirror shard in his hand and slowly, his gaze began to travel downward, starting at your face, moving over the trembling rise and fall of your chest, your arms clinging tightly to yourself, and finally down to your legs and boots, still trembling slightly from your desperate run.

A low hum escaped his lips, soft and almost contemplative, a sound that sent chills crawling up your spine, as if he were truly appreciating what he saw.

“You’re exquisite,” he murmured, his voice smooth. He took another step forward, closing the already-small distance between you. You pressed harder against the frozen wall, your entire body stiffening as he leaned closer.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

His pale hand rose slowly, as if to savor the moment. You flinched as his fingers brushed against your cheek, and the touch was so cold it burned. You froze entirely, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as your teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. The air left your lungs in short, visible puffs as your body tried in vain to fight the cold spreading from where his hand lingered.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly, his tone almost... tender. He tilted his head again, his lips curving into a faint, chilling smile. “No need to be afraid, my dear. I wouldn’t dare ruin something so... beautiful.”

You stared up at him, wide-eyed and trembling, your body refusing to obey your frantic thoughts screaming at you to move, to run, to do something. But the cold was paralyzing.

His hand trailed along your cheek, the frozen burn spreading as he brushed his thumb over your jawline, tracing the edge of your face with unsettling care. “Your face... so delicate. So perfect.”

His cold breath brushed against your face, his voice no louder than a whisper. “Your eyes...” His thumb stopped, resting just beneath one of them, his frosted breath clouding in the air between you. “So full of life. So bright, even now. You’re unlike any I’ve seen before.”

You couldn’t respond. The cold had stolen your voice, your teeth chattering too hard for you to form words. He didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he appeared amused by your silence.

“You’re trembling so much,” he murmured, his hand shifting to brush a strand of hair from your face, the motion almost... gentle. “Is it the cold? Or... me?”

He leaned in even closer, his lips almost brushing your ear as he whispered, “Perhaps both.”

You wanted to scream, to shove him away, to do anything, but all you could do was stand there, trapped in his icy grip. You felt like you were being frozen alive.

His hand moved to your neck, his fingers grazing your skin as he chuckled, his breath like a biting winter wind. “I could keep you here forever,” he mused, his tone almost dreamy, as if the idea truly pleased him. “Frozen, perfect, untouchable. Just... mine.”

His words sent a wave of panic crashing over you, momentarily snapping you out of the icy haze clouding your mind. Your body twitched, an instinctive attempt to break free, but his grip tightened slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you just how powerless you were in this moment.

“You’re frightened,” he said, his tone shifting to one of mock sympathy. “Good. Fear suits you.”

And just as the tears began to sting your eyes from the cold and helplessness, his fingers left your skin, and he pulled back slightly. He studied you for a moment longer, as if committing every detail of your face to memory.

Then, in a soft, almost wistful tone, he murmured, “Run.”

Your heart skipped a beat, your mind barely processing the command before his smirk widened and he stepped back, his hand once again gripping the icy shard at his side.

“Go,” he said, his voice sharper now, like the crack of frozen glass. “Let’s see how far you can get.”

The moment your body allowed it, you bolted, stumbling past him and into the freezing corridors, his cold laughter echoing behind you like the toll of a bell.

Your legs carried you forward, slipping and stumbling over the icy ground. The sound of his laughter followed you, echoing through the frozen halls. It was as though it bounced off the very walls, coming at you from all directions, mocking your panic and desperation.

The floor beneath you shifted unexpectedly, the ice slick and uneven. Your foot slipped, and you went sprawling to the ground with a sharp gasp. The impact jarred your body, pain shooting up your arm as you braced your fall. For a moment, the world spun, the sound of your ragged breathing filling your ears.

“Don’t tell me you’re giving up already,” his voice called out, closer than it should have been.

Your head snapped up, and you realized the light above you had shifted. You turned your gaze slowly upward, and there he was, standing just above you.

“You’re quite resilient,” he mused, his icy voice calm, almost teasing. “But you’re slowing down. The cold is catching up to you.”

Panic surged through you, overriding the pain in your arm as you scrambled to your feet. You bolted again, ignoring the way your legs screamed in protest.

Then you spotted it.

A faint glow ahead—warm and flickering, like firelight. Fire.. fire meant heat, warmth and safety.

The glow grew brighter as you neared it, and you realized it was coming from an arched doorway. Beyond it, you could see the orange flicker of flames. You practically threw yourself through the opening, your body collapsing in front of the roaring fireplace in the center of the room.

The warmth hit you like a wave, washing over your frozen skin and sending sharp, painful tingles through your fingers and toes as the feeling began to return. You gasped for air, curling into yourself as the heat began to thaw the icy grip that had taken hold of your body.

But the relief was short-lived.

You turned your head slightly, and your stomach dropped. The room wasn’t empty.

Surrounding you were tall mirrors, each one angled slightly toward the fireplace. They reflected the room in perfect, chilling detail. And in every single one, he was there, standing behind you.

Your breath caught in your throat as you whipped around, but the room was empty.

The mirrors, however, told a different story. He stood just behind your reflection, his piercing blue eye meeting yours through the glass.

“Did you think the fire would save you?” his voice echoed around the room, no longer calm but mocking.

The flames in the fireplace flickered violently, the warmth suddenly waning as frost began to creep across the floor toward you. The temperature plummeted, the ice spreading like veins across the room and snuffing out the fire entirely.

You stumbled backward, heart racing as you turned to face one of the mirrors. He was no longer just standing there—he was moving. Slowly, deliberately, his reflection stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and yours.

Before you could react, a hand shot out of the glass, his icy fingers gripping your wrist with inhuman strength. You screamed as the cold burned your skin, his grip dragging you closer to the mirror.

“Don’t fight it,” he said softly, his voice echoing in your ears as the shards within the mirrors began to hum again. “You belong with me now.”

You struggled against him, your free hand clawing at the icy surface of the mirror as it began to pull you in. The frost crawled up your arm, spreading rapidly as the world around you began to distort, shards of glass spinning wildly in your peripheral vision.

With one final yank, he pulled you through the mirror.

The last thing you saw before everything went black was your own reflection, frozen in terror, staring back at you as the shards swallowed you whole.

You jolted awake with a gasp, your body trembling violently. The cold was overwhelming, gripping you like an unrelenting vice, and as you looked around, your heart sank. You were back in the mirror realm.

The shards around you showed you in unnatural ways. Every angle of yourself felt alien, wrong, like the mirror was trying to break you down piece by piece.

“No,” you whispered, voice weak and trembling, your breath fogging up the air in front of you. Your legs were shaky, but you forced yourself to stand.

There was no time to waste. You spotted another mirror—a whole one this time—standing pristine just a few feet away. Summoning every ounce of courage, you stepped toward the mirror. This time, you didn’t pause to study your reflection. You didn’t let yourself think. You pressed your palm flat against the cold, smooth surface.

The pull came instantly, like an icy wind yanking you forward. Your body jerked as you were sucked into the mirror’s depths once more. The same nauseating sensation returned and you clenched your teeth to keep from screaming.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

You stumbled forward, your feet catching against a thick rug as you fell to your knees. You blinked, the room slowly coming into focus.

It was another part of the manor, entirely different from where you’d been before. The walls were still coated in frost, but it was quieter. You looked up to see a grand fireplace crackling with warm, golden flames. A luxurious couch sat nearby, its velvet cushions looking inviting, though a thin layer of frost clung to the edges.

You didn’t hesitate. The fire called to you like salvation itself.

You dragged yourself to your feet, stumbling toward the fireplace. The warmth hit you in waves, and you let out a shuddering breath as you collapsed onto the rug in front of it, stretching your trembling hands toward the flames.

The heat seeped into your frozen skin, painful at first as the biting cold fought to stay. You held your hands closer, rubbing them together desperately as you tried to thaw yourself.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to relax. Your body still shook from the adrenaline and cold, but the warmth was soothing, grounding you.

You took a glance around the room, taking in your surroundings. It was richly decorated, though the frost and time had dulled its once-luxurious beauty. A massive portrait hung above the fireplace, but the frost obscured the faces in the painting, making it impossible to make out who—or what—it depicted.

The couch loomed nearby, its plush cushions tempting, but you didn’t dare sit. You couldn’t afford to let your guard down for long, not when he could appear at any moment. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, despite the fire’s warmth.

You stared back into the flames, your mind racing. The mirrors... they were clearly part of his power, his trap, but they also seemed to be a way to move through the manor.

But even as you thought that, the sound of footsteps echoed faintly down the hall.

Your heart leapt into your throat, the warmth of the fire suddenly feeling far too distant. You froze, every instinct screaming at you to move, to hide, but your body refused to obey.

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You could feel the chill creeping back into the room, the warmth of the fire retreating as if it couldn’t stand him.

“Found you,” his voice purred, low and laced with amusement.

Your body tensed as you slowly turned your head toward him, your breath hitching in your throat. He was closer than you expected—far closer. You hadn’t even heard him cross the room, but there he was, towering over you.

You gasped, your back pressing harder against the rug as though you could somehow melt into the floor to escape him.

He reached out, trailing dangerously close to your face, but he stopped just short of touching you. His icy breath curled in the air as he tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over you from head to toe.

“I should end this,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, but there was an edge to it—an emotion you couldn’t quite place. “You’re the last one left. There’s no one else. No one coming to save you.”

Your stomach dropped at his words. The others were gone. Nancy, the others—they’d all fallen to him. You were alone.

He crouched suddenly, leaning over you with a grace that felt almost unnatural. His free hand came to rest on the floor beside you, pinning you in place with his sheer presence. You tried to scoot back, but the icy chill radiating from him seemed to freeze you in place.

“But…” he continued, his voice softer now, contemplative, “I can’t bear to ruin something so… perfect.”

His words caught you off guard, and your eyes widened as he his hand brushed your jaw, his cold fingers gripping gently but firmly. You sucked in a sharp breath, expecting the freezing touch to sting, to burn like the cold always had before.

But it didn’t.

Instead, his touch was… comforting. The cold seeped into your skin, chasing away the ache from the fire’s heat. It was strangely soothing, like the cool side of a pillow on a restless night, or the air of an early winter morning.

Your body reacted involuntarily, your tense muscles relaxing slightly despite the fear coursing through you.

It all left you disoriented.

“You see,” he murmured, his fingers tightening slightly against your jaw, tilting your face up so your eyes met his. “There’s something about you, survivor. Something… different.”

His gaze roamed your features with an unsettling intensity, his icy breath brushing against your face. You tried to look away, but his grip kept you firmly in place.

“You’ve caught my attention,” he continued, his voice dipping lower, almost intimate. “And that doesn’t happen often.”

You didn’t even respond—couldn’t even respond.

“Tell me,” he whispered, his voice soft but commanding, “are you afraid of me?”

Your heart thundered in your chest, but the answer wasn’t as simple as it should’ve been. Fear clung to you, yes—but so did something else. Something you couldn’t quite name.

When you didn’t answer, his lips curled into a faint, chilling smile. “No matter,” he murmured. “I’ll find out soon enough.”

His hand trailed down to your throat. The cold seeped deeper now, sending a shiver down your spine. His grip was firm but not constricting.

“You’re lucky,” he said softly, pulling back slightly to meet your gaze again. “I’ve decided to spare you. For now.”

“But don’t think for a moment that you’re free,” he added, his voice colder now, sharper.

Before you could even react, his cold, strong hands gripped your waist. A startled gasp escaped your lips as he hoisted you effortlessly into the air, slinging you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

“W-What?” you stammered, your breath hitching as you felt the solid, cold muscle beneath his tattered suit.

He didn’t talk, nor did he falter as he began walking, his movements steady. You squirmed slightly, your hands pressed against his broad shoulder in an attempt to push yourself free, but his grip on you was firm, unyielding.

It was then that you noticed something strange—the ground beneath his feet was transforming. With every step he took, the floor froze over, leaving a trail of ice in his wake.

Behind him, the mirror shard he dragged in his hand left another trail, the jagged glass carving faint grooves into the icy floor. It gleamed faintly, catching the dim light of the room, but it was the strange magic in it that drew your attention. The frost along the edges seemed alive, swirling and shimmering in ways that didn’t seem natural.

And the mirrors along the walls reflected your current state back at you. It was almost unrecognizable.

Your hair was dusted with frost, strands glittering like they were laced with snowflakes. Your lashes and brows were coated in icy crystals, and your lips… they looked pale, almost blue, like the color had been drained by the biting cold. Even your skin had taken on a frosty tint, its natural warmth replaced by something delicate and ethereal.

You blinked at the reflection, your breath catching. For a moment, you almost didn’t look like yourself. You looked… otherworldly, like you belonged here, in this frozen hellscape he commanded. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, and not just from the cold.

“I see you’ve noticed,” his voice rumbled, deep and laced with amusement. You jolted slightly at the sound of it, and your gaze darted to the back of his head.

“What—what’s happening to me?” you demanded, though your voice came out shaky, far weaker than you intended.

“It suits you,” he said simply, his tone calm, almost admiring. “The frost, the cold. It brings out something… exquisite.”

His words sent a strange mix of emotions coursing through you. You weren’t sure whether to feel flattered or horrified.

“Let me go,” you hissed, though there was little force behind your words.

“No,” he replied, almost lazily, as though the very idea amused him. “Not yet.”

His footsteps echoed as he carried you deeper into the manor. You couldn’t tell where he was taking you, but the icy walls became thicker the further you went.

The air felt colder than ever when he suddenly stopped, and without warning, he threw you down, the impact rattling through your body as you hit the frozen ground. A hiss escaped your lips at the cold biting into your palms, but the sting didn’t linger for long—because that’s when you saw it.

The hatch.

It was right in front of you, its familiar wooden frame stark against the glistening frost around it. Your heart leapt in disbelief. He was letting you go.

You looked up at him, confusion and suspicion warring within you. Was this some sort of trap? But when your eyes met his, he was already staring at you, his calm, piercing gaze sending shivers down your spine.

He crouched down, his movement eerily graceful, and brought his hand to your cheek once more. The coldness of his touch was no longer unbearable—almost like your skin had adjusted to the frost.

“You survived, little one,” he whispered, his voice soft and low, laced with something unidentifiable.

His breath curled in a frosty mist around your face as he leaned closer, his lips just a whisper away from your ear.

“I’ll see you real soon.”

Before you could say anything—before you could even think of a response—he rose to his full height, turned, and walked away.

You didn’t wait to see if he would change his mind. Scrambling forward, you gripped the edge of the hatch and pulled yourself in.

The cold vanished immediately as you fell, the icy chill replaced by a strange weightlessness. For a moment, you floated in nothingness, then, with a thud, you landed on the soft, familiar dirt of the survivor’s camp.

Warmth washed over you instantly, and you sucked in a deep breath, relief flooding through you. You looked around, the familiar sights of the campfire, scattered supplies, and makeshift shelters grounding you. It was over. The trial was over.

But as you sat there, staring into the fire’s comforting glow, the memory of his voice lingered in your mind. His words. His touch. His frost.

He had let you go.

Your next few trials were nothing short of a nightmare—though, what else was new? First, it was The Trapper, he had almost caught you at the exit gate, but a perfectly timed flashlight save from one of the other survivors gave you just enough time to slip away.

Then, there was Ghostface. His knife had grazed your back once, almost claiming you as you worked on a generator, but somehow, you managed to outmaneuver him, staying just steps ahead of his blade. The trial ended with you sprinting through the exit gate, heart pounding and lungs burning.

But just when you thought you could catch your breath, the Entity had other plans.

The next time the fog swallowed you up and spat you into a new trial, the familiar chill hit you like a slap to the face.

Your boots crunched against the snow as you took in your surroundings, your breath already visible in the icy air. Dead, frostbitten hedges towered around you, stretching into a labyrinth.

Your stomach dropped.

His map. Again.

You took a cautious step forward, trying to steady your breathing as the icy wind bit into your skin.

It didn’t take long before the sound of a generator humming faintly reached your ears. You turned a corner in the maze, spotting one sitting in the center of a small clearing. A teammate—Claudette—was already crouched by it, working diligently.

Relief washed over you as you made your way to her. If you could stick together, you’d have a better chance of survival. But as you reached her side and knelt to help, you couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched.

Your hands trembled slightly as you worked, the cold making it hard to grip the wired properly. Then, without warning, Claudette stiffened beside you, her eyes widening in panic.

“Run,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the howling wind.

You didn’t need to ask why. The frost on the ground spreading, creeping toward you like a living thing, said as much.

You turned your head just enough to catch a glimpse of him.

The Frost Warden. At least that is what you and the other has started calling him.

You bolted at the sight of him, the snow crunching loudly beneath your feet as you tore through the maze. The icy wind whipped at your face, stinging your skin, but you didn’t dare look back.

The sound of Claudette’s scream echoed faintly behind you, and guilt clawed at your chest, but you couldn’t stop now.

You turned another corner, your lungs burning from the cold air, and skidded to a stop, nearly stumbling when you saw it—a generator, partially hidden by the frost-covered hedges. Relief mixed with panic surged through you. You had no idea where the others were, but you couldn’t let this chance go to waste.

You ran to it, skidding slightly on the icy ground, and immediately knelt by its side. Your fingers, stiff and numb from the cold, fumbled as you began working. The gears groaned faintly, resisting your touch, but you forced yourself to focus, biting your lip to keep your hands steady.

The sound of the Frost Warden’s footsteps had faded behind you, but you knew better than to assume he’d given up the chase. He didn’t need to run to catch you. This map was his domain, and you were just another mouse trapped in his frozen maze.

The generator sputtered as you fixed another wire, the hum growing louder with each successful connection. Your breath clouded the air in front of you as you worked, the sound of the engine beginning to mask the distant howling wind.

But then, a faint shimmer in the corner of your vision made you freeze.

You glanced up, heart sinking, and spotted a mirror embedded into the wall of the hedges just a few feet away. Its surface rippled faintly, like water disturbed by a pebble, and your reflection stared back at you—pale, frostbitten, and wide-eyed with fear.

For a second, nothing happened. The mirror was still, almost taunting you. But then, the rippling grew stronger, and your blood turned to ice.

You didn’t wait to see what would come through. You turned back to the generator, frantically working to finish it, but your trembling hands slowed you down. The gears groaned again, protesting against your haste.

Behind you, the mirror shimmered one last time, and then the unmistakable sound of footsteps crunching through the snow filled the air.

Slow, deliberate, and far too close.

“Fixing something, are we?” The Frost Warden’s icy voice was low and calm, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

You whipped your head around, your heart leaping into your throat. He stood just a few feet away, his tall figure looming over you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. His piercing blue eye studied you, sharp and calculating.

“I have to admit,” he said, taking a slow step closer, “I enjoy watching you struggle. It’s... captivating.”

You scrambled to your feet, hands trembling as you backed away from the generator. He tilted his head slightly, his calm expression never faltering, and took another step forward. The frost beneath his feet spread outward with each step, creeping across the ground and curling around the base of the generator.

You wanted to run, to put as much distance between you and him as possible, but your legs felt like lead. The cold seemed to seep into your bones, rooting you in place as his icy gaze bore into you.

“Go on,” he said softly, gesturing with the shard. “Run. Fight. Survive. That’s what you do best, isn’t it?”

His words felt like a taunt, and something inside you snapped. You turned on your heel and bolted, the sound of his low, icy chuckle following you as you disappeared into the labyrinth once more.

Your boots slipped slightly on the frost-slick ground as you sprinted deeper into the labyrinth. Every turn you made felt like the wrong one, the frozen hedges looming high around you, cutting off your sense of direction.

You refused to look back. You couldn’t.

Panic clawed at your chest as you skidded around another corner, narrowly avoiding an ice-coated statue that seemed to glare down at you like a silent sentinel. Your breath was visible in the air, coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

A faint light caught your eye—another generator. This one stood in the center of an open clearing, its dull hum barely audible over the wind. You didn’t hesitate. Sliding to a stop, you crouched beside it, your trembling hands fumbling as you grabbed your tools.

Your fingers were numb, making it even harder to work, but you forced yourself to focus. The wires were stiff and brittle, like they might snap under too much pressure, but you managed to connect them, one by one.

The generator sputtered to life, its engine coughing loudly as it struggled against the cold. You winced at the noise, glancing over your shoulder, half-expecting to see him standing there, watching. But there was no one. So you took that chance.

Standing up up you sprinted back through the labyrinth, turning sharply around a frozen hedge, when a faint hum caught your ears. Another generator. Your heart leapt with a sliver of hope, and as you rounded the corner, you saw him—Bill.

He was hunched over the last few wires of the generator, his rough hands expertly finishing the job. Sparks flew, and the machine roared to life just as you skidded to a stop nearby.

"Bill!" you gasped, barely able to get the word out as you stumbled toward him, your breath clouding in the icy air.

He looked up sharply, his cigarette dangling from his lips, and his eyes widened when he saw you. "Kid, what the hell are you doin'?" he barked, but before you could answer, the faint crunch of footsteps made both of you freeze.

You didn’t need to say a word. Bill’s face hardened instantly, his sharp instincts kicking in. “Go. Now,” he growled, stepping between you and the sound of approaching frost.

“Bill—”

“Don’t argue with me! Get your ass outta here!” he snapped, pulling his flashlight from his belt.

After a moment of hesitation you turned and bolted, your feet slipping slightly on the frozen ground as you took off deeper into the maze. Behind you, you heard Bill shout, “Come on, you bastard! You want someone? Come get me!”

You risked a glance back just in time to see the Frost Warden emerge from the mist, his tall figure cutting an imposing silhouette. His icy blue eye locked onto Bill.

“Come on dammit!!” Bill yelled, his voice fierce.

You didn’t look back after that. You ran, your legs burning as you pushed forward, weaving through the labyrinth. The sound of their confrontation grew fainter with each step, replaced by the distant hum of generators and the faint howl of the wind.

It wasn’t until you burst through a gap in the hedges and saw the glowing lights of the exit gate in the distance that you realized you were finally in the clear. Your chest heaved, your lungs burning from the effort, but you forced yourself to keep going.

As you reached the gate, you found one of your teammates already there, working frantically to pull the lever. They glanced at you, relief washing over their face as the gate screeched open with a metallic groan.

With one last glance at the icy maze, you stepped through the gate, the warmth of safety washing over you.

You hated the smug, talkative killers. The ones who couldn’t just do their job silently but instead had to taunt, flirt, or throw out some sarcastic quip every chance they got. It wasn’t enough for them to hook you or slash at you—they had to make it personal, priding themselves on the mental games they played.

Killers like that were rare, but when you encountered them, you dreaded every moment of the trial. They made it unbearable, turning what was already a desperate fight for survival into a drawn-out performance where they were the star of the show.

The worst part? They always had that air of superiority, acting as if they were untouchable. They thrived on your frustration, your fear, and sometimes even your silence.

“Aw, don’t run now. We were just getting to know each other!”

You could hear their voice ringing in your ears even now, a mocking lilt that made your skin crawl. Some of them flirted, their words dripping with twisted charm as they chased you through the trial, their weapons raised.

“You look so cute when you’re terrified.”

Others just talked endlessly, like they needed you to know how clever or sadistic they were. They’d narrate every move, every mistake you made, as if you weren’t already painfully aware of how close you were to getting caught.

“Really? That’s the best you can do? You should’ve vaulted back there—might’ve lasted a bit longer.”

And then there were the ones who wouldn’t shut up when they hooked you, leaning down like they had all the time in the world, their breath hot against your skin.

“Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. It’s just business… though you do make it so much fun.”

You hated them. All of them.

It wasn’t just the humiliation—it was how they got under your skin, how their words stayed with you even after the trial was over. You could still feel the phantom weight of their hands brushing against your skin as they carried you, hear the mocking laughter as they walked away from the hook, leaving you there to struggle.

And yet, even if he wasn’t as insufferable as the others, he still had that pridefulness about him—this confidence that made him believe he was better than you, better than all of you. He didn’t need to taunt or jeer with endless, childish words like some of the others, but when he spoke, his voice carried weight. His words lingered, cutting deep, mocking you with a sly edge, and worse, when he flirted… it wasn’t just for show.

There was no humor in his tone, no casual arrogance like the smug Ghostface or the loud-mouthed Trickster. When he spoke to you, it felt like there was intent behind every word. Like he meant it.

That’s why, when you dropped into the Hawkins Lab, you let out a quiet breath of relief, assuming the Demogorgon was the killer this time. The mechanical hum of the underground facility echoed faintly, and you thought maybe you’d gotten lucky for once.

But then you felt it—the subtle, growing thump of your heartbeat.

You froze.

The air changed. A chill crept over your skin, one that was unmistakable.

The frost.

Your breath hitched as your eyes darted around the dimly lit corridors, and when you saw the faint mist curling along the ground, your stomach dropped.

It was him.

He was the killer this round.

Your pulse quickened, the memory of your last encounter with him flooding your mind. You didn’t know if you were ready to face him again. But ready or not, he was here. Somewhere.

And he was already hunting.

You crept through the winding halls of the lab, the flickering fluorescent lights casting eerie shadows on the steel walls. The chill in the air followed you, prickling at your skin as if a warning.

Finally, in a quieter part of the lab, tucked into a dead-end room, you found a generator. Relief washed over you as you crouched beside it, letting your fingers hover over the familiar knobs and wires. You could do this.

Your hands worked quickly, tightening bolts and rewiring panels, the sound of the generator humming softly beneath your touch. But then, from somewhere deep in the lab, a scream pierced the silence.

It was sharp, panicked, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

One of the others had found him—or, more accurately, he had found them.

Your instinct screamed at you to stop what you were doing, to run and hide before he got too close. But you couldn’t afford to waste time. You couldn’t leave the generator unfinished, and there was no guarantee you’d find another quiet spot like this again.

So you stayed.

Your fingers trembled as you twisted the last wire into place, forcing yourself to focus on the task. Every tick of the generator felt like an eternity, each movement of your hand making your heart pound harder.

And then you felt it—the subtle change in the air.

The frost crept in, curling along the edges of the room like icy tendrils reaching for you.

Your breath fogged as the chill kissed your skin, and your stomach sank just as the generator roared to life, cutting through the silence of the lab.

And then you saw it.

To your left, just beyond the doorway, the faint red glow.

Your heart sank.

The telltale light killers carried with them—always a warning, always a death sentence if you weren’t fast enough. And just past the glow, you saw him.

He stood there, completely still for a moment, then his head tilted slightly, almost curiously, before he took a single step forward. The frost beneath his feet deepened, spreading faster across the floor, as if it were alive and hungry to reach you.

"Impressive," he murmured, his voice smooth and cold, yet carrying a dangerous edge. "You finished the generator all alone? Clever little thing, aren’t you?"

Your legs finally obeyed you, and you stumbled backward, your shoulder hitting the wall as you tried to put distance between yourself and him. But there was nowhere to go—no other exits, no windows to climb through.

He stepped fully into the room now, the red glow of his presence bathing the small space as he closed the distance with unnerving calmness.

"Did you miss me?" he asked, his lips curling into the faintest smirk as his free hand reached out, his frosted fingers brushing lightly against the wall beside your head.

"I’ve been looking forward to this," he whispered. "Don’t disappoint me now."

Well.. he said it.

With your back against the wall and his towering figure leaning in too close, you knew there was only one way out of this.

Before he could react, you drove your knee up with all your strength, slamming it into his stomach.

He staggered back, a sharp groan tearing from his throat as his hand instinctively moved to his abdomen.

"Really?" he hissed, his voice low and laced with irritation.

But you didn’t stick around to hear what else he had to say. The moment you saw him falter, you bolted.

You sprinted past him, your boots skidding slightly on the frosted floor as you rounded the doorway and darted back into the dimly lit hallways of Hawkins Lab.

You could hear him behind you now—not running, but walking. Slow, deliberate, as if he wasn’t worried about catching up.

And that made it worse.

You risked a glance over your shoulder and immediately regretted it.

He was there, just a few meters behind you. “Running again, are we?” he called out. “You should know by now—you can’t outrun the cold.”

You turned sharply around another corner, your breath hitching in your chest, but suddenly—bam!—another survivor came barreling around the corner.

“Watch it!” they hissed, just as panicked as you. It was Meg, her red hair sticking to her sweaty forehead, her eyes wide with fear. But before either of you could exchange another word, an icy gust cut through the hallway, and Meg’s eyes widened further.

“Run!” she shouted, but it was too late.

With a flick of his wrist, the shard slashed across Meg’s side, cutting through her jacket and drawing a scream from her lips.

You stumbled back, gasping as you watched in horror.

“Pathetic,” his cold, deep voice echoed, reverberating through the hallway. He stood over Meg, who writhed in pain at his feet, clutching her wound. “So flawed… so imperfect.” His tone was cutting, condescending, as if she were beneath him.

“You’re not worth my time,” he added, tilting his head as he stared down at her, his frostbitten fingers twitching.

Meg groaned and tried to crawl away, but he pressed the tip of his shard into the ground beside her, the ice creeping out in sharp, jagged patterns. He didn’t strike again, though—he didn’t need to. His words alone cut deeper than the shard itself.

“You’ve already been broken,” he sneered, stepping away from her as if she were nothing more than a discarded object.

From his side, he produced a small shard of mirror, its surface gleaming. He turned it in his hands with a strange gentleness, his icy fingers trailing along the edges of the shard as if it were a delicate treasure.

Meg whimpered, flinching as he tilted the shard toward her face. The distorted reflection that appeared in its surface made your breath hitch. It wasn’t just her face—it was a fractured version of her, revealing her deepest insecurities, her doubts, and fears. Her lips trembled as she stared at the cruel image, her reflection seeming to cry out silently as if begging for release.

"You see," he murmured, his voice quiet yet cutting, "this is what you truly are. Flawed. Fragile. Broken beyond repair."

Meg tried to look away, but he held the shard steady, forcing her to confront the image.

And then, with cold, unflinching precision, he drove the shard into her chest.

Her body arched with a strangled cry, her breath coming out in shallow gasps as the mirror shard pierced her heart.

Meg's movements stilled, her eyes glassy as the frost crept across her skin. He remained kneeling over her, watching as her life slipped away, the satisfaction in his expression subtle but unmistakable.

Standing slowly, he looked down at her lifeless body, his frosted hands carefully wiping the shard clean. He inspected it briefly, as if ensuring it was free of imperfection before tucking it away.

Then, he turned to you.

His icy blue eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“You however,” he said softly, his voice like frost creeping over glass, “are nothing like that.”

Your heart thundered in your chest as he began to move toward you, his steps slow and deliberate.

“So perfect,” he continued, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “But even perfection can be elevated.”

He stopped just a few feet away, his presence overwhelming as he tilted his head. “How much more beautiful you’d be…” His voice dipped, a cold whisper that sent shivers down your spine. “…as part of the ice.”

Before you could move, before you could even think, he was on you. His cold hand pressed against your shoulder, driving you back until your spine hit the wall with a muted thud. The opposing sensations—his cold and the warmth your body clung to—warred within you, leaving you frozen in more ways than one.

His gloved hand remained firm on your shoulder, holding you in place, while his other hand brushed against your cheek. The frost that followed his touch bloomed across your skin like a winter’s kiss, cold yet strangely… soothing.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice low and hypnotic, each word curling around you like an arctic breeze. “The warmth of life… fighting so desperately against the cold I bring.”

He leaned in closer, his breath brushing against your skin like a whisper of frost. “It’s beautiful… the way your body responds. How it resists, yet…” He tilted his head, “you don’t pull away.”

Your teeth chattered as you tried to speak, but no words came.

“You’re so… fragile,” he continued, his voice soft yet laced with a dangerous edge. “So alive. And yet…” His hand moved from your cheek to trail along your jawline, his touch featherlight but freezing. “…it would take so little to turn you into something eternal. A perfect sculpture of ice.”

Your chest heaved as you struggled to keep your composure, the weight of his words sinking in. He leaned in closer, his face mere inches from yours now, his cold breath mingling with your warm exhalations.

“But not yet,” he whispered, his lips curling into that same pleased smirk. “Not when you’re this… captivating.”

His hand lingered for a moment longer before he suddenly stepped back, releasing you. The frost clinging to your skin and the wall behind you melted away almost instantly, leaving you trembling.

He turned away without another word, his presence still heavy in the air. For a moment, you thought he was leaving you, but then he glanced over his shoulder, his icy gaze piercing through you.

“Run,” he said softly, the word laced with chilling intent. “Let’s see how long that warmth of yours can last.”

Your breath hitched as the word settled in the air like a command, and without hesitation, your body obeyed. You pushed off the wall and bolted.

A sharp whoosh cut through the air, and you instinctively ducked, feeling the chilling breeze of his mirror shard slicing the air just behind you. It didn’t hit you—no, it never did—but it was close enough to send shivers crawling up your spine. He wasn’t trying to injure you. He wanted you to feel the cold, to know how close he was, to remind you that you were his to chase.

You rounded a corner, vaulting over a low counter in a desperate attempt to create some distance, but when you landed on the other side, his red light loomed just behind you. A low, cold laugh followed, echoing in the empty halls.

You made a sharp turn, vaulting over another obstacle, and finally, finally, you saw someone. A flash of movement—another survivor! Relief flooded through you as they ran toward you, their eyes wide with panic.

It was Jake.

He looked at you, then past you, his expression hardening as he realized who was chasing you. Without a word, he stepped forward, drawing the killer’s attention as you scrambled to the side, ducking into another hallway.

You hesitated for just a moment, watching as the killer’s calm gaze shifted to Jake. He didn’t speak this time, but there was something in his posture as if he were almost… displeased at the interruption.

Jake shouted, waving his arms to draw the killer further away. “Come one!” he yelled.

With one last glance, you turned and sprinted in the opposite direction, the sound of their footsteps fading behind you.

Eventually you found a dark, quiet corner where you could catch your breath.

You slumped against the wall, your body trembling from adrenaline and the lingering chill of his presence. Jake had bought you time, but you knew it wouldn’t last forever.

You stumbled into another corridor, your heart still racing as you scanned the area. The faint hum of a generator reached your ears, and you followed it like a lifeline. Turning a corner, your eyes landed on a half-finished generator sitting in the middle of a secluded room. Relief washed over you.

Quickly, you moved to it, crouching down and setting to work. Your hands shook, partially from the cold and partially from the lingering adrenaline, but you forced yourself to focus.

You flinched at the sudden distant sound of a scream. Someone had gone down—it was hard to tell who in the chaos of the trial—but you couldn’t think about that now.

Finally, the generator sparked to life, the room lighting up with the mechanical glow and you allowed yourself a small, shaky exhale of victory.

But then, the warmth in the air shifted.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end as the icy feeling grew stronger. You froze in place, barely breathing, your eyes darting around the room.

The ground near your feet began to frost over, thin trails of ice spreading across the floor.

Panic surged through you, and your eyes scanned the room desperately. There—a locker, tucked into the corner. Without hesitation, you sprinted for it, careful to avoid making too much noise. You slipped inside and shut the door as quietly as you could, pressing your back against the wooden wall.

You bit your lip to stop yourself from making a sound, every muscle in your body tensing as the steps grew louder, closer. The frost crept higher on the walls, spiderwebbing like cracks in a mirror.

You crouched lower in the locker, your eyes fixed on the small gaps in the slats. Through them, you could see his figure moving closer, the frost trailing in his wake. It spread across the walls, over the floor, and finally, onto the locker itself.

You could feel the chill seeping through, making the air inside colder and colder. Your breath hitched in your throat as you tried desperately to stay silent, but the icy metal at your back made it nearly impossible to stay still.

Through the small gaps, you watched as he stopped right in front of the locker. He stood there for a moment, his back partially turned, scanning the room.

You thought he might leave, but then he turned back, facing the locker directly, standing perfectly still, only inches away from where you were hiding. For a moment, he seemed to just stand there, listening, the silence pressing down like a weight.

The frost continued to spread, climbing up the locker door and along its edges. The cold bit into your skin, making you shiver involuntarily. And that was your mistake.

The faintest sound of your breath slipping past your lips was enough.

His head tilted slightly, his sharp blue eye narrowing as he leaned forward. From the small gap, you could see his mouth curl into a smirk.

“I know you’re in there,” he said, his voice a soft, chilling whisper that made the frost seem warmer in comparison.

You stiffened, pressing your back harder against the frozen wood as he tapped a single finger on the locker door. “Are we playing hide-and-seek now?” he continued, his tone laced with amusement. “I thought you’d know by now—” he paused, leaning closer, so close that you swore his frosty breath was fogging the slats, “—I always win.”

For a horrifying moment, you thought he was going to rip the door open, his hand hovering close. But instead, he straightened up, taking a step back.

You let out a shaky breath, thinking for a second that he might leave. But then he raised his mirror shard and dragged it lightly against the edge of the locker door, the screech of ice making you wince.

“You know,” he began, his voice smooth and quiet, almost too calm, “there’s something about you… something that exhilarates me.” He let out a low chuckle, dragging the shard along the door one last time before stopping. “I’ve encountered many survivors, and they all blur together after a while. But you…” He paused, leaning closer so his breath frosted the slats of the locker. “You’re not like that.”

You could barely breathe, your entire body frozen—not from the cold, but from his words. The way he spoke wasn’t like the other killers you’d faced. There was no mockery, no irritation at your defiance.

“You’re so... special,” he murmured, the shard now resting against the locker as if he were caressing it. “Every time I see you, it’s like I’m looking at something perfect.” He chuckled again, low and chilling. “It makes me want to keep you forever. Preserve that beauty. Make it mine.”

Your heart stopped as his words sunk in, your breath caught in your throat. Before you could think to do anything—before you could even try to scramble or scream—the door to the locker swung open.

“Caught you,” he said softly, as if this was nothing more than a game.

You gasped as his arms reached in, effortlessly grabbing you. The frost where his hands touched your skin seeped into you immediately.

“Struggling won’t help,” he said, almost teasingly, as you tried to push against him. “Not that I want you to. I quite like the way you tremble.”

Before you could protest, he hoisted you up with a strength that made your attempts at resistance seem laughable. Your world tilted as he threw you over his shoulder, his grip firm but not painful. Before he started walking through the lab, while you squirmed in his hold, but it was no use.

Before you could fully comprehend what was happening, he shifted you off his shoulder and set you down with surprising care onto a cold, metal control table in the center of the lab. The frost beneath his boots crept up the legs of the table, spreading like spiderwebs across the surface and surrounding you in a halo of icy mist.

You tried to sit up, but he leaned forward, his hand pressing against your shoulder to keep you in place. “You’re quite predictable, you know,” he said, his voice low and smooth, with a tinge of amusement. “Always fighting. Always running. But here you are under me again.”

His lips curved into that same faint, knowing smirk that made your chest tighten. He shifted slightly closer, his free hand resting on the edge of the table, boxing you in.

“You’re the last one left again,” he murmured, almost like he was savoring the words. “Everyone else has fallen. And yet… here you are. Stubborn as ever.”

Your stomach twisted at his words. The others were gone. You were the last survivor again, and there was still one generator left to finish.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, your pulse thundering in your ears as you glanced around the room, searching desperately for some kind of opening, anything to get away. But his body blocked most of your view, and the frost on the walls behind him seemed to spread as if sealing off any potential escape.

“Such a mouth,” he teased, his voice almost a whisper now, his frosty breath grazing your lips. “But I like your fire. It makes it so much more satisfying to snuff it out.”

His hand moved slowly to rest on your chest, the chill of his touch sinking deep into your skin. A shiver ran down your spine as you watched in wide-eyed disbelief. Frost spread outward from where his palm met your chest, intricate patterns blooming like frozen flowers across your skin. It didn’t feel painful—it was cold, yes, but strangely gentle, almost mesmerizing. You couldn’t help but stare at the crystalline designs etching themselves over you.

“You see?” he murmured, his voice low and velvety, laced with a quiet satisfaction. “Perfection.”

Your gaze snapped up to meet his as he stepped back slightly. His free hand rose, tugging at the edge of his cracked mirror mask. With a deliberate, almost theatrical motion, he removed it, letting the light fully illuminate his face for the first time.

He was… beautiful. His features were sharp and striking, carved with the same precision as the frost he wielded. A few thin scars adorned his face, faint but noticeable. His eyes glowed faintly, studying you intently, as though you were some kind of masterpiece he’d just completed.

“You complement me so perfectly now,” he said softly, as his eyes lingered on the frost spreading over your skin. His gaze was equal parts admiration and possessiveness, as if you were a creation he had shaped with his own hands.

You wanted to speak, to tell him to stop, to push him away, but the words caught in your throat. There was something about the way he looked at you that made it impossible to move.

“You’re so beautiful” he continued, his cold fingers tracing a line along the frost-covered patterns on your arms. “Now… now you’re mine. A canvas perfected by my touch.”

Your breathing hitched as his hand paused, his icy fingertips resting just over your racing pulse. His face was so close now that you could feel the frost in his breath, mingling with the warmth of yours.

“You’ve always stood out,” he said, his tone softening, almost tender. “Among all the others, you are the only one worth keeping.” As his hand rested on your chest, he leaned closer, his lips curling into a faint smile. “I wonder,” he mused softly, his voice almost a whisper now, “how much more beautiful you’ll be… once the ice fully claims you.”

Before you could react, he leaned in, his cold lips pressing against yours. The icy chill of his kiss sent a jolt through your body, and you gasped sharply, the frost on your skin seeming to tighten as if it were alive, responding to his touch. His lips, though cold, were strangely soft it left you reeling, unsure whether to pull away or melt into it.

His hands moved swiftly, capturing yours as your instincts kicked in to push him away. He intertwined his fingers with yours, locking them together. His grip wasn’t forceful, but it was firm, as though he was making sure you wouldn’t escape. The frost from his hands seeped into yours, spreading the intricate, shimmering patterns further up your arms.

When he pulled back, his lips hovered just inches from yours, and you could see his breath crystallizing in the cold air between you. “You even sound so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate, as though sharing a secret meant only for you. His thumbs brushed lightly over the backs of your hands, sending another shiver coursing through your body. “I could get used to hearing the sounds i could get out of you.”

You tried to tug your hands free, but his fingers tightened slightly, holding you there. “Why fight it?” he whispered, tilting his head, his tone almost coaxing. “You belong here. With me. Look at yourself—you’re already becoming part of the ice.”

Your gaze flickered downward for a moment, catching the glittering frost climbing your arms, wrapping around your wrists like delicate, frozen chains. It was as if the cold itself was claiming you, binding you to him.

“Don’t you see?” he continued, his voice filled with a chilling certainty. “No one else could ever understand your beauty the way I do. No one else could ever deserve you.”

His hands tightened just slightly around yours, pulling you closer as his lips brushed against your ear. “Let me show you how much you mean to me,” he whispered, his breath icy against your skin, sending another shiver down your spine.

His hands suddenlt slid to the hem of your sweater, the cold of his fingers making your breath hitch as he slowly pulled the fabric upward. The icy chill wrapped around you like a second skin, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

As the fabric bunched up, exposing more of your skin, you felt his lips brush against your stomach—a fleeting, ghostly kiss that left a trail of frost in its wake. His kisses were cold but delicate, as if he were crafting something beautiful out of your very existence. The frost spread wherever his lips touched, etching intricate, crystalline patterns onto your skin like a frozen work of art.

You shivered, your teeth threatening to chatter as the frost claimed more of you, but the chill didn’t burn.

“You don’t even realize how perfect you are, do you?” he murmured against your skin, his lips grazing along the curve of your collarbone. His voice was softer now, almost tender. “Each mark I leave… it suits you. Makes you mine.”

His hands trailed along your sides, the frost blooming under his touch like winter flowers. You gasped softly as his lips pressed against your chest, leaving behind more intricate frost.

“I could cover every inch of you,” he continued, his voice deepening as he leaned back to admire his handiwork. His eyes sparkled with an unearthly glow as they traced the frosty designs now covering your skin. “You were made for this. For me.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, but the words caught in your throat as he leaned in again, his lips brushing yours so faintly it was maddening. “Don’t fight it,” he whispered, his voice as chilling as his touch. “You’re already mine.”

The frost tightened its hold on you, the cold sinking deeper into your skin as if binding you to him, you couldn’t tell whether it was fear or something else entirely keeping you from pulling away.

a/n: my mom is sick so i was filling up a hot water bag but i squeezed too tight so i spilled the water on my chest :p pray my piercing dont get irritated...

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obxsummer · 7 months ago

Text

paper rings // ghost of you

pairing: jj maybank x routledge!reader (she/her)

summary: sarah cameron takes a test before she joins you and john b on a rescue mission. your brother has no aim whatsoever, you can't drive a boat, and jj's got an important question for john b. (p.s. sarah cameron is an angel)

warnings: pregnancy trope (i still love u sarah), john b & jj cry sesh!!

navigation -- series masterlist

ask me anything or support me via a ko-fi

If you had asked Sarah Cameron what her life would look like at one point, she would’ve never told you this. She would’ve never guessed she’d be living with five Pogues who happened to be her best friends, and one Pogue leader boyfriend. That seemed impossible, but here she was.

John B was still passed out in bed, having carried you to your own at some point during the night to be tucked under warm blankets. Kie was snoring away, and Pope and Cleo had yet to emerge from their room, so Sarah had the house to herself, technically.

She made her way out early in the morning when the sun was just peeking through, steering her bicycle into the downtown area. It was still trashed, obviously, but it seemed the worst of the damage had been taken care of and the fires were out. Keeping her head down, she ducked into the pharmacy in hopes of finding the thing she came here to.

Three years ago, if you would’ve asked Sarah Cameron, she would never be stealing pregnancy tests from a pharmacy, and she sure as shit wouldn’t be doing it at age nineteen.

Grabbing the two boxes, she stuffed them in her bag before collecting a handful of other items you all needed at the house. Might as well, considering there was still no power and the store wasn’t secured with the broken glass everywhere.

Shuffling her way out the door, she tried to look as inconspicuous as possible while walking back to her bike. It was clear the riot had continued further past JJ’s departure since most stores were wiped of merchandise and torn to shreds.

The sunshine caught on the shards of glass scattered and Sarah held her hand up to her forehead to block the reflection from burning into her eyes. She came face to face with the local jewelry store window, the one she’d been in just a few weeks before.

JJ threw open the door to Sarah and John B’s room without any hesitation, and thank God the duo were actually taking a nap and not enjoying their alone time in other ways.

“Sarah!” JJ’s attempt at whispering was not going well. “Sarah, wake the fuck up!”

The girl in question groaned at being pulled from her slumber. “The fuck, JJ? What?”

The blond boy waited for her to look over at him before he was waving her closer. She huffed and shuffled out of John B’s arms, her boyfriend still snoring soundly with the grace of a heavy sleeper. Following JJ out of their room, she closed the door softly behind her so John B wouldn’t wake up.

“I need your help with something,” JJ explained.

Sarah took one look at his expression and smirked. “Holy shit, you’re so stressed.”

JJ rolled his eyes and grabbed her by her shoulders. “I need you to help me find a ring.”

“A ring? A ring for what?” Sarah repeated in confusion. JJ shushed her, his index finger pressing against her lips as she went wide-eyed with realization. Sarah was practically jumping now, her excitement evident as she pulled JJ’s hand away from her face. “Holy shit! Are you serious?”

“Yes, now be quiet!” He looked over his shoulder to see if you were done with your shower and found the door still closed and water running. “We have to go now, okay? I don’t want her being suspicious.”

Sarah was quick to agree, bouncing as she ran down the stairs to grab her shoes and purse before meeting JJ by the Twinkie.

The two spent a good two hours in town, Sarah having been former friends with the jewelry store employee who was more than willing to answer any and all of JJ’s questions.

“What size ring does she wear?” Sarah asked as she scanned the cases for anything that caught her eye. “Do you think she’s a princess cut girl like me? Oh my God, this one is gorgeous.”

“Princess cut?” JJ repeated the phrase, eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he looked down at the ring Sarah was pointing at. “The fuck does that mean?”

Sarah looked up at him, dumbfounded. “Do you know the slightest thing about what she wants?”

JJ tilted his head and looked back at her. “Sarah, we’re Pogues. Have been our whole lives. Do you think she even has the slightest clue about what any of this means?”

Accepting defeat with that one, Sarah shrugged and turned back to the options displayed. “Whatever it is, you better make it a good one with all the shit she deals with when it comes to you.” She shoved JJ teasingly and moved to look at another area of the room.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Princess Cameron.” JJ rolled his eyes and followed her without any disagreement.

Sarah frowned at the memory. The days of peace and hoping for the celebration you and JJ could have were long gone, but she hoped they could find a way to change that. If anyone deserved that happy-ever-after feeling, it was you and JJ.

Biking back to Poguelandia was quiet, and Sarah was thankful for the time to think. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do with the pink tests in her bag and her heart was racing just thinking about it. She was nineteen, John B was almost twenty, but shit they were still young. This wasn’t what she imagined when she thought about having a family. Not in an environment like this.

Sarah tiptoed her way back up the stairs, noticing all the doors were closed except for the one to your room. A tiny part of her was relieved and she peeked in to see the balcony doors open, curtains blowing lightly with the wind. Closing your bedroom door behind her, Sarah made her way out to where you were resting in the hammock with your eyes closed.

“Hi,” She whispered quietly, not wanting to scare you.

You blinked and smiled up at her. “Hi, you okay?”

Sarah bit her lip in response, hand searching blindly in her back for the boxes before she held them up for you to see. “Um… can you-can I do this, in here? With you?”

You nodded, pushing yourself out of the woven hammock to meet her in the doorway, grabbing her hand in yours. Sarah tossed her bag on your bed and followed you into the connected bathroom, forcing a deep breath into her lungs.

“I’ll wait, out… on the other side of the door?” You asked carefully, not sure if she wanted you in the room or not. When she nodded, you squeezed her hand. “Whatever happens, it’ll be okay. I promise.”

“Yeah.” Sarah nodded in agreement, but she was obviously trying to convince herself more than you. You attempted to give her a reassuring smile, but it probably didn’t help considering you were just as nervous for her. She closed the door quietly after that.

You paced the floor for a moment, wanting to give her the space and privacy she deserved while also fighting the bile in your throat. What the fuck happened now?

And where the fuck was JJ?

There had been no texts or calls from your boyfriend since last night, and although you were trying to give him the space and trust he deserved, you were worried. He wasn’t in the right mindset last night, and you didn’t have enough time to talk him down like you wanted to, like you always did.

Grabbing your phone from the charger, you unlocked it and immediately moved to the Find My app where you could see JJ’s location pinging from Goat Island. You cursed, knowing he probably went in search of Groff after the information Luke shared.

JJ deserved answers. He deserved the truth. You shook your head, thinking about how Luke Maybank abused a boy that wasn’t even his, realizing how heartbreaking this whole situation was. It was unfair, and cruel, that everything good in JJ’s life had been ripped from him in some way.

Moving back to your messages, you typed one out: babe you okay?? we can come get you??

The message wasn’t read right away, causing you to sigh, but remind yourself that he might be busy talking to Groff. Or something was wrong. And you really really hoped something wasn’t wrong.

Your bathroom door creaked open slightly, Sarah’s face poking out as you got to your feet. Her expression wasn’t easily readable but she shifted enough for you to see the two tests on counter, both with two bright lines on their screens.

“Okay,” You spoke quietly, watching her expression for any kind of indication of how she felt.

“Impeccable timing,” She replied stoically. You nodded, trying to think of any words to comfort her but were stopped by the sound of footsteps.

“Hey! Is Sarah in here?” There was no time to prepare for Kiara’s sudden presence as she popped up next to you. Her eyes locked in on the bathroom counter instantly and her jaw dropped. The turning gears in her head were practically visible as she turned to face Sarah. “Um… are those yours?”

Sarah bit her lip, clearly nervous at the thought of more people knowing. “Yeah.”

Kiara was instantly looking over at you. “Oh, shit.”

Sarah frowned at the response, her eyes moving between the two of you in attempt to figure out what she was missing. “What? What’s ‘oh shit’ about?”

You shook your head, trying to give Kiara the sign to shut up. “Nothing, nothing. There’s nothing to be worried about-”

Kie thankfully picked up on your clue and started to dig herself out of the hole she created, “I mean… soon to be homeless, broke again, chased by killers. I don’t really know how it could get better.”

Sarah hummed, her eyes glancing back at the positive tests. “It would be like, super great, if maybe you could fine, like, one positive thing,” Her voice was shaky as she looked back at the two of you, eyes damp with tears.

“You’re gonna be an amazing mom,” You answered simply, like it was the easiest thing because it was. Sarah Cameron had all the great qualities that a parent should have, and you were so happy for her. You just wished it had been at a better time.

“The best,” Kie agreed quietly, “And John B loves you. He’s gonna be an all right dad.”

The idea sent the three of you into laughter at the thought of John B, your John B, raising a kid.

“And you have all of us,” You continued as you reached out to grab Sarah’s hand again. “Each and every one of us.”

Sarah nodded, her arms opening to pull you and Kiara into a group hug. “I love you guys.”

“We love you,” Kiara replied, her hand squeezing your side just a little bit tighter in an unspoken conversation. “So, what does this make me Auntie Kie now?”

The three of you pulled apart with more laughter, the cloud over your heads slowly disappearing with each passing minute.

“Does… does John B know?” Kiara asked after a moment. Sarah pulled the tests off the counter, tossing them in the boxes and into the garbage with a shake of her head, telling Kiara that he didn’t, not yet.

“Any word from JJ?” Sarah switched the topic to pull the attention off herself.

You glanced at your phone to see an empty lockscreen and shook your head in response. “No. I have an idea of where he is, I just don’t know if he needs us yet.”

Eventually, Sarah slipped downstairs to make breakfast, finding John B already up and moving around the kitchen with the smell of bacon lingering.

“Hi,” She greeted softly, kissing his cheek before unloading the items she had stolen from the store into the fridge. “Didn’t think you were up.”

John B flipped a piece of bacon. “Heard you laughing with the girls, figured I’d come get something started before we head out for the day. When did you go out?”

“Early,” Sarah replied shortly, her chest tight with the possibility of John B overhearing the news before she could share it. “Did you.. Did you hear us?”

He gave her a quick glance before putting the butter back in the fridge. “Laughing? Yeah, but that was about it. Everything okay?”

Sarah nodded as John B wrapped her in a hug, kissing her forehead gently. “Your sister knows where JJ is.”

John B blinked in surprise at the fact that you weren’t busting down the stairs. “And we’re not going to him because?”

Sarah shrugged. “She said she wants to wait, to see if he needs us.”

While John B wasn’t sure that was the best idea, nobody knew JJ better than you, so he had no room to argue with the decision.

“The ring was gone. From the jewelry shop.”

John B nearly choked on his own spit and coughed to clear his throat. Sarah giggled at the reaction, a smile spreading across her cheeks at the way he blushed.

“You’re lying. Please tell me you’re lying.”

“Nope,” She popped the p in her word and waved her left hand in front of his face where her homemade ring rested on her finger. “We’re not going to be special anymore, Vlad.”

John B smiled at the nickname that he hadn’t heard in a while. “You’re always gonna be special to me, Val.”

You walked down the stairs a few moments later, now dressed for the day and stomach growling with the scent of food. “Hey,” You greeted John B as he set a plate full of eggs on the table while Sarah dipped upstairs to tell the others that food was ready. “Thanks for last night, you didn’t have to stay.”

John B sat outside with you until the early hours of the morning, holding you close with the knowledge that the nightmares would be worse if someone wasn’t there. This was the first time in a while JJ wasn’t home when you went to sleep, and John B didn’t want you to worry all night, so he stayed.

“‘Course,” He replied simply, pausing to lean against the table and look at you carefully. “You heard from J?”

You shook your head, snagging a piece of bacon from the plate. “He went to Goat Island. To see Groff.”

“Groff?” John B paused. You nodded and bit off half a piece. “Like Chandler Groff?”

“Yeah, Luke was spewing some shit when JJ went to see him, so he’s trying to get answers. I didn’t ask, he seemed kind of upset about it. I’m sure he’s trying to figure out how Luke got a bypass to take the house,” You explained, trying to answer the question without really answering it.

John B seemed to roll with it and your friends slowly filtered their way into the kitchen to eat their hearts out. Sarah tucked herself in the chair next to you, John B on her other side. The empty chair at the table was a little too obvious, and when the read receipt didn’t show up on your phone all morning, you knew something had definitely gone wrong.

John B and Sarah were in agreement the second you said something felt off about JJ not answering. You quickly cleaned up after breakfast (though it was more like lunch at this point), and tried to get ahold of JJ again. Your texts were no longer being read, but his location was still pinging near Goat Island and you knew you had to drag your friends into it despite JJ’s wishes.

“We can take the HMS, he took the charter boat,” John B offered as you tried calling JJ again, to no avail.

“We’ll try to find out some more about the rezoning,” Pope offered as he motioned toward Cleo. “It’s only a matter of time before they come knocking. We might as well prepare for it. Could stop by and say hi to Ma and Pops too.”

Kie nodded in agreement, “I need to go check in at home, anyway. Mom’s gonna kill me with how yesterday went.”

John B nodded in understanding and tugged a shirt on over his tank top. “Alright, we’ll catch up with you guys later, yeah?”

The three of you took to the HMS shortly after, John B setting his course to Goat Island. Sarah plopped next to you on the small bench, leaning against your shoulder as you stared across the water.

Your brother was, recognizing the distant look in your eyes but his confusion was focused on Sarah’s sudden silence. She seemed excited earlier in the kitchen when talking about her new revelation, but she’s gotten quiet since then. John B made an internal note to ask her later.

“What’s that?” Your eyes caught sight of another boat across the marsh, barely covered by the plants covering it. “Kill the engine, JB,” You directed as you ducked down out of view. The fact that the sun was still setting didn’t help your cover but hopefully, the marsh grass would do its job enough for you to get a closer look. You could just barely see a group out on one of the ledges, a handful of them all with their sights on two people.

“Shit, that’s JJ,” You pointed slightly to the white shirt covering the form of your boyfriend. From here, he looked generally unharmed, but you still didn’t like the way the mercenaries were holding him back.

“And Groff.” John B locked onto the form of the older man who was also being held a little too tight to be friendly.

“Those are the guys from Charleston who took the scroll,” Sarah pointed toward the guy and girl that you and John B had narrowly avoided in the cemetery. The man she pointed at was the one Cleo had tried to kill, the same one that almost killed you while diving.

“What do they want with JJ?” John B asked, his eyes not leaving the form of his best friend, whose arm was wrenched behind his back with a machete a little too close to his face.

You shook your head, heart practically in your throat at the scene in front of you. “I don’t think it’s JJ they want. He’s collateral.”

John B ran a hand through his hair. “We could, like, ram them. Create a distraction,” He offered.

“Ram that?” You repeated as you pointed toward the much larger boat. “John B, come on!”

“Sorry! Just trying to think!”

“Wait, hey!” Sarah reached down to grab the handful of liquor bottles that were remaining from your last store run, having been left on the HMS in a hurry, clearly. “A little Molotov cocktail, maybe?”

You gave her a side glance. “That’s psychotic. Let’s find some rags.”

John B quickly pulled up the bench seat in search of any leftover towels. You tugged your favorite beach towel from underneath you, fingers struggling for a second before you were able to rip it into strips, quickly tossing them to your brother.

“John B, hurry!” You hissed as the lady’s attention moved to JJ, her form much closer than before.

“I’m trying! Shit!”

Sarah ripped one bottle from his hand, tucking a few towel strips into the neck of the bottle and swirling it to the alcohol would drench the towels. “Light it, we'll distract them. He’ll get free, jump over, and we’ll grab him.”

“Just don’t hit him,” You looked at your brother, slightly terrified with the knowledge of his past aim. “I’d like him in one piece, please.”

John B quickly tied a rope around the bottle, his fingers moving as fast as he could to tie one of the knots your father had taught as kids. “Don’t hit JJ with the Molotov cocktail. Gotcha.”

Your hands searched your jean shorts for JJ’s lighter that you rarely left home without, handing it over to John B for his use. “Be careful, please.”

Sarah tucked herself behind the wheel of the ship, your brother on the front bow with the cocktail and lighter in hand. He quickly lit the towel, a curse leaving his lips at how fast it caught flame before he tossed JJ’s lighter back to you and started spinning the rope with the flames midair.

“Oh my God, I should’ve done it,” You huffed as you ducked next to Sarah, John B’s tactic clearly a horrible one.

With a final grunt, he put his whole body into the throw… only for it to come back down on the floor of the boat.

“John B!” You chastised as the flames sprinkled over the floor. “You’re a dumbass!”

“Oh shit!” John B tumbled into the water in shock, the splash definitely giving away your cover if the fire itself didn’t.

You cursed and pushed Sarah back when she went to run for him, your stern eyes keeping her in place as you ripped open the cabinet beneath the wheel to grab the fire extinguisher Pope insisted on being there despite JJ’s best wishes.

In his defense, John B was kicking and shoving water onto the boat, lessening the flames before you pulled the pin on the extinguisher and knocked the rest of it out in a cloud of powder.

“Are you okay?” Sarah reached down to pull your brother back on board.

“I’m so sorry,” John B coughed and flung his extra shirt over into the boat..

“A blind person could’ve thrown that better!” You hissed and helped Sarah haul his weighted form up.

John B shrugged your hands off, his attention back on the cabinet where he pulled out a slingshot that JJ insisted on buying at the local county fair one year, swearing water balloon fights were going to become his new hobby.

You grabbed the second bottle as John B tied the rubber pieces to stabilize them.

“You have ten seconds to explain yourself, or we start shooting!”

You recognized the man’s voice, knowing he was the one who had chased after you and JJ underwater that day. John B shuffled around on the floor, pulling the bands back into position for you to settle the bottle into his grip.

“Ready?” You asked, flicking the lighter open in your hand. Your brother nodded, giving you permission to bring the flame closer until the towel caught and the flames warmed your skin.

John B took a deep breath, his movements calculated as he aligned and leaned back further. “Bye bye.”

The bottle launched this time, flying across the channel gap to the larger boat where the glass shattered on impact. The group went scrambling and you lost sight of JJ in the glowing orange light.

“I said not to hit him!” You smacked your brother’s shoulder out of anxiety and looked back to the fiery scene ahead. “Let’s go!”

John B moved instantly to restart the engine and steer closer to where JJ could hopefully get a better approach to jump. Your jaw dropped at the sight of a burning form going overboard to remove the flames from his clothes.

“Where is he?” You called out aimlessly as John B approached the boat. He tugged on your elbow, pulling you behind the wheel without any explanation, and stood on the edge.

“I’ll find him,” He promised before hopping to the other boat like it was the easiest thing ever. “Circle back around.”

Sarah thankfully shifted you gently, understanding you hated driving the boat in the first place, let alone when both of your boys were up to no good. Her hands took over easily and she steered the boat with a precision you never had.

“Thank God you used to be a Kook,” You breathed out with a small laugh, Sarah smiling in response but keeping her eyes focused. “We’ve gotta quit letting them do stupid shit like this together!”

Sarah huffed, turning around slightly to bring the larger boat into view as you waited for the boys to come into view. “I’ll kill them myself, actually.”

After a moment of looking, you caught JJ’s white t-shirt sprinting out one of the doors higher up, John B right behind him. Your brother took to the ladder, JJ engaging in another fight with the mercenary who intercepted him.

“Shit, shit, go!” You directed to Sarah when both boys were as high as they could climb. The crew below was recovering from the distraction and slowly shifting closer to engage. You screamed as one started climbing the rungs just behind your boyfriend, “JJ!”

His head snapped up immediately at your voice, barely sparing a glance at John B before the fear of you watching him get killed outweighed the jump they were about to take. “Ready?”

“Screw it.”

You couldn’t tell whether they were screams of excitement or fear, but both John B and JJ jumped as far away from the boat as they could. Sarah moved just as quickly, giving the vessel enough push to float next to the two close enough that you could lean down and grab hold.

You anchored your weight and reached down with two hands to grab JJ’s wrists, a small grunt slipping out as you pulled him up with your momentum, both of you tumbling to the floor of the HMS. Sarah and John B had been much more graceful, your brother having enough time to get back to his feet and behind the wheel, jamming the throttle forward just as gunshots rang out.

You reached out to grab Sarah’s wrist, pulling her back down as John B swerved to make it harder to aim. JJ coughed under you, your leg tucked between his two as you sat up to keep an eye out for the mercenaries to follow. When they didn’t, you put your attention on the boy.

“Holy shit,” You breathed before bending to kiss him deeply, fingers tangling into his wet hair as his hands grabbed your hips tightly. You managed two more quicker kisses before settling back. “You okay?”

JJ’s thumbs slipped under your tank top to brush your skin gently as you looked him over for any obvious injuries. “Oh baby, you have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

“Hey, hey. Keep it PG down there, you two,” John B’s request made you scoff and you moved down to kiss JJ again despite your brother’s wishes. Sarah sat next to your brother, letting him rest on her shoulder as she took over driving so John B’s adrenaline could wear off easier.

The four of you burst into laughter, sinking into the relief that you found your missing piece and could return home for the little time you had left there. What you didn’t know, just yet, was that the boys made it out with the scroll relating to the Blue Crown and your next treasure hunt was just around the corner.

After arriving back at Poguelandia, Sarah had practically dragged you into the house with the intent to shower before you’d rejoin the boys and catch everyone up on the last few hours.

“Hey, dude,�� JJ stopped John B before the older boy left the dock after he tied up the HMS. “Can I talk to you about something?”

John B nodded without any hesitation, nudging his head toward the store to at least get under the light since night had taken over. The Routledge boy dug into the cooler, grabbing a beer for himself before tossing one to his best friend. “Let me guess, this has to do with the grabby hands you had at the jewelry store last night?”

JJ’s jaw practically hit the floor which had John B dying from laughter in a few seconds.

“How the fuck did you know?” JJ glanced around quickly to make sure nobody else was around to hear the conversation. “Seriously, are you a mind reader or like-”

“Sarah told me,” John B took a deep breath to resettle his emotions. “Said it was gone.”

JJ groaned and ran a hand through his hair. Suddenly, he didn’t know how to talk to his best friend of almost fifteen years. How does one ask their best friend of fifteen years permission to marry his sister?

“Look, I know this conversation should’ve been had with your dad, and I wish it could be because there’s a lot of things I would say to him first,” JJ started off, his words a little too heavy for his liking, but he had to acknowledge it. He had to acknowledge the fact that they were still kids in a scary world, and Big John should’ve been better to you.

Clearing his throat, JJ took a big sip of his beer before forcing himself to meet John B’s gaze. “I mentioned it and you probably thought I was joking, but I also know there is nothing more she would want than for you to hear about this first. More than anything in the world, John B.”

John Booker Routledge had prepared himself for a lot of things in life, but he never prepared himself to be staring at his best friend with tears in his eyes over you. To be talking about another person protecting you when he couldn’t, to give up being the one you ran to for help. John B didn’t want to admit it, but he felt like this was saying goodbye to being your big brother.

“I love her, man. I love her more than I ever thought I was capable. She makes me… she makes me so good. Like I’m more than the kid with the piece of shit dad and the shit short stick. I’m more than that to her, and… and I couldn’t be more thankful for that. Like you can’t make that shit up, bro,” JJ let out a teary laugh and crossed his arms over his chest. “She’s like the fucking sunshine after a hurricane, like no matter what, it’s gonna be okay, and I don’t want to lose her. Ever.

“I want to make her the happiest person in the world. She deserves a life so much better than this one, where she’s not worried about food on the table, or if we’re coming home at night. She and Sarah, hell all of us, we all deserve that, man. I just…I just want the chance to give it to her.”

John B stared at the person across from him who was spewing words he couldn’t read in cursive. This was JJ, JJ fucking Maybank. The kid who smoked weed like it was his job and hosted keggers like it was nobody’s business. John B’s watched that version of JJ, the ticking time bomb version, completely disappear. That version of JJ doesn’t exist anymore, and in its place was the one John B had grown to trust when it came to you.

The version that held your hand when the road was rocky. The one who picked flowers in your favorite colors just to see the excitement in your eyes before they died two days later. The JJ that held you night after night when your head became too messy and you wanted to give up. This was the JJ that knew your anxiety attacks and how to stop them, how to be level-headed with you even when it was hard to. This is the JJ that John B knew you deserved.

JJ was pacing now that his best friend hadn’t really said much and he was worried the idea was flying out from under his fingertips. “I know I don’t deserve her, John B. I never will. And I’ll never forgive myself for letting everything happen to her. I should’ve been there, I should’ve done better. But I swear to you, from here on out, I will do everything I can, every lasting day of my life to make sure she’s safe.”

Reaching into the zipper pocket of his cargo shorts, he tugged out the signature shark tooth he usually had clipped around his neck, but this time there was a new piece attached. A silver ring on the chain weighed a little bit heavier than usual. JJ took apart the clasp and pulled the jewelry off before holding it out to John B.

“Sarah um… Sarah was with me, but I guess that’s obvious now. I didn’t know what the fuck princess cut meant, and the lady there went to the Kook academy and they used to be friends so I guess…”

JJ's voice floated away as John B stared at the ring in between his fingers. He’d seen this ring so many times in his life, and the realization of where made the tears fall. Holy shit.

John B crying caught JJ off guard and now he was panicking, “Dude, you good?”

“I made a call,” Sarah’s voice entered the conversation as John B turned to face her. She was teary herself, having eavesdropped a bit on the words shared. “Nicola said she remembered your dad from the shop.”

John B swallowed harshly and opened his arm to let Sarah tuck into his side. He stared at the object for a moment longer before holding it back toward JJ who was looking at him expectantly. “That was… that’s my mom’s ring. Our mom’s ring.”

JJ’s breath caught in his throat.

“Dad had pawned it when he got in deep with the gold and… how did you?” John B sniffled and rubbed his nose as he looked down at the girl next to him.

“Oh come on,” Sarah laughed at their shock, but deep down she knew this meant a lot to John B and it would mean even more to you. “She’s my best friend. Did you really think I was going to let you go in there and pick out something as important as this when you didn’t even know what a cushion halo was?”

JJ crashed into the blonde girl a little harder than he intended, but Sarah welcomed it regardless. She hugged him back just as tightly, feeling his shoulders shake beneath her touch. She was just glad to make this happen for the two of you. Nobody deserved it more.

JJ pulled back after a moment, giving her forehead a kiss before he was once again faced with his best friend and the lingering question. John B tackled him just as hard, the two boys clutching each other like a lifeline. Suddenly, they were kids on the playground again, defending each other when things hit a little too close to home. And shit, were you home to both of them.

“There is nobody…nobody, I would trust with her more than you,” John B sniffled when he leaned back to clasp JJ on the shoulder tightly, using the back of his hand to wipe the tears from his face. “She’s yours, JJ. Always has been.”

JJ let out a sob and embraced John B again. John B knew that deep down JJ never felt like he was good enough for you, but the two of you couldn’t have been more perfect for each other.

And although John B felt like he was losing you, there’s nobody he’d rather lose you to than his best friend, JJ Maybank.

a/n: hiiiii our babies are getting engaged!!!!!

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#outer banks x reader #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank #outer banks #goy series #outer banks imagine #jj maybank imagine

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kapingbitter · 2 months ago

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The price of justice

Batfam x neglected reader

What happens to a child that suffers neglect?

Why does a child have to suffer from their parents actions?

Why do they only regret it at the end?

"I don't want to live anymore..."

The dream was a tapestry of vibrant colors and impossible landscapes. I flew through fields of molten gold, danced with ethereal beings in a sky painted with swirling nebulae. It was a symphony of joy, a world where anything was possible.

Then, the colors dimmed, the landscape shifted. I found myself in a stark, grey room, the air thick with a palpable sense of sorrow. In the center, a child sat huddled on the floor, their tiny frame shaking with silent sobs. Their face, streaked with tears, was a picture of desolate despair. I tried to reach out, to comfort them, but my hand passed through their form, my voice swallowed by an impenetrable silence.

The child’s sobs morphed into a guttural wail, a sound that ripped through the dream's delicate fabric. It was a cry of utter loneliness, a desperate plea for solace. I felt a pang of sorrow, an overwhelming sense of helplessness. This child's despair felt so real, so palpable, it bled into the very core of my being.

Then, the child looked up. Their eyes, swollen with tears, met mine, and in that instant, I knew. The child was me. Not the me of now, but a younger version, a reflection of a past I had long suppressed. I recognized the worn, faded teddy bear clutched in their small hands, the same one I had carried everywhere as a child.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. I was the child, weeping in the corner, ignored, forgotten. The neglect I had experienced, the loneliness that had gnawed at my soul, it was all there, echoing in the child's despair. It wasn't a dream of another child; it was a reflection of my own forgotten pain.

The dream dissolved. I woke with a jolt, my heart pounding, the image of my younger self etched on my mind. The room was dim, the silence oppressive. I felt a cold shiver crawl down my spine, a chilling awareness that the child's pain wasn't just a dream. It was a reminder of a reality I had buried deep within myself, a painful truth I had tried to forget.

The dream, a haunting echo of my past, had cracked open a dam of long-suppressed memories. They flooded back, a torrent of painful moments, each one a sharp shard of neglect cutting through my heart.

Fifteen years of my life replayed in my mind, a painful montage of missed birthdays, forgotten promises, and empty apologies. I saw myself, a small, hopeful child, yearning for attention, for a simple hug, a kind word. But my pleas were met with indifference, my needs dismissed, my existence overlooked.

I remembered the holidays spent alone, the birthday cake left untouched, the Christmas morning devoid of presents. I remembered the silence, the empty spaces where laughter should have been, the hollowness where love should have resided.

Each memory was a fresh wound, a reminder of the small, fragile child I once was, a child who had craved the warmth of a loving embrace, the comfort of a shared laugh, the simple reassurance that I mattered. I had been a shadow, an unseen presence in a house that felt more like a prison.

Pity washed over me, a wave of sorrow so profound it choked me. I pitied the child I had been, the one who had spent years yearning for acceptance, for love, for the basic human connection that every child deserves.

It was a crippling realization. Fifteen years of neglect, fifteen years of feeling invisible, of being a ghost in my own home. The memories were raw, agonizing, and the weight of them pressed down on me, a crushing burden of sorrow and resentment.

The memories flooded back, each one a searing reminder of the years of neglect. But as I grappled with the painful truth of my childhood, I couldn't help but think of my family, the ones who had shaped my life, the ones who had, in their own way, contributed to my pain.

My father, Bruce Wayne, was a multi-billionaire playboy in the eyes of the media, a man who seemed to have it all. Yet, behind his charming facade, he was Batman, a vigilante who spent his nights fighting crime, leaving his days consumed by the burdens of his alter ego. He was always busy, always preoccupied, always a figure shrouded in shadows, both figuratively and literally. He was my father, yet he was a stranger, a distant presence who felt more like a mythical figure than a real, living person.

Then there was Dick, my older brother, a whirlwind of happy-go-lucky energy. He was always smiling, always joking, always trying to lighten the mood. But beneath his sunny disposition, his promises were often empty, his gestures more about appeasing than genuine affection. He meant well, but his life was filled with his own struggles, leaving him with little time for genuine connection.

Jason, my second older brother, once held a gentle warmth, a genuine kindness that I craved. But a traumatic incident, a brutal encounter with a villain, had changed him. He had become guarded, cynical, and distant. He was still sweet at heart, but his harsh exterior was a shield he wore to protect himself from further pain.

Tim, the third brother, was brilliant, a master of strategy, a whirlwind of caffeine-fueled energy. He was always working, always planning, always trying to control the chaos around him. He was sharp, insightful, and often sarcastic, but underneath his gruff exterior lay a vulnerability he tried to hide. He was the one who could articulate his feelings, but never seemed to allow himself to be vulnerable.

Damian, my half-brother, was a different breed entirely. He was harsh, aggressive, and constantly seeking to prove his worth. He was the product of a family dynasty, trained in the arts of combat and deception. His coldness was a defense mechanism, a way to protect himself from the world's brutality.

And then there were the others, the ones who were not blood but still part of our strange, fractured family. Stephanie Brown, a vibrant, determined woman with a passion for justice, was like a whirlwind of energy, always buzzing with activity, always trying to help, but her efforts often felt like an attempt to fill a void rather than a genuine connection. Cassandra Cain, a gifted martial artist, was a quiet presence, a shadow in the corner, her communication a series of subtle gestures and a piercing gaze. She was a warrior, a protector, but her own struggles with social interaction made it difficult to forge a true bond with her. Duke Thomas, a young man with a kind heart and a thirst for justice, was a constant source of optimism and hope. He saw the good in everyone, and his attempts to connect with me were genuine, though sometimes awkward.

And then there was Barbara Gordon, a brilliant detective and a kind heart, a figure of strength and resilience. She was a source of wisdom and support for everyone, but her own battles with her past left her with a guarded nature, a sense of caution that made it difficult to truly open up to her.

They were all vigilantes, each with their own reasons for fighting for justice, each carrying the weight of their own burdens. They were my family, yet they were so far away, so consumed by their own battles that they failed to see the child who needed them most.

And then there was Alfred, our loyal butler, a man who truly cared for all of us. He tried to cheer me up, offering me a warm smile and a comforting cup of tea, but he was always busy managing the manor, tending to the needs of the family, and keeping the wheels of this chaotic household turning. He was a constant presence, a rock of stability in a world of constant upheaval, but even he, with his endless kindness and dedication, couldn't fill the void left by my family's neglect.

He tried, he really did. He'd often sit with me in the library, offering me a book or a cup of hot chocolate, but even his kindest gestures felt like an attempt to appease rather than a genuine attempt to connect. He was a servant, a caretaker, and while his love was boundless, it was a love that was always tempered by his role. He couldn't be the parent I longed for, the one who would understand my pain, the one who would hold me close and tell me that everything would be alright.

I was the biological daughter, the one who carried Bruce's blood, yet I felt like an outsider, a ghost in a house filled with shadows and secrets. They had adopted others, embraced them with open arms, but I was left on the periphery, a constant reminder of a past they seemed to want to forget. I was the biological child, yet they were so busy fighting their own battles that they never really saw me. It was as if they were all living in a different world, a world where I did not belong.

Their neglect wasn't malicious, not really. It was more a matter of circumstance, a byproduct of their own burdens and struggles. They were fighting for justice, for the greater good, but they had failed to see the small child who needed them most, the one who was simply yearning for a family, for a connection, for a love that felt real and genuine.

So I was left, a solitary figure in a grand house, surrounded by a family who loved me in their own way, but who ultimately failed to see the child who was yearning for something more than a fleeting glance, a hollow promise, or a well-meaning gesture. I was the biological daughter, the one who carried Bruce's blood, yet I felt like an outsider, a phantom in a house filled with shadows and secrets.

The dream had shattered the illusion of a happy family, leaving me with a raw, painful awareness of my own neglect. My heart ached with a longing for the love and attention I had been denied, but a cold distance had settled over me, a shield I wore to protect myself from further hurt.

I became polite, courteous, but distant. I engaged in conversations, listened to their concerns, but my heart remained closed. My responses were measured, my laughter strained, my smiles hollow. I was a ghost in the house, a presence they acknowledged but never truly understood.

Their attempts to make amends felt clumsy, insincere. My father, consumed by his guilt, tried to spend more time with me, but his efforts felt forced, his words empty. He bought me gifts, took me on extravagant outings, but they were never the right gifts, the right outings. He was still Batman, still lost in the shadows, and I was just a small part of a grand, complicated life he couldn't fully comprehend.

Dick, ever the charmer, tried to be more present, to offer his support. He would take me to sporting events, try to share stories of his adventures, but his attempts felt more like a performance than genuine connection. He was always trying to fix things, to make everything alright, but his solutions felt superficial, his efforts misplaced.

Jason, with his cynical exterior, struggled to reconcile his past actions. He tried to be more open, to share his struggles, but his pain was so raw, so overwhelming, that his attempts to connect were more likely to push me away than bring us closer.

Tim, ever the strategist, tried to understand my pain through logic and analysis, but his intellectual approach felt cold, distant. He could articulate my feelings, but he couldn't truly understand the emotional depth of my experience.

Damian, with his usual arrogance, tried to assert his authority, to be a protective brother, but his efforts felt condescending, patronizing. He was still the same impulsive, driven boy, unable to fully grasp the emotional complexity of the situation.

Stephanie, ever the enthusiastic helper, tried to fill the void with her boundless energy, but her constant efforts felt like an attempt to compensate, to fill the silence with noise rather than truly understanding the quiet desperation of my heart.

Cassandra, with her stoic silence, tried to offer her silent support, but her struggles with communication made it impossible to truly connect. Her attempts at affection were often clumsy, her gestures misconstrued.

Duke, with his genuine kindness, tried to create genuine connection, but his awkward attempts felt like a child trying to mend a broken heart with a band-aid. He was a good boy, a caring friend, but he was still young, still learning, and couldn't fully grasp the depth of my pain.

Barbara, with her sharp mind and empathetic heart, tried to understand my pain, but she was trapped by her own demons, her own struggles, and couldn't offer the kind of unyielding support I needed. She was a friend, a confidante, but she couldn't be the mother I had never had.

Alfred, ever the loyal servant, continued to offer his unwavering support, his kind words and comforting gestures, but even his best efforts couldn't fully erase the pain.

But as time passed, their efforts to mend the broken bridges only served to highlight the depth of their neglect. They saw the distance in my eyes, the cold politeness in my words, and it was as if a mirror had been held up to their own failings. Their guilt became a palpable presence, a weight that hung over them like a suffocating fog.

They started to grovel, begging for my forgiveness, pleading for a chance to make things right. My father, the billionaire playboy, the brooding vigilante, stood before me, humbled, his pride shattered. He spoke of his regrets, his failures, the burden of his secrets, but his words were hollow, his apologies devoid of true remorse.

Dick, ever the charming boy, now spoke with a broken voice, his carefully constructed facade crumbling under the weight of his own guilt. He confessed his failings, his empty promises, his inability to truly connect, but his words felt more like a desperate attempt to regain my favor than a genuine expression of remorse.

Jason, the once gentle soul, now stood before me, his cynicism replaced by a raw vulnerability. He confessed his inability to cope, his inability to offer the love I needed, and his pain was real, but his attempts to make things right were overshadowed by his own self-preservation.

Tim, ever the strategist, now spoke with a quiet desperation, his analytical mind failing to grasp the depth of his emotional failings. He acknowledged his shortcomings, his inability to connect, but his attempts to reason his way out of the situation only served to highlight his inability to truly understand my pain.

Damian, the arrogant boy, now stood before me, his pride swallowed by a crippling sense of shame. He confessed his cruelty, his inability to offer genuine affection, and for the first time, his words were not tinged with defiance but with a raw vulnerability.

Stephanie, the vibrant, determined woman, now stood before me, her energy drained, her spirit humbled. She confessed her misguided efforts, her attempts to fill a void with noise rather than genuine understanding, and her voice trembled with a mix of regret and self-reproach.

Cassandra, the stoic warrior, now stood before me, her silent gaze filled with a depth of remorse that even her limited communication couldn't mask. She confessed her struggles with connection, her inability to express her feelings, and her gestures, though still restrained, now conveyed a genuine depth of sorrow.

Duke, the young man with a kind heart, now stood before me, his awkward attempts to connect replaced by a genuine sincerity. He confessed his lack of understanding, his inability to offer the support I needed, and his words were laced with a genuine desire to make things right.

Barbara, the brilliant detective, the empathetic friend, now stood before me, her sharp mind failing to find the words to express the depth of her regret. She confessed her own struggles, her inability to be the mother I had never had, and her voice was filled with a pain that resonated with my own.

Alfred, ever the loyal servant, now stood before me, his usually stoic facade replaced by a genuine concern. He confessed his inability to fully understand my pain, his inability to be the parent I needed, and his eyes were filled with a deep sorrow for the child I had become.

They all groveled, begging for my forgiveness, pleading for a chance to make things right. But their words were hollow, their actions insincere. I had become a symbol of their collective guilt, a reminder of their failures, and their desperate attempts to mend the broken bridges only served to highlight the depth of their neglect.

I was no longer the same child, the one who yearned for their attention, their love. I had become a stranger to myself, a shell of the person I once was. I had grown up in a house full of shadows, surrounded by a family who loved me but who ultimately failed to see me.

The damage was done, the wounds too deep. I had learned to survive without them, to create a world of my own where their neglect couldn't touch me. But the scars remained, a constant reminder of the child who had been left behind, the child who had yearned for a love that never came.

I looked at them, at their humbled faces, their desperate pleas, and I felt nothing. No anger, no resentment, no desire for revenge. Just a deep, profound indifference. They had hurt me, but they had also taught me a valuable lesson: the only love that truly mattered was the love I could give myself.

And so, I turned away, leaving them to their guilt, their apologies, their desperate attempts to make things right. I had no need for their forgiveness, no desire for their love. I was free.

#batfam x neglected reader #batfamily x reader #platonic x reader #i tried folks #i just hopped the trend #i hope I cooked or else im burned #neglected reader #child neglect

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ink-on-paper · 3 months ago

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Shards of Past Reflections: vol.2 act.2

And he went to the bathroom. He couldn't tell what he did wrong this time. He always messed up anyway. The fucking rules would change again tomorrow, or next hour, or next year. Why bother?

Trapped in the mask thay made him wore since he was born. His face was tight and hurted.

Hurted

HurTEd

HURTED

How was he supposed to just live? Survive? In this world where everyone talked in riddles, while he just wanted someone to share his collection of shiny buttons with.

What could he do? He would never fit in. He sees it now. So clearly it hurted. Again, pain. He wanted it to stop.

To stop it all, he should...

He went back to class. They were laughing again, an ugly sound that made his brain bleed a little. Because he could never understand. And it was cold loneliness. Forever, ice pits.

At home he looked in the mirror. The stiches to streched, skin deformed under the strenght. The little threads were so thightly knot they made moving painfull, as they threatened to cut his face.

But with a crow out of his window, he knew he couldn't wear this mask anymore. He lifted his blade.

Slowly and easly, it broke the stiches, and he lifted the skin. The water became red, and the white porcellain of the sink will be forever stained. He revealed the hidden face underneath. Bloody and disgusting.

He could never live without an identity.

He found with the hand his beautiful mask, rapresentation of him. What he hidden under layers of lies and acts and theatre. Filled with hot glue, he placed it on his muscles. It hurted, but it tasted like freedom. He gave up this life.

As he walked away, to meet the crow outside, his body fell to the floor. He went through the thick glass and flew in the dark blue sky.

His heart still longed for the warm caress he knew deads could never receive.

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aetherraeys · 1 month ago

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different on you

for this request x

poly!wolfstar x reader ⊹ 6.7k

cw ⟢ angsty, insecure!reader, body image issues, hurt/comfort, reader has scars

summary: shame doesn't suit you, but its getting harder to be comfortable in your own skin knowing it needs to be seen by other—loved by others.

a/n: i feel like a victorian child waiting for the plague to finally take me...being sick 9 days before finals is devious behaviour

Comfortability is weird and finnicky thing—it comes easy for some, natural even, and incomprehensibly harder for other. A day struggle in some cases.

A day struggle in your case.

One you thought you’d moved past after years and years of turmoil. But it didn’t take so much as as a single intrusive thought—one of innocent origin, one of admiration—for you to feel almost back at square one.

Reigniting a flame that you thought was almost snuffed out.

To be comfortable in your own skin—accepting that this is what will house you until the day you die. And you told yourself you were grateful for it, it kept all your muscles and organs in place, allowed you to touch things—gave you access to all the sensations of the world. And you tried not be harsh with it, with yourself—treating it with kindest and a gentle hand.

Because really it wasn’t its fault, the blame didn’t reside with your skin—an innocent entity in the cruel and fiery game your mind played on you—and Gods did the fire hurt?

Burning low at first, small—unimportant. A matchstick. Then bigger. Hotter. All-consuming.

Spreading like wildfire, uncontrollable and bruttish in nature.

Trampling it’s way into everything you did, spilling like oil—staining, tainting, tarnishing, every thought in its wake.

Honestly, it’s just unfair. How sick you feel—ashamed of your own thoughts, ashamed of being in your body—the way your brain does all sorts of gymnastics, a mirage of hops, skips, leaps, and jumps to get you to conclude on one thing. You’re not enough.

Comparison kills happiness.

It was never your intention to compare, it was harmless admiration—adoration. And yet, in an instant, that invasive creeping thought slid into your brain, and suddenly you couldn’t take your eyes off of Sirius.

Bold, beautiful Sirius—craved by Aphrodite herself, licked by the goddess of all that is love and beauty and grace. So effortless in the way he captures your eye—even just his eyes—seemingly endless pools of silver and grey with specks of blue that you just wanted to drown in, lashes long and fluttering with every easy affectionate word on his lips.

And then there was Remus, you could speak at great length about how much you adored Remus. He was a sight to behold, skin sunkissed, warm and freckled—you’d spent hours tracing over them and his scars. Convinced that the inside of your skull was engraved with a map—a constellation of his skin.

His voice, soft and steady, had this devastating way of making you feel like the most important person in the world. He listened like the stars might stop shining if he didn’t.

And beside them—what were you?

A flickering candle. Wax melting too fast. Skin too tight. Thoughts too loud.

You hadn’t realised how long you were staring at Sirius—eyes locked on the smooth, pale expanse of his stomach, the subtle ridges of his ribs, rising and falling with each breath. Water clung to him in beads, glinting in the low light like glass shards. You tracked a droplet as it slid from his chest, curved past the hollow of his waist, and disappeared beneath the towel slung lazily around his hips.

He was effortless. Unthinking. Just existing in his skin like it had never betrayed him. Like it had always belonged.

You didn’t notice the smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. Didn’t notice the way his eyes kept flicking over, catching you in the reflection of the mirror, until he spoke—words nearly lost beneath the hum of the blowdryer.

“If you keep staring at me like that, love, you’ll burn a hole right through me.”

You blinked at him, instantly averting your gaze as heat crept up the base of your neck—Remus snickered slightly under his breath at your reaction, peering over the top of his book from his lounged position beside you. Long limbs tangled with yours.

And your lips parted, to protest—shyly deny that you’d be staring, or more that you’d be caught. But they fell dead on your tongue, Sirius’ lips splitting into a wider grin at your poor attempt to be non-chalant.

Voice light and playful as it filled the room “No, no, don’t stop on my account—I love being a distraction,”

It had your lips quirking up slightly, mumbling begrudge under your breath, before turning back to your phone. You were helpless to it, using every braincell to not let your eyes travel back to Sirius’ sculpted form.

Fingers subconsciously picking at the skin around your thumb, bad habit. They always arose when your brain was full, allowing you to lose yourself in the endless sea of thoughts.

Sirius was touchy, generous with his affection—having been starved of it so long, he’d quickly become some sort of an addict. Constantly itching to close to one of you, usually—typically, Remus.

And he would revel in the contact, allow Sirius to curl up onto him like a cat seeking warmth at all times. Completely accustom to the way Sirius would all but try live in his skin with him—his hands, arms, thighs, head—something in constant contact with Remus.

Not to say you didn’t like touch, didn’t want to bask in his attention and generous comfort. But right now?

Right now your skin was already crawling, feeling prickly and too much. So when Sirius came to the bed, slotting himself between your legs, head resting over your belly button—automatically sighing into your warmth, you fought the urge to freeze. His smell drifting up to you, vivid and bright post—shower, a mix of a warm sandalwood and the light freshness of the shampoo you shared.

Really you wanted to tangle your fingers into his hair, let them be engulfed by soft mass of curls—but something was stopping you. Keeping your hands trapped by your sides.

Sirius had already started a conversation with Remus, effectively distracting him from the book he’d been reading. And you heard it plop by the pillow you rested on—you wanted to turn your head, engage in the small chatter but you couldn’t.

Couldn’t focus on anything other than the mindless way Sirius’ fingertips trailed up and down the sides of your thighs—dragging against the seam of your bottoms—up and down and up again. It was a completely innocent, ordinary touch. But today it was too much, too taxing, too dangerous.

You were all but petrified in place, lying still beneath him, breathing almost shallow—trying to act normal, trying to act like your mind wasn’t spiralling with each skim of his fingers.

Finally cracking when Sirius reached under the hem of your shirt—he hadn’t made direct contact with your skin just yet—still fiddling with your pockets and belt loops, trailing his hands over the curves of your hips.

Until he almost brushed against your skin—shirt hitching up to expose you. His voice rumbling and vibrating lowly against your body when you moved.

The urgency in your movement was noticeable—eyes wide and shaking slightly as you grabbed his hands. The touch was thankfully light. Sirius looked away from Remus, who also silenced along with your action.

The quiet barely hung for a moment before you forced your lips to curve into a sheepish smile—eyes still stuck on Sirius’. You were quick to interlace your fingers with his, letting them rest on the fabric of your stomach above his head—and his brows were quirked up in mild curiousity. The words slipped out easy with a small huffed laugh, “I’m ticklish, Siri,”

Maybe that wasn’t the best excuse.

Because the glimmer in Sirius’ eyes as the final syllable left your lips was undeniably mischief—lips splitting into a small grin as he raised his head, chin pressing into your stomach.

“…Ticklish, eh?”

Your lips dropped immediately—expression shockingly grave as you felt his hands try to tug out of your interlinked hold. It was obvious what he wanted them for—and there was no way you could let that happen—let his hands wander and travel, even if it was in the name of harmless mischief.

Couldn’t let his fingers feel the rough outline of the scars that smeared themselves across your skin.

Thankfully, Remus came to your rescue as your struggled to keep Sirius’ hands in yours and away from your stomach in your vulnerable position—squirming coming to a stop when his voice sounds beside you.

“Stop torturing her with the threat of tickling, Pads”

Your pulse was ringing in your ears as he relented—casually winking at you before he rested his head back on your stomach, thumbs rubbing over skin of your palm as he picked up his conversation with Remus like normal.

And though it took a short while for your heart to settle, the itching pressure clearly had no intention of dissipating—the longer you spent connected with Sirius, each shift on his face against the fabric that covered your stomach had it churning.

Because what if he could feel them, what if the texture was clear even through your shirt, what if he recoiled away from you at the discover, the exposure of what you likely wouldn’t be able to hide for much longer.

You’d narrowly escaped one instance, thanks to Remus, but what of next time—that’s a river you’ll have to cross when you’re in front of it. The longer you stay in your head, the more suspicious you’ll look, but you can’t help it—focusing all your energy on ignoring the way your hands want to shake in Sirius’.

When you turn your head, pushing the darker, insecure thoughts into the back of your mind—you find Remus’ gaze on you, watching you intently with a look you couldn’t quite read. It was likely nothing—just watching, and yet even as you forced your lips curled into a shy smile for him, you struggled to swallow as he looked away.

Another day.

Another hard one.

Harder than the last few, more distressing, more distracting and for the first time in a long time, you found yourself struggling to look in the mirror.

At least not without your hands instictively running over the roughened skin with a unkind, critical eye—frown etching itself onto your lips as your chest tightened. You’d been avoiding the bathroom mirror all day.

But it was that time now.

Time to shower, time to spend time with your body, time to wash and rub, to cleanse your skin.

Not a particularly difficult task—you’d done it thousands of times.

But right now, stripping bare was the hardest obstacle ever—because that would been you’d have to see them—have to touch them over and over and over, no barrier of fabric to disguise the texture.

And you felt sick, as your top hit the bathroom floor with a dull thud. Gaze locked onto the floor, stuggling to look at the skin, at the mirror, at yourself. So you didn’t.

Turning swiftly on your heel—focusing your mind on the sound of running water, using a loofah to rub over the skin to avoid physical contact with it. But after some time, you inevitably found your way back. Lathering soap over the area with vigour, scrubbing harder and harder—aggressively—as if to remove it entirely. Rid yourself of the unforgiving texture and darkened colour that dorned your skin in a way that made your insides revolt.

Of course it wouldn’t come off, wouldn’t release you from its tormenting shackles, it stayed. Relentless. A stubborn, inescapable, ugly reminder, and the surface of your skin burned under your excessive friction—itching and prickling as you continued to scrub away at it.

The water pressure suddenly wasn’t enough, wouldn’t clean you how you needed and you broke.

A choked sob built in your throat, clawing its way out when you hand dropped to your side. Head hanging low as your eyes stung, tears mixing with the water cascading over your bare form. You let out a shaky breath, lungs shuddering with the next inhale—clamping your hand over your mouth as another sob threatened to errupt into the bathroom.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you willed everything everything—turning and tipping your head back to rinse it away—the lathered soap, your thoughts, the scars. Even as your tears subsided, the aching pressure beneath your ribs was still going strong—now accompanied with a growing tension headache and a pair of dry, bloodshot eyes.

Stepping out of the shower, you kept your eyes shut as your dried—back to the mirror, just barely patting over the, now sore, expanse of skin. Padding your way into the bedroom as quietly as possible, tugging on extra layers.

A vest, a tshirt, a jumper.

You hung your towel over the heater to dry, and curled into the bed—curled into yourself, trying to sink into mattress. Distract yourself for the too loud thoughts that spun in your head.

It was maybe an hour of tossing and turning, skin stinging under the layers of fabric—when you finally relented, throat sore and dry—the duvet was thrown off haphazardly, and you exited the room. Making your way into the kitchen, trying to attract as little attention as possible as your poured a tall glass of water.

But to your misfortune, both Remus and Sirius padded into the kitchen at the minimal sound of your movement. Sirius automatically resting his head on the curve of your shoulder as you sipped quietly.

“Missed you, love. Have a good shower?”

You hummed, head still bowed as Sirius audibly breathed you in, planting a gentle kiss to the curve of your jaw when you murmured. “Mmhm, was very relaxing,”

It was a lie, a simple but necessary one you’d thought.

Though ultimately useless, because the second you turned around to press the kettle on and Remus caught a glimpse of your face, his brows furrowed and he leaned into you. On instinct you shied away slightly, keeping your eyes on the marble of the counter and avoiding his perceptive gaze.

He slid closer to you—pressing his back into the counter as you turned to open the cupboard, “You okay, dove?”

The mug hit connected to the marble with a small clink, and you held back the sigh the bubbled in your chest—pushed down the urge to shrug Sirius’ touch off of you when you hummed back in response.

Remus dipped his head down to get a closer look while you prepared your tea, skin around your eyes puffed, whites of your eyes still reddened. A frown worked it’s way onto Remus’ lips, but before he could ask what the matter was, your voice reached his ears, light and quiet—joining the low rumbling of water in the kettle.

“Would you like one?”

It was a simple and open question, but you didn’t raise your gaze from the empty cup before you, fingers circling the rim mindlessly.

They both ignored your question.

Remus had flashed a look to Sirius that said something’s wrong, and he lifted his away from its position, craning his neck to peak at you. And he noticed how your shoulders sagged, like they weighed tonnes more than they had before you disappeared.

Sirius let his hand drag down the curve of your spine, and as much as you knew it was meant to be a comfort—it really did nothing of the sort—body stiffening under his touch.

His brows pinched on his forehead, matching the concerned curve of Remus’ as he spoke, “’S something wrong, love?”

The question had the lump in your throat grow impossibly larger and you felt suddenly much closer to breaking down than you’d care to admit. You couldn’t even disguise the sigh that left you as your hand reached for the kettle that had ticked over, trembling slightly.

“No, just tired—throat hurts.” Your voice was pinched and shaky as you spoke, and Remus could see how your eyes glossed upon their inquiring, reaching for the kettle instead and pouring the water for you. Sirius’ palm was still rubbing small circles into your back, lips curving downwards at the sound of your voice. And he spoke softly, “Come rest on the sofa with me—Rem will make us the tea, yeah?”

Your lips pursed together, but there was no resistance when he took you hand—pulling you away from the counter and into the living room—tv still droning on in the back ground. His chest tugs a bit tighter at the exhuasted way you curl into yourself on the sofa. Taking up as little space a possible, putting too much distance between you.

He doesn’t question it though, allows you your extra slither of space and watches you for a few moments, how your hands are clenched into small fists, watching how your lip has been pulled into the endless assault of your teeth and how you blinked like your eyes were the heaviest thing in the room.

Sirius only brings his hand to rub gently over your head as he stood, walking to get a blanket before draping it over your lap, you barely moved—muttering a small thank you when he straightened and tucked it around you.

Remus eventually made his way into the room, tea in hand and look of concern on his face as he approached. Placing it beside you so gently, as if the sound alone would startle you.

“Put some honey in to help soothe your throat,”

You thanked him with a small smile that he could see was forced, watching both and you and Sirius from the single seater. Sirius’ hands twitched on his lap, restaining himself from reaching out and touching you—because you’d sat so far, frozen under his touch in the kitchen—clearly you wanted space.

Even if it burned him to give it too you.

The tea was only half finished when you dozed off—head slumping forward, your chest raising and dropping slower as you fell deeper into sleep.

Remus was careful to lift you—padding to the bedroom and settling you down and tucking you in. He sat perched on the edge of the bed beside you for a short while, fingers brushing gently over the surface of your cheekbones. Let his eyes wander over your peaceful expression—Remus knew it was more than a sore throat, more than just being tired.

But for now he’d let you sleep, let you enjoy the peace of a much needed slumber.

He’d ask again tomorrow.

And he did.

Subtly at first, just about how you slept, if you were feeling better—you only gave simple, vague answers and forced half-smiles. Sirius was fidgety and restless in his seat across from you—you’d opted to sit in the single chair away from them. Despite the larger sofa capacity for three, even four bodies.

Sirius was less subtle in the way he watched, eyes monitoring your figure, pennying each time you would frown unconsciously. He rose without ceremony from his place beside Remus—he’d noticed the excess layers—the way they bunched up and how you tried to carefully adjust them without too much fuss. But he noticed.

“You cold, love? Shall I turn on the heating?”

The worry in his voice was just as quiet and gentle as the one that swam behind his eyes—you shook your head quietly, lips pressing together in a strained smile and his heart all but sank in his chest. The way your hands wrapped around your middle almost protectively.

He didn’t push further, but you saw his eyes flicker over to Remus, saw the way his brows raised higher on his brows as he murmured something about taking a shower—padding down the corridor without another word.

You watched as he left—eyes stuck on the darkened hallway long after he’d gone, mind drifting as guilt burned in your chest. It was a double edge sword really, how you hated feeling so pathetic, trapped in your own skin—how you couldn’t help but retract under the pressure of your own thoughts.

And to top it all off, your mind wasn’t just damaging you, it was seeping out and spreading onto those around you. They didn’t deserve this, this weak, insecure version of you that loomed around the house, refusing help.

They didn’t deserve to be affected by your own inner turmoil. And they were still treating you so nicely, so careful and attentively—it all just translated to another reason you don’t deserve them.

You hadn’t noticed the shifting of fabric, or the movement from the sofa to your left—not until a dark mass all but spawned in front of you.

Remus.

He was looking down at you with that look. The one accompanied with a crooked smile and soft eyes that had you sinking into the sofa. When he reached out his hands, taking yours from the shielding position around you and dragging you to a stand—you couldn’t find the energy to resist.

Allowing him to walk you backwards across the room, until the back of his knees hit the sofa and you stood between his legs as he settled. Looking up at you as if you were the answer to everything, too tender, too fond and accepting and you wanted to run away from it.

Curl away from the affection that swam in his eyes and the honeyed tone of his voice, “Will you sit with me, dove?”

Remus had a way with his touches. His fingers gliding slowly up your wrists, ghostly and pressure-less, but still warm, inviting, pulling you in like a tide you couldn’t fight. Like water you wanted to drown in.

It took a mere moments more of anchoring touches before you found your way onto Remus’ lap.

He kept his hands in yours, just barely trailing up your forearms before coming back down, his warmth seeping in through all the layers of fabric separating you. Still holding your gaze, everything drifted away into the background, just you and him. And he held you with such delicacy, such reverence you almost didn’t notice the lump building in your throat.

Remus brought both your hands to rest on his chest—and his heart thumped beneath your palm, strong and confident and partially for you. “What’s the matter, my love?”

His hands were already by the sides of your face, thumbs grazing over the tops of your cheekbones and he simply held your gaze with that aching kind of tenderness he always seemed to reserve just for you, his thumbs smoothing away the wrinkles that were formed along with your frown.

You only shook your head, closing your eyes—willing the tremble of your hands to steady against his chest—curling them into his jumper, fists bunching in the soft wool, and you leaned forward until your forehead met his shoulder. It was second nature for his hands to slide down your sides, resting at the dip of your waist but then he felt it.

The way your breathe skipped and how you went ridgid in his hold.

It was obvious, undeniably something.

And his brows arched high on his forehead, creases of concern forming as he leaned back—hands frozen on the bunching fabric of your jumper. You still hadn’t moved, had barely breathed. Remus waited for the exhale, for the slow rise and fall of your shoulders but there was nothing and it made his throat feel unexpectedly dry.

Stomach twisting at the thought of you being uncomfortable because of him, because of his touch.

“Love?”

There was no response, your eyes were squeezed shut, pressed into the fabric of his clothes and you could feel the way his fingers twitched hesitantly at your sides—heat from his palms feeling that bit hotter even if you didn’t want it. Throat feeling tighter, skin all but burning beneath the layers of fabric.

“Are you—d’you want me to let go?” His voice was barely above a whisper, undercut with a concern that was palpable. You didn’t answer, couldn’t—it was already hard enough for you to stablise your pulse. Let alone bring your voice to travel out of your mouth.

And you didn’t know what you wanted—if it would be better for him to let go, or pull you in closer, allow you to sink into him—there were too many thoughts spinning around in your head.

It took everything in you to take a breath, shallow and shaky and not enough for your lungs.

Unfortunately, Remus took your silence as rejection—peeling his hands away from you, letting them drop by his side. His pulse had sped up, you could still feel it beneath your palms, thrumming through the fabric of his jumper. The task of raising your head from his shoulder was too much, instead, you let your hand travel up towards his neck.

The trembles were evident, fingertips just barely tracing over the scar that dorned the curve of his jaw in a small back and forth motion—soothing, lulling.

Remus hesitated only a moment before bringing his hands up, gentle and unsure, to cradle your face. His touch was featherlight—thumbs brushing just beneath your cheekbones, as if he were afraid you'd flinch. His brows were furrowed in that familiar way, concern etched into every line of his face.

"Look at me," he murmured, voice low and soft, coaxing rather than commanding.

You didn’t want to. Didn’t want him to see it—all the cracks, all the things you were barely holding in. But his touch was grounding, and you were so tired of carrying it alone. Slowly, reluctantly, your eyes met his.

"Talk to me," he said. Not a demand, but a plea. “Please.”

It hurt to even think about it. To try and put it into words, to expose it all—so raw, so unhealed, so shameful. Your throat clenched tight with the effort it took not to speak, and the silence stretched between you like a held breath.

You couldn’t do it. You just couldn’t.

But your hand was still against his jaw, still resting there like it had been since the moment you'd reached for him. Remus glanced down, then slowly, deliberately, he slid one of his own hands over yours. His fingers curled around yours, firm and warm, as he guided them into his palm.

“You know you can tell me anything, love,” he said quietly.

He was only met with a nod, eyes falling down to your joined hands—his hand cradling yours like something sacred and fragile. Gaze lingering on the skin there, where old scars stretched and puckered, weaving across the back of his hand like faded threads. You watched the way they shifted as he held you, how they flexed and moved with each small twitch of his fingers.

It brought you back to the moments he’d got them, new ones—scars to add to the collection.

He hadn’t wanted to talk about it, had waved off your and Sirius’ concern with a thin-lipped smile. But later, when it was just the two of you, you’d seen him sitting at the edge of the bed, shirt half-on, half-forgotten, staring down at the newest scar like it was a curse.

Jaw tight. Knuckles white around the bedsheets. And no matter how many times you or Sirius told him he was beautiful, that you loved every part of him—he never quite believed you.

Not really.

Deep down still hated them, those marks. Saw them as a reflection of the thing inside him he couldn’t escape. The monster he feared he was.

And now, staring down at those same hands holding yours, something inside you twisted.

How could you show him yours? If he could barely stand the sight of his own, how could you ask him to stomach yours? To love them?

Your vision blurred again, eyes stinging as the pressure built. Remus must have seen it—of course he did—because he ducked his head to try and meet your gaze again, voice breaking with quiet urgency.

“Love,” he said, “what’s this about?”

You tried—Gods, you tried—to stay still, to keep it all in. But the dam was already cracking. Your lip wobbled, a single tear slipping down your cheek, betraying you before you could stop it. And then it was too late.

You leaned forward and pressed your face into his chest, breath hitching, your body trembling with the effort of keeping the sobs at bay. His jumper soaked up your tears, and your fingers fisted the fabric instinctively, like you were drowning and he was the only solid thing left.

Remus froze for half a second—uncertain, panicked—before wrapping his arms around you again. Tighter this time. Protective. Careful.

He didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know where it was okay to hold you anymore, didn’t know what he’d touched that had opened you up like this. But he held you anyway.

Held you like that for a long time—until the trembling in your shoulders slowed, until the tears had soaked a warm patch into his jumper, until your hands unclenched from their grip on his chest. You didn’t speak. He didn’t push.

The room felt still in that hushed, heavy way that always followed a storm, like the air itself was holding its breath around you.

And then the bathroom door creaked open down the hallway.

You heard it before you saw him—Sirius padding barefoot into the living room, hair damp and curling at the ends, towel slung haphazardly around his neck. He wore an old, faded T-shirt and joggers low on his hips, still drying his arms with the edge of the towel when he glanced over and paused.

His eyes caught on the two of you curled together on the sofa—your face buried in Remus’ chest, Remus’ arms wrapped around you like he wasn’t sure he could let go.

Sirius blinked, the smile he’d been wearing slipping off his face like someone had cut a string.

"Everything alright?" he asked, voice gentle. He didn’t move closer just yet—just stood there, gauging, watching.

You didn’t lift your head, but you felt Remus nod, “Think so,” he said, his voice still low from before. “We’re just…sitting.”

Sirius gave it a beat longer, then crossed the room and dropped down beside you, his leg pressing into yours where you were curled. One of his arms draped across the back of the sofa, not touching, but near enough to remind you he was there. A quiet sort of presence.

He didn’t press either. Didn’t say anything else. Just let the silence settle again.

You sat like that for a while—Remus still cradling you close, Sirius quietly rubbing a thumb over the seam of the cushion. Someone had turned on the lamp earlier, casting the room in soft amber, and somewhere outside the wind was rattling the windowpanes.

Eventually, Remus shifted a little, enough to look at you again. He didn’t pull away, but his head tilted as he studied you, a slight furrow returning to his brow.

You didn't answer.

Remus had asked so softly—"Love, what’s with all the layers?"—but the question settled deep in your gut, heavy and aching. You stared down at your hands, still curled with his, fingers interlaced like a lifeline.

Silence stretched between you. Sirius shifted beside you on the couch, quiet and still now, the usual spark in his eyes dulled by something softer—something more watchful that edge of concern.

His thumb brushed the back of your hand again, gentle, grounding. Then, after a long pause, he said quietly, “Can I touch you?”

Your eyes flicked to him, startled—not because you didn’t understand, but because you did.

He didn’t mean it like that. He meant the layers. The reason you’d stayed swaddled in fabric even as the flat had grown warm and the fire crackled faintly in the hearth. He meant that.

You gave the smallest nod.

Remus shifted, careful and slow, lifting his hands from yours. He didn’t move toward you right away—just let you breathe, let you have the space to decide. And when you didn’t flinch, when your shoulders didn’t rise to curl away like they usually did—he reached out, palms finding your sides through the thick material, warm and trembling just slightly.

You let him.

And then, maybe out of instinct or guilt or something bitterer, you looked over at Sirius.

Perfect, scarless Sirius.

He was watching you both, eyes wide and dark in the low light, hair still damp from the shower. His skin caught the glow of the lamp and turned gold—soft, beautiful, untouched by the things that marred you. You didn’t think he meant to look so effortless. But he did.

And it made you want to curl into yourself.

You looked down again, chest tight with shame. It sat in your lungs like smoke, cloying and hot. How could you explain it to them—how your own body felt foreign and broken and ruined in ways they couldn’t see? How could you show them the jagged edges of what was left behind?

But then—

Then Remus’ hands, steady against your ribs, slid just slightly, not to expose you, not to see—just to be there. Just to hold. And you felt the faint, rhythmic thump of his heartbeat against your ear, where your head still rested against his chest. A quiet, constant drum.

Strong. Steady. His.

He couldn’t feel them. The scars. But he knew you were hiding something, knew something was there.

You hadn’t said a word, and somehow he still knew.

And then his voice came again, quieter now, closer to your temple.

“You don’t have to tell me what it is,” he said, careful, measured, as though every word was something sacred. “But will you show me?”

For a moment, no one moved. Not even you. The weight of Remus' question hovered in the space between you, heavy and trembling like your own hands.

Then—Sirius.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His hand came to rest at the curve of your neck, gentle, anchoring. His fingers were warm, just barely there, and you felt it for what it was: silent reassurance. Encouragement. A tether.

So you moved.

You leaned back slowly, your lips pressed into a thin, tight line. Your fingers fumbled at the hem of your layers—one, then two, then the third beneath—and they trembled, the fabric bunched and clumsy in your grip. Your head dipped down, shame pooling low in your chest as you began to lift.

The clothes gathered at your ribs, and you stilled, bracing yourself.

It was out now.

The skin that you had hidden for so long—marred and uneven, smeared with raised texture and darkened pigment, raw around the edges. Ugly, your mind supplied. Ugly, brutal, wrong.

You couldn’t look at them. Not Remus, not Sirius. You stared at your lap, blinking fast.

And then Remus breathed out, barely a sound, but you caught it.

“Dove…” he whispered.

Your body tensed up, wanting to recoil, wanting to pull the layers back down and disappear under them forever, hide the mess of what you were. Because surely—surely—they hated it. Thought it looked grotesque, ill-fitting, revolting.

Your voice came out small and shaking. “I know they’re hideous. I tried to hide them, but—”

“No,” Sirius cut in sharply, fiercely. “Absolutely not. They’re not hideous. Not at all.”

His voice didn’t waver.

Remus made a soft sound in agreement, and you felt his hands rise again, hesitating for the briefest moment before they brushed against the skin. You flinched at first—couldn’t help it—but he didn’t withdraw.

His palms were warm. Gentle. They moved over you with such unbearable care, and you could feel how his touch softened around the sore spots, the still-tender parts of you.

A silence fell, heavy and waiting, wrapped in the crackle of the fire and the quiet thud of your heart.

You couldn’t stop yourself from asking.

“Do you…do you hate them?”

The words barely left your mouth, but they were enough. Remus’ head snapped up, and the expression on his face made your chest hurt. Offence. Pain. Worry. Love.

You reached down, trying to tug the layers back into place, trying to hide again, to close the space between your body and theirs. He let you. Let the fabric cover his hands that hadn’t moved, that still rested lightly on your skin like a promise he wasn’t ready to let go of.

He watched your eyes, wide and glossy, how your fingers twisted in the sleeve of your jumper, how your lip trembled and you still couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

His voice broke when he spoke.

“I—I could never hate it. Never, my love.” His breath hitched. “How could you think that?”

You didn’t answer. Not for a long moment.

Then, quietly—almost too quietly for the room—you said, “You hate yours…I just thought…”

You never finished the sentence.

Remus' hands slipped out from under the hem of your clothes and moved to your face, cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing over the delicate stretch of skin beneath your eyes. His touch was reverent, his gaze brimming with affection that was raw and aching. Twisting with unspoken apologies and guilt.

“No…no,” he whispered, eyes locking with yours. “Never on you. You’re perfect.”

Remus’ voice cracked at the end,

“There’s nothing I could hate on you. I promise, love.”

Your breath hitched at Remus’ words, chest tight beneath the weight of emotion pressing down on your ribs. He still held your face between his hands, gentle as ever, and you couldn’t quite bring yourself to meet his eyes, not when they held that much tenderness, not when your shame still clawed at your throat.

He spoke with such conviction, like your perfection was an indisputable truth.

Sirius shifted beside you. You felt the couch dip as he moved closer, hand still resting lightly at your nape, his thumb brushing back and forth in soft, grounding circles. He leaned in, forehead just brushing yours, voice low

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, “if you only knew how beautiful you are to us. You could tear the stars out of the sky and I still wouldn’t look at anything else.”

You blinked and your cheeks were wet—the tears spilling over, silent and slow. Remus’ thumb brushed one away, and then another.

“They’re not something to be ashamed of,” Sirius continued, shifting to press a kiss to your temple. “They’re a part of you. And we—” he glanced at Remus “—we love all of you. Even the bits you think are unlovable.”

Remus nodded, leaning his forehead to yours. “Especially those,” he whispered. “the ones you hate, the ones can’t love for yourself.”

You were quiet for a while after that, held between the two of them, your face tucked beneath Remus’ chin, Sirius’ lips occasionally brushing the back of your neck in a way that made you feel real again—held close, Remus smoothing the fabric over your skin with the same care someone might offer to silk.

Hands lingering just long enough to reassure, to ground, and then they slid back to your waist, wrapping around you in tandem with Sirius.

The scars were still there, and so were they—keeping you close, allowing you to bask in their warmth, their unending affection—safe and loved in the arms of the boys who never asked you to be anything but exactly who you are.

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luciaintheskyainthi · 2 months ago

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Hiii, first of all I wanted to tell you I love ECM soooooo muchhh!!!

I also saw that you mentioned that Peter's hair is getting long enough to braid. I wanted to ask if you think he will cut it or maybe adopt the look? And if he does cut it how do you think Jason would react?

Firstly, thank-you!!!! Secondly, he'll definitely get it cut at some point lol. Curly hair stuck under a mask does not make a good combination. Peter's very much the kind of idiot to get the shits one day and just hack at it with scissors. And even as I'm writing this I want to write write it so here you go:

"I'm sick of this!"

Peter wrenched off the mask, infuriated and over-stimulated. Too long. Too long! His hair had got too goddamn long and he was done. It curled and tangled under the mask and worse was starting to show. He scowled at his reflection: the top of his head more closely resembled a rat's nest than a mop of hair.

Time to meet your maker.

With fevered hands, Peter swung open the medicine cabinet and rummaged, raccoon-like for the promised lands. He was not disappointed, and bore up his prize with a manic laugh. His enthusiasm was so great as he slammed the mirror shut that he almost shattered the glass, but the loud clack wasn't enough to break Spider-Man.

Laughing and grumbling to himself in equal measure, Peter hacked at his curls. Frankly, doing it in the suit was a genius move. The neckline was as close against his skin as a barber's apron would have been and all he needed to do was a little shimmy and the locks fell off his body to land in sad piles of brown at his feet.

Getting to the back was tricky and required a fair amount of twisting. And there was a moment that he would take to his grave where Peter attempted to turn around fast enough to catch the back of his reflection, only to realise that no, Spider-Man was not faster than light, and yes, aren't you lucky there were no cameras in the bathroom to catch you doing that.

When he was done, Peter stooped over the shower basin and thoroughly shook his hands through his hair. Tiny shards of brown floated down and Peter was abruptly reminded of Ben who would sometimes forget to clean the sink after shaving. Wow. That was a blast of the past.

"Pete?" A rattle of the door handle. "You've been in there a while, you goo-- Oh."

Peter looked up from his mad scrubbing. Jason stared back, bemused.

"Pete."

"Jace."

"Whatcha... whatcha doing?"

"Son of the world's greatest detective can't figure it out?" Peter straightened up, carding his hands through his hair now to smooth out the curls.

Jason made a strange, pained sound. "You cut yer hair?"

"Duh. It was getting too long."

Jason's light eyes jumped from Peter to the crime scene at his feet. The murder weapon sat tauntingly on the bathroom sink. Then he looked back at Peter.

Peter frowned. "You hate it."

"I don't hate it." The answer was too quick.

"You do."

"It's very...."

"Go on."

"... Okay I'm not gonna lie, Pete. I've no words. Did you have a butcher in the family?"

"I thought you said you had no words. Those are words, Jason. Mean ones."

Jason's eyes were lighting up now with amusement. He was biting his lip, clearly trying to hide a grin. "The truth hurts, Petey. It's atrocious."

In rebellious disbelief, Peter stepped back to look in the mirror and Jason made another pained sound. Peter twisted to glare. "It's not that bad."

"The back of your hair!"

And.... okay. So maybe it was pretty bad. Uneven curls, a fringe too short to the right. Peter ran his hair through the back and -- yep. Uneven there too.

"I... may have made a mistake," he reluctantly admitted.

"You think?"

"Fix it for me?"

"Oh Petey, you don't want me fixing it unless it's with a number eight." Jason stepped closer and brushed his hand over Peter's ravaged hair. "I liked the long hair."

"It was getting inconvenient.. Under the mask."

Jason hummed with defeat. He met Peter's eyes through the mirror and offered a wry smile. "Antonio on second owns a barber. We'll go to him in the morning."

Peter squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head. "Fuck. Fine."

#existential crisis mode #peter parker x jason todd #spideyhood #spiderman in gotham #asks will be responded to in one to five business weeks #Half of this was written with a cat on my lap so excuse the errors

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dreamauri · 3 months ago

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♪ — 𝗠𝗜𝗗𝗡𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧, 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗦 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗬𝗢𝗨 - seven, finale mafia! charles leclerc x wife! reader ( angst -> fluff ) series summary . . . after preparing your whole life to be married off to a mafia boss, you now have the difficult task of figuring out your new marriage and life, ensuring they don't turn out to be miserable.

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THE SHARP STING of Max’s grip on your arm felt secondary to the roaring in your ears, your mind a whirlwind of panic, grief, and fury.

Your body moved on instinct, twisting in his grasp, yanking yourself free with a strength fueled by desperation. You stumbled back, breath ragged, before you spun and bolted toward the glass doors.

Your hand flew to your holster as you ran, pulling out your gun in one smooth motion. Without thinking, you raised it and fired. The gunshot rang through the room, but the bullet only left a faint smudge against the glass. It was bulletproof.

Your stomach twisted with panic as the realization hit you. Of course it was. You had ordered for it to be reinforced, to be bullet proof. You were the one who had insisted on the security measures. How could you be so stupid?

A sigh sounded from behind you, almost amused.

“You forgot, didn’t you?” Max’s voice was infuriatingly calm.

You didn’t answer, fumbling for the door handle instead. Your fingers trembled as you wrenched it open, just about to bolt outside, but Max was faster.

His arm snaked around your waist, yanking you backward with ease. You struggled, clawing at his grip, but it was useless. He was stronger, more composed, while your panic was consuming you.

“No, no, no—let me go!” Your voice cracked as you thrashed against him, your eyes darting to where Charles had fallen.

You had to get to him.

You needed to get to him.

Your breath hitched, coming in short, sharp gasps as the walls seemed to close in around you. Your lungs felt tight, your vision tunneling. Everything blurred into flashes of movement—Max’s hands, the blood outside, the reflection of your own horror-stricken face in the glass.

Your knees buckled.

Max’s grip loosened, shifting from restraint to something softer. His palm smoothed over your hair, a quiet hush leaving his lips as he tried to steady you. “Breathe, schatje,” he murmured, voice uncharacteristically gentle. “Just breathe.”

His touch should have burned. His concern should have been meaningless. But your body was betraying you, collapsing into his hold as if he were your only tether to reality. Your hands curled into his jacket, struggling for air, your mind screaming at you to move, to fight, to—

The weight of the gun in your hand grounded you.

With whatever strength you had left, you lifted your arm, pressing the barrel firmly against Max’s chest.

“Back. Off.”

Max gritted his teeth, his jaw tightening as he stared you down, unflinching.

You didn’t hesitate. You turned the gun, aiming past his shoulder, and fired.

The vase behind him shattered on impact, shards of glass exploding across the floor.

Max didn’t even flinch. His lips pressed together, something dark flickering behind his blue eyes.

Then, his composure cracked.

“Why are you fighting me?” he snapped, stepping closer, forcing you back a step. His presence was suffocating, overwhelming. “I could give you everything, Yn! Charles already failed to protect you. You think he’s the better choice? You think he can keep you safe when he couldn’t even save himself?”

Your grip on the gun tightened. “I don’t need to be saved, Max. I need to be free to make my own damn choices!”

He let out a harsh laugh, shaking his head. “Then choose me!” His voice was raw now, anger laced with something desperate. “I love you, goddammit! I’ve always loved you—”

“You don’t love me,” you spat, eyes burning with fresh tears. “You’re obsessed. With me. With the idea of us. With what we could have been. But you don’t love me—”

Max cut you off the only way he knew how.

His lips crashed against yours, swallowing your words with a kiss so fierce, so consuming, it left you breathless.

But you didn’t melt into it. You didn’t.

Instead, you shoved him away, scrambling back, gasping for air as you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand like his touch was poison. Your fingers trembled as you lifted your gun again, this time pressing it firmly against his head.

Max exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “We both know you won’t do it,” he muttered.

Your jaw clenched. “You know me well enough to know that I hate guns. But maybe, just maybe—” Your voice cracked, tears spilling down your cheeks as you pressed the barrel harder against his skull. “Maybe I’ll give myself a free pass.”

Max raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Just to return the favour,” Your breath shuddered. “Because you shot my husband.”

For a moment, he laughed. A low, humorless chuckle.

Then—

BANG.

Max’s body jerked violently as the bullet tore through his right hip.

He let out a sharp, pained grunt, staggering back as his hand clutched at the wound, blood soaking through his pants. His face contorted with shock, then anger, then something else—something almost impressed.

But you didn’t stay to see what else he had to say.

You turned and ran.

Your pulse pounded in your ears as you burst into the next room, your feet skidding against the floor as you found Charles.

He was on the ground, slumped against the wall, his white shirt stained crimson, but—

He was breathing.

Your knees hit the floor beside him, hands immediately pressing down on his chest to stop the bleeding.

“Charles,” you gasped, your vision blurring. “Stay with me. Stay with me.”

A weak chuckle rasped past his lips. “Merde, you’re loud.”

You let out a half-sob, half-laugh, shaking your head as you fought to keep the pressure firm. “Don’t joke right now, Charles. You were shot—”

He exhaled, his free hand reaching up to brush your hair back from your face. “And yet, I’m still here,” he murmured, a lazy sile playing at his lips. His thumb stroked your cheek. “I must be lucky.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks. “I thought I lost you.”

His fingers curled weakly around your wrist. “I’d never leave you, mon amour. Don’t worry, I’ll live.”

Your heart clenches, a fresh wave of emotion crashing over you.

Then—because only Charles could do this in the middle of bleeding out—he looked up at you, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“You know,” he rasped, “I was so close to death . . . and I’ve never tasted my wife’s cooking.”

Your brows furrowed. “Charles, what—”

His lips curled into a teasing smirk. “I’m just saying. A near-death experience should at least get me a homemade meal.”

A breathless laugh bubbled past your lips.

He was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

And yet, as you looked at him—alive, breathing, yours—you couldn’t help but smile through your tears.

THE MEN WORKED in silence, their quiet efficiency doing little to erase the chaos that had unfolded. The house was a wreck—shattered glass glinting under the dim lights, streaks of blood smeared across the floors, and, most notably, a passed-out Max Verstappen sprawled across your living room like some ridiculous war prize.

Outside, beneath the vast stretch of midnight sky, Charles lay with his head in your lap, his freshly stitched wound stark against his pale skin. You hadn’t moved him from where he’d fallen in the grass—too shaken to let go, too afraid to lift your hands from the proof that he was still here, still breathing.

His eyes were half-lidded, weighed down with exhaustion, but his lips curled into that infuriatingly familiar smirk. "You know, mon amour, the least you could do is handle things for me, considering I was shot."

You scoffed, threading your fingers through his hair, letting them linger just a little too long to sell your irritation. "Right, because getting yourself shot was such an ordeal."

"It was," he murmured, tilting his head into your touch like a spoiled cat. "I had to take a bullet, fall dramatically, make sure you were sufficiently distressed... Très difficile."

You rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, your free hand moved instinctively, waving one of the men over. You whispered instructions, giving orders in Charles's place, and he hummed in amusement as you did. Even half-conscious and bleeding, he found a way to be entertained.

Eventually, the villa emptied, the weight of the night settling over you both like a heavy quilt. The air was thick with humidity, the scent of damp earth mixing with the lingering tang of blood. Somewhere in the distance, the world carried on—frogs croaking, waves rolling in, the faint hum of cicadas. Above you, the stars stretched wide and endless, like silent witnesses to the wreckage of the evening.

Your fingers never stopped moving, tracing slow circles against his scalp. Charles let out a quiet sigh, a sound of deep, aching contentment, as if this moment—just you, just him—was enough to wash away the pain.

Then—

BONG.

The sharp, eerie toll of the grandfather clock cut through the stillness.

You both jolted like startled children, eyes snapping toward the house. For a second, neither of you spoke. Then, Charles groaned.

"That stupid clock—"

Laughter bubbled up before you could stop it, light and breathless, and then Charles's followed—low and raw in his chest. It was absurd, all of it. The blood, the bodies, the sheer ridiculousness of getting spooked by an old clock after everything that had happened.

You wiped at your eyes, giggling. "Scared of the clock now?"

Charles huffed, though the smirk tugging at his lips gave him away. "I don’t like surprises, ma belle."

You leaned down, brushing your lips against the hollow of his throat, your words murmured against his skin. "This is no surprise, Charles. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be."

The clock struck again.

And again.

Twelve times in total.

Midnight.

Your laughter faded, but the warmth lingered as you gazed down at him. Charles met your eyes, the teasing edge in his expression softening into something quieter, something deeper. Slowly, he reached up, fingers ghosting along your cheek, and you leaned into his touch, your own hand finding his jaw.

And then, you kissed.

Midnight. The stars. And you.

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thebigbiwolf · 2 years ago

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Spittle - Part 1/2

Summary: The chocolate seems innocent enough - if you look past the Infernal writing on the wrapper, and with so few pleasures in the wilderness, you all but jump at the chance to sneak yourself a small treat.

Unbeknownst to you, the bar is infused with succubus spittle. Just one square is rumored to contain enough potency to send a mortal into the throes of ecstasy.

This is what happens when you eat half the bar.

Fic Tags: Sex Pollen (kinda), aphrodisiacs, succubus magic, a bit of dom!Astarion, unprotected piv, overstimulation, he talks you through it (iykyk), more tags will be added later.

Fic Warnings: Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), Dubcon (if you squint), Language, No use of Y/N, magical influence

Read on AO3: Here

A/N: Remember the dead spider? I remember the dead spider. Anyways, the reception I've been getting on Starvin', Darlin' has me wanting to thank everyone with a one-shot. This got away from me so I went ahead and split it into two parts.

I've never written anything like this and it was significantly more difficult than a multi-chapter fic. I hope everything comes across the way its supposed to! And a huge thank you to my beta @imaginarydromedary for...you know... encouraging me to post this, despite everything.

From what you could tell, there wasn’t much to the apothecary.

As you push open the dilapidated doors, your first thought is to search for supplies - anything that could help if things went south on your way to the goblin camp.

Dried herbs hang from the rafters beneath a thin veil of cobwebs, filling your lungs with a pungent clash of scents. Empty bottles lined the shelves along the wall, caked in several months worth of dust. Large chunks of the building were missing where stone met splintered wood, some areas almost entirely overtaken by greenery.

You step over broken shards of pottery, scanning over the floor and countertops for something - anything that may be of use, but to your disappointment, it seems like the shop was entirely ransacked long before your arrival.

You sigh deeply, knowing you’ll likely never hear the end of this from your companions. It was your idea to search the village. You were the one who suggested taking out the goblin scouts, exerting everyones’ energy, and now you’re afraid you’ll have very little to show for it.

You catch a glint of gold, an object reflecting the sun's rays beneath a pile of rubble. You kneel down to brush away the surrounding debris, thankful for even the smallest promise of coin before your hands catch on… some sort of serrated edge?

You pull at it, and it easily comes loose. It's a thin, rectangular block, just barely larger than the length of your hand. You wipe away some of the dirt with your sleeve, revealing an intricately designed foil wrapping underneath.

As you speculate what this might be, you hear footsteps approaching from behind, light and familiar. You turn to face the elf with a smirk.

“You’re supposed to be the stealthy one.” You chide at him, playfully, “Or has my blood put a little skip in your step?”

Astarion scoffs. “I’ve been here the entire time, watching you fumble around in the dirt.”

Crimson eyes study you, then the object you’re holding. He places his hands on his hips, head cocked to the side with a raised brow. “Is that what you’ve dragged us all the way here for?”

“First of all,” you waggle a finger at him, “You’re especially grumpy when you’re tired. I’ll have to make a note to prioritize your beauty rest. Second, I haven’t finished looking around, but check this out.”

You hand the bar to him as you stand. The cool skin of his fingers brush against your own, and you’re irritated with the way your heart skips at the brief contact. Why did the one man you found attractive in your camp have to be such a primadonna? And such a huge pain in the ass?

Astarion’s eyes scan over the textured paper with suspicion, angling it towards the light to get a better look. The golden wrapping is stamped with an image of red lips On the back, letters twist and curve in a language you don't recognize, following a single circular pattern where they meet in the center. You’ve never seen anything like this, neither in your travels, nor within the city walls of Baldur’s Gate.

“Where did you find this?”

You shrug, then point to the pile next to you. “It was buried right there.”

He silently stares at the foil, mouth pursed, until your patience begins to wear thin.

“Well, can you read it or not?”

His nose scrunches. “Of course I can’t read it. It’s written in Infernal.”

That’s… odd. Why would an ordinary apothecary sell goods made by devils? Or, worse, for devils. Unless, of course, it was some sort of marketing trick, perhaps a play on the phrase ‘sinfully sweet’, or some other cringeworthy branding.

You take it back, turning it over in your hands before tearing at the corner of the wrapping. It's sectioned into dark, rich squares, and smells indisputably like chocolate.

“It looks like candy.”

“An excellent observation.” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now, can we go? We’ve spent more than enough time here already.”

You roll your eyes and stuff it into your bag, setting off for camp, vampire in tow.

–

During dinner, you decide not to tell the others about what you found, knowing Astarion’s likely already forgotten the event. You set down your empty plate, thanking Gale for tonight’s meal. He smiles at you and bids you goodnight as you excuse yourself to your tent.

You pick up your rucksack, thinking fondly of the dessert that awaits you inside. Having lived at the beck and call of your companions for weeks on end, you can’t help but smile at the idea of selfishly indulging in a small treat like this.

You tear open the rest of the wrapping and snap off one of the squares, immediately popping one into your mouth. It melts - buttery in texture, with a smokey, slightly bitter flavor. You can’t remember the last time you’ve eaten something so rich. Maybe weeks of the same rations have made you easier to impress, but this felt especially notable.

As you break off a second piece, a strange tingling sensation begins to spread across your lips - a pleasant buzzing that starts at your neck and spreads down through your chest.

Strange, but not entirely unwelcome. You’ve heard of such inebriating chocolates, ones laced with alcohol or species of flowers that numb one’s senses for a short while. All harmless, of course, and you don’t have watch tonight. You may as well enjoy yourself. If worst comes to worst, Shadowheart is just outside with an assortment of spells and potions. Always better to ask for forgiveness.

It only takes you minutes to finish half the bar. You set the rest next to your bedroll for later and turn to blow out your candles, enjoying the lingering physical effects of the chocolate. Your skin feels flushed and delightfully warm as you settle down for the night.

When sleep finally takes you, it's dreamless, at first. Your consciousness sways, floating in an empty abyss, until colors begin to bleed onto the blank canvas of your mind.

A trickle of red morphs into the shape of familiar eyes, piercing you with their intensity..

Droplets of white spatter over a dark background, diffusing, blending into whisps. They curl and twist before settling into soft, coiffed fibers.

Hair , you recognize immediately, his hair . His eyes.

Astarion.

His image fully takes form, as if it had been waiting for you to make the connection before entirely revealing itself.

He reaches out and seizes you, grabbing painfully at your hips as you crash into his body, hands exploring you - tight, possessive, squeezing at every inch of exposed skin before settling on the curve of your ass. He digs into your flesh with the blunt edge of his nails.

His lips press hot, wet kisses to your throat, mouthing just below the ear, before dragging his tongue along your nape and sucking, hard . You whine at the pressure, eliciting a grin from the elf, so characteristically pleased with the pathetic little noise he’s managed to pull from you.

“You thought sleeping would allow you to escape this - to escape me , unscathed?” He growls against your skin, his voice almost unrecognizable - as if it’s layered beneath a lighter, somehow more arrogant, feminine one.

“No, no, no. Wake up, darling. You’re in for a very long night.”

–

You startle awake, gasping - loud, labored breaths struggling to make use of the unbearably thin air. The edges of your tent bleed in and out of focus, spinning at a nauseating pace as you attempt to recollect yourself.

You wipe at the sweat collecting on your brow, the muscles of your arm heavy and aching, and find that your skin is absolutely drenched.

Hot. Why is everything so hot?

It's as if you're being cooked alive beneath your blankets, strangled beneath the furs. You throw them off; normally soft to the touch, the fibers now only worsen the prickling beneath your skin.

Could this be some sort of illness? A fever?

No, this doesn’t make sense. Everything feels off.

Fleeting thoughts of Astarion cross your mind - quick flashes of a sinful smile that was not his own.

It didn’t quite match the one you’d silently come to admire, and now that you think of it, the hunger in his gaze was much too intense for the reserved elf.

His hands, his mouth, the way he touched you -

Your abdomen cramps, bringing your thoughts to a screeching halt.

A stabbing, visceral pain; a knife plunging into your organs. It overwhelms you, forces your body to curl into itself. You hold your pelvis, grunting, and grasp at your sheets. Tears sting the corner of your eyes.

This is - well, you have no idea what this is.

You can’t think past the pounding in your head, the throbbing in your midsection. You're compulsively twisting, writhing, begging the gods for some sort of reprieve, but it's then when you make the most mortifying discovery of the night.

You’re soaked .

N ot just your smallclothes, which may have been understandable given your strange dreams, but through your damned pants. Not even the sheets were spared.

“What in the hells…?”

You run your fingers over yourself, only intending to confirm the horrifying reality of your situation - that this is not, in fact, some sick, perverted nightmare, but the lightest touch sets off every nerve.

You wail at the sensation: one massive wave of bliss giving way to several small jolts of pain.

Pleasure to the point of agony.

The shock of the sudden orgasm courses from your sex through every limb, clenching and releasing pitiful, warm slick. It leaks freely out of you into your already thoroughly ruined underwear.

Your heart pounds. You stay like that for what feels like a lifetime, toes curled, limbs twitching, waiting for your body to settle.

After a minute or so, your breathing evens, and the thick haze surrounding your thoughts begins to lift just slightly, along with the suffocating heat.

But something within you knows this isn’t the end - knows this isn’t enough . A desperation lurks beneath the surface that you can’t quite name. It screams at you. You need more.

‘Aw…’ A familiar, feminine voice prods at your mind. You quickly recognize her, the woman from your dreams who wore Astarion’s image.

‘All alone, are we? Empty and needing to be filled? Doesn’t that hurt?’

It does. It aches unlike anything you’ve ever known. The lingering buzz of your orgasm just barely quells the worsening cramps, and they’re beginning to rear their ugly head again not minutes later.

You choke out a sob. “Wh- why are you doing this? What do you want?”

Sharp, wicked laughter fills your head, echoing off the walls of your skull. ‘I’m not doing anything, dear. Just enjoying the show.’ She hisses, ‘I told you, it’s going to be a very long night.’

You must be hallucinating. This fever - whatever this is, is simply cauterizing your senses, or possibly interacting with the tadpole? But the tadpole doesn’t speak, not like this. Never so clearly. Not with words.

Think, please. There has to be a reason this -

“Is everything alright?” Shadowheart raps on the canvas of your tent. “I heard a yelp. Are you hurt?”

Shit.

‘Ooh, this one might do!’ You feel an unwelcome… eagerness flood you.

No. No. Absolutely not.

You try not to panic.

Under no circumstances should she or anyone else come in here.

The best strategy may be to ignore her - pretend you’re still sleeping. It seems like a good plan, but before you have a chance to follow through with it, another sharp contraction hits. This one is somehow even worse than the ones before.

You pull your sheets up to your mouth to stifle your whine, but the half elf’s ears are sharper than most. “I’m coming in.”

She opens the flap to your tent and gasps when she sees you there - skin flushed pink, doubled over and covered in sweat.

“Gods, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” Her hand reaches out towards you.

Without thinking, you swat it away with your own. Your skin tingles at the contact, and the essence of a smile crosses over the threshold into your mind. The intruder giggles with satisfaction.

“Don’t,” you plead, “Don’t touch me.”

She scans over you, taking in your humiliating state. Her face twists with concern. “I need to know if you’re feverish. Please. You look awful.”

‘Well, I think you look delectable.’

You groan.

At this point, you know it’s no use fighting this thing on your own. You go back and forth on whether you want to tell her the whole truth, about the voice in your head and its influence on your body, but the idea mortifies you into silence.

Regardless, a cleric is likely your best chance of fixing this literal mess, so you nod, close your eyes, and brace yourself.

Shadowheart’s palm meets your forehead. It’s somehow worse than you anticipated. Even the simple, chaste touch sends you reeling, as if her soft hands are caressing your entire body. Flashes of heat wash over you, burning your skin, threatening to pull you back under another wave of ecstasy.

It’s too much. You try your hardest to suppress a moan, but the muffled sound manages to escape from between your tightened lips, pitiful and broken.

The disembodied voice squeals with delight.

She quickly retracts her hand, clearing her throat. “Apologies. I can confirm your temperature is… elevated, but the rest…” She shakes her head. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

You want to scream, cry - anything to release your frustration, but you keep your mouth shut, not wanting to risk making any more unsavory noises.

“I believe I can give you some relief by treating the fever, but I’ll have to consult the others on the rest. This doesn’t look like any ordinary sickness.”

Consult the others? No. Gods, no. Nobody can know about this. Is she mad?

You intend to protest, beg her not to share this with anyone, tell her whatever death awaits you on the other side of this would be preferable, but she’s speaking an incantation before you have the chance.

A bright, green aura envelopes you, cooling your skin and ever so slightly easing the cramps. With the pain dulled, it's as though you can finally think again.

You want to laugh. This situation is so utterly ridiculous that you’d find it hilarious, were it anyone else, but with the modicum of relief comes exhaustion - eyelids heavy, vision blurring with weariness.

“Get some rest. We’ll figure this out.”

Her reassuring words are the last thing you hear before you’re overcome by darkness.

#bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion fanfic #astarion x reader #astarion x you #baldur's gate 3 #astarion acunin #posting this was like pulling teeth im gonna disappear for a while #my fics #spittle

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ivquatro · 4 months ago

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Some draft ideas I've had: What if the characters in The arcana were League of Legends champions? I did it quickly and without much effort kldjasldjalk

Below I've given a bit of context and the characters' abilities.

Asra, The lovesick magician Class: Mage Region: Shurima "Asra is a mage from Shurima who wanders Runeterra in search of his half-heart." Skills: Q-(Broken Heart)- Asra unleashes a projectile in a straight line that deals slowness and damage. W-(Clever mage)- Asra creates a clone that replicates her ability. E-(Deceptive escape)- Asra can teleport behind the last champion hit by the broken heart (Q). If W is active, he teleports to his clone. R- (Infinite Paradise)- Asra traps an enemy champion for 3 seconds in his paradise, alone, the enemy champion receives no damage, but is suppressed for the duration, becoming unavailable. Julian, The Golden Heart Doctor Class: support Region: Demacia / Bilgewater "Julian is a doctor, but in the Bilgewater ways. Julian and his sister, Portia, own the Rowdy Kraken pub, where he serves the customers that Portia herself provides." Skills: Q-(The right dose)- Julian attacks a projectile in a circular area that heals allies and poisons enemies. W-(Raven's help)- With Malik's help, Julian stuns an enemy. E-(Frenzy of escape)- Julian gives an ally movement speed and attack speed in exchange for a part of his life. R- (Poison Bomb)- Julian throws a poison bomb over a large area, which heals and removes negative effects from allies and poisons enemies. Lucio, The ambitious mercenary Class: Assassin Region: Freljord/ Noxus "After being cast out by his tribe for treason, Lucio was forced to leave Freljord and found himself in Noxus, where his thirst for power was rewarded." Skills: Q-(Blood claws)- Lucio advances on the enemy, giving a scratch that causes bleeding. W-(Mercenary's past)- Lucio Lucio strikes a sword blow that passes through the enemy, teleporting Lucio behind the enemy hit. E-(Treacherous Blade)- Lucio can conjure a skill, with two straight blows and on the third attack, he slows the enemy down. R-(The Red Devil)- Lucio enters his diabolical form and heals himself with each hit, healing himself and causing bleeding for 3 seconds. Muriel: The quiet protector Class: Tank Region: Freljord ‘Muriel is a hermit who wandered into Freljord after his village was devastated. He survives in isolation due to his foraging skills and his Iceborn blood.’ Skills: Q-(Scars of the Past)- Muriel strikes twice with her axe, causing a stun. W-(The Hermit's Solitude)- After activating W, enemies are repelled by Muriel, leaving him unreachable by melee strikes. E-(Old friend)-Inanna attacks the enemies closest to Muriel, healing him. R-(The man and the wolf)-Muriel and Inanna defend themselves together, each enemy hit takes more slowing from Muriel's attacks and damage from Inanna's attacks. Nadia, The water mirror. Class: Support Region: Ionia "Nadia was an important figure in a very wealthy region of Ionia, but because of the war against Noxus, she learnt to use her magic to protect her people." Skills: Q-(Abyssal Waters)- Nadia conjures a rift of water that deals damage and leaves enemies imprisoned on the ground. W-(The all-seeing eye)- When cast, Nadia gives her and an ally sight of any invisible enemy, sight of the bushes and detects wards. E-(Reflection)- Nadia heals an ally, who reflects a percentage of the healing to other allies. R-(glimpse of the future)- Enemies in the conjuration area are stunned and allies in the area receive healing and movement speed. Portia, The troublemaker Class: Fighter Region: Demacia / Bilgewater ‘After stopping off in Bilgewater with her brother following a shipwreck, Portia grew up to become the owner of the Rowdy Kraken pub, cheering up her patrons and punching out those who cause a mess. Skills: Q-(Just the shards)- Portia throws a claw and hits and deals area damage. W-(Come to fight)- Portia taunts her enemies, healing herself with the blows she hits. E-(Turning the tables)- Far from enemies, Portia throws a table, enemies hit are stunned, when conjured near an enemy, it is thrown. R-(Punch on the house)- Portia conjures three bursts of punches, dealing damage in the first two and knocking up in the third.

I confess that I'm a bit insecure about posting, but I've decided to post, even if it's just a few scribbles for fun.

#the arcana #my art #sketch #league of legends

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iconbyunghun · 3 months ago

Text

against the rules

Pairing: cop!hwang inho x reader

Summary: After getting caught in a failed robbery, you find yourself in the hands of Hwang Inho, a strict and overprotective police officer who has known you since childhood. Taken to his apartment for first aid, tensions rise as old dynamics shift, desires awaken, and boundaries blur.

Warnings: age gap (early-20s/40s), daddy issues, some dirty talk, Smut 18+, MDNI.

Word count: 4.2 k

a/n: Oh, all I want is to be comforted by an older man. Nothing more to say.

“Damn it, when will you stop getting into trouble?” The uniformed man’s tone was severe. He gave you a quick glance through the rearview mirror, only to see you rolling your eyes at his comment.

“Inho, stop treating me like a child” you responded almost immediately.

The comment made him tighten his grip on the steering wheel. With what right did you ask him that? Ungrateful brat, he thought.

“If you don’t want me to treat you like a child, stop acting like one” he scolded you harshly. “I won’t always be on duty to save your ass.”

You sighed heavily and this time chose to remain silent. You knew you had no way to win this argument. You pressed yourself closer to the car door and directed your attention to the window, watching the dark and lonely streets of the city pass before your eyes.

The burning sensation on your cheek made you focus on your reflection in the glass. The adrenaline was starting to fade, and the effects of the still-bleeding wound were becoming more apparent—stinging, pain, and discomfort. You could see small shards of glass embedded in your exposed skin.

Your thoughts drifted back to the events of that day—to the damn moment when you agreed to go with your group of friends to rob the neighborhood liquor store. It sounded bad, but they had justified it—none of you had money to buy anything, and the owner was an old usurer who loved to subtly ask young girls for sexual favors in exchange for alcohol. They convinced you that you were the perfect decoy to distract him, so you wore the shortest skirt in your closet and a tight top that accentuated your figure.

You looked quite provocative, but everything seemed to be going well. As you leaned against the counter, you had the disgusting man’s full attention on you… or rather, on your chest. Your stomach turned every time you saw him lick his lips and flash his yellow teeth at any silly comment you made.

A few minutes passed—enough time for your three friends to fill their pockets and sweaters with bottles of alcohol and get ready to leave the store. Just as you were about to follow them, the youngest of the group dropped a bottle, shattering it against the floor with a loud crash.

Everything else happened in seconds. The four of you rushed out, and you tried to follow, but the old man understood what was happening faster than you would have liked. He grabbed your arm to stop you from escaping, and although you managed to break free, you couldn’t avoid the whiskey bottle he threw at the exit door as you ran through it. Shards of glass struck your cheek, cutting your skin instantly.

The dizziness didn’t stop you, and as soon as you stepped onto the street, thinking it was all over and that you could jump into your accomplices' car, it was as if fate had played a cruel joke on you—you crashed into the solid body of a uniformed man.

A cop.

Shit, you thought.

But shit wasn’t enough of a word when you looked up and saw who was holding you by the arms.

You swallowed hard.

Hwang Inho.

You were truly fucked.

"Get out" he ordered, turning off the engine before stepping out of the car.

You recognized the place immediately. It was his apartment building. You almost had to hide a satisfied smile. Maybe things hadn’t turned out so bad for you after all.

You got out, and once on your feet, you discreetly tugged at the hem of your skirt, trying to cover more skin before following him inside the building. He held the entrance door open until you walked past him; involuntarily, his eyes flickered down to your curves—your bare legs, your exposed skin. He clenched his jaw, cursing you for going out dressed like that.

Upon entering, he gave a slight nod to the old janitor, who watched you both with a mix of curiosity and judgment as you stepped into the elevator.

"I’ll treat the wound on your face and then take you home" he stated once the elevator doors closed, pressing the number seven.

"You don’t have to worry so much about me" you tried to sound indifferent, though deep down, you liked knowing that despite everything, he was always looking out for you.

"I’m doing this because I don’t want your mother to see you injured."

You let out a hollow laugh.

"As if she cared" you said dryly. "That woman only cares about her current boyfriend and having a bottle of alcohol in her hand."

"Don’t talk about your mother like that" he scolded, frowning as he turned to confront you. "She’s done the best she could on her own, and… you don’t make her life any easier by getting into trouble every chance you get."

His gaze locked onto yours, and you held it, looking at him almost angrily. His words hurt. You knew you weren’t the best daughter—you were far from it—but damn… she had never shown you even a bit of affection or protection, and he knew it.

"I don’t understand why you always try to justify everything for her" you replied in frustration, crossing your arms and leaning against the metal wall behind you.

"Because I’ve known her for almost as long as you’ve been alive, and deep down, she’s still a good woman" he stated seriously.

You looked at him emotionlessly, and he held your gaze. The tension filled the small space for a few seconds until the elevator dinged, signaling that you had arrived, breaking the silent battle of stares.

Without saying another word, he stepped out and walked down the dimly lit hallway, his steps firm. You followed him closely.

Once at his apartment door, he unlocked it and let you enter first, ensuring that no one was watching, knowing all too well how nosy his neighbors were.

He turned and watched as you plopped onto the couch, crossing your arms in an attempt to maintain a serious expression. He closed the door with a heavy sigh, feeling your gaze following his every move. He knew you would hold a grudge for a long time if he didn’t apologize. Oh, but he was not a man of easy apologies, especially when he knew he had spoken the truth.

"Will you drop the drama already?" he asked calmly as he headed to the bathroom.

You didn’t respond.

You heard the sound of bottles and boxes being moved until he finally returned with a first-aid kit in his hand. He placed it on the coffee table in front of you, opening it to take out antiseptic, gauze, and precision tweezers.

When he sat beside you on the couch, his large, sturdy build was more noticeable compared to yours. Gently, he took your chin between his fingers, tilting your face slightly to examine the wound on your cheek. His rough fingertips contrasted with the warmth of his touch on your skin. The blood had already dried, and within the damaged skin, he saw small glass splinters gleaming.

"It’s superficial, so it won’t be hard to remove them, but it will still hurt" he pointed out, scanning your face. His eyes drifted to your lips—delicate and crimson. They lingered there for a few seconds before he forced himself to look at you again… only to realize you were also lost in him.

He cleared his throat, calling your attention.

"We should get this over with quickly."

He released your face to grab a gauze pad and soak it with antiseptic. As soon as the liquid touched the wound, the sting made you hiss.

"Shit…" you whispered, frowning and pulling away.

"I told you it would hurt."

You clenched your lips and shut your eyes as you pressed against the backrest of the couch, waiting for the burning sensation to pass. Inho frowned, about to comment on how dramatic you were, but his thoughts went blank when his gaze landed on your breasts, tightly pressed into that ridiculous red top.

“What the hell are you wearing?” He averted his gaze abruptly, annoyed.

You smirked mischievously despite the pain.

“Do you like it?” You half-opened one eye to look at him, and his expression was enough to make you burst into laughter.

“God, you’re unbearable” he muttered, soaking another gauze pad. “Don’t wear that kind of clothing again. Have some self-respect.”

“And if I don’t, what will you do?” you teased. “Bend me over your lap and spank me?”

His imagination ran faster than he would have liked, making him drop the wet gauze onto his lap. He cursed.

“Enough, don’t make those kinds of comments” he snapped irritably.

“Oh? Did you imagine it? Oh, Inho, you’re such a pervert” you teased, pretending to be scandalized, earning yourself a sharp glare from him.

“When did you become such a spoiled little brat?”

He huffed, and you adjusted yourself on the couch so he could continue. This time, he held your chin a little firmer to keep you from moving.

After successfully cleaning the wound, he used the tweezers with precision to remove the tiny shards embedded in your skin. His breathing slowed, concentrating as his warm breath brushed against your face. Between the sting and his closeness, your heart pounded faster than you’d like to admit.

“Does it hurt a lot?” he asked softly.

“Not anymore” you lied, though the burning sensation on your cheek said otherwise.

“Liar” he murmured, lips curving slightly into a fleeting smile.

After cleaning the area one last time, he took a small bandage and carefully pressed it over the wound. His fingers lingered on your skin longer than necessary before finally pulling away to put everything back in the kit.

“All done” he muttered, placing the tweezers back inside and standing up. “You can take a few minutes to recover before we leave.”

He turned, standing in front of you.

“Actually, I was thinking… Can I stay here tonight?” You fluttered your eyelashes, looking up at him.

Your request caught him off guard, freezing any thoughts or actions he might have wanted to take.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t done it before. In fact, it used to be quite common for your mother to leave you with him when she couldn’t take care of you herself. Those were the memories you treasured most—sleepovers where he let you pick your favorite movies and made your favorite food. You loved when he told you stories before bed; his voice had always had the effect of making you feel calm and safe, making you believe that, by his side, everything would be okay. But those days were long gone when you grew up and changed. You started going out with your friends, those "criminals" as he called them. Then, you only saw him occasionally when you needed his help to avoid ending up in a holding cell or to pay off a debt. No matter what you did, he was always there, ready to save you.

And now, here you were, with pleading eyes, softening his heart once again.

“I can sleep here in the living room…”

“I want to sleep with you” you interrupted.

He whispered your name, almost begging you not to put him in that position.

“I don’t think it’s right for us to share a bed” he murmured heavily, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not a child anymore, and I’m a man. I can take the couch.”

“Why exactly? You’re still you, and I’m still the same as always” you frowned, not really understanding the problem. “Come on, just this once. I’ve had a horrible day” you pouted slightly.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds, making his final decision. When he opened them, he looked you up and down.

“Fine, but please change into something else” he replied with resignation.

“You’re the best!” you exclaimed with a victorious smile, wrapping your arms around his waist in an impromptu hug. You felt him stiffen at your closeness, wobbling slightly at your sudden action. He knew it wasn’t going to be an easy night.

After changing into the clothes Inho had lent you to sleep in, you stared at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. You could still see the redness of the wound beneath the bandage, along with other small cuts around it. You huffed, feeling a mix of anger and frustration, hoping they wouldn’t leave permanent scars.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, you saw Inho already changed into his sleepwear—gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt. He was lying in bed, covering part of his face with his right forearm. Upon hearing you come out, he moved his arm away and barely held back a smile when he saw you standing beside the bed, wearing one of his checkered boxers and an oversized white T-shirt. Absolutely adorable.

“I’m taking the side by the wall” you announced, and instead of climbing in from the foot of the bed, you simply crawled over his body, pressing your palms against his chest for a few seconds—seconds that felt like an eternity to him—as you settled beside him. Your hair brushed against his face, and he inhaled deeply, feeling weak against the sensation of your touch and your scent.

His bed wasn’t meant for two people, but you fit just enough to leave a small distance between your bodies.

“Get some rest” he murmured before turning off the lamp. The room was engulfed in darkness, except for the faint glow coming through the window.

“You too” you murmured back, turning onto your left side. You’d have to sleep that way to avoid irritating your wound. The position allowed you to see Inho lying beside you. You could make out the silhouette of his profile despite the darkness, his chest rising and falling steadily.

“Inho…” you whispered his name, testing if he was still awake.

No response.

“Inho” you insisted, a little louder.

“What is it?” he answered, knowing you wouldn’t let him be until he acknowledged you.

“Thanks for everything” you expressed sincerely.

The comment caught him by surprise. You knew because he slowly opened his eyes to glance at you.

“You don’t have to thank me for anything.”

Both of you remained silent for several seconds. Just when Inho thought you had finally fallen asleep, you broke the silence again.

“Was my father a good man like you?”

Your question made him pause, thinking for a few seconds before answering.

“I don’t know if I’m a good man, but he definitely was” a nostalgic smile appeared on his lips as he remembered his friend. “And above all, he was an excellent father. He adored you.”

“I wish I could remember him a little more.” A lump formed in your throat as you spoke. “At this time of night, I usually think about him, about how different everything would have been if he hadn’t…”

The remaining words got stuck in your throat, and your eyes filled with tears.

“Come here” Inho whispered upon hearing your quiet sobs.

He took you into his arms, moving you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing. He positioned you on top of him, careful not to brush against your wounded cheek.

“Sorry, I’ve been a burden to you all night” you whispered, resting your head on his chest and closing your eyes at the comforting sensation of his fingers softly scratching your scalp, just like he used to do when you were a child and needed help falling asleep. Still so desperate for love and comfort.

“Of course not” he murmured, wrapping you in a protective embrace as he felt your tears dampen his shirt. “You know you can count on me for anything.”

“Even if I commit a crime?”

He chuckled lightly, his chest vibrating beneath you.

“Your only crime is giving me a headache, but I don’t mind.”

“I love you, Inho” you whispered before closing your eyes.

Your words echoed in his mind, filling him with warmth. He was happy to have you like this, even if it was just for a few more hours.

Before the clock struck 6:00 a.m., Inho was already awake again, his body programmed by his daily routine. However, this time, nothing about his routine felt normal.

Your body rested on top of his, sleeping peacefully, warm against him. One of your legs draped over his abdomen, while he still held you in his arms. One of his hands lay dangerously close to your lower back, while the other was tangled in your hair.

He tried to move you gently to get up, but all he managed was to make you shift lazily, rubbing against him and letting out soft, sleepy murmurs. Your knee brushed against his crotch, leaving him breathless and completely overwhelmed.

Heat surged through him, and before he could stop it, his body reacted, hardening against the fabric of his pants.

"Fuck…" he muttered, guilt washing over him.

This time, with more force and determination, he moved you off him, carefully laying you down on the bed before hurrying toward the bathroom.

When you barely opened your eyes, you only caught a glimpse of his silhouette disappearing behind the bathroom door. Still drowsy, you didn’t give it much thought, but you felt the need to hug his pillow against your body, inhaling his scent before letting sleep lull you once more.

Inside the bathroom, Inho’s hand moved quickly over his hardened length, slick with precum. Deep groans escaped his lips as he tilted his head back, eyes closed. And even though he hated it, his mind could only think of you—your body on top of his, your lips, your warmth, your sweet scent. He felt filthy and pathetic, a pervert, just like you had called him last night.

He didn’t have the courage to go back to the room. How could he face you now? He felt unworthy of your presence.

Instead, he went straight to the kitchen. He would make you some breakfast before taking you home and hoped not to see you for a few days. Or maybe he shouldn’t see you ever again.

When he finished, he left your plate on the table and only took a glass of water for himself. He felt like he wouldn’t be able to eat anything all day.

He looked at the clock: 8:00 a.m., and you were still asleep.

Sighing, he sank onto the couch, resting his head against the backrest. He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again and staring blankly at the turned-off television. He got lost in his thoughts and guilt, not realizing when you had come out of the room.

The smell of omelet and coffee made your stomach growl, but before heading to the kitchen, your attention shifted to Inho. He seemed distant, sitting on the couch, not even glancing at you as you entered the living room.

"Good morning" you called out, flashing him a small smile.

"Morning" he replied flatly, giving you a quick glance before turning his attention back to the blank screen. "I made you breakfast. Finish so I can take you home."

"Okaay?" you dragged out the word, confused. "Why are you in such a bad mood?"

Inho’s nerves spiked as you walked closer, settling beside him on the couch. Unlike last night, this time, the space between you felt unbearably small.

"Nothing’s wrong, what are you talking about?"

"Hmm, I don’t know. Can you at least look at me? I feel like I’m talking to a piece of furniture."

With reluctance, he turned his face toward you. There was something odd in his gaze, as if looking at you physically hurt him.

"Happy now?"

"No. Tell me what’s going on." You crossed your arms, staring at him.

"Nothing. Nothing’s wrong" he snapped, avoiding your gaze again. "You should be home already. Your mother called."

"Liar." Your tone turned serious. "Why does it feel like you're kicking me out?"

"I’m not kicking you out. I told you, your mother’s been asking about you."

"That’s weird, my phone doesn’t have a single message from her."

"She called me."

"You’re a terrible liar."

He clicked his tongue, exasperated with how stubborn you always were. You never made things easy for him.

"Come on, tell me the truth." Your hand rested softly against his cheek as you lifted your leg, straddling his lap.

"W-what are you doing?" he stammered, visibly flustered as you climbed on top of him.

"I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong." You declared, adjusting your legs around his thighs, settling into his lap.

"This isn’t right" he murmured, his jaw tightening.

"Why?" you arched a brow, shifting slightly against his growing hardness.

You’d say it surprised you to feel him harden, but it was exactly what you were expecting. His breathing hitched, and his hands clenched into fists on his thighs as if trying to hold himself back.

"Stop acting like you don’t want to fuck me" you whispered, cupping his face with your hands, a smirk tugging at your lips as you watched him unravel.

You could feel the tension in his body, his heavy breathing, the way he was fighting himself. And you loved it. You loved knowing he saw you as a woman and not a little girl anymore.

"I… I don’t know what you’re talking about…" His voice wavered, something so uncharacteristic of him that it only confirmed what you already knew.

"You really think I was asleep enough not to hear you touching yourself in the bathroom?"

His stomach twisted in shock, his expression frozen.

"I-I’m sorry…" he muttered in shame. "It was a mistake."

"Don’t be sorry. You haven’t even fucked me yet…" you whispered against his lips, grinding slowly against his hard length through the fabric of his pants.

"This isn’t right…"

"hm tell me to stop."

His eyes shut tightly as the electrifying sensation of your body moving against him consumed him. His chest expanded with a sharp inhale, his restraint breaking. You took that moment to kiss him—just a teasing brush, your lips tugging at his lower lip before he snapped.

He gripped your thighs tightly, lifting you against him in one swift motion. You wrapped your arms around his neck.

As if one of your fantasies had come to life, everything happened in a blur. When you became aware again, his body was already over yours in bed. His lips devoured yours with desperation, both of you breathless, while his hands roamed every inch of your exposed skin, claiming you.

A shudder ran through him as he brushed against your entrance, so warm and wet just for him. One. Two fingers slid inside, stretching you open.

"Is this what you wanted?" he murmured against your lips, his fingers sinking deeper, his thumb circling your swollen clit.

You nodded almost instantly, a sharp moan escaping as his fingertips grazed a particularly sensitive spot.

But even the sensation of his long, thick fingers paled in comparison to feeling his cock push into you for the first time. His name spilled from your lips in a broken gasp. His eyes clenched shut, silently begging himself to hold on just a little longer, not to lose control too soon.

"You're so tight…" his lips ghosted over yours as he slowly sank in to the base. One of his hands wrapped around your neck—not squeezing, just holding you still for him.

A few strands of his now-messy hair fell over his forehead. You thought about how good he looked like this—disheveled, undone—a stark contrast to the pristine image you always had of him.

His movements started slow, torturous, savoring the way your body clenched around him, not knowing if he’d ever have you like this again.

"Go faster, please" you pleaded.

You didn’t need to say more for him to obey, increasing his pace, making the bed creak beneath you. The sound of wet skin slapping together mixed with your loud moans and his ragged breaths. Soon, his movements became sloppy, sending you over the edge as the thick tip of his cock repeatedly hit that sweet spot deep inside you.

"You're such a good girl for me" he murmured in a shaky voice as he pulled out, stroking himself as he reached his own climax, spilling over your abdomen and splattering your breasts with his warm release.

His breathing was heavy, just like yours. He collapsed beside you, exhaling deeply.

As your breathing steadied, you opened your eyes again, grabbing the sheet to wipe yourself clean before turning to look at him. He seemed completely out of it, his expression unreadable. You knew he must be cursing himself in his mind.

"Don’t feel bad. I wanted this too" you murmured, sliding your hand over his sweat-slicked chest before leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips.

His eyes met yours; you could see the hesitation in them, but he said nothing.

You rested your head against his chest, and he instinctively wrapped his arms around you, just like the night before—except this time, there were no barriers between your bodies.

#hwang inho x reader #frontman x reader #front man squid game #hwang in ho x reader #squid game #lee byung hun x reader #squid game smut #squid game fanfic #young il #player 001 x reader #the frontman x reader #lee byunghun #hwang inho x you #Reminder that English is not my first language #so I apologize for any writing mistakes.

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