#Writing: Splashes and Slashes

[wonder-in-wings]

Splash and Slash

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Darkling Lake PARTIES: Parker and Teagan SUMMARY: While out searching for specimens, Parker finds an unglamoured Teagan at Darkling Lake. He decides her tail is a worthy addition to his collection. CONTENT WARNINGS: Drug manipulation [sedatives], medical blood, parental death [mentioned]

The sun was gone for the day, the moon having since taken its place; the perfect time as Parker went on one of his patrols. He covered a minimal amount of space every week, or so he tried to - when he wasn’t busy interacting with the fools of the town or entertaining the questions of children and bored patrons of the museum, he was either in his familiar bunker, at his flat or in the Pines. The Pines had become one of his favored spots as a whole even though it somewhat surprised him seeing as how there was a swamp that was more reminiscent of the bayous Parker grew up in. The Pines, as he noticed relatively soon in his arrival to Wicked’s Rest, wasn’t just a place for the shapeshifters to frequent; he’d met more than one nymph in those woods and had been gifted with some more additions to his collection. This evening, after intensely studying one of the maps he’d picked up some time ago, he noticed there was a lake. Darkling Lake, as it was formally called and for some bizarre reason Parker opted to visit it again that night. It was a large body of water, larger than he had time for in one night so after setting the layout on a graph to make it easier for him, he carefully made his way to one of the farther-reaching corners. The main reason why he went was because when he’d been there before, he saw something out of his peripheral vision and though he was too far away to be able to discern what it was for sure, he knew that it wasn’t a human. Tonight, as he approached the edge of the lake, he kept close to the brush and he dropped to a crouch as his blue eyes carefully scanned the environment, trying to catch another glimpse of the non-human creature he saw before. Parker was prepared for an altercation this time, as well - around his waist was a hardy utility belt with a few pouches and a line of thin straps that looked almost like a bandolier but instead of holding bullets, his waist was lined with several long, thin daggers, no more than a few inches in length and with the sharpness of a needle. Indeed, the handles were peculiar too, seeming to have thumb rests on the ends, also reminiscent of a hypodermic needle. Or a turkey baster, as his brother would call his creations. 

Whatever. He crouched, watching the lake, feeling the comfort of his spiked knuckles clasped to a belt loop and hanging casually from his jeans as he waited for something. Anything. _______

The water lapped against the shore in rhythm, the lake making its own music as the day passed on. Like a ticking clock, the beat was insistent and precise, something Teagan found comfort in whenever she waded idly in Darkling. She hummed to herself, her tail swishing back and forth as she laid on her back to stare at the night sky. The stars’ light danced, and Teagan liked to imagine they liked the way the moon moved the waves. Like it was creating a song they could bear witness to every night.

“Hmm…” Vala snorted, trying to get the nymph’s attention. “What is it, beaut? I’m relaxing a bit. Don’t mess with a good time and get me tampin’,” Teagan teased the kelpie, rolling onto her stomach and swimming toward her friend. The creature dropped a severed arm, sending Teagan into giggles and chortles. “Nice one! I’ll add it to the collection.” Vala replied with a snort, disappearing into the distance a moment later. 

Teagan made quick work of the limb, placing it neatly next to several skeletons of those who dared dirty the lake. Disrespectful lot, they were. No matter. They were taken care of and Teagan resurfaced with a grin. All was quiet, which meant she’d get to head out soon to see Arden. They were supposed to watch some movie about a lost fish in the sea. It sounded strange for a fish to be lost, but if Arden liked it, then Teagan had no issue being a tad confused. _______   Nothing seemed abnormal. Perhaps he needed to shift his perspective slightly. Slowly, quietly, Parker altered his trajectory, remaining as quiet as he could in the underbrush even though he was more suited for the marshy mud of the swamp - forests weren’t his strong suit, all things considered. And normally he would’ve opted to simply explore elsewhere but he had a strange intuition about this location that night. And there it was, the sign Parker had been looking for as he switched locations. After an indeterminate amount of time, he caught movement, the surface breaking ever-so-slightly and he turned his head sharply where his eyes fell upon the creature. It was amphibious in nature, pale as it waded through the water with an unnatural smoothness, not unlike a jaguar in the rivers of the Amazon. It didn’t appear to be a shifter, or if it was, then it was unknown to him but the longer his eyes remained fixated on it, the more he could feel something rippling under his skin. Perhaps it was psychosomatic. Regardless, his eyes slowly swept over the creature before they settled on an object of his instant fascination: the long, beautiful tail that the creature possessed. While Parker was instantly drawn to fae wings of any kind, he realized over the recent months that he could appreciate beauty in other forms, whether it was a chunk of pyrite from an oread or even the horns of an unruly spriggan. He was still unaccustomed to obtaining these magnificent, unusual wonders. He had to have that tail. His brain honed in on it, watching it with enamored obsession. Parker stood and carefully, very slowly walked out onto the lakeshore, approaching the creature wordlessly at first. The closer he got, the more the rippling feeling pulsed under his skin and he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a nix and he inhaled sharply through his nose with the sensation. “Lovely night for a swim.” He called to the fae. _______

The crushing of wet earth perked Teagan’s ears. She tensed, hands twitching with the urge to attack without much more prompting. Her body trembled under the tension, and she turned slowly to face the man who spoke. Eyes were wide, and despite having claws that could easily tear, Teagan hovered her hand over the blade in her thigh holster.

“Yes.” The nix offered a curt nod, not bothering to glamour herself in case the man was a warden. No use in giving away her disguise. “I wouldn’t come in if I were you, though. I like to swim alone.” Teagan began to wade backwards, giving herself some distance in case the man had other plans. There was a look in his eyes that unsettled her. It was far worse than a look of murderous intention. She couldn’t place exactly what it was, but her body screamed at her to run or tear, and she had sworn to try to be better.

“Please go now, lad. I’m trying to enjoy my time.” _______ The presumed nymph called back, dissuading the Warden from joining her. Non-aggressive but reminiscent of an animal that should’ve been left alone. But he couldn’t. The switch was turned on in his head and Parker’s mind was consumed with little else. His brain was already buzzing with thoughts on how he could artfully arrange the tail, how to turn and model and shape it to look as aesthetically pleasing as possible. “I know better than to get into the water with you, nix.” He said carefully but not shyly as he took a few more rather confident steps towards her. “I want your tail.” All these years later and he never knew how to ask in a more effective, gentle way. He’d tried asking gently before, a long while ago, but it never proved effective; for some reason, all the fae whose wings he’d added to his collection seemed attached to them, even if they didn’t actually do anything. They were vestigial and only a couple of them could hover for a few seconds and even then it didn’t look satisfying. A tail wasn’t vestigial though, Parker thought to himself. He inhaled softly, reached down to pull his feet out of his shoes though he kept his blue eyes on the nymph studiously. “I can make it quick and painless but unfortunately I can’t leave without it.” His voice took a different tone to it and indeed, his expression changed slightly as he looked at her. “The way you move in the water, the way it sways behind you. It’s beautiful, it’s graceful and perfect in form and function.” He took a few more steps, closing the gap between them but staying on the shore. “It’s mesmerizing. I need to immortalize it.” _______

This man was no regular hunter. He had something far worse than a murder in mind, and the cold fear of what that entailed made Teagan’s throat constrict. She felt her body tremble at the look in his eye, her palms growing clammy. She could feel the sensation despite being engulfed in water. 

“No.” There was no room for anything else, and Teagan wouldn’t allow there to be. She sank her body further, until only her eyes were above the water. Danger was in front of her, granting her to toss whatever notion of trying to the wind. She wasn’t looking for a fight that time. Instead, it found her.

“Stay back.” A hiss as she faked out a lunge. Her eyes were full of fire and her teeth were bared for the man to take as a warning. They gleamed in the moonlight reflecting off the water, and Teagan forced her jaw not to tremble under the weight of her terror. Of the way it unsettled her to be seen as an object to maim and preserve. “What right you got, eh? It’s my body, boyo. I’ll cut you apart if you try it.” _______

The nymph lunged and Parker’s quick reflexes, the ones he’d been trained arduously in for over four decades, allowed him to respond quickly by taking a deft step back though it didn’t scare him off. He was light on his feet, he had to be when he lived in the bayou. In fact, he was reminded of his days going after gators in the swamp, treading lightly, maintaining eye contact as they hissed and stood their ground. They were efficient training, though they hit their ceiling in that they didn’t have the luxuries that fae did with their thumbs, long limbs and ability to run. …though gators could be plenty fast in their own right on land. “Fae are so pretentious.” Parker responded, passion not leaving his tone but instead taking a backseat to his clinical delivery. “You live these long lives and care about so little while you enjoy your passions, your deals, promises. Manipulating others with the way you speak.” He didn’t dare turn his back to the nymph, taking careful side steps as one of his hands went to the utility belt that glittered with the metals that hung off it. Even after everything Fae had done to him, to his family, to innocent people, Parker still had his own personal values. “I don’t want to fight.” He said, not dishonestly. “You have so many other things.” This was potentially a lie; Parker knew that fae had proclivities for forming collections of their own, whether it was names, secrets, or physical trinkets. They didn’t ask for most of the stuff they acquired and they hoarded it selfishly. He honestly didn’t know if this nix did but unlike fae, he could afford to lie. “I won’t ask again.” As he spoke now, he inched forward and he hadn’t realized that not once had he blinked since starting his counterpoint argument. “But I’m not leaving without it. I’d prefer for it to be an easy transaction.” He also completely failed to acknowledge that this wasn’t what people did, fae or no. He didn’t have the ability to say that he could leave her in peace, walking away empty-handed. _______

Terror began to mount over with every sway of the water, heart leaping harshly into the fae’s throat as the man pressed on with his speech. Teagan was weighed down by dread, try as she might to force herself to don her confidence once more. She was more than capable of protecting herself, having killed plenty of hunters in the past. Hunter or not, her tail would remain where it belonged.

“We’re pretentious?” Teagan scoffed, rolling her eyes and chuckling at the way she made the man take a step back. She was getting a feel for his reaction time. It was a little too good. She’d have to improvise. But first, Teagan wanted to bite back with her words. “You’re the one putting us on this pedestal, mun. Glorifying us. Immortalizing us. If we’re pretentious, then you’re a lowly peasant trying to get a taste of what true magnificence is. ‘Sides. You didn’t even ask.” Lying was so damned human. 

Teagan glared at the stranger, fear beginning to wane as anger quickly replaced it. He was in for a rude awakening, of that she could promise. “You gonny come in and try to get it then?” A taunt, a knowing smirk tugging Teagan’s lips as she waded even further into the lake. “Think you’ll find that it ain’t so easy. Ever heard of my body, my choice? Or are ya just like every other man?” Her smirk turned devious. “Looks like you’re gonna leave without it, cythrauluffer.” _______ The fear that Parker could almost feel emanating from the nix was dissipating, as it usually did around this part of the altercation. It was almost rhythmic at this point - he would ask without asking, usually get either a swift or gradual rebuttal, then as they talked and he made multiple attempts to get out of this with minimal damage to either of them, they got emboldened and made the first move. Then Parker was prompted to act in self-defense. It was a gambit of sorts, an explanation that he had come up with over the years to warrant being able to tell the truth as he explained the curiosities and treasures he’d accumulated. She accused him of not asking, which he indeed hadn’t and at this point in his life, he was unsure if he could even ask - of course they were going to say ‘no’ anyway so he long since abandoned that line of literal questioning. There was the occasional fae who didn’t know the rules and he was able to manipulate them to get what he wanted the way he wanted… But most of them reacted the way the nymph before him did. She went further out into the water and while Parker rather fearlessly approached her to the point that his socks were starting to get wet as the shore lapped the rocks and dirt, he stopped shortly. He was a strong swimmer, he wasn’t going to deny it but he also knew that no matter how good he was, he wouldn’t have been able to overpower her in her literal element. However, he just couldn’t keep his eyes off the tail. It was an addiction. He never realized it and still didn’t even now; the pull of obtaining something he’d never seen before, something he could already visualize its form and positioning, seeing it on his table as he carefully worked with it and around it. “Not a preferable outcome.” Parker sighed and he sounded almost disappointed as he finally tore his eyes from her figure and he addressed the numerous things on his belt. He wished he could’ve caught her outside the lake but he had to be improvisational. Unfortunately, he wasn’t equipped to his fullest loadout as Parker recalled the wrist-mounted crossbow that sat on his desk at home, half-assembled as he attempted to customize it for further utility. Perhaps he’d have to meet her in the water, anyway. He just needed to get one of his specialized daggers into her before the tide would turn in his favor. Sighing and still standing next to the lake, he started to take off his socks and roll his pants up. _______

Whether the man was a hunter or not was still unknown, but if he was, he was a little too callous and reckless. For Teagan to think that about a hunter? Now that was saying something. Any respectable warden, (and the nix didn’t, ever) would’ve known better than to charge into a fae’s natural habitat. Being quite literally in their element could and would prove fatal. 

A mistake he would not be able to make again because he’d be dead. 

“You takin’ what’s mine isn’t preferable either, mun.” Wading in a circle, Teagan taunted the man with her tail, whipping it back and forth above the surface. Like a hypnotist lulling their target into a headspace of their choosing. For Teagan, it was heedless and rash, and by the looks of how he perused his belt, she wasn’t sure what route he’d take. There was no way in hell she was going to risk much more than time, and there wasn’t much left.

Teagan had a ravenous look in her eye, arms widening open to beckon the lake to work in her favor. It roared to life, a large wave rising just over eight feet. The water slammed into the nymph’s opponent, her miscalculation sending her in a swirl toward him. “Iesu mawr!” Teagan hissed as she was thrown straight into the man. On split-second whim, she took a deep breath and urged the water to continue to thrash, sending them both tumbling into the lake.  _______

Perhaps Parker shouldn’t have been so forward with his request, as she now seemed to use the knowledge to her advantage as she moved her tail, taunting him, pulling him in and for a moment, it seemed to work as the neurons in his brain were stroked by the beauty of its movement. How he longed to gather it in his hands, to sculpt it into something mesmerizing for himself. Fortunately (or unfortunately depending on how one perceived it), Parker was already closer to the water than he should’ve been by the time the nymph utilized her resonance with her element and he was rapidly greeted with a massive wave that crashed into him… along with her. Their bodies collided though not for long enough and the churning water sucked him in, pushing him under the surface. As he was being turned around in the undertow and having taken a quick, but deep improvisational breath himself, Parker curled his legs into him, turning himself into a temporary protective ball as he pulled one of his specialized knives out. The lakewater was impenetrably dark and he was effectively blind as he was rolled in the water. However, his step of pulling one of his daggers from its spot carefully to avoid losing anything else under the waves had been successfully completed and in another stroke of luck he could see just enough of her in his field of view that he lurched his arm forward, plunging the dagger into… some part of her body, he couldn’t tell what. His other hand moved as quickly as it could, pressing down on the end of the hilt and injecting the body with a special tranquilizer. Of course, it wasn’t a perfected art - every body was different - but he released the dagger, now abandoning that goal in favor of trying to surface. _______

The way the man’s eyes glazed over with desire made the nymph’s stomach twist with disgust. She was appalled by his menacing expression, his greed mounting over into something desperate and chaotic. It was brief and he quickly became calculated again, but watching it happen in real-time practically gave Teagan whiplash. 

Back off!

Teagan’s mind screamed, her mouth opening and closing to relay the message. There was no sound, not to whoever that man was. He was only met with bubbling water and thrashing limbs. When Teagan finally managed to get her fins in place, she whipped around, at the ready.

Unlike her opponent, the nix could move easily and see clearly in the lake. It was her element, after all. 

With a smile, she bolted forward, claws prepared to sink into flesh. Teagan didn’t mind if it would burn her, she welcomed it like it was family. In a way, it was. At the very least, it had been the most consistent thing in her life; good or bad. So when she didn’t quite make purchase onto the man’s skin, and was instead met with a sensation she was all too familiar with. Iron. She gasped to herself, realizing something was off. Her limbs began to almost immediately grow too heavy to use, not a sensation she was accustomed to. 

Panic began to stretch Teagan’s chest tightly, her instinct to kick herself away and remove the…needle? Dagger? She wasn’t quite sure. Did it still have liquid in the—oh no. The edges of Teagan’s vision rippled with black, eyes growing too heavy to keep open. She felt cold and prickly, textured in a way that left her feeling unsettled and terrified. But that didn’t last very long. In a matter of seconds, Teagan was consumed with darkness.  _______ Fully prepared for something to make contact with him as he attempted to surface, Parker tried to manipulate his blood to turn him into a last-ditch effort weapon against whatever she would do to him but he couldn’t push it; he was already doing too many things at once and that would’ve sent him into exhaustion quickly. Contrary to his initial belief, however, he had remained unscathed and indeed, his dagger seemed to have hit its mark because the water, no longer controlled by a vehement force of nature like the nix, eased around him. Parker surfaced briefly, looking around to see where he was in relation to the shore. Not too terribly far and he took in another deep breath before he dived. Now that the water was calmer, it allowed him to utilize his own skill in swimming and while he still knew he would never be able to keep up with a creature like a nix or a nereid, his human abilities were still impressive by their standards, or so he liked to think. He couldn’t see effectively so he used broad movements with his arms, searching blindly in the murky depths until they felt a limb. Instinctively grabbing it firmly but not violently, he gathered her in one of his arms and hauled the two of them up where they breached the surface. Breathing deeply and more steadily now, using the techniques he’d learned from those decades in the bayou, Parker pulled her to the shore. He needed to work quickly; the tranquilizers were effective but ephemeral - his longer-lasting tranquilizers were soaked through now, useless as they sat in his pouches. It was fine, it had to be fine unless he could dose her again with another dagger but he only had three more left and he was too far from the Bunker; he’d need to do this now. First, he placed the nix on her side, very gently laying her tail out behind her and almost wasting time with how he looked over it fondly before he left her as she was, going over to his boots for a moment. Secondly, Parker checked his utility belt where he was relieved to learn that his spiked knuckles remained on the clasp in the midst of the roiling water, as did the rest of his daggers and– Perfect. He pulled a new knife from a holster that was on one of his legs, looking similar to an enlarged scalpel in design. Notably, this one wasn’t iron; he wanted the things he collected to be intact, not mottled more than necessary for a single individual performing an impromptu amputation in the middle of nowhere. This was a learning opportunity on multiple fronts. Parker would need to be better prepared in the future but for now he went back over to the nymph, dropped to a crouch and carefully turned the tail over before he made a rather precise incision at the base of her lower back. _______

There were no images, no chorus of noise that welcomed a person so heavy into unconsciousness. There was only a void, thoughts too diluted and muffled to truly reach. Teagan was no longer able to struggle or fight back, body limp and useless against whatever had been injected into her. Even worse, she was useless against the blade that began to slice into her. 

By the time Teagan had seen a hint of a light, it felt like it had been hours, but that couldn’t be the case. She could hear the dull sounds of strain behind her. Oh Fates. Her eyes attempted to shoot open, lids working against the fuzzy and heavy weight that enveloped them. “Mm…G-g…!” Teagan had attempted to say ‘Get off,’ but nothing was quite obeying her yet. She couldn’t even feel the way her skin had been cleanly cut, which was a horror in itself. 

How far had he gotten?

There was no use thinking about the possibilities. He’d had to have been taking his time considering the care he gave to not injure the nix horribly. Lest he ruin what he had his eyes set on, the fae supposed. It was disgusting and the way he had looked at her like a specimen meant for display made Teagan nauseous. He was worse than a hunter. He was a collector. She had to stop him, even if it was just for that night.

Using what little control she had, the nix twisted and dug her claws into the man’s shoulder. She latched on briefly, the rather large scalpel he had a grip on jolting upwards and slicing Teagan on her middle back. Whatever, she thought, continuing to slash. She just needed to get away and live to see another day. This man would be back, and Teagan would be ready next time. There were things to live for now. She couldn’t risk herself by succumbing to her rage, falling into old habits. No matter how her mind screamed to pursue vengeance. Her anger wasn’t worth her life. Or her tail. 

Teagan stood on wobbly legs, the man’s blood burning her hand as it dripped from her claws. “D-don’t come any closer.” She hissed, backing away with her claws tensed and ready as she took an offensive stance. Her visage was tired but captured with rage, the evils of Teagan’s past glimmering in her eyes while her head was tilted down from the weight. She was glowering, no longer willing to be the victim. _______

He was moving slower than he’d have liked, than he needed to to get results. In fact, Parker was moving so slowly that he was still creating an incision wide enough to insert his traditional iron blade to cauterize the wound, intending to separate it from the tail when she stirred back into lucidity. In a fluid motion, her claws punctured his shoulder. He exhaled sharply from the pain and the surge that shot down his arm made him lose control as it tensed up, sending the scalpel smoothly up the nymph’s back. Though he couldn’t control his arm at that juncture, he could manipulate his blood as it rippled beneath the skin, the iron moving in on where her claws were embedded in his flesh - his last-ditch weapon. She didn’t let go and he dropped the scalpel, wrenching his arm from her as he got to his feet. The motion was with strength but it was careless as Parker’s blood sprayed the wet earth beneath them. First, he pressed his other hand against the fresh wound, his nostrils flaring as he felt the lasting sting of her claws in his flesh. His blue eyes looked into hers, his expression narrowed and seeing her emotions dancing in them like an animal. Then they flickered to her stance, her frame, noting the way her legs shook as she was still affected by the tranquilizers. Then they rested on what he could see of her tail, the way it carelessly oozed blood and a flash of anger overcame his features. …No, he went up; he didn’t cut her tail, he lacerated her back. Parker wasn’t even using iron, so she could recover anyway. The anger on his face, while dissipating and making way for more of the narrow-eyed fascination and obsession, was still present somewhat, however. And he could use fluid motions, too. Removing his hand from the injured shoulder, it went down and brushed against his soaking jeans, fingers looping around the spiked iron knuckles that swayed to his side. He yanked a clenched fist back up and there was a snap as the clasp was disconnected. “You don’t control me, nix.” Then it was his turn to lunge and he rushed towards her, drawing his bloody fist back, aiming for the same shoulder she had. The clavicle, ideally to make a break in the bone. Parker wasn’t the type to turn to violence but as the pulse in his other arm reminded him, he didn’t start this.  _______

There was a deranged look in the man’s eye, his desire flowing straight into crazed anger at what he was denied. He’d done this countless times, so much so that he believed he had every right. That was the most terrifying part of the whole thing. How many had he hurt before he fixated on the nix before him? Teagan’s stomach twisted with nausea like a knife, and her heart soon followed suit. He had to be stopped. 

“Fuck you!” She screamed, grief for her cousins that fell victim to that evil man consuming her chest. The woman Teagan had been trying to leave behind washed over her, ignoring the way pain continued to pulse on her skin. “You don’t control me, and you cannot have any part of me!” Rushing forward as the man did, the two of them clashed in a ferocious flurry of fury. 

The way he’d gone straight for her clavicle felt a little like he was attempting balance, an eye for an eye. Teagan couldn’t help but notice that, having revered Fate and balance her whole life. This stranger could never work as Fate did. She was unbiased, not caring about setting things right or wrong, only ensuring all was as it should be. 

It wasn’t this. It wasn’t white-hot pain flaring from what felt like a break to her collarbone. Teagan screamed, her strength waning as the agony from holding her opponent away from her caused something akin to a crunch. The fight had to end or she’d be finding herself dead or…mutilated. Or both. 

Fates, she wanted Arden. 

In a last ditch effort, Teagan brought her knees to her chest, digging her feet into the man’s stomach as she sank her claws in a final time. She dragged her hands down, hoping to leave her mark just before she sent her opponent flying with a kick. Rising to her feet and holding her shoulder, Teagan hissed, “Looks like you get nothing, boyo.” With a final glower, she retreated into the lake, going too far for him to reach her again.  _______ How similar they were sometimes. How both of them assumed control, how they both loved to hoard their treasures and use words to their advantage. And how Parker would never admit any of this, the thoughts not even going through his head as his eyes simultaneously seemed to illuminate with keen observation yet darken with malintent as he lunged forward.

She met him halfway, which was perfect all things considered - her rushing to him meant that Parker didn’t have to attempt to go through any limbs that would be raised in self-defense. Her body hit his own and he advanced on her. While she might’ve been stronger in the water, she wasn’t in the water, as well as coming off the effects of his custom sedatives and he was taller than her. She pushed him, he pushed back but most importantly, his arm that was wound back was faster as it shot out like a bullet for her shoulder

The sound of her bone breaking in the otherwise-still night air was enough of an indicator for Parker that the spiked knuckles hit their target and while he felt one of his eyes twitch as she pressed against the fresh holes in his shoulder but he knew it wasn’t going to last for long so he endured it; he could, he would and he always will. He kept the blood spinning in his veins, pushing it to the surface just under his skin in case.

He pulled back his fist and part of Parker wanted to get another jab in, a show of dominance, control, and for a moment the nymph’s visage was replaced by the one that murdered his father and critically injured his brother. However, one blink later and that fae was gone, one into another and he didn’t have time to react when he gasped as she brought her feet up, her talons piercing his abdomen, her claws in his skin once more and for another moment they were frozen in place. His eyes widened with surprise and yet, he didn’t didn’t yell but before he knew it, she had kicked him back and he was propelled back, flying some odd feet in the air before hitting the ground and sliding back.

Coughing out an exhale as he collided roughly with the ground, Parker scrambled to face her once more but the nix was already partially in the water, holding her shoulder and shooting him a venomous glare before she submerged herself into the lake and leaving him with the remnants of what she said echoing in his aching skull.

He got nothing. He lost.

Or so she said. Now that she was gone his breathing got more shaky as Parker furrowed his brow, gritting his teeth tightly to deal with the pain of her rending his flesh. He got to his feet slowly, pulling his hand away from his abdomen as his blood shined in the moonlight. Nothing he couldn’t recover from. He gingerly walked over to his boots and gathered them up along with the rest of his materials that weren’t lost to the lake before casting one more intense blue-eyed gaze to the rippling surface of the lake before disappearing into the thick trees once more.

She said he got nothing but he left with the one thing more important than her tail.

He knew what she was and where she lived.

[sceletaflores]

HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

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ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k

ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, drinking, boss/employee relationship, reader is a personal/executive assistant, very much a work husband/work wife dynamic, inescapable sugar daddy tendencies, no actual sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship despite how the title and previous tag makes it sound lmao, harry castillo is a cool boss, romcom tropes cause i’m feeling romantic, slow dancing, first kiss, heavy petting in a limo, oral sex (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, p in v, porn with way too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: i usually don’t like to write for a new character before i’ve watched the movie but you dangle the idea of a hot billionaire work romance in my face and expect me not to bite at it? i’m just not that strong. also i have zero idea what his actual job in the movie is, i think it’s a basic ass finance bro wall street type job and that bores the hell out of me so he’s an architect because i said so. he's my barbie i can make him do what i want! this whole thing was mainly an excuse to write about my satc, carrie and big vibe slash fantasy but way less toxic. hope y’all love it, mwah!

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…

You’ve been working with Harry Castillo for four years, two months, and thirteen days.

You know this because his calendar starts and ends with you.

Your name’s not embossed on the front of the seventy story building sitting pretty on 57th street, not splashed across the cover of Architectural Digest, not signed neatly at the bottom of those pristine renderings that get passed around in glass boardrooms and land multi-million dollar deals.

But you know the build order of every project in the past five fiscal years. You know which of the project managers can’t be trusted with deadlines, which board members need their egos stroked, and every single name attached to each of the contracts spanning across five continents.

You were three years out of school and six months into a soul sucking accounting job that felt more like glorified coffee-fetching with a minor in emotional labor when Harry called. 

Well—technically, his HR director called, but Harry noticed you, or noticed your resume stacked with respectable internships and juicy recommendation letters. Or maybe it was the fact that during your third round interview, you corrected one of his junior partners on a misquoted quarterly budget breakdown.

Either way, two weeks later you were standing in a glass top floor office owned by one of the most powerful men in the city. 

And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.

Harry had been New York’s golden boy since the early aughts, when his first building went up in Tribeca and every magazine with a spine declared him the second coming of Frank Llyod Wright.

He was a genius, innovative. One of the youngest Pritzker Prize winners in history who got the kind of press coverage that made people think “architect” was synonymous with “celebrity”.

Now, at 47, Harry Castillo is an institution in the world of design.

Castillo Atelier is the best firm in the city, maybe even in the world, depending on which Real Estate Digest cover story you read. His name alone makes most clients practically foam at the mouth and drop seven figures without seeing a single blueprint.

You’ve been his executive assistant longer than it took you to get your shiny Business Administrations degree from Colombia, and if anyone knew Harry better than his mother or his therapist, it was you.

You have every number of his black American Express card memorized, front and back. You have every password to every account imaginable tucked away neatly in a file labeled “BLACKMAIL MATERIAL” on your desktop. 

You schedule his life down to the minute, from site visits in Abu Dhabi to dental cleanings in Midtown. You know his shoe size, the name of his best tailor's teenage daughter, which marble supplier he trusts in Verona. You know the entry code to his West Village brownstone and you’re on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse. 

You know he drinks his coffee black but only before noon and he switches to espresso, that he smokes Marlboro Golds even though he swears up and down he’s quit, and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code.

It’s morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either. 

He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simple—not that sterile.

It's late nights spent in his dimly lit office where he sheds his suit jacket and hands you a perfectly poured wine glass without asking when you're the only two left in the building. It's sitting shoulder to shoulder on a leather couch, going over zoning permits while his arm rests behind you, not on you, but close enough to count.

Harry’s careful with you, in a way that’s not always obvious. He buys you the books you idly mention wanting to read in passing and custom David Yurman earrings fitted with your birthstone. If he was ten years younger and you were ten years dumber, you might’ve mistaken it for something else. 

As it is, you just tell yourself he likes spoiling things that work well. Like his thousand dollar espresso machine. Like his Aston Martin. Like you.

You should feel like an accessory.

Instead, you feel like a centerpiece—like you’re the sun that his life revolves around. 

You can’t tell which is worse.

Today, like most days, starts with you getting to the office an hour before him.

You take the elevator up to the seventy third floor, unlock his office, and flick on the lights. The space is gorgeous, minimalist in a way that doesn’t ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams. 

There’s an open notebook on his desk from the night before, a few handwritten notes scrawled in sharp, narrow pen strokes that he gave up on halfway through and started sketching in the margins.

You roll your eyes, smothering a fond smile as you walk out of the room and to your own desk. It’s less than six feet from his door, close enough that you can always hear clipped phone calls or the soft sounds of Prince playing from his sound system.

You drop your bag, start up your desktop, and begin triaging the day. Your inbox is in a constant state of full to the brim no matter how good you are at your job—bursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation. 

The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasn’t stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, it’s strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after it’s been blown out. 

It’s still not enough to magically cancel out the stress of pushy demands disguised as business and city bureaucracy, but you can still pretend it is.

You’re bouncing between five open tabs and sending increasingly frantic texts to the head of operations about a late shipment of imported glass by the time you finally hear a soft ding from the elevator followed by crisp footsteps coming your way.

Harry rounds the corner holding a pastry bag, Ray-Bans on, hair still wet from the shower and curling around his ears. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You don’t look up from your screen. “You’re late again.”

“No,” Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. “You’re just early.”

“I work here.”

“Funny, so do I.”

“Do you?” You finally look up, brow arched. “I forget.”

He’s wearing that suit. The one that makes your job harder in the most inappropriate HR violating ways. Deep blue pinstripe with the burgundy Gucci tie you handpicked last year. It’s fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.

He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. “Is that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?”

Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You don’t need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.

You don’t have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. “Remind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.”

You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. “You said that last week, and the week before that.”

“And yet I keep doing it.” He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. “That’s insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.”

“That’s Einstein,” you say, pointedly ignoring the way he’s looking at you. “Maybe you just like the punishment.”

Harry huffs, amused. “I pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.”

You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. “Yet you don’t pay me enough to deal with your ex-wife’s lawyer hassling me before seven.”

That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. “She didn’t.”

You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. “She did.”

You watched the divorce unfold like everyone else. It was loud, expensive, and painfully public. She was a former model turned gallery owner with a sharp tongue and better connections than half the industry. When she aired Harry out in New York Magazine the tabloids had a fucking field day.

The headlines were vicious. Castillo’s Castle Crumbles. From Manhattan’s Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?

“Christ.” Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “She promised she’d keep you out of this.”

“She lied.” You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyer’s number across the front of a Post-It. “She wants her name off the Lakewood project or she’ll go to the press about the Montauk property.”

He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell.”

You slide the Post-It note across the desk. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” 

He doesn’t thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s almost a throwaway comment—but his voice dips a little, gets low in that way that always makes you want to chew glass or scream into a designer throw pillow.

You shrug. “You say that a lot, but I don’t see any new raises.”

His grin is lazy, charming. “You know I’d bankrupt this company to keep you.”

You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Please don’t. I like having dental.”

Harry laughs—really laughs—and it’s unfair how good it sounds, how it worms under your skin and stays there.

You turn away, forcing the warm feeling in your stomach to the back of your mind, and pivot. “You have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and there’s some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.”

Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. “Well, I’ve got my marching orders.”

He checks his watch, stands, and straightens his jacket with a lazy kind of grace. You hate the way your eyes catch on the curve of his wrist, the way the cufflink glints in the morning light. Custom Cartier, a gift from some foreign diplomat client last Christmas. You remember because you signed for the delivery. Wrapped it, even.

Just before he steps into his office, he pauses. “I mean it.” His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. “This place doesn’t work without you.”

You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but he’s already gone—door shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you can’t shake.

This is how it always is—business talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he weren’t who he is, and if you weren’t so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it might’ve gone somewhere dangerous already.

Instead, it lives in the margins. Like the ones he doodles spiral towers into. Like the ones in the secret planner buried in the very bottom drawer of you desk where you write down things like:

Remind Harry to eat something before 3.

Book flights for Hong Kong.

Don’t fall in love with your boss.

That last one’s underlined. Twice.

The rest of the morning floats by, you busy yourself with three different screens and sporadic bites of croissant and sips of coffee until one of the newer interns shows up with the mail.

You thank her and flip through the small mountain of envelopes until one catches your eye. A sleek black one with loopy silver lettering on the front. To Castillo Atelier, with a familiar logo stamped on the corner. You rip the gold seal, and slip the card out.

The AIA New York Chapter cordially invites Harry Castillo & Guest to the prestigious 2025 Architecture Gala | The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Black Tie.

You blink, and read it three more times before a deep sigh rips itself from somewhere deep in your chest. You skim the rest, going over fine print and steadily sighing louder the more you take it in.

You really should have known, it’s around that time. Award season, charity galas, old rich people stuff. Only this year, Harry Castillo and Guest are in separate states, in separate houses, and very much not on speaking terms.

Nor will they be on them in time for Friday night, or any other night in the foreseeable future.

You stand, letter in hand. Your heels click against the floor until you’re standing just outside Harry’s office, mulling over how bad it would reflect on your part if the invitation mysteriously found its way to the bottom of your trash. You knock anyway.

“Come in,” came the reply—his voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete. 

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Harry is at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Dior frames perched halfway down his nose as he looms over the stack of blueprints you left on his desk a few hours ago.

You don’t let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. “You got a minute.”

He looks up, relaxing in his chair. “For you? Always.”

You hold up the invitation like it’s a warrant, shaking it gently. “You’ve been summoned.”

Harry’s eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, “The gala.”

You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. “You’re being honored.”

He shakes his head with a laugh. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”

Who possibly could?

You arch your brow. “It’s a lifetime achievement award.”

“I’m not even fifty.”

“Apparently, they’ve run out of old white men to honor.”

Harry chuckles, but it’s a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. “Tell them we’re busy, send a fruit basket.”

You can’t explain the feeling that floods your chest, a mix of something like compassion and pity. It makes your heart ache, just a little bit. Enough to make you really feel it, enough to make you bury it before you can really dwell on why it hurts so much.

Harry puts on a spectacular front, but you know him too well. You know that the divorce has weighed on him, that’s it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company. 

You also know deep down it’s not the company that you care about.

“No.” You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.

He looks up at you, brow raised. “No?”

“No,” you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. “You may think this is pointless, and that you’re too young—”

“Watch it.”

“—But you deserve this,” you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. “You deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that you’re you.”

Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you. And for a second, it’s too much. Too focused, too quiet, too…tender. It’s the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist. 

But you don’t flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.

He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He nods, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll go.”

It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fight—more pushback or maybe even a snide comment about black tie events like this becoming less about the accolades and the charity and more about new wave firms bustling around like show ponies scuffling over who signed the best contract with the most zeros tacked neatly on the end.

Instead, he just says okay. Like it’s simple. Like you aren’t the reason he’s saying yes.

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”

“You make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

You huff, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.” Harry nods, but he’s smiling wide enough to outdo your own.

He looks down at the invitation, scanning over the text languidly. He hums as he reads, dragging his thumb across the raised font. 

You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details you’ve already memorized a thousand times. Your eyes trace the shape of his brows, the deep set lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes, the strong arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips.

When he’s done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. “And who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?”

You tilt your head. “I can get you someone,” you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. “You want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?”

Harry doesn't answer right away.

He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. Like you’re a building he’s still sketching, still drafting, still trying to figure out if the foundation can handle the weight of what he wants to build on top of it.

“I don’t want someone,” he says finally.

The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.

“You should bring someone,” you deflect, professional, clean. “It’ll look good. The press will be there.”

“I’m aware,” he says, still watching you. “Which is why I don’t want just anyone.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way his voice sounds—quiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.

Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. “I don’t want someone,” he says again, voice even. “I want you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesn’t trip itself up three times over.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Come with me.” 

It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm. 

Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. “Harry—”

He cuts you off. “Don’t make that face.” He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. “You’ll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plus–one they’d set me up with.”

You shake your head, brows pinched. “This isn’t just some client dinner at Nobu I’m playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. It’s the goddamn Met for architects.”

Harry just smiles, squinting at you. “When have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.

Harry doesn’t look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. It’s infuriating, the way the setting sun bathes him in a soft golden light, illuminating the smile on his face. A smile that makes it clear he knows he’s already won.

It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labels—but in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be. 

Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly. 

You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like you’re putting up a real fight.

Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. “Okay.”

He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. “I’ll go.”

“Really?” His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. “There’s no catch?”

“You made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. “I should’ve known.”

“I’ll need a dress,” you say, slowly making your way to the door. “I think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, don’t you agree, boss?”

Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. “I’ll take care of it.”

You pause, hand on the doorknob. “Tell me you’re not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.”

He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Harry.”

“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. “Do I really have a choice?”

Just as you go to leave, he calls your name—softly. It stops you mid-step.

You glance over your shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything else right away. Just looks at you like you’re something he’s still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.

“Thank you,” he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.

Your throat tightens. Not because of the words—even if you give him shit for it, he’s said them before—but because of the way he says them now. Like he means it for more than just the RSVP. Like he means it for staying. For putting up with the late nights, and the stress, and the divorce fallout, and the birthday gifts he forgets until the day of.

You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”

And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.

You’re not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at you—like you were both a solution and a problem—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite know how to ignore anymore.

You’ll go to the gala. You’ll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.

Just a little.

The package arrived that same night.

A man in a suit knocked on your door and had you sign for a box bigger than your work desk. He had to help you drag it into your hallway and denied the tip you tried to give him, assuring you it was already taken care of.

There were no labels on the box, no receipt or return address or anything other than an obnoxiously large gold bow wrapped neatly around all four sides.

Well, that and a note taped to the front. 

Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that you’d recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.

“Make them think I built you myself - H.”  

You stared at it for an embarrassingly long amount of time, not bothering to stifle the smile on your lips as you ran your thumb over the ink. You were alone anyway.

The box groaned a little when you finally opened it, layers of black tissue paper rustled softly as you peeled them back.

And there it was.

Midnight blue. Backless. Heavy silk. The kind of thing that knew how to behave under dim lights and the weight of eyes.

You could already feel it—how it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didn’t even need a mirror.

Of course he picked this one. Of course he knew your size.

You reached for it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might evaporate, still slightly dazed. There was an overwhelming aura about it—like this wasn’t just a dress, but a thesis.

A statement. An intention, signed and sealed in French seams.

And somehow it still smelled faintly of him. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made you wonder if he’d touched it before it left the boutique. If he’d looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If he’d smiled when he imagined what you’d say.

You unfolded it like you were handling a newborn, held it against your body and turned toward the hallway mirror, half laughing at yourself, heat rising to your cheeks.

You turned this way and that, staring at your reflection in the dim light, pretending—just for a second—that he was behind you, watching.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. One sharp vibration, tearing you out of your little fantasy world and back to the present.

You crossed the room still holding the dress to your chest, and bit your lip when you saw his name at the very top of your screen.

Hairy

Try not to cause a scene unless you want to make headlines. I’d like to keep your promotion rumor free, for now.

You laughed softly, thumb hovering above the keyboard for just a moment before you started typing.

You know this is deranged behavior, right?

You hit send before you could overthink it, watched the read receipt pop up a second later before the three little bubbles came to life.

They vanished, then reappeared.

Hairy

I’m aware.

But I have impeccable taste. That absolves me of quite a lot.

See you at 8.

You swore softly under your breath and set the phone down like it was overheating. 

You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.

God help you—you were going to wear the hell out of it.

Friday comes both too fast and too slow.

You glide through the whole rest of the week pretending this is normal—just another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.

You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach don’t listen quite as well.

You hardly see Harry at work, most of his time spent across town busy with clients like he always is near the end of the week. You can’t tell if it would have helped or hindered your nerves to see him before you both showed up to one of the most prestigious events held in his field, together. 

Maybe it’s better this way.

Now, you’ve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch. 

Your phone is blowing up from its spot next to you on your vanity with calendar alerts and panicked texts from Harry about the misplacement of a single Prada tie he just has to wear even though he has hundreds of others to choose from lining an entire wall of his walk-in. You know that, you’re the one who hung them.

You do your hair and makeup on what feels like auto–pilot, the playlist you put on to distract you playing softly in the background until your phone lights up again, buzzing with a text that cuts through the static like a wire to your nerves.

Hairy

Found the tie, crisis averted. 

Just need you now. Be there in 15.

You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose and sending a quick thumbs up before you're standing on shaky legs.

The dress has been hung safely on the back of your bedroom door since you unboxed it. You take a second to just stare at it, before reaching for it with reverence, like touching it too fast might break the spell of the whole evening. 

It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe that’s just the weight of new expectations.

You slide it on slowly, smoothing it over your hips, tugging the zipper up with a practiced hand. It fits perfectly, almost like it was made to your exact measurements.

Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror. You barely recognize her. Poised, elegant, flushed with anticipation. You look like someone who belongs next to a man like Harry Castillo.

The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

You swipe on lipstick last—something deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.

You’re not just the assistant tonight. You’re his date. Sort of. Kind of. Not really.

But he asked you to come, he wanted you there, with him.

The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.

With one last deep breath, you grab your phone, your keys, and the clutch you’re borrowing from a fashion editor you sometimes get drunk with at Bemelmans, and you walk out the door.

The click of your heels echo as you make your way down the hall to the elevator.

Harry is the first thing you see as the doors to your building slide open.

He’s leaning against the limo waiting for you, the door open next to him as a cigarette dangles between his fingers. He looks like he stepped straight out of a GQ spread. His Kiton suit fits him like a glove, the charcoal velvet hugging broad shoulders and tapering at the waist like it was stitched directly onto him. 

You make your way down the stairs until you’re standing on the pavement. Harry looks up at the sound of footsteps.

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares.

You can feel his eyes on your body like a caress, ghosting from your heels all the way up to the Cartier necklace he bought you after you saved a merger in Thailand, resting gently on your collarbones. 

The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.

You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. “Is it too much?”

Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. “It’s perfect.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Castillo,” you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.

He smiles at that—slow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.

“Well,” he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. “We’re already late, we might as well make an entrance.”

Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.

“We might as well.”

The Met is bathed in glowing opulence—decked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. There’s jazz swelling from a live quartet near the Temple of Dendur and the room comes alive with it.

You glide through marble halls on his arm, greeting developers and designers and too rich donors who want nothing more than to be photographed with nights' most respected attendant.

Harry is a natural here—effortless. He laughs, he charms, he plays the part of the adored genius.

You also play your role perfectly.

You smile. You exchange polite hugs and shake hands. You whisper names into his ear just before he needs them. 

The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.

“You do realize they all think I’m sleeping with you,” you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.

“Let them,” he says, not missing a beat.

“Isn’t that bad for business?”

Harry looks at you sideways. “Who’s going to call us on it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t look away either.

There’s champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancée. Harry doesn’t correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You don’t miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.

Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. You’re seated next to Harry at the center of a table surrounded by board members and art world fixtures who all speak in the same Upper East Side cadence that makes everything sound like a question and an insult.

But Harry listens to you. He lets you finish your thoughts. He asks you what you think of the new public art installation in Battery Park and snorts when you call it “egregiously derivative” even when the rest of the table frowns.

“You’re such a snob,” he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.

You smile behind your glass. “And yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.”

He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. “Lucky me.”

At some point, about halfway through a debate about the authenticity of modernism in design, you notice the way his knee brushes against yours under the table and stays there. You don’t move. He doesn’t either.

It’s become a theme. The touch. The contact.

Harry kept his hand on the small of your back most of the night, it was practically glued to the spot before dinner began. This is no different, except for the fact that this touch is hidden. It's shielded from the prying eyes of members and photographers and reporters. 

It’s just for you.

The awards are handed out shortly after. 

Harry’s name echoes across the room to rounds and rounds of applause. The speech is short, tasteful, elegant, moving. He stands under a golden spotlight and says something about legacy, about cities and their hearts and how architecture is just the blueprint of human longing.

You watch him from your seat at the table, heart caught in your throat. He looks radiant on stage, confident and alive in a way you haven't seen in months.

You clap until your palms sting.

When the speech is over, he doesn't have a foot off the stage before many of the other attendees swarm him. You let out a slow breath as you watch him receive hugs and kisses and claps on the back.

You only slip out onto the terrace when everyone at your table has left to join in, clutch in hand.

The cool night breeze is a welcome escape, soothing as it blows across the bare expanse of your skin and seeps into the rich fabric of your dress.

It’s not that you weren’t enjoying yourself, that you weren’t enjoying watching Harry. You just found it, almost hard to breathe all of a sudden. The range of different emotions swirling through your stomach certainly didn’t help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.

You’re maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.

“You never smoke.” he says, setting his award down next to you and plucking the cigarette from between your fingers, taking his own slow drag. His lips seal directly over where your own were just a second ago, circling the ruddy lipstick stain wrapped around the filter.

You look out to the city, exhaling a steady stream grey. “I also don’t usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who won’t stop calling me ‘darling’ while they openly stare at my tits.”

Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. “You handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.”

He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until they’re nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.

You take it, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m very good at pretending.”

His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. “I know.”

There’s a beat of quiet between you, filled only by the wind brushing through the terrace hedges and the distant echo of jazz from inside. The city glimmers out past the railing, a mirage of light and motion.

You clear your throat, raising the cigarette to your lips. “You didn’t have to come find me.”

“I know,” he says again, softly this time. “But I wanted to.”

You turn to face him fully. “Because you couldn’t remember Natalie Rebuck’s name, or because you were worried I’d throw myself off the balcony?”

He doesn’t smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. “Because you’re the only person I wanted to see.”

That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.

There’s nothing ironic about the way he says it. It’s not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, that’s more disarming than anything else he could’ve said.

“You saw me fifteen minutes ago,” you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.

“Yeah.” He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. “And I missed you.”

It’s that same tone. Soft, reserved. Gentle enough that it makes you feel like the only person in the world and sick to your stomach all at once. The cigarette hangs limply by your side, dwindling to nothing between your fingers. You wonder, idly and far too late, if you can even smoke in a dress like this.

The silence stretches on like taffy. You’re just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. It’s something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You can’t quite place it.

Harry seems to, perking up instantly. He glances through the open door, where many couples inside are pairing off and filling the dance floor one by one. He looks back at you, eyes glinting dangerously under the terrace lights. “Dance with me.”

You can’t help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.” He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. “You’re telling me I don’t get one dance?”

You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. “I don’t dance with my boss.”

He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. “Good thing I’m off the clock.”

You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. There’s something so deeply unfair about the way he’s always been able to make you feel like the only woman in a city of millions. Even now. Especially now.

You give him your hand.

You still hesitate even as you stand and slip your heels back on. You glance at the terrace doors and wearily eye what feels like a sea of people. “Out here?”

“No,” he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like it’s nothing. “Inside. Just one song.”

You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.

But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.

He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.

The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.

Harry draws you in close.

Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.

You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.

The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.

He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.

“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.

“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”

Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”

You nod. “It is.”

The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.

You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.

“Harry…”

He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”

It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words washing over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.

You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”

It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.

He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart. 

Can he feel yours?

“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”

Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.

“I…”

And then he kisses you.

And then you can’t speak at all.

It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming. 

His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.

Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.

It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.

Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”

You kiss him again before he can finish.

His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.

Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke

The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.

You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.

When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.

Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.

He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.

He swallows hard. “We should leave.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”

The ride back to the office is a blur.

You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.

The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.

His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.

He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.

“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.

Two words. That’s all he says.

Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.

“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”

“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him

Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”

You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.

“Are you wet for me?”

You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”

He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”

“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”

Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”

His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”

You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.

His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”

“You,” you whisper. “You did.”

“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.

Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.

“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.

“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”

Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation. 

Still…

You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.

“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.

He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.

Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.

It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is. 

But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender. 

You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.

Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.

Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.

You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist. 

The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.

You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.

“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”

Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.

He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs. 

His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”

His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.

He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent. 

“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”

“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”

He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.

He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.

“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”

His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.

Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”

You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.

You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”

You do.

You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.

Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.

“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”

And you do.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.

Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.

“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.

“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”

Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”

The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.

“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”

He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”

He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.

You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.

Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.

It’s all too much. Too much and not enough. 

It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.

“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”

“Harry—fuck—Harry!”

“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”

“Yes—yes—oh my god—”

“Say it.”

“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”

He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.

“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”

That’s all he needs.

He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.

New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light. 

The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.

Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.

The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace. 

“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”

It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.

“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”

Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”

You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”

Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”

Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”

Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”

You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead. 

Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.

You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.

MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.

anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!

[wakandamama]

Wading Towards Shore Pt1

A/N: I bet yall forgot I be writing angst too! 😈

Smoke and Annie settle back into life with one another once again. However, Annie can't help but let her insecurities of being left being creep into her mind at same time she is plague with bizarre dreams of grief and fish.

Trigger Warnings: grief, dream sequences, mentions of child loss and drowning

WTS Part Two WTS Part Three

Annie was a strong woman. A woman who prided herself on being able to build up her root and to better herself.

Annie has had seven years of solitude, a brutal supernatural night of bonding and survival, and finally a year of reconciliation with Smoke to push passes… it. 

She should have the strength to push past the aching tangle of rage, sadness, longing and resolve Smoke planted in her heart. Annie likes to pretend that the night that he ran away from her (and their shared loss) to Chicago was just a nightmare. 

She tries to forget that her breasts had dried of milk just four days before those brothers drove off in the blue light of dawn to the north. She pretends that the ashes from the note and money he left for her doesn’t linger in the old firepit out back. For seven years Annie bit the lie bumps off her tongue from the amount of times she lied to Mary, declaring she was fine, that the twins wrote and they were fine, and that the bones told her they’d be back any day now and Stack was gonna wife her next. 

Annie is fine now. 

The Nile was just a river hundreds of miles away from her. She is over that fleeting insecurity that she’ll never be enough for her soulmate to stay (Smoke is back with her after all, sleeping right beside her on the mattress at this very moment). She is over that petty fear of being left alone. She is over the fear of being abandoned. 

Annie had worked a strong root to heal her heartaches, damnit! She is over it, so over those insecurities that her and Elijah built a whole house together! Four rooms, a basement, indoor plumbing, a wrap around porch and a greenhouse! They built that together.

So, Annie had no reason to fear the possibility that her and Elijah’s love had combined together once again to make something more than just a home and that she could be with...

Annie is fine.

She is a healthy woman with a healed heartache! She's got her man back and he ain't going anywhere, not off with money, not off with another woman, not running away again. So! There wasn't a thing wrong with her.

Not a thing is growing in her, she is not-  

Annie is back in her dreams again.

She finds herself dressed in light blue and basket weaving in a field of butterfly weeds. The breeze cool and gentle, the sun warm and bright, water laps around her and minnows tickle her feet, a bone white bass leaps high sprinkling Annie with twinkling water splashes.

No… no water… there shouldn’t be water here. 

Annie focuses on the weaving, she can’t knot the reeds, but there goes those two big shining goldfish splashing and bumping into her ankles like a child wanting att-

Annie stands abruptly,  the wind swirls dark clouds overhead as she dashes away from the waters. Her feet pound the dirt until it melds into mud, then slashes into marshy shallow waters. Annie can’t help but cry as she runs into deeper waters now. She forces herself to stop, chest heaving and aching as she tries to breath ties to race away but is paralyzed as the water rises and rises over her.

Now here she stands at the bottom of the Mississippi river, her breath is a cloud of bubbles while the minnows racing by feel like whizzing bullets.

Annie can only brace herself and scream as two golden fish the size of ferry ships crash into her.

Annie wakes up with a jolt, a wave of nervous nausea slamming her just as quickly and she catches the dry gag into her hand. She is barely able to swallow it back when Smoke snaps awake and sits up as well at her hitch of breath. Annie shivers as his arm wraps around her shoulders then forces her face towards him so he can inspect her. Smoke frowns as Annie barely swallows back a sharp sting of heartburn, her hands clutching together over her chest in a plea for strength.  

“Ya okay? Sumthin’ spook ya?” He asks, before she can answer Smoke stares out their window tuning his ear to calculate the creaks of the house. 

“Want me to get Stack to check the boundary? It’s like fo’ in the mornin’, he still out ‘dere” Smoke strategizes and Annie shakes her head. Annie gently pulls away from his hold, swinging her legs over the side of the bed so she can force her head between her knees to breathe through the sharp dizzy need to throw up. 

“Ann? Baby, what’s wrong?” Smoke asks his voice low and deep from sleep, he rubs a hand up and down her spine in comfort. Smoke goes to curl an arm around her middle but Annie abruptly stands, his touch too much.

Annie stands there, back to Smoke with hands on her achy hips, just trying to breath through this…sickness…not not sickness just, nerves. Annie’s nerves were bad from a nightmare is all. It has been storming lately, she’ll have to tell the weather man at the newspaper about her concerns in case the riverbend outside of town floods. 

“Annie? You okay?” Smoke asks again, his concern prickles the hot skin of her neck.

“Huh? Yeah… yeah I’m fine ‘Lijah. I had a bad dream is all.” Annie says in a croaky whisper.

“A dream dream or one of dem premonitions?”

“I…I don’t know right now. Gonna throw some bones ‘bout it.” Annie excuses as she sways out of their bedroom into the hall. She ignores the bed creaking behind her, determined to go towards their office at first, but quickly staggers into the bathroom to vomit instead. Annie only makes it to the sink before losing her dinner, fearful tears prick her eyes at the sounds of Smoke’s hustling steps in the hallway. She slams the door closed before kneeling over the toilet and gagging again.

“Annie! What the Hell is goin’ on witcho?” Smoke asks through the door. Annie shakes her head in frustration.

“Go on somewhere, Smoke! Just…just give me a minute.” She grumbles before spitting out the sour taste in her mouth just to heave again. Smoke still stands on the other side of the door, “Smoke?” he mouths in disbelief with a frustrated sigh as he opens the door.

“Now Woman…”

“Go on somewhere, Man!” Annie retorts before fighting off another wave, by the time she comes back to herself Smoke sits on the edge of the tub rubbing the back of her neck. Annie hums when he presses the back of his hand to the side of her forehead then holds her cheek, his thumb rubbing away the tears from where her eyes watered.

“Ya ain’t too warm, just clammy.” Smoke reports and Annie shrugs. “Told ya, that dream just rattled me.” 

“Never seen one make ya sick before… ‘cept when-”

“Let’s just go back to bed.” Annie mutters over him, blinking up at him with sad sleepy eyes. Smoke frowns but nods firmly. Annie bites back a whimper when his hands leave her face. (Is he going to leave her? Where is he running to with out her again?)

Instead of vanishing into mist like her mind projected, Smoke’s arms go under hers and gently he brings Annie back to her feet. Annie goes to pull away but is stopped by Smoke wrapping her to his chest in a comforting embrace, Annie lets her head rest above his heart. 

“You wanna talk ‘bout it?” Smoke asks after a quiet moment and Annie shakes her head.

“ Elijah please, I jus’ wanna go back to bed.” Annie tells him, he leads her over to the sink where she quickly rinses out her mouth. Smoke holds her hand steady as he leads the two of them back to bed. Annie lays down but stops Smoke from tucking the sheet back around her, the action makes Smoke lift an eyebrow in question. Annie smacks her lips, Smoke sighs and climbs in on the other side.

“No cover?”

“Too hot.”

“Too hot? You ain’t complain bout that in a while.” Smoke notes, easing back in bed. He extends his arm out and Annie shuffles into the space he’s made. Her head resting over his heart when his arm then cuddles her close by the shoulders. Annie hums and settles further into him, closing her eyes as she lets out a sigh.

The next time Annie wakes up to sunlight shining on her face while her hand meets the cool and empty side of bed. Panic strikes Annie in the chest, she tries to calm herself by looking at the clock on the wall, it reads 10:06 and that makes her scramble out of bed to search for her man (again.)

The sheets tangle around the bottom of her legs causing Annie to yelp as her side crashes into the vanity. Annie holds on to the edge of the wood trying to get her breathing under control (Why in the world wouldn’t Smoke wake her up, it’s so late! )

“Elijah!” she chokes out with tears prickling her eyes. 

Silence. It feels like water is filling her lungs and the sharp bards of catfish cut her calves.

“Elijah!” Annie calls out louder this time. A cabinet door closes loudly and a gruff, “Huh?” answers her from the kitchen. 

Annie swallows down her lump of panic until it melts into a fading anxiousness at his clueless answer. She roughly wipes away the stray tears and slips into her house coat. Annie made way to the kitchen with quick steps, Smoke meets her in the doorway. In one hand is a bowl of scrambled eggs with a buttermilk biscuit drowned with apple butter and the other a chilled lemonade. 

“There ya is.” Annie mumbles, more to herself than to him, then gives him a kiss. 

“Mornin’” Smoke says as soon as his lips are free. There is a soft somberness in his tone before Annie can linger about it; Smoke presses the bowl into her hands before turning back into the kitchen. Annie hums as she makes her way through the back door and onto their porch, Smoke follows behind her with peach preserves smothering his biscuits and a steaming coffee mug. The two settle into their respective chairs on the west facing deck, Annie squints at the three-room shotgun cabin at the edge of their new property line as she eats.

The cabin is a solid thing painted creamy white to reflect the light with a slimmer porch tucked behind three huge jasmine shrubs to block more light. A big outdoor tub rests on the north side of it and the only window on it is two skinny panels of frosted glass facing east towards them. A navy wool curtain is currently pulled taunt to close as if not to let a single steam of sunlight in. Annie looks down to see two sets of deer antlers covered in dried blood resting on the path leading up to the cabin door. 

“Glad they got back in time last night. Mary said Stack’s been lingering until it’s blue dawn.” Annie says and Smoke hums as he lights his pipe. 

“Had ‘im do another patrol around the riverbend fo’ they went in fo’ the day. Since ya was spooked I had ‘im make sure them honkies stay in they spot.” Smoke says as he smoothly puffs out a cloud of tobacco high over their heads. Annie resisted the urge to take a deep whiff of it like she did when she was first preg-

Annie stuffs a forkful of eggs in her mouth to shake away the ridiculous thought. Smoke puffs again and Annie takes a swallow of lemonade to chase the urge off again, maybe she was wanting the habit. (she hasn’t smoked tobacco since she was 14 and tried to impress Smoke by stealing a pull off his cig, she promptly choked on it)

“You ain’t have to do that for me.” Annie says and Smoke shakes his head. 

“Why wouldn’t I? You talkin’ nonsense.” 

Annie rolls her eyes then makes a point to lay her legs over his and look away. Smoke chuckles at her antics continuing to smoke and eat. It’s Annie’s turn to giggle when he locks their ankles together. Soon the bugs buzz and some of Annie’s goats and chickens belt for attention, the birds call out loudly for one another overhead. Annie takes a deep breath, trying to smell for the chance of rain (not to smell tobacco!), instead she sneezes like a barn kitten on the pollen and Smoke smothers laugh behind a gulp of coffee. 

He is quick to dodge to the left when Annie goes to pinch his side.

“Dontcha laugh, Man!”

“I ain’t say a word, Woman!” 

“Yeah right. Whats the plan for today?” Annie asks

“Well, first imma leave ya again. Imma promise to write, then never do it. And the-”

“Da fuck you say!?” Annie spits, she whirls her legs away from him then slams her feet to the ground as she stands. A desperate and hurtful fury fills her as she glares down into Smoke’s bewildered eyes.

“What da fuck you heard? I said we going to Bo’s to getcha libation stuff!” he argues as he scrambles up as well, breakfast and pipe abandoned to his chair.

Annie blinks hard at him, once, twice, on the third time she opens her eyes to see Smoke’s has stepped in close and his hand cradles her face. Seeming to search Annie’s eyes for any kinda answer to this shifting pendulum of emotions from her.

Smoke frowns in deep concern, Annie can practically taste the sadness rolling off of him at her behavior. (The fuck he sad for? He can just leave all the sadness in her like last time) She tries to look away but Smoke won’t allow it, stepping in another step and enclosing her between himself and the porch post.

“Now, Antonia Moore, you talk to ya husband now.” Smoke instructs with a pointed look and Annie scoffs.

“Oh, so now my husband likes talkin’? Took ya eight years to learn that new trick huh?” Annie snaps. Smoke’s eyebrows shoot up, his hands drags down until they rest on her shoulders to hold down his tremors.

“Annie? What the hell is wrong? Ya sick or sumthin’? Or is it-” Smoke asks again, pushing past Annie’s anger to get to her hurt. Annie shakes his hands off her and marches down the porch steps towards their daughter's tree “Or is it what? What you know, Smoke?” Annie snaps once more. 

"You own my name woman, you betta use it. Now talk to me Ann, I'm hurting too." Smoke scolds as he grabs Annie’s wrist to stop her running off. Annie whirls around, at the last minute forcing her free hand down to clutch the fabric of Smoke’s shirt so she wouldn’t hit him. Smoke bites his lip as tears gather in the corners of his eyes to see Annie shaking with the energy of emotions she refused to communicate to him. 

But he had an idea for this cause. 

“You best unhand me! Fuck you know 'bout how I hurt?” Annie argues, tears in her voice as well to see him tearing up. Her chest burns in an aching familiar way that Annie must swallow down and push past. Her mind is a haze of fury and hurt that want to drown her. Smoke shakes his head, pulling her close again he rests his hand over hers on his chest. 

It's gonna rain today, Annie can feel it.

“Today’s July 1st…. I’m sorry today’s July 1st.” is all Elijah says in a croaky whisper.

Those words are like scissors on puppet strings and Smoke braces the both of them as Annie’s knees buckle. Annie collapses into his arms, forehead knocking his chin and all Smoke can do is hold her tight and ease them to the ground as she wails.

It is a sound Annie hasn’t let out in eight years. A deep bellied, soul shattering wail that silences the buzz of bugs and animal calls, it pauses the wind from jiggling her blue glass chimes, even the heat goes still, choking the air.

Smoke lets his own tears roll as Annie pounds the side of chest with a mix of hysterical and weak thumps. Annie alternates between clutching him back and buckling around as if to tear out of her skin as she cries. Smoke holds on strong and steady to Annie while the navy curtain across the way moves and waves, tugs taunt as if someone was fighting the decision to open it wide to the morning sun. 

It is the same wail of aching grief that Annie cried when her daughter let out her last breath at just 7 months old.  

---

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[acourtofchaos]

I CAN SMELL YOUR SICKNESS | Assassin!Theodore Nott x Assassin!Reader

Summary: He didn't know why you'd chosen him of all people to toy with, turning your work into a twisted game, a deadly chase, but he would make sure that you knew it was the worst mistake you had ever made. [5.8k]

C/W: 18+. Violence. Murder. Rough sex. Piv. Blowjob. Dirty talk. Dacryphilia. Biting. Angry and obsessive Theo. Kind of batshit crazy reader (i love her). Kind of cheating - its mentioned theo has a wife but its a for show kind of marriage.

A/N: did i fall in love with both theo and the reader whilst writing this??? yes i did 🤭

Theo thrived on order.

His entire life was compartmentalised, his home, his work - his other work.

There was a reassurance that calmed him knowing that the lines would never blur, that he'd gotten far too good at what he did to ever let them, that every kill he made was quick and neat, flawless. Beautifully untraceable.

He never got more involved than was necessary, not when he had perfected the art of sweeping in like a ghost and disappearing just as quick. Only ever leaving behind a dead body and a perfectly curated set-up to point to what was, quite obviously, a mere tragic accident and absolutely not the result of anything far more sinister.

But you.

God help him, you were the personification of mess. A savage storm raging between tissue and bone, a waking fucking nightmare, a harbinger of death in its most brutal form.

You thrived on chaos and it curled around you like smoke, like the inky spill of pitch black night, seeping into the crisp, clean edges of Theo's life the same way you seeped into his mind. Beneath his skin and into his bloodstream, spreading, festering, like an infection.

He'd never wanted someone to kill someone like he yearned to kill you, to feel the hot splash of your blood stain his hands and watch with some viciously rooted, fucked up delight as that ever taunting smile dropped from your lips.

He didn't know why you'd chosen him of all people to toy with, turning your work into a twisted game, a deadly chase, but he would make sure you knew it was the worst mistake you had ever made before the light faded from your eyes.

****

When another name appeared before him, his mind was still silently reeling from your first encounter.

The bold ruthlessness of your kill, the playful glint in your eyes when you'd turned and found him watching with his gun aimed at your blood spattered chest. The soft, threatening purr of your voice.

He'd mistaken you for the victim’s companion, a soon to be unfortunate in a ‘terrible mugging gone wrong’, his lip curling in disgust when he’d followed the two of you into an alley at the back of a seedy club and watched as the man had groped at you. Shoving his tongue gracelessly inside your mouth whilst you'd moaned, loud and dramatic.

But then a wicked flash had caught his eye and he’d froze, faintly stunned as you’d pushed the man back, twin daggers in your hands that you crossed at his throat before slashing them down with a dramatic flourish.

He'd watched in disbelief whilst you observed the thud of slack limbs hitting the floor with a dark, gleaming satisfaction.

And even when you had elegantly stepped over the body, avoiding the blood that crept over the ground close to your feet, and caught sight of him standing there, that look had never once faltered.

Instead you had smiled, sticky sweet and pretty as sin.

“Theodore, I assume?” You’d murmured silkily, grinning when those cold eyes of his narrowed, his body stiffening. Finger twitching over the trigger. “Fancy being a sweetheart and cleaning that up? I have somewhere to be and it would be poor manners to show up all bloody, don't you think?"

What. the. fuck.

His mind had raced, tongue turning to lead in his mouth as you’d winked at him.

The fucking nerve of you.

The stupidity.

You’d just killed someone in front of a witness, revealed yourself as a threat to a man with a gun aimed on you, how had you not realised he was seconds from putting a bullet through that gorgeous skull?

He just needed to sate the violent screeching of alarm bells in his head first. The itch of worry beneath his skin that if he was compromised, were the others too?

Were they in danger? Were you here to kill him and then his friends, his strange little family?

"Who are you? He'd hissed, large hands caging your delicate wrists when he'd struck, swift as an arrow, and slammed you into the wall. “How the fuck do you know my name?”

You should have fought back, that was his first thought, but your blood soaked blades had remained dangling in a hold that was barely there, let alone tense enough to fight.

Then he thought there should have been at least some hint of fear, that your pupils should have dilated or your skin should have trembled even lightly beneath the imposing weight of his body pressing you into the cold, damp brick.

But instead, you’d only smiled wider. Leant in close enough for your nose to nudge at the sharp curve of his jaw, a sly grin tugging at your lips when he swallowed harshly.

"Oh Teddy, I know all about you and your little team. I have to know who my competition is after all."

In his surprise you had slipped away from him, disappeared into the night like smoke on the wind and he'd been forced to make the call only seconds later to put his entire team on finding out who you were.

Yet, infuriatingly, he was still no closer to that little discovery.

You hadn't resurfaced since and there had been no physical evidence to find, no sign or hint you existed, not even a whisper, and Theo was pretty sure that his team thought he was losing it.

That the years of being the emotional equivalent of a black hole had left his sanity fragile, as crackable at a moment's notice as an eggshell from the crushing weight of everything he had done teetering on top of it.

But there was no way in hell he was hallucinating you, as much as it may have felt like you were his own personal demon risen from the pits of a hell he didn't believe in to torment him.

Not even his head was that fucked up.

Only just enough, he supposed, for him to be thankful for the distraction when the next slip of paper came through, another unsuspecting name printed in weathered ink that he barely glanced at before reaching for his laptop and doing a little research. Booking a flight to Barcelona– Pansy would be jealous – next day return.

He never took time to explore places after his work like some of the others did, didn't like to linger where he killed, but at least it was a chance to get you out of his head for a day or two. To work some of that frustrated energy that he'd been carrying around out on a kill.

He was almost looking forward to it.

But then the first postcard shortly followed.

It arrived at his desk without fuss, no explanation or sender information. Just his name, the address of his work and a single sentence written on the back of a picture of La Sagrada Família.

See you soon.

****

Four postcards were in his hand at the end, pointing to Spain, France, Italy and England.

A game of cat and mouse played across each country a member of his team called home that had gradually caused Theo’s ironclad control to slip.

He was furious, caring less and less about the target with each destination, each taunting sentence scrawled across a creamy card staring back at him as he grew steadily more unhinged.

See you soon.

Too slow, handsome, try to keep up.

I feel like you're not even trying, Teddy bear.

And finally;

The name of a hotel and a room number in central London, followed by a cheeky don't keep me waiting.

He saw red then, brilliant bursts of crimson, hellish scorches of black.

The cards were crumpled in his grip, ruined in the agonisingly tight fist of his hand because the only way he could fucking breathe through the fury whipping around inside him was by imagining it was your throat, your delicate skin he was crushing beneath his fingertips.

And when he stalked out into the night, his blood bubbling in his veins and teeth grinding almost painfully, he told himself you would be dead by the end of it. Reduced to nothing more than a fleeting nuisance in his life that he intended to eradicate.

He didn't need to know who you were or how you know the things that you did to put a single bullet in that pretty little head.

All he needed was the rage soaring to a new, deadly height inside of him and the knowledge that he fucking despised you.

****

The hotel was all bright marble and low lighting, lavish furniture that didn't look comfortable in the slightest, elegant statues that probably should have been in an museum instead of some reception, and he wanted to roll his eyes at the fact you would lure him somewhere like here.

Of course you couldn't just go for somewhere quiet or understated, somewhere there was no risk of drawing attention.

It forced him to wonder if you'd had a hand in the target's wearabouts all along, plucking the strings like a puppet master to position both her and Theo the way you wanted them. In all the places you could use to burrow under his skin that little bit more.

He had to admit there was a relentlessness to you that he would have admired if things had been different. A dedication without rival in anyone he knew or even Theo himself.

You must have spent ages implanting yourself in the targets life to pull this off. To remain so close the entire time and hold so much sway as to where she went, where she stayed, ate, leisured, and it reminded him of the night he met you.

The way you had let that mark get so close, smearing unworthy kisses over your perfect skin, amateurish hands grabbing at you sloppily before you’d eventually torn him open.

Did you get that close to all of them?

Did they all get to kiss the tempting swell of your lips, lick the taste of chaos and death from your mouth and feel the dizzying press of your body against theirs.

Fuck, he needed to get it together.

He tasted the familiar, copper tang of his own blood where his teeth had scored the thick of his tongue and it was enough to snap him out of the debauched fantasy that plagued him and back into the cold, sharp sting of reality.

It wasn't his place to be jealous of who you fucked.

In fact, it opened up a pit of violent disgust in his stomach that he had even thought about it, that he'd imagined himself in a faceless person's place whilst fisting his throbbing cock at the thought of hearing you moan his name.

At least he had only done it once.

Twice.

Fine, it had become a major problem that everytime he touched himself he thought of you. That everytime he closed his eyes, he pictured you beneath him. Above him. Curled so tightly around him it was impossible to tell where one of you began and the other ended.

It was a temporary insanity.

He'd deal with it.

But when he finally reached the room, you were ready for him in a way that he could never replicate. The sight of you always a shock to the system, a debilitating blow to the gut whilst you were the absolute picture of calm, smug elegance.

Wrapped in a crisp, unbuttoned white shirt tucked into dark pants and hair strewn over the side of the plush armchair you were sprawled across.

There was a glass of whiskey in one hand and one of your daggers in the other, the blade dancing effortlessly around your nimble fingers whilst your eyes gleamed as you watched him over the rim of your glass.

His gun was aimed at you in seconds and a slow, feral grin spread across your lips at the sight.

"I take it you didn't appreciate the little trail of breadcrumbs I left for you then." You sighed, all faux heartbreak and wounded misery, pouting at him mockingly before your tinkling laugh echoed through the silence of the room.

He fucking hated it.

Hated the way it set his blood aflame and made his slacks that much tighter as his gaze on you snapped hot with rage.

"I don't appreciate you fucking with my work." He snarled, taking a single, intimidating step closer. "I don't know why you dragged me here, why you didn't just kill the target when you first caught up to her, why you chose to play this twisted fucking game with me but you're about to regret all of it."

You rolled your eyes then, swung your legs elegantly from the arm of the chair and dropped them to the ground as you leaned towards him. Placing the glass and the dagger on the floor before shrugging like it was all so obvious.

"I wanted to see if you'd follow."

Theo blinked at you.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean."

"You said it yourself." You answered slowly, gaze calculated, glinting with something that made his fingers itch to pull the trigger just so he wouldn't have to hear what you said next. "I could have killed her in Spain and again in France, Italy was more of a holiday, you know you should really check in with your family more, but anyway, you knew I had got there first every single time yet still you followed the cards. Why?"

Theo couldn't answer.

At least he couldn't with anything he would ever fucking admit, he'd rather shoot himself first. But he was obsessed, there was no denying it.

It was as blatant as a pistol whip across the face, the deep slice of a knife from sternum to navel, cleaving him raw and bloody in the sick truth of it.

It had never been about finding the mark and completing the job, it had always been about finding you and fuck, did the realisation make the hate he felt flood his tongue, thick and bitter as poison.

He hissed. "I followed only for the pleasure of putting you down. Nothing more."

Your smile was indulgent when you arched a brow at him, eyes glittering with amusement as you slipped from the chair and slowly stalked towards him.

It felt like there was an alarm screeching in his brain, the word danger flashing over and over in bright neon fucking light, and still all he did was watch you creep closer. Watched you lift your hands to where his were clasped around his gun, stroking his skin and making him shudder before taking one final step and raising your joint hands to press the gun to your own forehead.

"Go right ahead." You taunted softly. "This is the second time you've had a gun pointed at me, told me your cute little fantasy of putting a bullet in me, but honestly Teddy, I'm really starting to doubt your commitment."

He felt the surprise slacken his face before he could stop it, his suspicious gaze flickering over your features, trying to figure out what the game it was you were playing before it narrowed further.

"What have you done with her? The target." He bit out and you smirked.

Fucking. Smirked.

"Dead, just moments before you arrived actually.” You answered mildy, innocently, as if you were telling him something mundane, like how it would rain tomorrow, and not that you had murdered someone. “So I guess either you kill me now or your entire trip has been for nothing."

There was a beat of silence.

A sharp breath.

And then Theo exploded.

****

He didn’t even consider shooting you after that, he just lunged like some kind of vicious beast, burning dark and wild with the need to tear you apart with his own hands.

And only then did you suddenly burst violently to life.

The second he slammed you against the wall your teeth were bared, a flash of perfect bone white ready to be sunken in deep and turned red, your head rearing back before you smashed it forward into his face and made him reel back as he temporarily saw stars.

His fist collided with your jaw before you could duck around him and you hissed like a rabid animal, dodging the next swing and kicking him savagely in the gut when he tried to fly for you again.

Despite his body fighting to double over on itself he managed to work through it and catch you around the waist, swinging you hard into a solid wood cabinet that buried its edges into your side and punched the air from your chest with the pain that exploded through you.

Taking advantage of your dazed state he surged forward then, shoving you back against the wall and slipping a hand to your throat to crush your windpipe like he'd imagined.

But then something changed.

He didn’t know how nor did he know who moved first, all he knew was that your eyes blew wide the instant his fingers squeezed your neck and then his mouth was slamming down against yours in a furious kiss. That when you moaned hot into his mouth, Theo was fucking done for.

He sunk his teeth into the tender give of your lip and sucked at the iron tang of your blood, shoving his tongue deep into the cavern of your mouth to brush with yours over and over.

It felt like he'd been starving his whole life and he'd only just realised when he'd tasted you, the desperation burning away at him endlessly, like he would die of it if he didn’t swallow every last part of you down, possess you in every single way he could think of.

Had already thought of, if his many fantasies whilst he fucked his own hand picturing you were anything to go by.

His hands tore at your clothes, ripping the fabric as the buttons went clattering to the floor and then his eyes went wide, his breath hitching as you threw him off you.

There was something predatory in the way you moved after him, features shadowed in hunger when you knotted your fingers in his shirt to wrench him around and shove him up against the vanity.

He didn't have time to spit curses at the satisfied grin you gave him when the mirror splintered at his back, shards falling from the frame to clatter near his splayed hands, not when you were on him again in seconds.

Lips demanding in a kiss that was all frenzied desire and little softness, another kind of fight whilst your fingers buried in his hair and pulled meanly.

The bright spark of pain caused his neck to arch back, made his cock throb painfully behind the restrictive press of his zipper, and then his hands were snatching at your waist, sliding roughly down to grab at your arse and hauling your hips against him. Grinding into you whilst you mouthed bruises across his jaw and down the muscular line of his throat that drove him wild.

He was fucking lost to the fever you had lit in his blood, delirious almost as it crept through every part of him, scorching. Branding.

Theo let you peel the shirt from his chest, a ragged groan working its way out of his throat when you raked your nails down his stomach.

"Fuck." He exhaled roughly, abs tensing and his hips lurching when you repeated the action before sinking to your knees with a sly grin.

"Is this what you wanted, Theodore? Just needed someone to suck the stress right out of you?” You cooed, a patronising thing that set his teeth on edge. “You could have just asked instead of trying to kill me, baby, no need to choose the boring option."

Even on your knees you were still fucking teasing him, still being cheeky with that sharp tongue of yours and it made him want to lunge for you again. Made him want to throw you on the bed, flip you on to your knees and shove your face into the sheets and teach you a lesson as he drove mercilessly into your dripping cunt until you couldn't fucking speak. Voice broken from screaming for him.

But then you were sliding his zipper down, reaching inside his boxers to free his thick length, and all that escaped him was a softly hissed. "Fuck you."

You chuckled low in your throat, peering up at him coyly from beneath your lashes as you pumped him infuriatingly slow.

"Oh you will, but first–"

He groaned when you flattened your tongue and dragged a wet line up the underneath of his cock to his tip, thighs twitching when you took him into the soft heat of your mouth.

Theo's eyes never left your face, not for second, not that he could have even remembered how to when he was pretty fucking sure you were trying to kill him slowly.

The image of you was seared in his mind, doe eyes staring up at him so sweetly, those perfect lips wrapped around him. Lashes fluttering as you took more and more until your nose nudged the soft curls at the base of him.

Fuck.

He pulsed on your tongue and you moaned around him, the vibration sending a sharp bolt of pleasure slashing down his spine and making him crack that little bit more.

One of his hands shot out to fist at your hair, grasping tight as his hips stuttered and he could barely wait for your subtle nod, slack-jawed and panting, before he was yanking himself back only to thrust his cock back down the soft cushion of your throat the very next second.

You gagged and the wet sound of it echoed around the room, a rabid noise wrenched from his chest when you ripped his slacks down further and sank your nails into his arse to pull him into you.

It sent him careening into a frenzy, snapping his hips against your face and cursing hotly as his length surged in and out of your mouth, harder than he'd ever been in his life and shining wet with your spit.

"You look so fucking pretty like this." He praised roughly, thrusts growing harsh as you hummed around him, pleased. "Taking my cock so well– shit– so fucking perfect– gonna fill that pretty little mouth up and watch you swallow every last drop."

You sucked at him harder, traced the thick veins and ridges with your tongue before burying him deep in your throat and every little part of him that was bunched up tight, all that tension and stoicism that he carried, knotted and stiff in his head and his chest, fucking unravelled.

His stomach muscles clamped down and his orgasm ripped through him, white hot and blinding, hips stuttering as he spilled down your throat for what felt like an eternity before he slipped from your mouth and pulled back to stare at you dazedly.

You looked an absolute mess. A gorgeous wreck with spit-slick, swollen lips from his mouth and cock, your shirt torn open, black lace bra on display, courtesy of his desperate hands, and it all stirred something possessive in Theo’s blood.

Something that had him yanking you back to your feet so he could reclaim your mouth with his, burying the overwhelming feeling by feeding it to his lust and pushing it into you anyway he could.

"Theo." You breathed, needy and wanting, and it killed him to realise he was addicted to his name on your tongue. That it took an unnatural amount of willpower not to command you to say it again. "Wanna feel you, want you to fuck me."

He was tearing at your pants before you could even finish. Ripping them from you along with your pretty, lace underwear, damp from how badly you needed him, and pulling the tattered remains of your shirt from your torso before ridding you of your bra.

You dragged him with you until your back hit the wall, hooking a leg around his hip to pull him into you and he got the hint. His fingers burrowing into the plush backs of your thighs and then both your legs were wound around him. Body caught between cold marble and the flushed heat of his chest and he groaned when his cock slipped against your warm cunt.

He wrapped an arm tight around your waist and buried his free hand between you, sweeping the pads of his fingers over your soaked slit and grinning something dark, more than a little depraved. “Poor little thing, so desperate for my cock aren't you, what makes you think you deserve it, dolcezza?"

You snarled at him then, any sweetness evaporating and the first flash of your anger breaking through that air of superiority you'd held since he'd walked in the room.

He relished it, lapped it up like the sweetest victory, eyes dark on yours, unyielding, as you ground your teeth in frustration.

"How about the fact that I just sucked your dick better than I bet that little doll of a wife of yours has ever been able to." You spat and he immediately tore his hand away from your aching cunt to deliver a sharp slap across your arse.

It made you choke down a moan, defiant, eyes blazing and breath turning jagged.

"Don't be such a fucking brat or I won't touch you and you can use your those cute fingers to try and get yourself off." He warned, cocky with it, so smug that for once it felt like the tables had turned. That he was deep beneath your skin, plucking at your nerves, thinning out your patience.

“My fingers can make me cum better than your cock ever could so go right ahead." You snarked at him and his temper flared red hot, jaw clenching as his eyes narrowed to slits.

He reached between you again and guided his cock against you, deliberately nudging the head against your clit and smirking when it made you jolt, a soft whine slipping from between your teeth.

“Is that so?” Theo murmured, voice dropping low. Huskier. “You think your fingers could fill you the way I could, think they can get nice and deep, hit that place inside you that's gonna make your legs fucking shake for me.”

He kept at it until you were panting, until your glazed eyes fluttered closed and then he snapped his hips and sunk to the hilt inside you with one smooth, mind-shattering thrust.

You gasped, a silent scream catching in your throat as his face dropped to the crook of your neck with a groan, his mouth a punishing heat on your skin whilst he distracted himself. Scattering as many marks as it took for the searing heat in his veins, his stomach, to ebb.

And when it finally did, he drew nearly all the way out before pushing back in achingly slow. A taunt. The crawling pace just enough to stoke that molten burn he could sense simmering beneath your skin just like his own.

It made you rake your nails over him, made your hand find its way to the hair at the nape of his hair and yank it roughly, eyes snapping open to glare at him.

“Yes.” You bit out. Voice noticeably strained.

And Theo fucking grinned.

"Yeah? How many do you think it would take to stretch you like this?” He rasped, a wild noise clawing through his chest when you clenched tight around him. "Do you think your needy little cunt would get them all nice and wet the same way it's drenching my cock right now?"

"Fuck you, Theo– oh my god."

He slammed into you, fucking you raw and desperate inbetween the priceless art that hung on the walls whilst you cried out. Sounding ruined as you squeezed your legs tighter over his hips and told him to go deeper, harder, to not fucking stop.

Your nails scored pretty lines of red down his back before they swept back up and bit into the sweat-damp expanse of his shoulders as he scraped his teeth across your throat. He made an animalistic sound, muffled by the sweet give of your flesh between his teeth, and he was glad you were out of it enough that you didn’t realise how it sounded a hell of a lot like ‘again’.

That you didn't notice he had just lost his head and begged you to mark him, to make him bleed. Gift him lovely, crescent moon scars that he couldn't just wash away or forget about when his team almost had him convinced again that you weren't real.

He didn't know how he was supposed to still kill you when you had him spiralling like this, how he was ever supposed to be rid of you now he knew the heaven that was your perfect cunt wrapped around his cock, clamping down on him so greedily that his head fucking spun.

It made the punch of his hips grow bruising, manic, each spear of his thick cock through your walls knocking you up the wall whilst you clung to him. Pleasure-drunk and gasping.

He felt feral with it, the noises slipping past your parted lips making his blood burn as you rolled your hips frantically into his, and then there was suddenly madness within him. The kind that only you had ever inspired, making him hunger, making him crave, and as he drowned in it he lunged forward to sink his teeth deep into your collarbone.

Hard enough that your blood bloomed hot on his tongue, hard enough that he'd marked you just as savagely as you had marked him and it was enough to have your muscles locking up tight, back arching off the wall and thighs trembling violently around his waist.

You came around him with a sob so intense, it was as if he had thrust his hand through your chest, tangled his fingers in the branches of your lungs, and ripped it out. Whimpers fluttering into his mouth as he raised his head to crush his lips to your own, swallowing them down greedily and smearing your blood between you.

“That's it– fuck– look at the mess you're making, dolcezza.” He groaned, low and filthy. Voice aching whilst he pressed his head to yours and forced you to look down at where you were joined, where he was still viciously fucking up into your fluttering cunt. To where both of you were glistening wet with your release.

“Should I make you clean it up?” Theo murmured darkly. “Make you get on your knees and use that quick tongue of yours to get rid of one of your own messes for once.”

“I'd like to see you try, Teddy.” You spat, and maybe your vehemence would be a little more terrifying if you weren't still gasping and shaking against him.

If there weren't tears of pleasure spilling down your cheeks and dripping between yours and his already slick skin. Instead he laughed, the sound of it rasping, and then his hand was on your chin, lifting your face up so he could drag his tongue over a falling tear as the brutal snap of his hips grew sharper.

“Maybe if you ask nicely, if you begged me for it, I'd do it for you.” He husked and fuck, you were shuddering in his arms, pupils blowing out as you started tightening around him again. “I'd clean you up, taste every fucking inch of you, eat you where your all messy with me, and then I'd fuck you again. And again.”

This was dangerous.

He was becoming unhinged, posessed.

Yet he couldn't stop.

Theo ducked his head to latch his mouth to your nipple as if it would keep him from talking, from revealing the effect you had on him. How much he wanted to fucking devour you whole or unravel you at the seams so he could step between your bones and lock himself inside your ribs.

And maybe you knew, maybe there was something telling in the way he buried you deeper into the wall at his own words, the way his hands were bruising your skin and a rough noise caught at the back of his throat when you rolled your hips just right.

Because you keened at the swipe of his tongue and then your fingers were curling in his hair to wrench his head back, revealing his feral, pleasure-stricken expression to your wild gaze. Your fight returning full force.

“I don't fucking beg, but trust me Teddy, you will.” You whispered against his mouth, licking the rust from where it had dried after he'd bitten you. And then you're hand was slipping between your bodies, snaking down to your clit to touch it in quick movements that had your cunt trying to milk his cock for all its worth.

Doubled with the way your rocking against him, moving in a way that had Theo’s eyes rolling back, his knees threatening to buckle, it felt like he couldn't fucking breathe. Like you were killing him and he couldn't do a damn thing to stop you. Instead the heat in his belly bloomed and bloomed until he spat out a furious curse.

Until you licked the sound of your name from his desperate mouth, the bitten off, reluctant whisper of please, fuck—please, and with a savage grin you let yourself break around him, dragging him violently into ecstasy when he followed the very next second. Cock pulsing as he spilled inside you with a ruined groan.

****

Thanks to the moment of weakness he had displayed, Theo had been determined to regain at least some control, refusing to leave at a disadvantage with the unholy cracking of his begging voice lingering in his ears.

Instead he'd ignored the fact that he should have been putting as much distance between him, you and this hotel as possible, that he should have been heading to the airport and booking an earlier flight to get the fuck away from whatever the hell had happened.

Instead of walking away without another glance, he'd had you again. And again. And again. He'd settled for dragging orgasm after orgasm out of your trembling body until you had kicked him away and eventually begged yourself, pleading for him to let you rest.

And then it wasn't as if he had expected to fall asleep there, to slip into the most peaceful sleep he'd had in years in the circle of your arms with his head pillowed on your chest.

But when he awoke there was no sign you were ever even there, only the smell of your perfume clinging to his skin, the raw sting of your marks and another cream coloured card with his name scrawled on it.

No photo this time.

Just a couple of sentences that made him burn.

Body is in the bathroom, be a darling and take care of it, will you? I'll see you soon, Teddy.

God, he fucking hated you.

[mydearestbeloved]

Chapter 26 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

Content Warnings: This chapter is Red, Igris, & < Devourer > butterflies-centric—sorry, little to no JinwooxReader in this one; this chapter also contains some elements of gore—this is a work of fiction and I do not condone or glorify violence in real life; my attempts at magical anatomy—'cause college is still kicking my ass when it's the holidays, so I must apologize if this chapter might be boring; & experimental writings—a.k.a. me trying out a different style of being more descriptive and new p.o.v.s shifts.

See more in the < End Note > in case the descriptions in this chapter do not deliver as well as I had hoped + extra funsies.

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

——oOo——

{ < Children of ‘Trial Player’ >

File 001# - Quick Status Window

< Red >

Lv. MAX

"The Ducchess"

Would you like to initiate < Title Change >?

<<Yes>>   <No>

Initiating < Title Change > . . .

< Red >

Lv. MAX

“The Devourer”

< Title Change > successful!

Specialty Passive Skill: < Crimson Carnage > is activated!

*In the duration of < The Feast >, user will gain 3× the energy and experience points from consuming lifeforce. Both can still be distributed to fellow < Children of ‘Trial Player’ >.

Stats: < HP >, < Stamina >, and < Mania > are now boosted.

Special Note: “Sustain the flesh, blind the soul.”_ }

——oOo——

At the center of the morbid tableau, Igris saw her.

A study in grace—a slender silhouette clad in velvety white and traces of black, the intricate patterns of her wings shimmered like molten rubies on flowing sleeves and coat tails. Every little movement was deliberate yet seamlessly flowed amidst havoc, out of place yet undeniably captivating.

Amid the blood-soaked carnage, she seemed untouched by the grime and chaos. Unhurried steps so light, the heels of her boots left no imprint on the sodden earth. She weaved through devoured carcasses left and right with the same grace as she would have when flying in her butterfly form.

A rapier on one hand, her crimson eyes, languid yet sharp, fixed on the dungeon boss his Liege had felled—once a towering centaur-like beast, its body now laid on the ground with its neck slashed open. Red approached its head, its purple blood pooled under, yet there was not a single splash when she stepped on it, only calm ripples.

The thin silver blade emitted wisps akin to flames as she got close enough. At the same level of its eye, it was clear that the beast’s vacant optic that stared into the void was larger than her head.

Shing!

Igris caught the quick circular slash of metal, and at first, there seemed to be nothing amiss. At least until—

Gush!

Viscous liquid burst out like a jet stream, becoming a heavy downpour as it fell. In a split second, Red’s figure was swallowed by the waterfall, the blood pooling underneath widening in size.

It was not until a few seconds later that the curtain of purple lifted enough for everyone to finally get a glimpse, the outline of the figure in it. As the stream progressively lessened in its intensity and amount, Red didn’t move a single step from her position, and it was revealed later that she remained as pristine as ever, not even her pants were soiled by the icky violet. She stood there under an umbrella where her rapier had been, the white material unstained as the droplets of blood dripped down from the lace decorated with red gems.

When the outburst of blood around the beast’s eye finally ran out, the remaining little amount of liquid cascading down the orb, the unseeing eye shifted. Red took a step to the side as the beast’s eyeball rolled out of its socket onto the purple ground, following it were the blood vessels, nerve optic, and tendons with their detached ends cut short.

When the eyeball stopped rolling, there was a swarm of butterflies at the ready, and soon, the globe was surrounded and began to be gnawed on by the voracious insects.

Red remained unbothered. She went to close her umbrella, and then pulled at its handle, revealing that it was a scabbard as the thin blade came to view once again. The umbrella disappeared in red wisps as Red jumped onto the beast's massive head and began to chop away. First at his antlers, the bony branches fell to each side with its cut-edges blackened, and began to glitch away until the whole antlers vanished into air, presumably stored into your inventory.

Igris also caught her next slash: a horizontal one, and then a vertical that was instantly followed by a backflip—Red landing on the beast’s upper body behind the detached head.

Something similar to before happened, it took a few seconds after the initial swing of her blade for the blood to burst, first from the horizontal cut that detached the snout and the next was from the rest of the head splitting into two halves right in the middle. Igris recognized this delayed reaction, it was the body that didn’t realize it was cut the moment it was when the cut was done far too quickly for it to respond in time.

Igris knew this because he was also capable of doing such. However…

The rapier was not a blade meant to slash like other swords typically. It was meant for prioritizing speed and precision, capitalizing on its user’s dexterity and finesse. And Red had proven she had all of these qualities when she had done exactly thrusting attacks when they fought together moments prior.

A rapier was a sword meant to pierce.

So how in his Liege’s name did she was able to cut through flesh and bones so easily with that same slender and pointed blade?

The only possible explanation Igris could think of was the use of magic, the red wisps as the proof. It was not unlikely for swordsmen and swordswomen capable of magic to use them to enhance their attacks, be it the body or the weapon itself. Perhaps she used magic to give the blade sharper edges and fortified it to not break under heavier pressure? Then she also needed more strength to accomplish that clean cut.

But was that all there was to it when her stances were just as odd?

As though caught in an endless waltz, even in combat, Red’s steps were odd. It wasn’t practical; it was theatrical, the combination of sheer extravagance and fluidity of it all.

It wasn’t the typical disciplined efficiency of a warrior’s training. No, her movements carried the flair of high society, the sway of aristocrats at frivolous galas.

{”I am aware that you do not fancy such occasions,”}

It reminded Igris of the rare instances when he had been forced to attend those annoying noble gatherings in life—when he could’ve been fighting on the battlefield instead—standing stiff and indifferent at the edge of opulent ballrooms, enduring the swish of gowns and the hum of violins for the sake of duty.

{An upturned of plump lips glistened, as though painted by blood, something he was more familiar with—}

Or perhaps it was more akin to the high-end performances he had glimpsed while on patrol, the kind that packed theaters and sparked envy among the masses unable to afford. The kind where tickets were scarce and disputes over seating made so much ruckus and his duties more complicated—stagnating his training, the progress to his goal—in the past.

{”However…” An extended hand delicately hidden under satin glove.}

Those fleeting moments were far from meaningful to him, but they had left enough of an impression for him to recognize the same artistry now.

Her moves weren’t a metaphorical dance of the blade, the way swordsmen sometimes fought with an almost artistic rhythm.

No, Red was dancing—truly dancing.

{—she was more familiar to him than anything else in this godforsaken room.}

Every pivot was a pirouette, every sweep steeped in poise, every sway she put her heart into it. A face so serenely doing her calling, not caring who was watching or what the world might think of the unconventionality. She moved as though the battlefield was her stage and she its prima ballerina.

And, to Igris’s astonishment, it worked—brilliantly, might he add.

{”Can you humor this lady just once,”}

A match, a complimentary to his own.

He had never seen anything like it before.

{”Sir Knight?”}

“How fascinating.”

Even before Red had taken her current form, Igris had always been intrigued by the red butterfly that had inexplicably taken a liking to him—or so you had claimed.

To him, she had always carried an air of refinement that set her apart. Every flutter of her iridescent wings was not without purpose, Red had always been peculiarly polite and oddly dignified for a summon. When the shadows discovered they could communicate with the butterflies—a feat made possible, apparently, through a telepathic mechanism Igris only vaguely understood as a mix of their mimicry of shadows and some illusions—Red’s demeanor stood out for her articulate and courteous responses.

Now, that same poise radiated from her in full force.

As Red continued to cut away the dungeon boss’s body into smaller pieces so the other butterflies would have an easier time to eat, an acrid smell wafted. Igris caught the sight of blackened spots and edges on some chopped fleshes. Only when a bone fell with its cut-side directly visible to him did Igris have his answer.

Fire.

The surface of the cut on the bone was completely blackened—no, charred.

Not every chopped part was; the fleshes mostly remained fresh which Red might have enough strength to cut through. But when it came to a harder material like the bone, the cut was always completely burned. And the fleshes that did have that discoloration must’ve been the skeletal muscles, the closest one to the bones—that meant Red had control over when and how much heat was needed.

Red landed back on a puddle in the ground with grace—again, no splash, just ripples—her rapier disintegrating into the same red wisps as her magic, the motion was like a ballerina’s reverence. As the dungeon’s boss body fell in neat cubicle pieces behind her, the red butterflies closing in to eat like a curtain-call.

A step accompanied by a ripple.

Another followed.

Red walked towards a minion’s corpse, significantly smaller than the boss’, but was still noticeably larger than her own. While the body below the neck was already getting chewed on, the head was left untouched. With deliberate care, Red knelt beside it, her tailcoat pooling around her like spreading wings.

Right hand took off the left’s glove, the remaining other pulled by teeth until the delicate and pale fingers underneath was revealed. As both pieces of dark leather vanished into thin air, black nails trailed along the beast’s jawline in an almost gentle gesture, as though caressing a long-lost lover.

She began to hum, a calming melody that sent chills through Igris. It wasn’t a tune he recognized, but there was something uncomfortably intimate about it, as if she were singing a lullaby for a child.

A small ornate dagger materialized, fingers curling around its handle in firm. The ornate blade gleaming in the muted light as she raised it high—

Stab!

Igris flinched—a reaction he hadn’t experienced in years—as the silver tip plunged into the beast’s unseeing eye.

Similar to the new… feeding routine of the butterflies, he had no problem with the act of stabbing itself—it was the way the scene unfolded, like an oil painting came to life. The illustrated content long debated between the brutality it actually depicted behind strokes of beautiful paints, pure white among vivid reds and deep shadows.

Red pulled the dagger free with practiced ease, and with it came the beast’s eyeball.

The strings of optic nerve and blood vessels stretched from the force; the other end clung stubbornly to the socket. With a flick of her wrist, they broke in the middle, the orb held aloft like a precious gem while the bundle of fibers dangled from it, swaying like a clock’s pendulum.

The dagger, now acting as a makeshift fork, brought the eyeball to her lips. Her sharp canines peeked through as she bit into the orb. A brief sight—a single rivulet of viscous fluid trickling down the corner of her lips to her chin—was almost immediately hidden behind a palm, as if the act of showing the sight itself was most impolite. An accidental stroke in the otherwise masterful portrait.

Despite the slight hiccup, Red maintained her composure. The dagger in her right replaced by a materialized handkerchief that she dabbed over her lips daintily, catching any stray pieces as she quietly chewed. Her carmine gaze closed to savor, as though she were merely fine dining at a dinner gala, the orchestra of carnage its backdrop.

“Hm...” She swallowed delicately, her voice a dulcet whisper that carried through the stage. “A bit too earthy for my taste.”

The corner of her mouth lifted in a serene smile, and the usual sight of her upturned lips would’ve been captivating—it was still—but now, Igris didn’t think just one word would do the scene in front of him their due.

“Well?” Red turned her head slightly, vermillion orbs opening with a glint.

“What do you think, children?”

——oOo——

The red kaleidoscope seemed to simultaneously pause mid-feast, a brief change in their pattern, a different flutter. Distant bells in the wind, like twinkling stars given voice.

Chime. Chime. Chime. Gurgle. Chime—

‘Gurgle’?

A tremor ran through the swarm. Their luminous bodies wavered, light bending strangely around some, as if space itself recoiled. The chimes grew discordant, warping into something wet and bubbling, like air escaping through viscera.

Squish…

A single butterfly convulsed midair. Tiny form curling in on itself, shrinking—no, collapsing. Wings folded inward with a schlk, dissolving into a raw essence of erratically pulsing mass of light. And from that quivering cocoon, something grew.

SQUELCH!

A spine unraveled; a spider’s threads pulled taut from unseen tether. Bones spiraled into existence, each piece of vertebrae locking into place with a sharp click. From there, the thin golden tendrils further expanded the structure like a time-lapsed birth—simultaneous yet seamless.

Upward, forming the trachea, jawbone snapping into place with a muted crck. The smooth curve of a skull, hollow sockets yawning open, vacant.

Downward, the pelvis solidified, grinding against before anchoring the extending femurs and other bones that would shape the legs, feet, and toes. Similarly for the upper extremities, from the shoulder bones, lengthening arms, hands, and down to the phalanges that made up each finger.

Inward, ribs sprouted from the spine’s embrace with a slow, deliberate snap-snap-snap, spreading like curved thorns, forming a cage locked by the sternum. And nestled within that hollow prison, a small thing took shape, suspended in the air just like the rest, a crystalline jewel held between unseen fingers.

Motionless—silent.

{How far can an imitation of life go?}

Like roots seeking soil, nerves branched out, mapping, in search of something to anchor to. Alongside them, veins crawled along the ivory framework, seeking to create the intricate web to feed, growing from that very same confined still-mass at the center.

Like ink spreading through water, a deep crimson bloomed then—

Ba-dump.

A pulse rippled through the arteries as blood surged outward, painting the spectral shifting-mass with life as raw organs came into being. Lungs, pinkish and fragile, swelled as if on the verge of their first breath, filling the rest of the ribcage. A brain placed snug within the skull where the eyeballs popped in their sockets. The liver slid into place with a damp plorp, intestines coiled like serpents, slick in the dim settings.

The stomach, kidneys, and so forth, each instrument settled into their place perfectly between the smooth walls of bone while sinew knitted around them like a loom at work over shifting joints. Nerves and veins threaded through all as muscles stretched over them in a weave where limbs twitched to life. True skin followed suit from behind, covering the exposed curves of the body and face with the same abnormal growth, each feature smoothed into an eerie, flawless symmetry.

For a time, what were under were still just as see-through even with the steady appearance of the outermost layer. At least, until the translucent skin neared its completion of sealing over the body. What should be the healthy complexion creeping in as the flesh and dermis closed over the last exposed area—a last glimpse over the beating heart.

{If you lie long enough—}

As naked as a newborn, a maiden’s bare feet kissed the slick, viscous blood pooling beneath. The deep purple clung, stark against the rain-watered surface, too pristine, like a being sculpted rather than born. Her wings, now immense as they adjusted to the owner’s new form, stretched one final time before shuddering. As if exhaling their last breath, the glittering membrane melted into the smooth planes of her back, disappearing as if they had never been there.

As if the one left standing was undoubtedly just a mere human.

And more followed.

A notable number of butterflies went through the same collapse. Delicate bodies unraveling, twisting, blooming like life in fast motion. Their arrival was heralded by the symphony of growth—cartilage cracking, skin sealing with quiet, wet whispers, the sickeningly organic sounds of something becoming, of creating features to each of their own.

Save for the rain, the silence of a field of mannequin settled after.

Until one threw her head back, auburn locks following her every movement, a new set of green eyes catching light under the drizzle.

The undeniably rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, making motions with her rosy lips—the sound light and airy, almost melodic.

{—won’t it become the truth?}

Following the lead, a second one, black of hair, brown of skin, and hazel for eyes, also started tittering. Joined by a third, white-haired and red-eyed, clapping gleefully. A fourth followed, and then a fifth, sixth, and the rest—small delighted laughs that grew louder and louder—a crescendo.

The first to move wobbled slightly on her feet, crouching beside the nearest carcass, fingertips tracing its ruined hide with something akin to fascination. Then, with a motion of deceptive ease, the beast’s skin peeled away with a wet rip.

She stumbled back, losing her balance and landing onto her haunches with a childlike-“Oof!”, even as the spray of warm, sticky blood came into contact with her side. She clutched the torn chunk in her bloodied cradle—like a prize, fresh crescent marks forming under digging nails—uncaring of the fleshy part still dripping onto her lap.

She lifted it to her mouth, a peek of growing canines between parted lips before teeth sunk into meat and tore them away under. Icky purple painted her chin, ran down the pale column of her throat as she chewed, staining the pristine surface that magic had so carefully perfected.

The very first taste on her tongue, of iron thick and rich.

When she eagerly swallowed, the others followed.

The butterflies—those still in their original form—perched alongside their newly reborn kin. Together, the feast began anew, of chimes and tearing flesh, of lips smacking against dripping muscles, of mirthful hums between gulps. Until each was bathed in the mix of blood and rain, violet dripping from fluttering wings and tresses from head to toe.

And at the center of it all, Red’s smile lingered, sealing her sight once more—content.

End Note:

Unedited Draft of [25/02/2025]

I'm back y'all! 🥳

For a short while at least. 🥹

I might've gone overboard writing the descriptions for this one. 😅 I'm not so sure on how well I am at describing action sequences, I still want to add them, so I'm learning as I go! 🫡 And so sorry if the magical anatomical sequence felt like a lesson, it's definitely NOT a real-life lesson okay? Please note the ✨️fantasy✨️-elements!

I'm already out of ideas on what more to edit to make this chapter better, so let me know your thoughts on this! 🥰

And just for clarification, what I want to depict for Red's fighting style is not true swordmanship. Igris stated that her moves are more theatrical, not efficient. The butterflies are not meant to surpass the shadows in direct combat, with few exceptions. They can hold their ground long enough if push comes to shove. 🦋💀

As for Red's dance-based fighting style, I would like to add that it will not be copy-paste Cha Hae-in's. I would like to think Hae-in's is like "she fights like she dances", while what I want for Red's is more like "she uses dances to fight". This will correlate to Red's other title by the system that will be revealed in the future, but what I can say now is that Red won't have or in any way take Hae-in's title. Our lovely Hae-in will still be the only one nicknamed "The Dancer" as she deserves, and I will NOT take that away from her 😤❤️

I also took my chance on writing Igris' backstory from what we know of him right now, mainly from the brief info I got from reading the Solo Leveling: Arise wiki, so plus some creative liberties to match the story. I DO NOT play the game—interested, but don't exactly have the time to try it out—so feel free to send corrections if I got any info wrong. 🙏

Anyone interested in theorizing what's up with Red and Igris? 🤭

Also, I mentioned 3 new humanoid butterflies here with more physical decriptions than the rest, but still less than the leaders of kaleidoscopes (the main 8 butterflies, i.e. Red, 'Bel', Trick, Neonie, Blanche, Sol, Gale, & Aria).

The 3 mentioned here—

Auburn-haired, green eyes, with olive skin;

Ravenette, hazel eyes, with brown skin;

White hair, red eyes, albino

—are meant to be background characters kinda easter egg. So, for funsies, can any of you figure out which 3 shadows soldiers these butterflies are supposed to be counterparts of?

Hint: They are only mentioned in the Solo Leveling anime's media, as far as I know. 🤔

And last but not least, in celebration of this chapter being Red-centric, a dear friend of mine and fellow beloved Reader of Trial Player AU, @eternadreeblissa, who somehow predicted this chapter being Red-centric (just kidding, but it's still very good timing since I don't remember ever spoiling her on this chapter until AFTER she sent her gift), sent me this absolutely fucking gorgeous panel of Red from Chapter 20 😍

I'm dying from happiness ASDFGHJKL

Boo, I love you so much. ❤️❤️❤️

Please check it out y'all! And better yet, check out her blog, her arts are so 🩷❤️🖤

Feedbacks are very much appreciated. Thank you for reading. 🙏💕

[esamastation]

Here's the prologue of what I'm currently writing which I'm calling

Gamer girl gets transmigrated into a farm boy Ao3 link

-

If you could choose a world to be isekaied into, you probably wouldn't choose the videogame Age of Tales. It's not that it's too dark or gritty or dangerous, quite the opposite. Age of Tales is boring.

It's a painfully generic mediaeval RPG with a very generic "farm boy becomes a hero" storyline. Or farmgirl, if you go that route. There's some moral choices, but overall the story is very linear from start to finish, and no matter how evil you try to play it, the game inevitably ends with the chosen farmboy (or girl) saving the world. Age of Tales has a very generic cast of characters with very generic backstories, even more generic villains with very basic evil plots, and side quests right out of early free to play mmorpgs. Overall the game is just very… mid.

It flopped within a week of being launched, deservedly so. It landed without a splash and was forgotten within the month, and its only saving grace was that at least it wasn't a live service and as such didn't have to go through the indignity of being shut down on top of being a failure. All in all, the game was a massive flop.

And Katie had sunk nearly six hundred hours into it. 

She would have explained the appeal, if she knew what it was. The weirdly cosy art design in a game where you eventually end up leading armies in hopeless battles? The character creator that let her create a beautiful two meter hundred kilo blue-eyed wall of muscle as her player character? The weird charm of 80' and 90's fantasy novels, as depicted by the game's story? The glitch that let her literally duplicate gold bars in the tutorial section? The way you can trip the big bad down a staircase if you just happen to fill the boss arena with chairs, benches and barrels?

Katie has hundred percented the game twice, found all known Easter eggs and best glitches, and she still couldn't say why she loved it so much. Why, even as Valthor the Vile generically monologues about how he would fill the world with darkness before the final boss fight, she's already planning to play the game again from the start.

Van the Valorous - as her character this time is called - met the big bad with a big sword in one hand and tall shield in the other, his build a pitch perfect Paladin this time. Katie has played through the final battle so many times that she knows all of Valthor's moves, and Van is fully leveled at 120, so the battle isn't exactly a challenge. She spends most of it admiring the battle arena and Valthor's design. He's a classic long-haired pretty boy, with a rapier and elaborate long coat with enormous shoulders. 

Valthor takes the coat off for the final phase of the battle, which Katie had always rather appreciated. She usually takes the opportunity to take Van's clothes off for the final round too, just for the aesthetic. It's not like Van needs the defence offered by clothing at that point anyway. 

"So this is what you have chosen," Valthor says on the screen. "These people, with their puny concerns and petty squabbles. You, who like me, could've been a God!"

Katie is offered a final choice of dialogue. "You are no God, Valthor - a devil, at most," Van says and points his sword at Valthor. "And your evil reign ends now!"

"Fine. Let's end it," Valthor answers, and off goes the coat in a completely unnecessary bit of theatrical dramatics. "Have at thee!"

Katie sighs fondly, a smile stretched wide on her face as she plays through the final disappointing mini game of quicktime prompts while on her screen two shirtless men slash bloodlessly at each other.

Valthor loses and falls down. "I had… such plans," he rasps, reaching towards Van. "I was going to bring peace…and prosperity…"

"And yet you brought only war and devastation," Van says and kneels beside his fallen enemy - now, mysteriously, clothed again in his armour and cape. "Your reign is over, Valthor. It's over."

"So it is," Valthor sighs and lets his head fall to the floor. "I wonder… What kind of reign will yours be… oh Valorous one…"

And so Valthor dies and the game ends with the victorious player character walking determinately towards the camera with cape billowing behind them in the most dissatisfying sequel bait ending Katie has ever seen. It's supposed to imply what happens next, how the player character, now a General and Saviour, would probably go on to take charge of the land left behind by Valthor or whatever. 

Of course, the game never got a sequel, but there's something endearing about how hopeful they were, making an ending like that. The developers really thought they did something there.

"Ten out of ten, premium trash," Katie sighs with pleasure. "Would not recommend to anyone - except me."

She skips through the final credits and back to the starting screen, intending to start a new game. Maybe this time she'd make Van look older - a huge grizzled old man playing the part of an innocent farm boy should be hilarious.

She stops before hitting [New Game], because the starting screen has changed. There's a new option there, one she's never seen before. 

[New Game∞]

"What? I didn't know there was a New Game+," Katie mutters, confused. "Where was this the other times I finished the game, huh?" And why'd they use the infinity sign? Another of Age of Tales' weirdnesses?

Not sure if it would actually be any fun to play the game with a New Game+ but curious about what would actually transfer over with the save, Katie selects the [New Game∞]...

And is promptly sucked into her TV.

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[Chapter 1>>]

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Since some people were expressing interest, lmao. Still on a litrpg kick, pretty much everything I've tried to write lately has been litrpg. This one I'm more hopeful than the rest though. It has actual characters and stuff. Edit: replaced with version proofread by @nimadge, many thanks.

[hoseoksluna]

ICHOR | jjk

pairing: idol!boyfriend!jungkook x f. reader

genre: fluff

word count: 2.4k

summary: after a bad day at work, you lose a sense of yourself and jungkook leads you right back to her.

warnings: crying, capitalism, death metaphors, sadness, jungkook is sweaty and is wearing that nike shirt he wore in his working out live, has fluffy hair!

note: hiii, bubbas, so this is fluff fic is partly for @frmisnow bc she inspired me to write this & i also want to make her feel better with this sacchariny-sweet jungkook, partly for me bc i genuinely wrote in detail about what i went through at work these past two days. and, also, for all you guys because i made you go through reading about such evil jungkook in my last berries fic. i hope you enjoy it, let me know what you think. here's to a bit of happiness in our lives *cheers with an imaginary glass of imaginary pink, glittery, strong, fairy alcohol*. <3

You used to be a goddess, the ichor in your veins carried the color of roses, glinted with flecks of gold that would radiate your skin from beneath, make any heads turn, especially the one you loved the most. Customers at work smiled upon seeing your cordial aura, close-knit even though they were mere strangers, preferred to go to you amidst the flock of your other colleagues around. They would become radiated just the same, joy so terribly evident on their faces as their smile would grow. They would frown upon seeing the state of you at this current moment—curled up on your bed while the heat of the beginning of the summer clings to your near bareness, coming through your wide opened windows, the white, translucent curtains billowing up and down in their strange, but magnolious dance. 

You’re not Aphrodite. You’re not Euphrosyne, the goddess of joy and mirth, either. 

You’re the slain fawn at their feet—for their very own feast and for the feast of those aforementioned customers, who stand behind the dryly bloodied cause of your death. 

Work was hell, to say the least. 

You always thought death was a kind embrace, not a tight clasp of doom around the nape of your neck, your mental strain and disquietude the half moon marks that ever so slowly deepen. You mimic the movement on the hem of the linen shirt you wore for the day, one that you were too drowsy to take off when you arrived at home, having only a slight wisp of an energy to rid yourself of the uncomfortable tightness of your jeans and crawl onto your bed, knees to chest, on your side. You bunch up the fabric in your fist, wrinkling it, but you hardly vanquish the cuts that your anxiety slashes on your skin. You thought it would alleviate you of your tenseness, but as it seems—it only worsened it. 

You don’t even have tears to shed. Wept them all out in your manager’s office while she harshly, yet calmly reprimanded you for your mistake and the gravity of the fact that you almost lost your precious job, that you can’t imagine living without, washed over you and pained you like a splash of salty water in your eyes. Wept them all out when you breathed in the crooked, paralyzed expression of disappointment in her face—and that’s the sole thing that emptied out your system of that ichor, wiped out your reputation of being a good, reliable employee that everybody liked. 

Now the next unfolding of your days spent at work shall be filled with silent judgements and secretive gossip, the big talk of the entire building—something that will hang by the strands of your hair for every head to turn to until something else comes along. Another topic, another fuck-up. That’s the face of modern capitalism, the absurdity of day-to-day normalcy its features, and you’re so sick, so repulsed to be staring at it every single day of your life that you yearn to not be anymore. 

Death has flattened over you, but has not finished its job. It was Dante who described the process of hell in his Divine Comedy and you hate him for the rotten pulchritude of his mind because you find yourself to be standing in the middle of inferno with no guide—no Virgil, no Beatrice—to hold your hand and lead you through this scalding maze. You’re all alone, your mistake carving the branches of the trees burning down in your hell over your burdened, heavy heart that has been longing for the company of another ever since you walked out of your manager’s office. 

Your face screws as another agonized emotion rises in you. You can’t stand your aloneness, can’t stand your burden—and before you realize what you’re doing, your fingers have already tapped on your boyfriend’s name in your history of calls. The screen of your phone is cool against the fever of your cheek and you rub your face harder against your duvet, staining the strawberry pattern with the particular tinge of your makeup, which must have been the color of your ichor. 

You wince, the rings prolonging in your ear, your impatience running thin. 

Then, your heart drops once you hear the broken whisper of your Beatrice, faintly, barely, which causes your heart to spread its longing. Damn iPhones and their bad service. 

“Jungkook?” you call out, nonsense coming through the other end—and you repeat his name until his voice smooths out, relief sinking in like a stone in a pond. 

It turns out you were exchanging each other’s names and the intimacy of it curls the smallest of smiles on your mouth. You miss him; you need him. 

“When are you coming home?” you ask, wishing to descend into the emitting waves of the call, slide through them until you spring to wherever he is, no matter how tired you are—you’re willing to cross the distance. 

You hear him turn on his blinker and your heart almost does it for you. 

“I’m driving home right now. I’ll be there in ten,” he says and your relief expands in your chest, taking a small weight off of your heart. You place your palm against it. 

“Okay.” 

A beat of silence. 

“Why do you sound so sad?” 

Your mouth curls downwards. “Something happened at work.” 

An inhale of breath. “Screw that, baby. I’ll be there in five, okay?” 

A whimper. “Okay, drive safe.” 

And your Beatrice didn’t lie to you. Soon, you hear the banging of the front door closing, the tossing of his keys and the prodding open of your shared bedroom door. The hastened footsteps, hefty on the floating floor, the squeak of the mattress as his knee dips on it and the glide of his hand up your thigh. All before you use the last of your strength to focus your swimming vision on him. 

Hearing him alone helped you take a step further in your inferno. 

And then you can smell him. The scent of sweat clinging to his favorite ivory Nike shirt, interlaced with his natural, poetic scent, creating something divine that blesses you with the strength to place your palm on top of his hand. Your coworkers hugged you earlier, clasped your hands in theirs in reassurement and more than welcome it, you absolutely despised it. Lingered in their affection only because you thought you should let yourself be consoled, for you know they care about you. But his touch… that’s not something you sense your body to want to run away from. On the contrary, it seems to be something that it’s missing. 

You can’t part the stream of your new tears with your other hand. 

You spill, completely. 

Jungkook coos, squeezing the bare flesh of your thigh as turns you onto your back and nudges himself between them, plopping his body on top of yours. And then, he’s kissing the place your undone shirt made for him, trailing his lips up your neck, where he stays, where he conjures a garden of fluttering gardenias, their tender petals tickling you. 

“What did they do to my princess?” he murmurs against your skin, his words muffled but heard clearly by your ears. You sob, your chest shuddering in violent staccatos against his, unable to settle, unable to speak. Jungkook lifts his small head and frowns, his thumb swiping your tears away while the rest of his four fingers cradle your cheek. You lean into the balmy safety of the realm of his palm, gaze fixed on the wrinkle between his brows, mouth letting out puffs of soft, gentle exhales. He kisses your chin, the corner of your mouth, the wetness of your other cheek—buries his nose into it, right beside yours, inhaling you, giving you fresh air to breathe in. “Don’t cry. I’m gonna decapitate them.” 

The whisper, the hand that parted the stream. You whimper and he steals the traces of your despondency, pecking the new, smooth surface, planting roses to bloom, its roots bestowing you with the ability of speech. 

Two sentences, two miles further in the inferno. Your burnt down trees are lost in the far distance, swallowed by the fire, yet the forest shows every sign of growing anew the longer Jungkook’s heart beats against your breast. 

He’s so benevolently patient with you, not rushing you with your explanation. It all the more drives you to disclose it to him—and you open your mouth to speak, your fingers following suit, helping you with your words as you drag them through the soft mop of his fluffy hair. 

“I made a mistake yesterday while closing up,” you croak out, licking your lips. Jungkook lifts himself onto his elbows, clutching your shoulders, keeping the close proximity intact. His warm grip is a stability you lean on, one you appreciate with every broken shard in you. “I did it five minutes earlier and somebody came in. I sent them away and they filed a complaint against me. They wrote an email to my manager and I… I almost lost my job.”

The wrinkle between his brows deepens and you thumb it, wishing it away. You don’t want to mar his beautiful face because of your foolishness; you want it to remain that soft ball of light that he always is, but then you realize you’re asking for the impossible. His mouth flattens, pity flashes across his round eyes, which helps you perceive that if he didn’t react like this, he wouldn’t love you—and his love is the air you breathe; his love is the ointment you need for your sadness. 

As if he heard you, he kisses you delicately and you sail—skip the purgatory and land in paradiso, a meadow of wildflowers overlooking a cliff that opens the restfulness of the sea, scattered with windswept petals of those lost blossoms, coloring the surface with pinks, whites and the greens of their leaves. 

“Did your manager yell at you?” Jungkook questions, his lips lifted a millimeter above yours, his thumbs fondling the fabric of your shirt upon your shoulders. 

“No, but she was very strict with me. Told me not to cry—”

His breath wafts over your face when he looks into your eyes, displeased. “She made you cry?” 

You cried because through her words you comprehended the gravity of your mistake and its repercussions, not because she deliberately used them to open the dam of your emotions. It’s precisely why she told you not to cry, giving you a hint of her perpetually nonexistent compassion. And you tell him. 

“No, she didn’t. She was very professional with me and made me realize what I did after I apologized. I cried because I was so scared of losing my job, of disappointing her and shit like that.” 

Jungkook purses his lips, shaking his head, curly strands rippling like the tremor of leaves. “She should’ve dropped it after you apologized. Five minutes is nothing, baby. You did nothing to deserve to be treated like that.” 

Your chest heaves, his love and reassurement sifting sand into your bloodstream, the color of ichor. “I know but… you know,” you trail off, indicating the realm of respect all peers must have for the management that you don’t really want to venture into, not when Jungkook had to deal with it as well in his music company. But unlike you, he broke out of its clutches. It cost him tears, frustration and weight loss, but now he’s a free bird of paradise. You don’t wish to make him remember his cage. 

Jungkook sighs. “Yeah, baby, I know, which is why I’m telling you that you didn’t deserve that.” 

Your chin quivers, the negative thoughts that wore you down in his absence returning at full speed. “It affects my mental health when I’m bad at my job.” 

Brows rounding upwards, his eyes flick to your chin, a glossy wetness coating them. He pecks it before he gazes into your irises. “But you’re not bad at your job. You just closed a few minutes earlier. You’re amazing at your job. You make people happy. I’ve seen it with my own eyes,” he says, meaning every word with the way he presses each one into your pupils. You feel its magnetism and you take it. “And I’m proud of you. Every day. You work so hard. Come home tired every day. Deal with people who aren’t always nice to you with kindness that I envy. I’m proud of you, you hear me? You didn’t make a mistake. You did good.”

And there it is, the stampede of your bloodstream—Jungkook has seeped the entirety of the sand until he emptied out his hand and your ichor charges forward, its light like a bud flaring open beneath your skin. And you're floating on that sea in paradiso, your braid adorned with the wet petals that swims back and forth to his arm that holds your body steady upon the surface, the names of the Greek goddesses lining every perimeter, sinking within. 

You’ve become them, all over again. 

“Thank you, Ggukie,” you whisper, running your hand through the front bangs of his hair, gripping them. It’s as if you’re holding the petals. “I needed to hear that.” 

He pouts, touched by the love name. “I know. You need to rest now after such an emotionally exhausting day. No more tears, okay?” 

You nod, feeling whole, feeling like you can face tomorrow with more courage. “Okay.” 

You pout, mimicking him, asking for a kiss and he gives it to you in that same delicate manner, plunging the entirety of the summer’s heat, molded by his hands, into you, making it bearable for you. 

Looks at you for a long time, after. Smiling. 

“You know, I didn’t take a shower after the gym for you,” he says, quirking a smile on your face.

You’re intimately acknowledged with the reason why, yet still you ask: “Why’s that?” 

He reciprocates the smile. “I thought you’d help me wash up. My muscles are sore and all. I lifted the double amount of your body weight.” 

You bite your lip. You’re willing to wash every inch of him with your utmost care. You deem he deserves it for enlivening you, but you’d much rather stay here, inhaling that dizzying scent of him. 

“I’ll do that, but let’s stay here for a little while.” 

Jungkook nods, kissing your jaw before he finds a comfortable place on your bosom, listening to the rush of your ichor, the sun rays upon the sea of that paradiso, inching you closer and closer to God. Augments the ending of that Divine Comedy. 

Doesn’t lead you to the final installment of death, but pushes you to life full of that brisk wind, the humming of the sea and the song of swaying wildflowers. 

Holds your hand. 

Doesn’t let go. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved

BACK to masterlist

[shrewsburysworld]

Would you be willing to do a yandere Sope fic? With a splash of stalking or maybe CEO! Yandere? Feel free to disregard if you aren’t taking requests! If you don’t write for 2 could it be for Hobi? 🩵 hope you’re doing well, I love your work!

Title: On the 42nd Floor

You weren't anyone special.

An assistant in the finance department, bottom tier on the 27th floor, your job consisted of brewing coffee, sorting invoices, and ducking your head whenever upper management passed by. Your boss barely remembered your name. Most of your coworkers didn’t speak to you unless they needed help fixing the printer.

But everything changed when Jung Hoseok said your name.

You’d never even seen the CEO in person before that day. Just photos—sharp jawline, sculpted cheekbones, soft brown hair swept back like he didn’t even try to look that good. In company newsletters, he always smiled politely. In meetings streamed across departments, his voice was smooth and controlled.

But nothing could prepare you for him standing right in front of you.

"YN," he said.

You looked up, wide-eyed and silent.

He smiled. "You’ve been on my radar for a while."

You blinked. "Me?"

His laugh was quiet and low. "Come with me."

And just like that, you were transferred to the 42nd floor.

At first, it felt like a dream.

A personal elevator key. A sleek new desk just outside his office. Fresh flowers every Monday. Hoseok would greet you every morning by name, his eyes lingering a little too long, his compliments walking the line between formal and intimate.

“I like your earrings,” he said once. “You wore them three weeks ago, didn’t you? With a black turtleneck. It suited you.”

You froze.

He remembered?

“Attention to detail,” he added, as if reading your discomfort. “It’s what keeps a company running.”

But the details he noticed weren’t always about work.

You began to sense things. Patterns. Subtle, unnerving shifts.

Your favorite coffee order—without ever asking.

A note on your desk: Don’t forget your umbrella. 60% chance of rain after 5. It rained. At exactly 5:13.

The scarf you lost at the laundromat reappeared in your drawer. Folded. Freshly washed. It smelled like sandalwood and cedar.

Like his cologne.

Then the incidents started.

Your neighbor’s car alarm kept going off at night. You overheard her say she was being stalked. A man you met at a friend’s birthday party offered you a ride home. You hesitated, but accepted.

He never made it to your door.

His tires were slashed. Windshield shattered.

You didn’t connect the dots—until the next morning, when Hoseok looked at you with that gentle, unreadable smile.

“I hope you got home safely,” he said.

Your hands trembled around the paper you were holding.

“I… I did.”

“That’s good.” His eyes crinkled. “Wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

You began pulling away.

You were polite. Distant. Less eager to meet his gaze. You didn’t smile as much. You even started searching for new jobs in secret.

And then, like a trap snapping shut, Hoseok began tightening his hold.

Your landlord sent you a termination notice—sudden renovations, no prior warning.

Your parents received a call that you’d been skipping work and showing signs of depression. You hadn’t.

When you tried to take a day off for a mental health break, HR sent you an email within five minutes: CEO Jung would like to personally check in. Please be at your desk by 9 a.m.

It was like he knew everything. Every move.

One evening, you stayed late, hoping to avoid him. He entered the office quietly, just as you were about to leave.

He stood behind you, not saying a word.

“I… should go,” you mumbled, grabbing your purse.

“YN.”

You turned.

He was smiling. But his eyes—those eyes—were too calm. Too still.

“Have I done something to make you uncomfortable?” he asked softly.

You hesitated. “I just… need space.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

Then stepped closer. “You can have all the space you need.”

He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers were cold. “As long as you don’t leave me.”

Your breath caught.

“What?”

“I said,” his smile widened, “I’ll always make sure you’re taken care of.”

You ran the next day.

Took a train to a city three hours away. Rented a small apartment under a false name. Burned your work badge. Changed your phone number.

You didn’t tell a soul. You didn’t pack much. You left behind your life like shedding old skin.

It felt like freedom. Brief, shaky freedom.

Until the doorbell rang.

You stared at the tiny screen connected to your door camera.

No one there.

You opened the door hesitantly, heart racing—and saw a box on the floor. White, square, tied with a deep purple ribbon.

Your favorite color.

You brought it inside with trembling fingers. Peeled it open slowly.

Inside: a crystal vase. Filled with lilies. Fresh. Dew-kissed.

A gold card tucked inside.

Your name written in elegant calligraphy.

You opened the card.

One sentence.

“There is no ‘away’ from me. You belong on the 42nd floor.”

---------------------•••------------------

Hey bitches!! I'm back from dead. I know I am late to this request. Sorry!! @living-in-a-daydream-24 but here it is.

And I am back after my internal exams almost killed me 😭

Do y'all need a sequel?? Maybe hobi's pov?

[queenofmorningstar]

Hiiiiiiii(*^^*)❤️ idk if you taking requests but can you do a one shot for Adam x wife!reader???

AND I LOOOVEEEE YOUR WRITING ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Adam x Wife! Reader

CW: Wife! Reader enjoys/supports/participates in extermination. They are evil power couple together. Canon-typical violence.

Notes: Thank you oomf!! I enjoyed writing this, and hope you do too! You didn't mention so I'm leaning towards sfw and a little spicy. If you do want continuation in nsfw, do ask again. Asks are always appreciated.

The streets of Hell burned. 

Angels descended and sinners screamed, scrambled, scattered but none escaped the rain of judgment. The screams were music.

Your outfit, once pristine, was now kissed with splashes of crimson. A demon darted from the rubble ahead, eyes wide with terror. You raised your hand slowly, like a dancer preparing to twirl. A flash—your blade flew. It sank straight through his skull. He collapsed in a twitching heap, face frozen in surprise.

You sauntered over, heels clicking, hips swaying. You bent down, yanked the blade free with a wet crunch. “God, I love this holiday.”

The Extermination was your favourite time of year. It wasn’t just the killing…it was the cleansing. The raw beauty of it. The artistry. Your blade was the brush. Sinners were the canvas. And by the time you were done, the streets would be soaked in something divine.

“Sloppy,” you chided. “You’re all so sloppy. ” You stepped over the corpses and wiped your cheek with a gloved hand, smearing the blood like warpaint.

You walked ahead into the ruins, blade humming in your hand, heart pounding with excitement. There were still sinners left. And you hadn’t had nearly enough fun.

You felt the air shift, not even turning to see. You didn’t need to. You could recognize your husband anywhere. Adam admired the aftermath you’d created around. And damn , what a sight. Adam let out a low whistle. “Shit, babe.”

He raked his eyes over you, slow and blatant, licking his bottom lip like he could taste the violence in the air. You grinned, pleased. “Took you long enough, honey . You missed all the fun. I’m still ahead of you…got a good 302 of these fuckers.”

“Yeah, I see that.” He stepped over a twitching body, kicking it lazily aside. “I’m only a little behind, baby. I’ll catch up.”

He grabbed you by the waist, not gentle at all, and yanked you against him. You didn’t resist—why would you? You melted into his touch like a blade into flesh.

“Damn, look at you. You’re so hot like this, baby. You know that?”

Your breath hitched in the best way.

“Lucky fuckin’ me,” he muttered against your neck. “That this badass chick is my wife.”

“You gonna help me finish this?” you asked, a challenge in your voice.

Adam grinned, swinging his guitar. “Hell yeah,” he said. “Let’s go kill the rest of these assholes.”

_______________________

“On your left, babe,” Adam called lazily, slicing the head off a snarling sinner with one shot.

“Handled it,” You replied before the words even finished leaving his mouth. Your blade slicing clean through the demon’s throat with a wet crunch . The body dropped at your feet in two twitching halves.

You smirked over your shoulder. “Are you getting slow or just enjoying the view?”

“Can you blame me?”

You chuckled. “Then stop staring and cover my ass.”

He laughed, hitting another target with pinpoint accuracy. “Ass officially covered, hot stuff.”

They moved like synchronized chaos, he blasted from a distance with his holy light, you darted in close. A larger sinner lunged at you–eight feet tall, claws like spears. Adam snarled, but you waved him off.

“Mine,” You purred. You launched forward, slashing into the demon’s gut, then flipping over its back and jamming your blade through its skull from behind. It roared, thrashed, then fell still.

Adam whistled low. “Marry me again, goddamn.”

You laughed, slicing through another demon that dared to interrupt. “Aw, you’re so romantic.”

“I try,” Adam said, stepping beside you again. 

They turned in unison, wiping out the last cluster of sinners together. Blood sprayed across their faces, and they didn’t even flinch…just grinned at each other like lovers sharing dessert.

When the last body hit the ground, Adam let out a satisfied sigh. “Shower sex later?”

You twirled your blade, flicking off the blood. You laughed softly at his proposal, pressing a kiss to his jaw. 

Smoke still curled from the ruins, the air thick with iron and ash. Sinners’ bodies lay in pieces, the scent of scorched flesh clinging to the broken pavement. 

He grabbed your waist with bloodied hands, his breath was hot against your ear. “Fuck, I love when you’re all smug and deadly. Babe—babe —I’m not even kidding. We need to find a shower, now . Or I’m bending you over right here.”

You cackled, leaning into him with zero shame. “Oh, so you’re into battlefield quickies now?”

“Only when my wife looks like this. 100% fuckable.”

He kissed your neck, sloppy and desperate, teeth grazing skin. You moaned softly, gripping his face and kissing him.

It was messy. Tongues and teeth and blood smearing between them as they stumbled back against a half-destroyed wall. His hands were everywhere , squeezing your ass, groping under your outfit, groaning into your mouth like he hadn’t touched you in weeks.

You moaned into his mouth as Adam’s hand slammed against the ruined stone wall behind, caging you in. His other arm wrapped tight around your waist, dragging you close, pressing their bodies together with shameless urgency.

He groaned as their hips collided. He ground into her with a low growl, rutting against you like a man possessed. You gasped, thighs clenching as you kissed him harder, nails digging into his shoulders.

He licked your throat, kissed your collarbone, dragging his lips across your skin like he was claiming you with every inch. He kissed you again, sloppy and starved. His hips rutted forward again and again, breath hitching every time your body responded to his.

"AHEM.” A loud throat-clear cut through the moment.

They both turned, still pressed together, breathless, lips swollen and saw Lute standing ten feet away, arms crossed, expression an absolutely lethal mix of judgment and rage. “…are you two seriously making out on a battlefield?” she said flatly.

Adam didn’t even blink. “Yeah. Problem?”

Lute gestured vaguely at the flaming wreckage behind them. “You’re still in the kill zone. There’s a demon twitching behind you.”

They both looked back. Yep. Still twitching.

Adam shrugged. “He can wait.”

You were grinning, biting your lip like you were about to pull Adam back in for more. Lute rubbed her temples. “No, don’t you dare. Go finish the job, then screw each other’s brains out somewhere less public.”

Adam leaned in again, still grinning. “I like her,” he whispered. “Think we can finish fast? Though I’ll definitely not finish fast in the bedroom.”

You laughed, grabbing your blade. “Kill first. Fuck later.”

“God, I love you.”

[tranquilreign]

bamboo and ginger lily | 18+ | series + smau | 03. 𓂃🖊

- © tranquilreign - all rights reserved | DO NOT STEAL, TAKE or COPY any of MY WORK without MY PERMISSION.

🗒 details

pairing; jungkook/reader genre: smau! (with some writing) college au! fluff, angst, smut, cold! jk, soft! reader warnings: none word count: 1.2k permanent taglist: @someoneelse0109 @dailynnt @ggukivrse

🖋 synopsis

bamboo (n.) bam-bu a giant woody grass which is grown chiefly in the tropics.

when you're paired with cold-hearted, heartthrob jeon jungkook, you're surprised to see that under all the tattoos and piercings, he's gentle and kind.

🖇links

bamboo and ginger lily masterlist jungkook masterlist main masterlist request | request rules prompt list

Rain steadily pattered against the clear entrance canopy, the drops slowly rolling down and splashing against the concrete. You stood, arms wrapped around yourself to keep warm, the water soaking through to your skin from standing in the rain previously.

"God, I should've really brought a jacket," you mumbled through chattering teeth.

The rainfall fell heavier, wind picking up and slashing the small cold droplets against your face, the feeling like tiny ice shards. A shiver ran down your spine, the cold nipping at your skin. Warmth suddenly enveloped you, as if you were being wrapped in a blanket of comfort.

"Yes, you should have brought a jacket," a smooth, gentle voice mumbled behind you.

Eyes wide, you turned your head, looking over your shoulder to see Jungkook, who had placed his jacket around your shoulders. His hair was soaked from the rain, droplets dripping down onto his face.

His attire was simple - a pair of loose cargo pants and a Calvin Klein hoodie, yet the outfit exuded style. You unknowingly gulped. He looked so... masculine. You stuttered over your words, not knowing exactly what to say.

Jungkook was silent, watching you with intensity, but his eyes were soft, almost as though he was scared he would frighten you. He sighed, adjusting the jacket, allowing your arms to slide through the sleeves. Fingers gently grazed your cheek as Jungkook moved in front of you. His touch lingered against your skin, wanting to feel him again.

Cautious that he would startle you, he slowly grabbed the ends of his jacket, zipping it up. Simply, you watched, eyes softening at his gentle touch. His gaze fell upon you, butterflies dancing in your stomach as you stared at each other. It was as if you were staring into a black hole, so much mystery behind his eyes, but so beautiful.

Jungkook spoke softly, pulling the hood of his jacket over your head, and pulling the strings to tighten the hood so it wouldn't blow off with the wind. "I brought my car, so we won't get too wet."

His hand slid into yours. They were rough, calloused, most likely from the gym, yet his grip was gentle, tugging you slightly to indicate you were going to run. Following close behind Jungkook, you both dashed into the rain, your arm instinctively moving to cover your face from the cold hitting against your skin.

You didn't need to run for long, almost colliding with Jungkook when he came to a sudden stop. Your foot had slipped on the wet ground, nearly landing flat on your behind if it weren't for Jungkook. If he hadn't caught you at that moment, you'd both be on the ground, more soaked than you already were.

"Climb in, quickly."

The door to his black Mercedes had been opened for you, allowing you to scramble into the passenger seat. In awe, you took in your surroundings. Plain black leather seats, with red accents along the seams to make it pop. The rest of the car was pure black, with a faint hint of bamboo in the air.

Jungkook had slid into the driver's seat, running his hand through his hair, pushing the wet strands out of his eyes. You silently cursed yourself for getting his seat wet, shifting towards the passenger side door. As if Jungkook read your mind, he spoke.

"Don't worry about the seats, Y/n. They're heated, so they'll dry up fast."

He leaned forward, starting the engine of the vehicle. The window wipers immediately moved, swishing back and forward furiously to try to remove the rain splashing against the windows. Lights on full beam, he turned to look over his shoulder, placing his arm around the back of your chair and reversed the car.

You shrank in your seat slightly, cheeks dusted pink at how handsome he looked. Rap music quietly played from the stereo, filling the silence in the car. You fumbled with the strings of Jungkook's jacket, not knowing entirely what to say.

"Have you had much time to think about what our project will be?" Jungkook asked, shifting the gear stick into second effortlessly.

You watched his forearm tense at the action, gently biting your lip as your mind wandered. Jungkook watched you from the corner of his eye, eyebrow raised, waiting for you to respond.

"Y/n?"

"Huh?" you asked, his voice pulling you out of your trance.

"Have you thought about the project topic?"

"Oh... uh..." you stammered.

The truth was, you had no idea. You had brainstormed for hours the previous night, trying to think of anything that would be good - and original - for people to find comfort in. You breathed, the scent of bamboo filling your senses as you scrambled for an answer.

"Scents?" you spoke, though it sounded more like a question.

"Scents?" Jungkook repeated, confused.

"Yeah..." you trailed off. "Like smells people find comfort in. I was trying to think of more original ideas other than the usual, and it's something I thought of."

"I see."

"W-we don't have to use it if you don't like it! It's quite random in all-"

"No, no. I quite like it. You're right, it is original." Jungkook cut you off, tone soft, and a gentle smile gracing his features. "It's something I find a lot of comfort in, myself."

"Really?" you asked, rather surprised by his confession.

"Mhm. Scents that are too strong give me a headache."

"I get that," you spoke, voice soft. "Some smells are just too overbearing for me, like lavender."

"Lavender? Usually, people find that to be relaxing. Helps them sleep," Jungkook responded.

"Yeah..." you mumbled. "I've just never liked the smell."

You shifted in your seat, heat creeping up your neck, suddenly feeling shy. Jungkook tilted his head slightly, still watching you from the corner of his eye. He couldn't help the twitch of his lips as he watched your cheeks turn pink.

Cute.

The rest of the journey - which was two minutes - was silent, except for the radio and the rain, which slowly began to subside.

Jungkook pulled into the car park of the cafe, the raindrops on the windshield glistening against the illuminated sign.

Latte Lounge.

"Cute," you mumbled, unaware you spoke aloud.

"What's cute?"

"Oh- the name of the cafe," you replied quickly, looking away.

"I guess it is," Jungkook agreed, pulling into a free space and turning off the engine. "The rains stopped at least."

"Yeah."

Jungkook was the first to step out of the car, gently closing the door behind him as you looked inside the cafe from the car. The interior design was cosy, with neutral colours enveloping the room, capturing the warmth and comfort of coffee and cake.

You flinched suddenly at the passenger door opening. Jungkook stood, hand held out, offering you to take it. Avoiding eye contact, you slid your hand into his, letting him pull you out of the car. For almost a moment too long, his hand stayed in yours, the warmth of his touch spreading through you as though you had been brought back to life.

"Let's head inside," Jungkook spoke, moving ahead.

His warmth was gone, and you followed silently.

hope you enjoyed! part 4 will be back to smau rather than being written!

tranquilreign~

[jasmines-library]

Hey Jasmine, sry idk if ur taking requests of not but I was wondering if I could do a supernatural fic where the boys take their sister out to hunt some werewolves but their sister gets scratched and has a bad cut and has a panic attack, it’s up to the boys to calm her down and get her stitched up…

Caught Off guard.

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•

hey hey hi! thanks for the request anon! I actually have something fairly (?) similar here! but i wanted to write this for you too. sorry its a little short.

Word Count: 733

Warnings: Blood. stitches. panic attack.

⛧ SPN MASTERLIST ⛧

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

The wound was deep. And it hurt like a bitch. That was for certain. Three, ragged gashes splashed across your torso from just below your ribs to your belly button. Your blood seeped from it like paint, staining the fabric of your shirt and beading across the smooth expanse of your skin. 

The werewolf had caught you off guard. You and your two brothers Sam and Dean had been hunting the pack for just short of a week now and you had managed to take them down without much of a problem once you found them. However, werewolves were clever. And this one had decided to play smart.  It had caught you just as you were about to leave, it had jumped out from its hiding spot at the last second, slashing at you in the process. You screamed, the sound ripping from your lips as your flesh tore open. Your brothers were on the creature quickly. But not quick enough to stop the damage from happening. 

Your wound burnt. Skin searing with an immeasurable pain as you looked down at it, fingers moving to touch it only to come away tainted with blood. And then Sam was in front of you. His slender fingers resting on your cheek, tilting it to look up at him. 

“Hey. hey. Look at me.” Sam said. His voice broke through the haze you hadn’t even realised you were in as he tried to coax you into following his instructions. Despite the panic he was feeling internally, his face betrayed nothing. His eyes were soft and calming as he tried to soothe you. “Breathe,” he told you. 

You hadn’t even noticed until now, too hyper fixated on the wound, that you were hyperventilating. Your chest was heaving, a rasp sounding in the back of your throat as you struggled to suck in air with tears threatening to spill from your eyes. The all too familiar feelings of a panic attack hit you full force.

“Calm down.” Sam told you gently. “You’re okay. You’re alright. Breathe.”

You sucked in a deep breath, trying to steady your breathing. 

“That's it, Sweetheart. Good.” Dean’s hand was on your shoulder. The other one reached to pull your hand away from your wound, placing it on his chest to urge you to follow his breathing. The feeling of his heart beat beneath his shirt was grounding. Slow as steady. 

Another breath. Another second trying to slow your breathing and the rapid rise and fall of your chest which caused a disturbance in your wound, only adding to your pain. 

“Good girl.” Sam said softly as your breathing slowed. “It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.”

Dean gave your shoulder a squeeze, trying to hide the grimace as he looked at your wounds. Red raw and still oozing blood. “....she’s going to need stitches.”

Your breath hitched, but Sam squeezed your hand. “It’ll be over quickly, princess. Okay?”

You bit your lip, swallowing thickly before nodding hesitantly. Dean moved quickly, grabbing the first aid kit from Baby before sanitising the needle and threading it before handing it to Sam, who has a steadier hand. Dean’s hand replaced Sam’s gripping yours tightly as Sam reddied the needle, positioning it over your skin.

“I’ll be gentle as I can, ok kiddo?”

You nodded, trying to look anywhere but Sam and the needle in his hand.

“It’ll be a quick pinch, okay sweetheart?” Dean reassured me. “You can squeeze my hand as much as you need. Okay?”

“.....okay.”

After taking a breath, Sam pushed the needle into your skin to make the first stitch. His fingers moved with swift precision, determined to get this over as quick as possible and keep it as painless for you as he could. You couldn't help the small whimper that slipped out of your lips as you gripped Dean’s hand tightly.

He squeezed your hand back reassuringly. “That’s it kid. Just a little more.”

Sam worked nimbly, closing the wounds with a  few stitches before covering them with a gauze pad and bandages just in case. When he was done, he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, allowing you to take a breath.

“All done sweetheart. It’s all done. It’s over.”

You shuddered a sigh, relaxing back into Dean a little bit who gave your hand one last reassuring squeeze. 

“You did good kid. So good.”

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

SPN TAGS:

@xxrougefangxx @hell-o-kittys @inlovewhithafairytale @harleycao @that-wannabe-vangoghgurl @rosecentury

[mxstellatayte]

pretty please: chapter two.

pretty please masterlist.

chapter two warnings: covid happens :(, avoiding big emotional conversations, phone sex (not graphic,) i definitely deleted any and all covid social distancing rules when i was writing this but it'S FOR THE PLOT, oral sex (f receiving, not graphic,) LEWIS IS SUGAR DADDY!!!!!!!! (but there's also feelings but we don't want to admit that yet hehehehehehe)

chapter two word count: 3.7k

taglist (crossed out means i could not tag you/no blog was found): @pear-1206 @vivi-81 @irishmanwhore @lucycowr @benstormy

@anat33-blog1 @Xoscar03 @tremendousstarlighttragedy @nenamalenaa @champagneproblems17

@marknolee @toby33b @theendofthematerialgworl @soloqualcosa @sassyinchident808

join my taglist here!

take my hand while we dance on the edge of a knife

tuesday, 3 december, 2019

your phone chimes in the formula 1 radio tone, a custom ringtone you'd set just for lewis. glancing away from your computer screen, you see a simple text.

Hey.

what should you say? "hey yourself?" no, too sassy. "hey, thanks for the mind-blowing sex a few days ago. i think i'm into you, do you wanna go out?" way too forward. "hey!" too excited.

you settle on a simple "hey." in response.

for good measure, you add on a second text.

Thanks for the flight yesterday :)

his response? a simple "Yeah of course!"

"alright. so i'm going to have to be the one to bring it up. gotcha."

so this was the dance that you'd be doing. you'd just move on from the most life-changing sex you've ever had with four texts. you'd take a step forward, try to ask about what this would mean for your professional relationship, if anything, and he'd have one-sentence answers before moving on to a different topic.

that's fine.

it totally didn't make you insane.

definitely not.

instead of thinking about your client-slash-friend-slash-maybe-fuck-buddy over your winter holidays, you opt for drowning yourself in advance work, opting to make your contributions to the february 2020 issue the best the world has ever seen. your articles for the january issue are long submitted, but now that you've submitted everything for finalization for the next two months, you have a staycation at home with your cats, crochet, shitty reality tv, and a lot of alcohol filling up your schedule for the next two weeks (and a short visit to your parents up in leeds for christmas, but that's naught but a short interruption to your routine,) and you don't intend on letting work interrupt a single moment of the next two weeks.

the key word in that sentence being intend.

although, is it really considered work if it's just texting back and forth with someone who's a client-slash-friend-slash-maybe-fuck-buddy and not exactly a coworker?

"girl, i swear down on my nan's grave," amelia begins, and you grin, already knowing you're about to get a true amelia lorenz lecture, "if you don't make a move on him before new year's, i will, and i don't think he even knows my name!" she continues by weaving an intricate web of every single sign she's seen that points to the mutual attraction between yourself and the driver, and you're not sure when the right time is to tell her that you've already had sex with him. luckily, you find an opportunity when she stands from your couch to refill her glass of whiskey and pauses her monologue.

"is now a good time to tell you that we shagged after abu dhabi?"

amelia's head whips around so fast you're surprised it doesn't snap off of her neck. "you what?" you grin sheepishly, any and all confidence you've ever had in your entire life having evaporated in a microsecond. when she sits down opposite you on the couch, her left leg tucked into her crotch and her right hanging off the side, she has to set her glass on your coffee table so that she doesn't splash the whiskey everywhere. you both know what's coming purely based off of her body language. she takes a deep breath, then presses her hands together in a prayer-like stace and rests the nook of her nose in her fingertips. "let me get this straight." she pauses. "you." her right hand points directly at you as she says your full name. "shagged the lewis hamilton. and you didn't tell me immediately?"

"why do you think i wasn't on the flight back?" amelia's eyes widen in realization, and a grin spreads across her face.

"he flew you back on his jet?" you nod, taking another sip of your drink, and amelia squeals with delight. "i need every single detail. start talking."

friday, 13 march, 2020

your phone vibrates on your desk, and you glance over at it, unlocking it when you see the f1 logo on the notification. your heart sinks when you see what the notification reads, though.

"formula 1, fia and agpc announce cancellation of the 2020 australian grand prix"

"shit," you mutter, switching your phone off and resting your head in your hands. it won't be long before the lockdown reaches london, you know that, but it's difficult knowing that lewis was looking forward to being in the car again, especially with some of the new regulations that he hoped would lead to closer racing.

you send him a text before you go to sleep- it's almost 3 am.

Sorry to hear about the race. I know you were looking forward to driving.

by the time you've fallen asleep, though, lewis has seen your text and he gnaws at his lower lip, his thumbs hesitating over the keyboard of his phone's screen. yeah, he was looking forward to driving, but as the pandemic numbers increased, his anxiety about the race weekend did, too.

Thanks. I'm glad they called it off, though. The numbers were getting too high too fast.

months pass. your interviews with various drivers at the monaco and british grands prix are moved to video calls. the world gets thrown into lockdown, eases out of it, and then gets thrown into lockdown once more. dolphins are spotted in the canals of venice. george floyd's murder sparks a revolution that reaches all corners of the globe.

you don't go a day without texting, calling, or video calling with lewis.

it's sickening, really, how much his smile is keeping you sane. well, if you're being honest, it's a combination of his smile, your medication, and going on a lot of walks around your neighbourhood. leytonstone is a lovely part of london, yes, but there's only so many different routes you can take around the neighbourhood before you start itching to jump on a train and go anywhere.

in early june, you get the email. you'll be traveling to silverstone for a set of interviews with various drivers for the 70th anniversary race. it's the fifth of seventeen races on the updated calendar, and the email states that you may be sent to the abu dhabi grand prix, as well.

wednesday, 29 july, 2020.

you're practically vibrating with excitement as you board the first of four trains that will take you to your hotel. you're leaving a week before you're due in silverstone, though, because why wouldn't you take advantage of the double header race? you've never been to a race purely as a spectator and your giddiness makes you laugh. how going to a race has given you the butterflies in your stomach that you haven't felt since you were a teenager, you'll never know. sure, with the fia's no-spectator rule, you aren't really sure how people are planning on watching the race, but you're sure you'll learn as the weekend progresses. either way, you're one of many fans taking the train up to silverstone despite the rules stating that no fans could enter the paddock or the grandstands, many hopeful that simply being in the same general area might get them a chance of seeing any of the drivers in person. a few of the racing fans on the train even recognize you, one timidly holding the july 2019 edition of vogue.

the edition where your first interview with lewis was published.

"could you sign it?"

your jaw opens and closes beneath your mask a few times before you're able to regain your composure, accepting the magazine and sharpie from her with a smile.

"what's your name, darling? here, sit with me." she does, sitting across the aisle from you and nervously tucking a curl of ginger-brown hair behind her ear.

"kathleen. but you can call me kat," she adds, and you smile as you write a small note on the inside cover, adding your signature afterwards. "are you interviewing lewis hamilton this weekend?"

"i don't have any interviews this weekend. just next weekend." you look more intently at kat's outfit, and you smile below your mask. she's wearing a mercedes hoodie and baggy jeans, and you notice that her outfit reminds you of someone. "i like your outfit. it reminds me of some of lewis' outfits, actually." kat beams beneath her mask, her eyes scrunching up into happy crescents.

"thank you! he's kinda the inspiration behind my outfits for the weekend. i'm a huge fan of him, have been for years. i'll be honest, i didn't read much about fashion until you interviewed him, but i really liked your article and looked up some of your others. the one you wrote critiquing paparazzi for stalking celebrities was incredible! you wrote it so freely. i loved it." kat catches herself, noticing her rambling, folding her hands in her lap nervously. "sorry. i talk when i'm nervous."

"you have nothing to be nervous about. i'm just another human being." you hesitate a moment, leaning over to her as you pass the magazine and sharpie marker back. "can i tell you a secret?" she nods. "i was terrified the first time i interviewed lewis." kat's eyes grow wide, and you nod. "i was so nervous. i almost got sick a couple of times, actually."

"really?"

"mhm. i'm surprised i didn't."

"i definitely would."

"i doubt that. lewis is as nice- if not nicer- than he seems. after the first five minutes of talking to him, i knew i had nothing to worry about."

the two of you spend the remaining time on the trains talking together, and she animatedly drags her father towards you and you shake his hand, introducing yourself.

"pleasure to meet you. my name's dan. thank you for being a role model for my little girl." your heart swells with pride at the praise, and you nod.

"you're raising a very fine young woman, dan. she's got a bright future ahead of her." dan nods and thanks you, grinning behind his mask. you know, from what kat's told you, that dan has been a fan of formula 1 since the michael schumacher days and that he's been to three grands prix in his life- silverstone 2003, silverstone 2004, and germany 2008. this'll be his fourth. you also know that the white and papaya t-shirt he's wearing is from the most recent race he's attended. "do you happen to have instagram, dan?"

"i do, why?" his eyes narrow slightly, and you can understand why your question seems a little strange.

"i'm writing a piece about fan presence at recent grands prix, since there's been the 'no fans allowed inside' order from the fia, and would love to interview you and kat before and after the weekend," you lie. "i'd be willing to keep you both anonymous, if you'd like. if i can message you on instagram, it wouldn't be as much of a hassle as writing emails to communicate."

"i'd prefer we remain anonymous, but i'm sure she'd love to be interviewed."

you can't tie me down, but you can tie me up

thursday, 30 july, 2020.

the next morning, you call lewis, the hotel's breakfast menu next to you on your bed and your notepad perched on your lap, your pre-weekend "interview" with dan and kat in just over 90 minutes. lewis picks up the call on the third ring.

"hey!" you have to bite your lip to keep yourself from smiling too much, a rush of dopamine flooding your brain at the sound of his voice. "can i call you back in half an hour? i've got media stuff to do in about five minutes."

"i'll be fast. can you get two paddock passes made for sunday under the names kathleen and dan gallagher?"

"they'll have to be media passes, but yeah, why?"

"you'll see. i'll text you the names so you have them. see you in a few days!"

after texting bono a quick message regarding your own pass and ensuring that he would keep it completely and entirely a secret from lewis, you flop backwards onto your bed, staring at the ceiling for a moment. "what the hell have i gotten myself into?"

since the pandemic began, your relationship with lewis has been... well... less than professional.

your daily phone calls and texts with him have contained topics that still make shivers run up your spine and a flush of heat fill your cheeks and neck when you think about them. there have been many nights where you've been on a call with lewis and you're both breathing heavily, clothes messily strewn across your respective beds in a rush to lay back against your pillows and touch yourself to completion, obeying each other's commands and wishes.

there have also been many nights where you're tucked into your beds, roscoe fast asleep next to lewis and your own furry companions, pipsqueak and garfburger, the latter of which amelia named, curled into a ball of rare calmness next to you. the two of you ultimately fall asleep on the call, the idea of having someone with you, even if not physically, helping soothe your anxiety.

both types of calls are incredibly intimate and beautiful, each in their own way.

four days later, you're meeting up with bono outside the paddock to get your own pass and messaging back and forth with dan, attempting to figure out where you can meet him near the paddock entrance. trying to explain to him why you need to meet up today when your scheduled interview time is tomorrow without giving too many details proves to be a difficult task but you're thankfully able to manage. five minutes after bono appears, three media passes in hand, you see dan and kat round the corner. you wave him down, a smile on your face, and kat immediately comes running over to you. today, she sports a pair of baggy jeans, a hamilton jersey over what you assume is the same mercedes hoodie she was wearing on the train, and an incredibly well-loved pair of black platform converse.

"good morning to you both," you say, a bright grin on your face beneath your mask. from the way kat's eyes scrunch up behind glasses you can tell her own smile outshines your own.

"good morning! dad said you had some mid-weekend questions for us?"

"well..." your eyes flick back and forth between dan and kat, and you can see the gears turning in dan's head, but kat remains oblivious. "the mid-weekend questions were a bit of a lie, but i think- i hope- that what i have in my jacket pocket is enough for you to forgive me." with that, you pull the two black and purple media passes out of your jacket, check which one has kat's name on it and which has dan's, and hand them to their respective owners. "kathleen and dan gallagher, welcome to the formula 1 silverstone paddock."

"are you serious?" dan says in disbelief, and when you nod, kat squeaks in delight and throws herself at you, wrapping her arms around you in a vice grip.

"thank you thank you, thank you!"

"you're very welcome. are you ready to go see some cool cars?"

"is that a joke? of course!" kat looks at her father, hoping for some small nod of approval, and, when he does, you think the girl still glued to your torso might just combust from excitement. you can tell that dan's barely containing his own joy, his eyes mirroring the amount of joy you see in kat's.

"in that case, let's go." after about an hour of walking through the paddock, finding spare headsets in the mclaren garage, and smiling as kat and dan can't control their own amazement at the works of engineering in front of them land sheepishly asking a few drivers for photos,) you make your way, finally, to the mercedes garage. "re you two hungry at all? care for a coffee or tea? mercedes has the best food in the paddock. "

"i'd love a coffee, actually." dan says. "kat? you want anything?"

"a cuppa sounds perfect, thank you."

"i've got it. here, have a seat, i'll be right back, " you say, attempting to sound as casual as physically possible when you know you're about to blow their minds. they sit at one of the tables in the small cafe, and you go up to the barista, ordering dan and kat's drinks before ducking away and making your way to lewis' driver's room, knocking a few times and stepping back, smiling when the door opens and you see him, fuck, he looks good. "hi, lewis."

he knew you were going to be in silver stone for the 70th anniversary race, but that isn't until next weekend. "you've here early," he says, leaning against the doorframe. "why's that?"

"i can't want to see my favorite driver at his home race?" you cock an eyebrow and cross your arms, but there's sarcasm evident in your voice. "plus, i missed you. can i tie up your schedule for a bit?"

"it depends. how is my schedule being tied up if i agree?" lewis is matching your own bass, and you smile.

"just some people i'd like you to meet. remember those passes i asked you to have made? well... they're in the cafe and i think the cherry on top of their day would be meeting you."

"in that case, you can tie up my schedule, but i only have fifteen minutes before the strategy meeting." you grin brightly, and your eyes squishing in the corners makes lewis smile in turn, "before we go, though, i do have a little request. come in for a quick minute?" he steps to the side and you gladly follow, turning towards lewis when you hear the door click shut behind you. he's taking off his Mercedes- branded face mask, and you take that as permission lo take your own off. "you know..." he begins, stepping towards you. your breath catches in your throat as all of your senses one immediately overwhelmed with everything lewis. his left hand comes up to hold your and check you gladly lean into his touch, the gentleness of his touch a stark contrast his calloused to fingertips. the next words he says ring in your head, repeating like church bells.

"i missed you, too." those words are the last thing you process before lewis' lips are on yours and every ounce of tension leaves your body.

"mm, lewis, " you say, pulling away from the blissful kiss much to your dismay. "our guests are waiting." lewis groans, and you giggle.

"fine, but after we've done with that and i'm free from my strategy meeting, we're coming back here and finishing what we started."

"deal."

kat and dan are, obviously, completely and entirely dumbfounded when you return to the cafe, six-time world champion in tow.

they're even happier when they watch lewis cross the line in first place, five seconds ahead of max verstappen.

after the podium and post-race interviews, you find yourself crowded against the wall of lewis' driver's room yet again. your kisses are hot and messy, desperate hands wandering around each other's bodies. sometime in the lust-addled haze, you're laying back onto the couch pushed against the back wall and your jeans are being thrown somewhere across the room. whatever, you don't care where they are or how wrinkled they're going to be because lewis is eating you out again and, within minutes, you're cumming on his tongue again as his nose bumps against your clit. when he kisses you, your cum smears on your cheeks and chin and nose and it's so, so filthy, but you wouldn't have it any other way.

"are you coming to any other races this year?" lewis speaks up, his voice echoing through his chest. he's found you a pair of joggers that you'd slipped on after another set of blissful kisses and a messy (but very perfect) handjob. he's laying on the couch and you're resting on top of him, your arms wrapped around his torso and his own surrounding your shoulders. your socked feet are tangled with lewis' own, and his fingers, unusually absent of any jewelry, run gently along the curve of your shoulders.

"i'm not sure. i haven't gotten any race assignments yet from upper management, and traveling is really difficult right now if you don't have a work visa."

"i bet i can send some emails." you can almost hear the smirk in his voice.

"lewis," you scoff, burying your face in his chest. he smells like forests and jasmine and safety. "you're going to be the death of me."

[sadsimp]

Dancing

I haven’t seen much of Sol and I saw we were able to write fanfics, so why not start!! I love Sol and the other characters so much, this game is amazing 😩 I will be writing more <3 Also I’m sorry if this is ooc T^T

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You’re going to get sick y’know.”

His voice makes its way through the rain to my ears. He’s under his umbrella, well my umbrella actually, as he watches me from a short distance. He insisted on holding it for me while he walked me home from our meet up. 

I stop my dancing for a moment and smile at him. He’s always worried about me, always fretting over what I’m doing.  It was sweet in a way, sometimes.

“Aww c’mon Sol! Loose up! A little rain never hurt anyone!” I laugh and go back to slashing in the puddles and twirling around. I’m soaked to the bone, my clothes stick to my body along with my hair on my face. 

He sighs, shaking his head at my goofiness. “You’re going to get sick.” He repeats and starts to walk towards me, trying to avoid getting his shoes too wet and soaked like mine. 

I jump into a big puddle, water flying everywhere and Sol backs away quickly to avoid it. I laugh loudly at his reaction, to which he pouts and resumes walking closer. 

I decide to not splash him again and let him get closer, taking in his concerned expression. It’s dark out, and his orange eyes practically shine through the rain droplets. He stands in front of me closely and holds the umbrella over my head. “I don’t want you sick…” He tells me quietly and glances away.

I grin at him and try to fix my hair, wiping the strands from my forehead. “At least I’d have you to take care of me if I do, right?” I reply playfully. His face heats up, his eyes widen as a blush spreads across his cheeks. I giggle at his flushed expression. 

He mumbles something under his breath softly. I tilt my head in curiosity. “What’d you say?” I ask with a small smile and he frantically shakes his head. “Nothing..” He responds, his orange eyes meeting mine. “Let’s get you home..” He shifts slightly as if to see if I’ll follow him. I sigh playfully, “Ookaay…fine!” I giggle and wrap my arms around one of his arms. “Buzzkill.” I tease and he smiles at me as we step up on the sidewalk and walk to my house. 

[idksmtms]

'tis the damn season (Modern!Aegon Targaryen x reader) - evermore series

A/N: Hiiiiii! I am finally back after way too long omg! While I am still stumbling my way through getting back into my writing, please enjoy this next instalment of the evermore series! I will slowly be coming back and trying to post a lot more often, but just bear with me while I navigate my writing journey. Enjoy!!!

Summary: Three years ago you left home behind to pursue university. You left Aegon. Now, you’re back and faced with not only the destroyed relationship you had once run from, but all the thoughts and feelings you have been dwelling on and refusing to face over the years you’ve been away. 

Word count: ~3.9k

Trigger Warnings: 18+, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, angst, post-breakup, Aegon being heartbroken (past), breaking up, mentions of alcoholism, mentions of drug addiction, mentions of mental health issues, mentions of rehab, rehab recovery, breakups, heartbreak, just painful and difficulty reunions, owning up to your mistakes and too-late realisations, angsty but hopeful (please let me know if I missed any) 

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters. I do not claim to own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so. 

Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)

The smell of mulled wine wafted gently across your face, carried by the warm air blasting from every heater in the manor. Cinnamon, and close, star anise and a hint of cherry, Mrs. Targaryen’s personal twist that made the recipe oh so coveted. 

The door was unmanned, a rather surprising thing given how much Mrs. Targaryen loved to flaunt the servants and security guards. Perhaps you really had been gone too long. 

You deposited your clutch on the little side table and divested yourself of your coat, first one arm, then the other, a quick pat of the pockets, a little fling onto the coat rack so the heavy black felt thing was situated just enough not to topple the overflowing rack over. You brushed the hem of your dress down, fingertips catching on the glistening red sequins before brushing over your black tights. 

You picked up the clutch again, a matching red sequin rectangle, and turned to the ornate mirror hung on the wall above the end table, gold edged and running the length of the wall. You took up only a sliver the size of you, and clasped your hands around the clutch to press it to your stomach. You straightened up, shoulders back and spine relaxed. You stretched your lips here and there, weird grotesque smiles and pouts and bared teeth to check for the millionth time that the slash of red lipstick had not strayed. You batted your eyes at yourself before turning away and beginning a gentle walk down to the splash of light in the hall from which a daunting array of chatter, clinking glasses, and soft instrumental seasonal tunes emitted. 

When Mrs. Targaryen heard (from the mouths of your parents no less) that you had finally returned after three years of university (“not even one visit during all that time?!” she had inquired to your mother - who then promptly explained that they went up North to you instead), she had impressed upon your mother that if you declined to attend her annual holiday party that she would take it as a personal affront. 

So here you were, fashionably late (only due to the almost clinical level of overthinking you had engaged in from the moment you began to dress to just a second prior) and ready to show your face in what you and Helaena had affectionately dubbed ‘high society’ once more. 

It’s not like you had cut off ties with everyone when you left. Almost everyone who had followed you on instagram was still there, nestled in your private profile (except the select few that were occasionally pruned on days you were bored). You still responded to messages, were still in the group chats (despite never once contributing), facetimed friends, et cetera, et cetera. Just because you didn’t return didn’t mean anything (except, of course, that it did). 

You stepped into the room, slow but steady, and took a moment to gaze around the ballroom. You were unsurprised at the continuing theme of green. Dark green curtains cinched back at each bay-style window, sashes and bows of the same fabric framing the tops. Dark green, satiny, tablecloths draped carefully over the standing tables dotted all around. The Christmas tree near the back towered over everyone, glowing with yellow lights and gold, silver, and phthalo green baubles. You still remembered how Mrs. Targaryen said that coloured tree lights were tacky, one of the more posh things you had heard from her in your early teen years. 

You dropped your gaze to the people. You could see some familiar faces, girls you hadn’t spoken to since the end of school, but whose instagram stories still diligently kept you up to date on their lives. Other people who had dropped off your radar completely and now brought vague and somewhat touching memories to mind of moments shared in classes, laughs and jokes once given and received. 

You caught glimpses of Mrs. Targaryen’s auburn hair through breaks in the crowd, a delicate hold on a flute of glass filled with non-alcoholic cider. Since you had known her she had refused to partake in drink, something that had earned your respect once upon a time. Before… 

You caught sigh of Aemond in the corner, a shiny black suit doing well to blend him into the shadows. He was gently grasping a flute glass in long elegant fingers, and his eyepatch was a perfect match to his suit, pressed perfectly to his face and over his neatly combed man bun. 

His ever watchful eyes caught you quickly, a spark of recognition, a little lift of the brow, the careful deposit of his glass on the table as he began rounding it. You smiled, lifted your hand in a little wave and waited for him to find you. 

His progress was interrupted, though not halted, by his sister gliding into view and smiling brightly as she gently grasped your arms for a moment before pulling them away. The most hug she could ever give you with her aversion to physical touch. You had never once minded, you had grown up with Helaena just the way she was, gentle Helaena as you often called her. 

Though she couldn’t handle touch, she stood as close as possible without it and beamed at you, the most unabashed grin you had ever seen from her. 

Her cheeks were rosy and her beautiful hair was gathered into a beautiful braided knot at the back of her head. She wore a dress of green and silver, emphasising the pale silveriness of her skin, no doubt a mutated form of the gown her own mother was wearing. 

“I can’t believe you’re back!” She said in an excited little voice, husky and gentle. You resisted the urge to clasp her hands in yours and instead held tighter to your clutch. 

“Me neither, it's been a long time,” you sighed. You could see the touch of seriousness twinge Helaena’s face, but you looked over her shoulder and beckoned Aemond closer before she could voice it. 

“Hello Y/n,” his soft whispery voice had not changed since you’d been gone. “Finally returned?” 

You smiled at him, pulling him into a little side hug before threading your arm through his and pulling yourself tight to him. It felt familiar, homely. You had been forcing the poor boy into cuddles since your families had been connected. 

“Yes, Mr. Dragon,” a teasing but rare nickname that made his remaining eye twitch in annoyance. “Back for now.” 

“I’m your elder, you should show some respect,” he gritted out, trying to shake you off his arm halfheartedly. You simply clung on and pressed a quick teasing peck to his cheek. Though it was technically true that you were younger than him (though only just about), you had been at just the right age to gain all the siblings’ friendship rather than becoming a patronised younger hanger-on. 

Aemond huffed but stopped his attempts to detach himself from you. You had always been a little too loving for his tastes. 

Helaena leaned her elbows on the standing table the three of you had gravitated toward and gently began fiddling with the clasp of your clutch which you had thrown down at the first opportunity. Your eyes drifted to the crowd again, as if you were looking for someone, and Helaena cleared her throat. 

“Have you seen him yet?” She asked in that quiet halting way of hers. You snapped your eyes back to her, felt Aemond stiffen a little in your grip. You wanted to think of something witty and gently humorous to say but there was the hint of a lump in your throat so you just shook your head with a pathetic little smile. 

“Ah,” Aemond nodded and then pursed his lips, swallowing and then gazing down at the table. 

“I’m a little scared to,” you whispered, now fiddling with the other end of your clutch. 

“Because you broke his heart?” 

“Aemond!” Helaena exclaimed, glaring at him as you took the glass out of his hand and sipped from it. 

“Because I’m scared I regret it,” you blurted out, exhaling long and slow. Helaena smiled sympathetically and reached forward to awkwardly pat your hands twice. 

You could see Mrs. Targaryen over her daughter’s shoulder, making her way closer and then setting her eyes on you. She smiled that polite and reserved smile she always used, then pulled you into a gentle hug when she got to you. She issued you on the cheek then lightly grasped both your arms to look at you properly. 

“How are you, my dear? It has been far too long.” You smiled and nodded, brushing a piece of your hair from your face. 

“I’m alright, thank you, Mrs. Targaryen. Just trying to relax for a little while right now.” SHe nodded along to your words and smiled softly, the way she had once done when you were little and thanking her for letting you stay over for a sleepover with Helaena. 

“Congratulations on your graduation, dear. I’m so proud of you. I always knew you could achieve great things.” You felt the bashfulness burn under your skin and bowed your head in thanks. 

When you looked up, you caught sight of him in the distance behind her. He was talking to someone, one hand grasping a drink and the other safely tucked into his trouser pocket. His hair was a little shorter than before, slicked back so it only flicked up at the ends by his neck. You could see an earring, his constant, and an array of rings on his hand. You wondered if he still wore the one you got him all those years ago. He was smiling, chuckling at whatever the other person had said, and you felt something clench somewhere inside of you. 

He looked… clean, well put-together, comfortable in his skin. You hoped he felt that way. His eyes flicked towards you and you turned your attention back to Mrs. Targaryen, nodding and smiling as she filled you in on all the changes about the place before she ultimately found another person that needed to be met. 

“I’ll just go say hello to Daphne, but I’ll find you again soon, dear.” She kissed you on the cheek and paused just as she was about to leave. She looked you right in the eye and gave you the most sincere smile you had ever seen from her. “It;s very good to see you again.’ And then she was off once more. 

You turned back to the table with Helaena and Aemond and motioned for one of the waiters to come over. You grabbed a drink off his tray and instantly began taking quick little sips from it. The side of your face burned and you couldn’t tell if it was because he might be staring at you or because you were simply aware he was on that side of the room. 

Suddenly the sting became agitation and you knew you needed fresh air right at that moment or you would start blabbering whatever words popped into your head and you were not interested in handling that particular panic symptom. 

“I’m gonna go out for a smoke,” your voice was abrupt, curt, as you began reaching for your clutch and picking it up. 

“You don’t even smoke,” Helaena exclaimed quietly. 

“There’s always time to start,” you mumbled as you turned away and walked out of the room, heading back the way you had come only such a short time ago. 

The air was brisk, like cold palms being laid flat against your skin as you shivered on the doorstep. 

You could just leave now and go home. You had shown your face at the party, there was no need to stay. You also knew that if you left before dinner, Mrs. Targaryen would be annoyed beyond belief. And leaving without telling Helaena felt like a betrayal anyway. She would understand you needing air for however long you wanted but she would expect you back in at some point. 

For now, you could just shiver on the doorstep, gulping in the lungfuls of icy air and thinking deep philosophical thoughts. 

The door opened a moment later and you turned toward the sound. He was a silhouette in the golden backlight, like a sign from god. You just stared at him as he slowly came outside and shut the door behind him. Your arms wrapped tighter around yourself. 

He didn’t say a word, just continued looking at you as he lifted his arm and held it out to you, your coat proffered in his hand. You gently took it from him and he watched you slip it on. 

“Y/n,” he said your name so evenly, no emotion, no indication of his thoughts. You sort of hated that you could no longer tell what he was thinking. His voice had not changed, you thoguht, then scolded yourself because why would it have? 

“Aegon,” you whispered, chewing on your lip as you glanced toward him then away then back again. You could only accept him in small doses right now. 

“You’re back,” he responded, showing his hands into his pockets as he looked out onto the gravel drive then back to you. You could see his truck parked by the garage on the far side, near the hedges on the property line. It was just as garish and hold as it had always been. Just as full of memories. 

“Mhm,” you hummed, biting your lip a little harder until it stung. 

“You didn’t say,” and he sounded almost offended, as if you hadn’t just ignored him for the past three years. 

“Should I have?” You mumbled, glancing back at him then away again. He was staring, unabashedly, at your face. 

“No,” he shook his head slowly, back and forth, then popped his lips. “Nope.”

In the silence that followed, you felt the pressure of the air on your brain. Your eyes stung and your throat clogged and you could do nothing but let the waves wash over you. You turned to him, stared at his blurry outline through the tears and felt your lips begin to shake with the sobs threatening at your throat and tongue. He was quick to pull you in, to wrap his arms around you and tuck your face in against his neck. 

He was so warm, as he had always been, but leaner now, less soft and more defined muscle. He smelt clean too, like fresh ocean-scented laundry detergent and cold cologne and his weird spicy shampoo. He clung to you tightly and gently hushed you and you wanted to hit him, to pummel him on the chest and slap him across the face. 

How dare he be so nice? How dare he comfort you when you deserved none of it? How dare he be so kind when all you had done was break his heart when he deserved the pain the least? You sobbed harshly against his shoulder, wrapped your arms around him and clung tightly. You could feel the damp fabric under your face. You only pressed closer until the sobs became quiet little blubbers and you could feel the drip of a tear against the back of your neck, the press of his pursed lips against your hair. 

You pulled away quickly, turned your back to him as you began hurriedly wiping at your cheeks and praying your waterproof mascara worked. You could hear him sniffing behind you, and you paused, closed your eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, then whispered, 

“I’m sorry.” He waited for a beat. 

“For what?” 

“I-” you swallowed, turned back around, looked into the bright, shiny, achingly beautiful blue of his eyes, the little line of water balanced precariously behind his eyelid. “I don’t know. A lot of things.” Your voice was clogged and pain-filled and you swallowed again. 

“Let’s be specific then,” he breathed out, smiling the joking little smile when he was feeling sarcastic and teasing, but a sadder, waterier, version. 

“For leaving when I did, for not explaining properly and maturely, for not calling.” You paused. “For letting myself believe I didn’t love you that much. For thinking that leaving also had to mean leaving behind.” You brought your hand up and began chewing on the side of your finger. He was quick to bring your hand back down, a gentle press on the forearm to force your arm back to your side. You cleared your throat and wrapped your arms around yourself. You looked off into the distance, into the black night by hedges. 

“Helaen told me you got out of rehab last year.” You began chewing on your lip. He cleared his throat. 

“Yes,” he nodded, “one and a half years sober now.” 

“Congrats,” you whispered. “You look good, sobriety suits you.” You paused. Gulped. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. What does that even mean…” you glanced at his face and the smile he was trying so hard to repress, the mischievous glint in his eyes. A breathless laugh escaped you, a pitchy little giggle that was most likely insanely unattractive but made you feel freer, a little lighter. 

The sudden bursting wish that he would kiss you was blinding. And sobering. You cleared your throat and looked away again. 

“It’s ok,” he finally said in a sigh, strolling closer. “Well, I mean, as ok as getting your heart broken by the girl you thought you would marry can be.” You shot him a glare. 

“Don’t joke about this.” 

“Why not? I’m the one that got heartbroken if I remember correctly.” “Aegon.” 

“Alright, sorry,” he hugged, but the smile said he really wasn’t. You clenched your hands together. 

“I was wrong,” you finally blurted out. 

You hadn’t been expecting to do this tonight. You had sat in your bedroom a week after you had returned and thought about how you would get in contact with him. A text message perhaps, a letter passed through Helaena if you were feeling old school, something to let him know you wanted to talk. And then you would meet him at a coffee shop, or maybe at the park where you used to force him to take walks with you so he wouldn’t sit in his room thinking about all the drugs he could be doing. 

But then Mrs. Targaryen had bumped into your mother and you had been forced into attendance, and you suppose the unavoidable is as the name suggests… unavoidable. 

Aegon didn’t say a word. 

“I was wrong in so many ways that I actually don’t even know where to start now…” you shifted a little, fiddling with a coin you had left in your coat pocket.

You could almost see the argument play out in your mind’s eye like a movie. The university acceptance letter crumpled in your hand as you both stood in his room. You were looking at him apprehensively, at the darkness in his eyes as you told him how excited you were, how you had to start packing and booking flights and… You could hear him asking what would happen between you two, what would become of the beautiful budding little thing the two of you had cultivated in the midst of all the troubles of your lives. 

“I don’t know,” you had said hesitatingly, looking down at the paper in your hands. You were young and irrational then. Though you had only grown three years older since (a blip of time in the grand scheme of things), so much had changed since. 

You could remember the way you had said you were going, as if he had ever mentioned stopping you. How defensive you had gotten when there had been no attack. 

“What about us?” He had asked. “What about me?” And the stupid, angry, words you had said. How you weren’t going to let anything hold you back. Not even this. 

It had felt so right at the time, to tamp down the feelings you had for the chance at an exciting, independent life. Not knowing… Not knowing what he had been going through. Not knowing that he hid those dark, struggling, parts of himself from you so you would only ever see the sunny side of life. Not knowing that he was just sitting there and taking all that shit from you because he would do anything to make you happy. 

And you, spoilt and ignorant you, had just up and left and taken three years to realise that while you enjoyed your life away from home, it could only have been better with him still in it. 

“Why didn’t you tell me about the drinking and the drugs? Why did you let me say all that shit to you?” You looked at him, feeling the tears burn again but ignoring them as you reached out and grasped his hand between yours, gently running your fingers across his own. 

“I don’t know,” he mumbled in return, bringing his other hand to do the same across the back of your hand. 

You supposed it didn’t matter. Both of you knew, even if he didn’t say it. And it didn’t really need to be said anyway. 

You moved even closer, gently cupping his cheek. He closed his eyes, nuzzled his face into your palm and took a shaky breath in, then out. You ran your thumb across his cheekbone, back and forth, feeling the barest hint of stubble come in. 

“Aegon,” you mumbled, pressing a little closer so that more of you touched him, so that more of you could nuzzle into his warmth. “I can’t promise that I’ll stay here,” you began hesitantly, “but if I leave again, will… will you come with me?” 

Aegon opened his eyes and looked at you. Deep into your eyes as if he could see to the very dark core of your soul. 

He could see the first time the two of you had kissed, awkward and gentle in the darkness of the Targaryen manor kitchen when you were getting water late at night during a sleepover with Helaena and he was sneaking back in from a party. 

He could see the text messages where he had shyly asked you out on a date despite already having kissed you. The quick response you had sent, eager and unafraid. 

He could see all the little dates between the highs and the drunken stupors. He could see the times you had sat in his room, studying at his desk while he lay on his bed, still a little buzzed, thinking about the next party or dwelling on the way his mother had yelled and called him a failure, compared him to you, only a few hours prior. 

He could see the years of silence. The news that you had packed and gone off to university, left him behind like he always knew you would. Your number, still in his phone, left untouched. Radio silence. 

He looked at you now, teary eyed and so pained, so apologetic. At your shiny and sparkly red dress. At your lips. 

He pitched forward and pressed his mouth firmly to yours. He kissed you like he was drinking water. He kissed you like he had not taken a breath in three years… and you were air.

[cmdrfupa]

Balance

“Life is a balance between holding out and letting go.” —Rumi

3rd installment of Upheaval

cw: all chapters and content warnings are listed in this post.

an: My chest burned while writing this chapter but I had a wonderful time creating domains that I really resonate with. I hope you enjoy it. Thank you for reading!

May 20th, 2020

1, 2, 3, 4, 5

The wind picked up as you cleared the second story of the school. Your decided approach of coming in from the ceiling was proving to be a fine one, fortunately. 

2, 2, 3, 4, 5

A cold gust blows through the cracks in the walls, sending a chill through the hall. The dampness of the air produced a clammy feeling on your skin. 

Heavy rain collided against the side of the building as the wind picked back up, creaking floors creating a more intense eeriness that filled the space. There is a sense of desolation, amplified by the cold weather and the vacant feel of the once-thriving primary school.

“Service is horrid out on the island. But I'll send confirmation once I'm heading back into the city.  And can someone tell Kento I know he's calling? We’ll talk when I'm back.” You stepped down to the middle of the stairs, Sliding your phone back into your pocket when your ears popped simultaneously. 

3, 2, 3, 4, 5

You activated ocean requiem, summoning a tight, shimmering barrier of water around you as a shield. This didn't feel like a grade 2 curse in the slightest and knowing Mei Mei…  caution was a necessity in this situation.

The air felt like it was being taken from your body in a snap as the gravitational pull increased, attempting to crush you under immense force. 

The walls crack, and debris falls,  the sheer panic thickens your water barrier in response to the stress. Your emotions—fear, determination, anger—fuel the cursed water. As you push forward, the water pressure increases, forcing the gravitational force to push harder.

“You can't breathe. You can’t move. Let it kill you.”

“What the fuck are you!! Where are you!!” 

A tentacle lashes out, stretching to pierce through the barrier. The immediate moment of contact and the curse violently reacted. You stepped forward, waving your hand counterclockwise, splashing back at the curse and sending it across the room with a thud. 

Your frustration grew with each heaving breath— you're fighting a special grade curse. An opponent beyond your usual limits. You couldn't even pick this up from your sweep. They were hiding, fluctuating their energy until you were within their reach. 

“You fucking pussy.” Emotions spiked, and your water barrier began to churn wildly. The abandoned corkboards flung to the floor as you approached your mark. “Hiding in the shadows until you could grab me?” eyes wild with rage-induced panic as the pressure inside the barrier is so intense that even touching it would cause immediate damage. Staking a chance to grab you again, a tentacle is pulled into the barrier’s vortex. The water wraps around it, dragging it deeper as if to drown it. “All over fucking Mei. That two-faced, bitch.” The dangerous parameters of overwhelming emotion caused the barrier to become unstable, allowing Arkugetsu to find a weak point. 

4, 2, 3, 4, 5

Regardless of your attempt to drown it, it retaliated with something that increased the gravitational force to near-unbearable levels. The floor beneath you both shatters and your barrier starts to buckle under the intensity. Arkugetsu looms larger, its body shifting and writhing as it prepares for what seems like a final attack and panic like no other sets in until you hear a familiar voice calling you. 

“Dove!” 

“Kento!“ 

The rushed sound of heavy footsteps approaches the wide-open basement floor as Kento goes in for a direct slash. 

You close your eyes, feeling the tentacle wrap around your torso with a vice-like grip but take the distraction as an opportunity to take a deep breath as you envision the tentacled beast. 

“Silence the World.” gently spilled from your lips and instantly the atmosphere is changed. 

The air grows thick with static-like energy, and suddenly, all sound vanishes. Arkugetsu’s screeching and rumbling of its gravity-induced destruction are silenced. The battlefield was swallowed by complete auditory stillness as if the world itself had gone mute. 

Dark, hazy mist rolled in, trapping You and Arkugetsu within. 

All is dark for Arkugetsu as it twirls around swinging its tentacles, the usual sound of air rushing past is absent, throwing off its sense of direction. Without sound or spatial awareness, the curse is unable to precisely aim its strikes as you take note of the silence surrounding the curse. 

An inaudible whisper flowed from your mouth as a silent, focused whirlwind of energy surrounded Arkugetsu’s body. 

“He doesn't love you. You're just... Comfortable for him. And he can find comfort anywhere.”

With precise control, you direct the whirlpool toward the curse, increasing the pressure on its massive form. The thickened cursed water presses down from all sides, trapping the curse in a suffocating vortex. It writhes, trying to break free, but the silence disorients it.

“If you die. He’ll move on pretty quickly. Mei Mei seems to have always had her eyes on him.”

5, 2, 3, 4, 5.

There. 

“Silence.” bellowed across the hazy plane, you stared down the curse, giving your final command in the soundless void. 

The whirlpool tightens around Arkugetsu, and your water barrier condenses into a seven-prong harpoon made entirely of cursed water. You launch it toward the curse’s core, focusing every ounce of energy on its demise. As the spear pierces through, the silence deepens. 

For a moment, the curse freezes in the water, its form warping and breaking apart under the immense pressure as you pull it back towards you as if you'd lassoed a bull.

Arkugetsu tries to let out a final roar, but in Eternity’s Silence, that sound is swallowed whole.

Falling to the ground with utter exhaustion coursing through your body, puffs of water vapor shakily leave you as your domain comes to an end. The silence fades and the sound of the heavy rain pouring brings you back to the ruined school. 

Cold. Hard to breathe. Stuck. 

“And when he’s done with you, you'll know.”

“Dove.” Kento rushed to your side, wrapping his jacket around your shoulders before he helped you to your feet. His attempt at looking in your eyes failed. 

“I'm sorry. She told me you could handle it and I-“ 

You saw Ijichi standing nearby, ignoring Kento to make your way towards the car.

  August 13, 2021 (Present Day)

  Saying you felt exposed would've been the understatement of the century. Your second couples therapy session started so calmly, promising. This felt like your diary being read in front of the class.

Ootaishi gave you a moment to gather your thoughts, pouring both you and Kento glasses of water as she asked her first question.

“You okay?” 

“Yea. I'm alright.” your voice was dry, uncomfortable from your memory. 

Kento looked over at you as he took in what he just witnessed. He'd never seen your domain, for obvious reasons. But to have seen it and heard what made you push through that fight. That's where you go when everything else is too much. 

“The counting. May I ask what that’s for?”

“It's a time signature.” 

“Any particular reason why you use time signatures to keep your anxiety at bay?”

There was a time you could answer this question and it made your heart skip a beat. Where you could start the story and let Kento tell the rest. 

“I suffer from panic attacks when I find myself in questionable situations. Kento noticed this back when we were just dating and of all things, numbers being absolute helped me reel myself in.” 

Kento looked down at the wing tips of his shoes as you stared off into the distance.

“When I told him I suck at math, he told me to use my favorite song or time signature to keep calm and keep me from overloading myself to avoid my barrier buckling.”

Ootaishi made a quick note as she listened intently. The room began to shift energy as you silently watched her pen scribble. “Mr. Nanami?"

“Yes?” He came back from his own passing thoughts, looking at the therapist who was now holding the talisman in her hand. A purple glow radiated from the stone as she ran her fingers over the grooves.

“Do you mind telling me who Mei Mei is? To you exactly.”

The talisman seemed to really enjoy the mention of her. It flickered a hue of silvery blue. 

Kento should be use to the bluntness of the words Ootaishi spoke but every syllable made him want to jump off the couch and throw the damn talisman into a pit.

“Mei Mei was an acquaintance of mine.”

“Was or is? Do you still keep in contact with her?”

You turned your torso towards Kento, not knowing the answer to this yourself.

“Yes.”

 Nose flared like a bull, you gulped to keep yourself from overreacting.

“What does she have to do with the incident on Ikijima Island that your spouse was sent to?”

“She was assigning missions that day as it was part of her role.”

The side eye you gave him was lethal. You could only laugh to keep the immense amount of energy from allowing you to combust. 

“She gave the assignment. She told me it was a grade 2 after a few locals reported some disturbances that aligned with recent incidents on nearby islands.” 

The antsy energy began to build and you couldn’t sit anymore. “But even those weren’t grade two. And you know who went to handle those? More than one person.” The room felt like it was only growing smaller as you leaned against the built-in bookshelf next to the door. 

This memory being the first time you felt the shift in your relationship wrangled up a slurry of emotions you didn’t expect. 

It was your first solo mission after Kento expressed discomfort with Yuuji and you being on the same mission. His alleged rationale was that he didn’t think you’d work well together but he didn’t have it in him to say the true reason then.

Ootaishi watched you with a close eye. The energy began to fluctuate in the room as her barrier hazed every time you stepped closer to the walls. Trying her best not to alarm you, she brought the talisman to her chest, prepared to curtain if the opportunity arose. 

“Do you feel she sent you there with ill intentions? Or simply miscalculated the situation at hand?”

Kento should’ve been smarter about his way of handling this conversation. He grew to see Mei Mei as someone more of an acquaintance who knew him at every pivotal moment of his life. Part of his past that kept him there. Where he was comfortable.

  Every suspicion you had since the moment you met her built up inside you like a volcano waiting to erupt. And Kento being honest about who she was to him could’ve saved you the trouble of feeling this way.  

“She didn’t know it would be that bad. I even ripped into her about the poor communication and lack of information. If she knew a special grade curse was in that school-“

“She would’ve sent me there just the same and had you out to dinner by her side before my body even began to go cold.” 

“Don’t. You don’t know Mei like that. That isn’t the kind of woman she is, dove.”

“Don’t dove me, Ken.” You stepped towards the couch. “When I’ve tried being cordial she is incredibly cold. And for fucks sake, she ran at Shibuya. Ran and made a profit while you almost lost your life. And you can take up for her?” 

“She had reasons and you can’t be upset-“

“Like hell, I can’t.” The pain in your voice made him Kento hurt. Your eyes were glossy fighting back tears. “Don’t tell me that when I had to watch you struggle to live in a fucking hospital. Don’t tell me shit.”

Silence fell across the room. Your heart beating in your ears as you felt it . The lingering pain of what you knew would come next. 

Ootaishi placed the glowing piece down on the table and Kento knew lying would be the worst choice. “Do you confide in her, Kento?”

 He stood up, the desire to grovel pending as he reached out to you. He held your hand firmly.

“She has known me since I was a student. She and I are different in every single way but she knows me and has seen my evolution from some teenager with no idea of the potential I had to a man who found himself.” 

“Just say yes or no. Do you or have you ever confided in her more than you have with me since we’ve been together?” Your eyes pleaded as Kento fought internally.

Searching. He was searching for grace. Where if he told you everything, would you still have the same grace you had with him before? His lips parted, but Kento could only nod. 

  You pulled away as if you’d been touched by a plagued man. 

“Nothing is going on more than talking. I haven’t ever slept with Mei Mei, I have never even thought about it, it has never been something I have ever wanted. I swear.” He saw the display of discomfort and didn’t take a step toward you. 

“This feels just as bad.” 

“Honey I swear. I haven’t ever spoken ill about you to her.”

“That doesn’t even matter, Kento. You tell her everything else. That feels like...” You blinked profusely, losing to the tears that fell down your cheeks. ‘Do you not trust me? Have you fallen out of love with me?”

  His worst fears came to life as he watched you second guess yourself with each moment that passed. He reached out for your hand not allowing you to pull away. “I trust you with my life. You have my heart, my soul. I would give my last just to have you look at me the way you do. Please. Look at me, dove.”

  “Have you ever expressed unhappiness in your marriage to your spouse, Kento?” Ootaishi tried to get your session back on track as the tension didn’t have an end in sight. “Since you both separated earlier in the year.”

“No. I was never unhappy. Happiness was never a question.” 

“Does Mei Mei encourage you to work out your problems at home?”

“She is more of a listening ear for the things I don’t want to burden them with.” Kento drug his hands down his face, his body was still in a numbing shock as he mindlessly sat back down. “When I was a salaryman, Mei reached out to me. We reconnected then and it’s just me getting out the frustrations of my life. But my limit is the intricacies of my marriage.”

  “Ken, what do you mean burden me? We’re married. Your burden is mine to carry with you and defeat together.” 

“The night we met. We went to the late-night diner and talked. I mentioned my reason for leaving sorcery behind the first time.”

“Of course. Your friend Haibara. You told me how much that affected you then.”

Kento brought his hands to his eye, breathing deeply as the emotions rushed back to him. The feeling of existential dread nipping at his sanity if it was that day all over again. 

“It still does. That burden is mine to carry and I think about him so much. Every single day.” He finally looked at you. “I almost died in Shibuya and I accepted death because the guilt of surviving this long. If I died, it would no longer consume me.” He shook away the thoughts. “I see Yuuji and see success and he doesn’t need me. I see you in combat. I see you in how you teach your courses and I tell myself you don’t need me. I didn’t think Haibara needed me but here we are.”

 “Kento,” you scoot to his side, bringing his hand to your lap and running your thumb across his palm. “You were children. Children who were given very little to be successful in that mission. You can’t fault yourself for a mission that was flawed from the beginning.”

His free hand clawed his knee. His jaw clenched as he stared at the floor, eyes glassy, unfocused. He blinked rapidly, trying to push away the burning sensation behind his eyes, but it only made the tears well up more.

“Kento. Is this why you push your wife away? Have those memories been coming back?” Ootaishi placed the box of tissues closer to you and you pulled a few out, ready in case he needed them. “When you’re ready, talk to us.”

  “Yes.. No..” Kento drew in a shaky breath, the weight of everything crashing down on him all at once. His chest tightened, and he shifted his weight, trying to find a distraction, any distraction. But the room felt too small, the silence too loud. The thoughts he'd been burying for years now clawed their way to the surface, too strong to suppress anymore. 

“Take your time, Ken.”

 “Yu is eternally 17 and I’m 31 and losing the only thing that has shown me grace in my life because I’m stuck.” His shoulders trembled slightly as the first tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly, almost angrily, as if he could stop the flood by sheer force of will. “I didn’t want pity or a solution. I just needed someone to listen. Mei Mei just listens and doesn’t say anything and that's what I needed. To just have a wall that knows me and listens.”

 You kept your reservations to yourself about Mei Mei, seeing that this is the vulnerability you’d been begging for. “Did you think I couldn’t handle your turmoil?”

He shook his head “I know that you can. That’s the problem.”

Searched and searched his face for what he meant. “The problem?”

‘You were forcing my peace to be disturbed so I couldn’t be complacent. You were forcing me to heal when I wasn’t ready to move forward.”

He leaned forward, pressing his palms against his eyes as if the pressure could stop the emotions from spilling out. But it was useless. Kento’s breaths became more labored, hitching in his chest. His body began to shake, and before he knew it, a soft sob escaped him.

 You offered a quiet but powerful gesture of support by placing your hand over his heart as you gently rubbed his back. “Kento. You’re needed, but not for your strength or agility. We don’t need a warrior out of you. We. I.. I just need you and who you are.”

It was quiet, almost imperceptible. But it broke the dam. “I came back to try and prove a point that I’m needed. But I’m tired of carrying it all. I want to grieve and finally move forward.”

The weight of his words settled in the room as Kento let out soft, quiet sobs that seemed to seep from deep within. 

For the first time in weeks, he let himself feel it all—every bit of pain, sorrow, and regret that had been gnawing at him. And as he sat there, his quiet sobs filling the room, Kento realized how tired he was of pretending to be strong.

August 19th, 2021

The familiar comfort of your once shared home made your heart feel light. Photos and furniture were still in their place as you walked down the hallway and to the kitchen.

Ootaishi suggested taking a few days separately to think and then talk outside her office about what the next step could look like before your upcoming session as you’d officially had a “breakthrough.”

Borderline emotional cheating and survivor guilt. Kento wrapped his head around two concepts he would’ve written off as some type of empty psycho-speak if he was ignorant to the practice. But there it was. Avoidance, guilt, pouring his emotions into someone else, heightened sense of fear.

He planned on finding a way to implement therapy into the jujutsu world when he could do so. But for now, he was looking forward to dinner.

The automatic lights came on in the kitchen as he thanked you for the 5th time since agreeing to cook dinner for the both of you.

“You really don’t have to do this. I would’ve been fine with grabbing leftovers or ordering takeout.” He unbagged the groceries onto the counter as you took the opportunity to look inside the refrigerator.

A six-pack of beer, a third of a steak with two Brussel sprouts, and a sliver of Guinness cake sat on the top shelf as the rest was filled with various condiments and half-eaten leftovers that had met their end. “No offense Ken, but this is not enough food for a grown man. You’re eating like a university student.”

His hoarse laugh filled the kitchen with yours as he began to wash the vegetables while you grabbed the cutting board and knife. “I haven’t been eating at home as much the past few weeks. It’s been either grabbing dinner with the guys or a late-night concoction that I half eat at 2 in the morning.”

“I can tell. Thank goodness for today.”

The sounds of the kitchen being brought to life were the background music to your conversation. Small talk that led to being taught to quick pickle for the best side of pickled garlic you could make. Kento glimpsed at you as you julienned the carrots with deep concentration. Your hands move with care and precision with each slice. Hips acutely swayed as you hummed a tune he knew all to well and he felt the emotions he once swore off for eternity now rushing back for the now fourth time this week.

There was no doubt in his mind that you saved him. And the only thing he had to show for it was how cold he had been to you over the last year. Your spirit never wavered as you stayed patient. He didn’t deserve you.

“Dove?”

“Hm?” Not one to look away from your cutting, you hummed to show your attention being given.

“May I have a hug?” His voice was soft, shy like a youthful schoolboy.

You sat the knife down, looking up to find his warm eyes as you dried your hands. “A hug?”

He nodded with slight hesitation. “Yes. If you feel up to it. I know it’s an odd request, but I’d really like a hug.”

There it was.

Vulnerability looked you in the face as Kento stood there feeling uncertain and anxious for the first time in years. Shifting on the balls of his feet as the night stood still.

You opened your arms, welcoming him in like the warmest sweater that money couldn’t buy. His face immediately went to your hair as he engulfed you like a flame. His warm chest greeted you with his tightening hold around your waist. “I’m so so, sorry.”

“Ken.”

“You’ve given me all of you. For so long without question because you’re an angel.” His large hand came up to the nape of your neck, gently cradling your head as he staved off the part of him that wanted to shut you out.

There was the feeling of unquestionable love that was shared in your embrace. His eyes were tired, showing remorse, grief, and pain all at once. “I’m not an angel by any means. I let this go on for too long without talking about it until I couldn’t even be in the same room as you. I don’t want you to ever feel like you can’t come to me. I’m your partner, your wife. I knew what I was signing up for when we met.”

“You didn’t sign up for holding me while I drunkenly cried in our bathtub.”

“To be fair, we were both drunk and crying that night. And it was my idea to get in the tub in case I couldn’t make it to the toilet in time.”

Kento huffed a laugh at you as a tear rolled down his cheek and onto his shirt. You wiped the trail away with your thumb. “I want to make us work. I don’t care how long it takes to get through every session with you. I want to spend the rest of my life making up for the past 135 days of being away from you and 483 days of being a complete fuck up.”

“It won’t be easy or kind to either of us.”

“I don’t expect it to be. And I don’t expect you to forgive me for my transgressions. I can only hope to earn your friendship and love again.”

  Kento went downon his knees, those brown eyes that held pain and desire looked up to you. He no longer contains his emotions but allows the floodgates to release all that he felt. 

“I’m so sorry.” lips like hot coals pressed right about your belly button, his hands bruisingly at your hips as he nudged your shirt up with his cheek.

“Please forgive me.” you ran your fingers through his hair as the languid brush of his tongue across your torso made your body tense up. “I will grovel.”

“Ken. This isn't necessary.”

Disagreeing with your comment, he shook his head. “Yes. It's more than necessary.” A puppy lost, needing his owner, his tired eyes looked to find you looking down on him like the goddess of forgiveness. “Every breath I take is a gift from you. You are my way of life. My breath. The beginning and end of my being. I will withstand the depths of hell to have your forgiveness. Faust harbors my soul if it’s you I have in return.”

He unbuttoned his shirt as he slowly rose from the floor. The soft, blonde hair that was sparingly spruced on his chest caught the light as his weight pushed you against the counter. Breathing hitched, you tried to remain exceptionally placid. “Kento. Only if you’re ready.”

  “179 days.”

Your brow furrowed as you tried to comprehend his words.

“The last time I was inside of you was 179 days. And I don’t want it to become 180. But only if you’re ready, my angel.” His husky voice made your thighs instinctually squeeze together. “I want to start my apologies while I give you every part of me.”

lovely graphics by the lovely @/saradika-graphics! <3

[aphroditesmoon]

lacrymosa [part 2]

clarisse la rue x fem!hecatecabin!reader [boarding school au]

PART 1

summary: you were sent to a prestigious boarding school to be rid from your father as a burden, but when strange things begins to happen upon your arrival, you wonder what truly lies behind the school walls. And as you attract attention from an infamous student, your plans to lie low is disrupted for the semester.

warnings: nightmares, a lil argument, enemies to lovers in a way.

a/n: under a special request, Olivia's name has been CHANGED to Tella, i hopenyou guys don't find the change too weird! And thank you for the love for this series so far, I hope u all can be patient with me writing every part in my own time🩷

wc: 6k

taglist: @bbybubbles @asvterias @kyuupidwrites @lyzsaphrodite @priyajoyy @yourmom-25s-blog

Something was not right. The thunderstorm outside felt unreal, the lightning struck again, and you only saw white slashing in front of you through the glass. 

“Get away from the window, sweetheart.” A female voice you’ve never heard of, advised you. You turn around at the same time you felt her hand grip your shoulder. 

“Mama?” You’ve seen her before. Of course you had. In pictures, and albums. But you’ve never heard her speak. She pulls you back onto the velvet chair that sat in the middle of the living room. Everything was unrecognizable. She and the place both was. 

“What did I tell you about standing too close to the window? It’s already cool enough here- Oh, see? Your fingers are freezing.” True to her words, your fingers were pruning up. 

Your mother’s hands loosened from your arm as she walked back into the kitchen. “I’m making some hot cocoa, do you want some?” 

You didn’t respond, too busy examining your surroundings. The structure of the building gave you a sense of deja vu. And the view outside, even through the rain and storms, brought out a sinking feeling in your chest. 

You walked back towards the window and saw a glimpse of yourself and flinched back. You’re a child. 

It registered to you then that it was all a dream. And more fear erupted from your chest. Were you supposed to be this aware in dreams? It’s never happened before. And yet as you eye the pavement outside being splashed with water whilst your mother called for you from the kitchen, you knew it couldn’t be real. 

This is a dream. This is a dream. This is a dream. 

You pinched yourself, and still found yourself unmoving. 

There is a statue outside on the grounds. A tall white something, you can't tell. But even in the fog and drizzle, it stands magnificent in all it's glory.

The third time your mother called for you, you turned towards her. 

Her face glitches as she nears you with a mug in hand. A colorless mug, changing colors the same way her face changes too. You took a step back, frightened. But as your mother cocks her head to the side in question, your feet halts in its place.

“What did I tell you about the window, darling?” 

“Mama?” you asked again, against your own resistance.  Your mother smiled and moved closer. She wore a necklace with a circular shaped object that laid on her chest. It had rubies on it’s edge, and a triangle cut out in the middle, like a button you could push. It stood out like your mothers dark black eyes that bore no reflection. 

“What did I tell you about standing too close to the window, sweetheart?” She asked again, stoically despite her toothy smile.

She glitched again, and for a moment, you thought her face had cracks all over it, filled with red burning glow that looked like lava. 

Your hand itched to touch her, to pull her by her collar and scream, you are not my mother. To hug her, to cry in her chest and ask her why she left you. 

But instead, you just stood there and hear her calling out for your name again.

The last call clashed with the sound of a thunder, and you felt yourself jump as your shooked out of your nightmare.

The earth below you felt like it had broken into two.

It was raining. It was actually fucking raining.

And for some reason, you looked up to the sky and felt rain water pouring down your whole entire body as lightning struck again from the clouds.

You were standing outside your school building at god knows what hour, in the rain.

“What the hell are you doing?” A thunderous voice shouted from behind you.

You twist your neck to look back, and found the last person you wanted to see in this kind of situation. “Clarisse.” You breathed out with tired eyes. 

She stands under the roof of the dorm building, far from you, but close enough to be able to hear her yelling.

Clarisse sprinted towards you from your left with an umbrella that wasn't really standing a chance with the heaviness of the wind and water. Immediately,  she pulled you under the pathetic excuse of a shelter and stared at you in disbelief, open mouthed and weirded out.

“Are you insane?” She bellowed out, somehow loud enough to hear.  “I- I don't know what happened.” You shouted back.

“What do you mean?” She was beginning to pull you by your arm towards your dorm building, the two of you skipping quickly until you're finally in safety. 

“I just woke up and I'm here.” Clarise took the umbrella and harshly flapped it to her side and tried wringing the water out from it. “You sleepwalked?” She asks as she's squeezing the umbrella.

“Yeah.” She then placed the umbrella against the walls of the ground floor, along with the other umbrellas placed there for emergency before taking you by the hand again towards the elevator. 

“This has got to be the craziest case of sleepwalking, you could've had hypothermia.” She says it like it's your fault. You almost snapped back at her to say that she shouldn't be awake at this time too, but had the sense to keep your mouth shut. “It's never happened before.” You say instead.

“What never happened? Sleepwalking, or sleepwalking out of a building?” 

“Both.” She nodded with an ‘ah’. 

The elevator dings open, and her hand slips away from yours as she enters it before you.

“What were you doing awake anyways?” You finally ask her.

“I went down to use the water dispenser to fill up my bottle, then I saw a crazy girl in short shorts in the middle of a storm.”

Your cheeks heated up when you remembered that you were still in a tank top and shorts. A city girl's definition of pajamas.

“Thanks.” You muttered awkwardly, she acknowledges it with another nod.

Once the elevator stops at her level, she exits it and stops in her tracks when she realizes you weren't following her. “Come on.”

“I'm on level 20.” You say dumbly.

“I know, I've seen your dorm. You should come change at my place, unless you want to have to explain to your roommates why you're soaked at 3am.” You considered her proposal quickly and steps out before the doors could close.

“What about your roommates?” You asks.

“Don't have any.” She responds, clicking her tongue. 

“Seriously?” She hums positively. “Legacy students have solo rooms.” 

The walk towards her room was silent. You let your eyes wander through the red coloured halls and the decorations hung on them. She was an Ares girl, that one is obvious. 

There are shields and trophies inside glass boxes along the way to the corridor, and you could assume that the Ares dorm kids are known for their competitiveness, alongside their ferocity. 

Once you reach the end of a corridor, she unlocks the singular door that exists in this corner of the level and shoos you inside, following you right after.

Her room was unexpectedly neat, not that you let yourself really look around. 

But it was difficult not to notice the air conditioner along with her much-larger-than-yours closet. 

She passes you a new and folded towel for you to dry your hair and body while she searches for something to wear. 

“Do you want to take a shower first?” She asks whilst rummaging through her closet. “No, it's fine.” It would be too suspicious if you skipped a shower a few hours after your friends woke up.

“Suit yourself.” She answers before handing over to you a thick Princeton sweater with long sleevss and cuffs with a pair of long cotton trousers.

Clarisse had the decency to turn around as you changed and only turned back around once you were done. “Just give me the towel.” She says. “It's laundry day tomorrow anyways.”

You stand near her bedside table after that, eyeing the small picture frame that sat there in solidarity. There was a picture of her, much younger than she is now, and an older woman with her hands around her shoulder.

“Is that your mom?” You asked. Clarisse walked over and shoved the frame down on the table, a CLACK noise following the action. “Someone's chatty.” She noted. But you thought you heard a slight tremble.

“Right, sorry. I should go now.” You feel whatever friendliness that managed to slip through the cracks ofnyour interaction with her, begin to dissolve. 

It was easy to be reminded of who Clarisse La Rue actually was.

“What's the rush, I'm sure the rain water have woken you up quite well.” She replies, sitting down on her bed. “Look, I appreciate the help. But if my roommates wake up and they see that I'm gone, they-” 

“They'll think you're using the bathroom.” She cuts you off. “For 20 minutes?” Clarisse shrugs. “Some people have issues.”

You sighed at her answer and felt your feet beginning to hurt from standing up for too long without shoes outside the school. You're tired and easily irritated after what just happened, and her push and pull behavior isn't helping.

“I don't know why you want me to stay, I'm tired, you're tired. And it's almost 4am.” You throw your arms up in exasperation. “I just wanna go back to sleep and act like this never happened.”

“You know, I'm just trying to make sure you're alright. Because despite your objection, that did happen. And that's not normal. So a thank you would suffice.” Her demeanor had changed into frustration, she was not someone who takes rejection well.

“I already thanked you. And I don't need a free counseling session from a bully- who by the way, ripped a drawing out of my sketchbook.” Clarisse's head jerked back at your words. She stood up to properly face you before you could run out of her room.

“Oh that's it, isn't it? I'm such a terrible person and your moral righteousness can't stand it, and yet you dedicated a whole page to my face.” You could no longer tell what she was feeling from her tone of voice. Was she amused or defensive?

“That book isn't yours to see, let alone to take.” You snapped back. 

“It has my face on it, of course it's mine to take.” she scoffed, folding her arms together.

“Oh wow, I wonder what else you assume is yours to take with that kind of pretentiousness.” You retorted, laughing dryly at her face. 

The smugness disappeared, and for a second, you felt proud.

“You know, for someone I can easily make life living hell for, you're starting to get way too daring. It's not cute anymore.” Clarisse's feet stepped closer to you, until your noses were inches away from each other. 

There is fear in crossing the point where you can never go back when it comes to her anger. But you have never been the kind of girl to lay back and take a kick from anyone else.

You're also not the type of girl to think that you owe anyone anything for some common decency.

“I’m so genuinely curious Clarisse, who do you think you are? You're just another girl in this place, like the rest of us. Legacy student or not.” 

An unhumourous smile paints her face as she shakes her head at you. “You have no idea who I am. And at this point, I'm starting to think that I should've just left you in the rain to freeze and die.” 

“I would've woken up and left anyway, even if you weren't there.” As upset as you are with her, that part specifically caused you guilt to say aloud. She was obnoxious, but she did help you. 

“Oh sure, miss tortured artist galloping in the thunderstorm-” 

“I wasn't gallop- you know what?” It felt like the 100th time you were telling her off. “I'm actually leaving this time. So, thank you, for helping me, and thank you for your narcissism.” 

You gripped the door handle tightly and spared her no glance as you pull it open and walked out away from her. You wanted to slam the door on her face but thought twice when you remembered that it's 4am and someone could've heard you.

You tiptoed your way back into the elevator and up to level 20. The dorm room was unlocked, unsurprisingly so.

The dark room's only source of light is the bright moon glowing numbly through the closed curtains behind Harper's bed. The rain have subsided, all the nightmarish lighting qnd thunder have stopped.

You gently climbed up onto your bed, eager to get under the covers. You could see the shadows of your friends from where you lay. Their silhouette giving you a peace of mind. 

If either of them had heard of what just happened to you, they would panic. It's been 2 days, and yet they care for you so easily.

You rub your feet together, trying to diffuse the coldness away.

Tonight, whatever that had happened, felt unreal. But tomorrow all will be well. It had to be. 

-

You had not slept a wink for the rest of the hours before your alarm went off.

There were times where you almost dozed off, but for some reason it felt like your tired body was unable to fully shut down and let go of the main control.

You know that sleepiness was evident in your face, but your roommates said nothing of it as they rose up, preparing to rush for the bathroom before the other girls could.

"Did you change clothes last night?" Harper asks absentmindedly. She pulls her hair up into a bun and grabbed her towel from the spinning chair by her table. 

You looked down at the sweatshirt and back up at her. "Oh-uh, yeah. I got cold last night, with the rain and all." 

"I figured. I just know the chill out there is gonna be crazy today." The both of them left after that for their shower and secured you a booth to get in to after they were done. Thankfully, there was a bit of hot water left for you to indulge in.

It was exactly what you needed after the horrifics you've experienced through a few hours before.

You had spent the hours before getting up, going over the dream you had. It was rare for you to remember your nightmares, let alone be aware that you were dreaming while you're doing it.

You could also remember small details like the glass window with the giant statue, your mother's necklace and the way her face appeared and disappeared. You've never been a superstitious person, but was there a possibility that dreams like that meant something? Or was it just another lucid dream?

You'd thought that you'd feel comforted, seeing your mother that way, and the way she fussed over you. But all you felt was a strong distinction. An awareness that she was not real, and that she'd never be.

There were 2 other girls in the bathroom with you when you were done showering. One was using the sink on your left, and another was still cleaning themselves up.

You forced the freezing water all over your face, trying to refresh yourself and hopefully make your face look less beated. Looking into the mirror felt like a challenge. The dream still haunts you even now. You almost expect a child to stare back from the glass. And god, how you feel like a child right now, out of place and confused.

After a few more splashes, you wiped the droplets off with your towel and clenched your toes as you walked back to your dorm.

The girls were halfway done getting ready when you entered. Their bags were stacked by the door on the way out. "You're a bit slow today." Tella noted as she struggles to keep her hair up without the strands falling out.

"Couldn't really sleep last night." You told them as you began putting on your plaited skirt. The zip had completely fallen off as you tried to pull it up. You swore aloud and had to restrain yourself from banging your head on your table. Everything was going wrong today. From the 3am sleepwalking to your stupid skirt dysfunction.

"What? What is it?" Harper asked in response to your outburst.

"My zip fell off." You mumbled in annoyance. Her head tilted towards you in concern. "I have a safety pin, I think it'd work. Do you want it?"

"Yes please." You answer. She pulls out a tiny box of safety pins from her drawer and hands you one to use. "Thanks."

"Don't sweat it." Harper was the first to finish. She helped Tella fix her ponytail for the 5th time, slapping her hand away when she tried to tighten it herself. 

Once the three of you were all done, you left together, locking the dorm doors and going down through the full elevator.

You had stuffed Clarisse's still clean clothes inside your school bag when they were showering. You planned to return it to her owner, and let that be the last time you'll ever owe Clarisse La Rue anything. 

The girls had probably assumed your behavior had something to do with homesickness, as they went on without question. You were grateful for the lack of conversation. The last thing you wanted to do today was talk. 

You had questions bugging your mind and the need to isolate yourself. It's what you always do whenever you're feeling disturbed and overwhelmed, you black out from the rest of the world.

Carefully walking down the school halls to your locker, you half expected people to stare at you differently, afraid that someone else might've seen you from last night, but everyone minded their business, and so uou did too. 

You were pulling out your books from the locker when you hear Tella turning around to greet someone, taking a step further away from you and Harper. You twist your neck to meet the mystery man who's in conversation with your friend.

Sharing a look with Harper, she only shook her head nonchalantly before leaning closer to you. "That's Luke Castellan." She whispered.

The name was recognised quickly, old conversations with Tella being brought back in memory. "That's the guy she likes?"

Harper nodded. "Well, does he like her back?"

Harper shrugged. "They compared hand sizes, so I think so. But who knows with boys." You made a face at her and nodded warily. "As long as she's happy." You tell her. It wasn't that Luke was unattractive, it's that he sounded so much like a regular teenage boy that you have grown to have an automatic dislike for. 

It wasn't his fault that the species of his sex have failed in their entirety. 

Harper was about to say something else when Tella suddenly called for you and had gotten closer. "This is our new roommate I was talking about." She says to Luke, gesturing to you.

Up close, you could see that he has a scar on his cheek. He also had dark curls and brown eyes that seemed to fit the whole american sweetheart vibes that Tella was obviously into.

"Hey." You greeted him without any animosity. He smiled and returned the greeting, giving you a small wave. "How do you like it here so far?" He asks.

"Well, it's only been 2 days but I think it's alright." You answer dishonestly. Obviously you weren't going to tell him that this place has conjured some deeply problematic things from inside of you like sleepwalking and attracting assholes. 

His grin doesn't falter as he takes in your words. "Not exactly an exciting place, is it? At least you're in good company." You forced out a tight smile for him. God only knows just how exciting it's been for you, and it hasn't even been a week. 

You thought of cutting to the chase by telling him it's nice knowing him and walking off before your eyes landed on a girl walking past the lot of you.

Clarisse La Rue kept her eyes straight ahead as she headed for the classroom at the back. Her clothes are still in your bag that's sat on the floor. You picked it up and slung it over your shoulder and excused yourself from all three of them, making Luke and Tella move to the side to give you space. “I gotta go.”

"See you in recess." Tella called out. You raise your arm and give her a thumbs up and keep walking down the same path Clarisse did.

What a coincidence that you two are on the same class today? History is an interesting subject, one you're fully prepared to enjoy. But the thought of being anywhere close to the curly haired girl, makes your stomach feel like they're tied in knots.

You managed to chase after her before she was seated on her desk. And the class was thankfully still half empty since the bell hadn't rang yet. Your mind is racked on how you're supposed to just pass her a plastic of her clothes in the most subtle way possible. 

But of course, your mouth had a mind of its own when you impulsively shouted out her name.

Clarisse had just dropped her own bag down against her table when she heard your call. She instantly turned around to face you. "New girl." She addressed you. 

She widens her eyes in question. You push the plastic bag in your arms into her chest, and your fingers brush as she takes it from you to examine it. "Oh, this." 

"Thank you for the clothes." You say monotonously. Neither of you looked pleased to see each other, but what's unexpected still, is that she also didn't look like she wanted to kill you like she did last night. 

Clarisse waved it off and crouched down to keep the plastic inside her own bag.

You stood there waiting until she was gone and stood back up to see you. Something is supposed to be said in a moment like this, but none of you did.

And so with a small nod to enclose the interaction, you spun on your heels to egt to your table. Your feet was locked in place when you felt her hands on your shoulder. 

You looked at her with raised brows in expectation.

"This is yours." She says, passing you a folded A4 paper. Your first thought was that this was your drawing that she took. But you hadn't used the kind of paper she was giving. You took the paper suspiciously. “What's this?” You asked.

She only says: “You'll see,” with a shrug.

The moment her grip was lifted from your shoulder,  you walked and sat yourself at your desk, and tried your hardest not to turn around. 

The bell had just begun to ring outside of the class, and other students were filling into the small space. 

Whatever it was, you'd look at it later. For now, it's folded four times more and stuffed into your pencil case. 

-

When one grows up, constantly having to take care of themselves without adult supervision or emotional support, they are also forced to belittle and diminish their own fears in an attempt to rise over their struggles to survive in a hostile environment.

And so you’ve had to learn to do things such as walking home from school alone and risking unwanted attention from men and how to hide a knife under your knuckles for prevention purposes. 

And yet as you overcame these fears one by one, only two you had found impossible to fight. And that is your fear of moths and butterflies, and your fear of heights. 

And yet, standing up here on the roof, arms placed against the railing and looking down, all you could think of is how beautiful the view was from up here. You could see the closed area of the school from above here. Green grass filled the large space that is guarded behind white walls and a large sign that said ‘NO ENTRY.’ 

The railing shook slightly, making you jerk back. The cringing noise it made hurts your ear as it vibrates. Taking a few steps back, you figured it’s safer to watch from a distance. 

You cocked your head down again, taking one last glance down and tried to memorize the image of the flowery laced garden. Your friends would be looking for you now, you thought..

Your feet moved you to the closed door that awaits for your exits, and yet, as your hand wraps against the holder, the heaviness of it suddenly becomes unbearable. You wiped your hands on your skirt and tried to open the door again, but it wouldn’t budge. 

“Shit.” You muttered under your breath. There wasn’t even a lock on this thing. Or was there? You couldn’t remember. You completely let go of the door and sprinted back towards the railing. Was there anyone that could help you? 

No, of course not. The area was prohibited for anyone to cross. The same grasses and dying flowers watching you from underneath. 

The railing shook again as you scanned the place thoroughly. This time it jerks so harshly that the left side of it completely pulls away from its metal and threatens to fall off. You jumped back just in time to not fall off, but your heart drops so strongly that it feels like you’ve already fallen. 

You consider trying to pull back the railing and somehow pressing it back on it’s screw, but the damage was unfixable when you observed it in closer view. You think back to your main problem, escaping this place. 

There was no other choice than to simply try pulling the door harder, and to scream for help.

You give all of your strength into pulling. “Help!” You shouted. “I'm stuck on the roof! Hello?”

The door felt like it shook a little, your cramped fingers kept on pulling until you were sure it really was opening. You paused for a minute to squeeze your fingers inside your palms.

“One last try.” You breathed out. Your hands give your best tug while your feet stay on the ground, unmoving. You hear a creak and your heart almost bursts out of hope.

Consistently pulling still, you could actually see the edges of the door sliding through, opening slowly. One, two three- 

It opens widely with a slam, you're pushed back until your back hits the ground. Getting back up onto your knees, you rose up and aimed for the door. But the emptiness on the other side of the door held you back.

You gasped loudly. There was no staircase on your opposite. There was no concrete or flat ground for you to land your feet on. Only air and steepness. It was like a never ending hole to fall into, the kind of hole you imagined Alice had jumped inside of to arrive in wonderland.

Panic washed all over you. And as you're pacing around at the roof, you hear someone calling your name. It was help, somebody had arrived to help. The shouting was faint,  but you heard it clearly anyways. You returned to the railing and searched for any spot of people, but no one wasn't there.

You hear the voice again, calling your name. It's getting louder,  but you're not sure where it's coming from.  You yell back on the top of your lungs.  “I'm here!” And the response became more vivid.

“Miss?” You hear it like it's behind you.

You snapped your head to your back, nothing. 

“Wake up.” The voice insisted. “I'm not dreaming.” You pushed. “This isn't a dream.” 

“Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.” The shouting was shrilling, your ears could be bleeding and you'd believe it.

“Wake up.” It screamed into your ear as you knelt down on the ground, covering your ears with both hands.

“Wake up!” You felt hands shaking your back. Your head looks up in a state of disorientation. 

“Miss?” It was your biology teacher, bending down to meet your eyes,  skeptically watching you.

“Everyone left, sweetheart.” She says, pointing at all the empty tables in the classroom. You hate that pet name. It always sounds so mocking.

This was the last class you had for today, the lack of sleep must've caught up with you. You straightened your back and apologized to Ms. Rhodes for keeping her waiting. She only shook her head and tells you to take care before leaving the classroom.

You looked around the class and tried to remind yourself that whatever you had seen in your mind, was just a dream. It wasn't real. And yet it felt like it, just like the dream you had last night. And in both dreams, you had been aware of the surroundings in ways you shouldn't be.

You wiped your hands over your face and yawned quietly. The clock above the board shows that it's already past 6pm. You cracked your knuckles together and lifted your bag onto your shoulders. If you're quick, you could still make it to the dorm showers before 7.

You stopped by your locker to stack your books inside of it. The hallway is empty, you're not sure how long you fell asleep, but everyone else seems to dread being inside this building more than they needed to.

You think of the vividness of the school landscape from your dream. The place had a staircase that led to the rooftop by the janitor's closet at the back. A small voice encourages you to try and retrace the steps in your dream, just to see how different iit was compared to real life. 

But instead of going up the stairs, you notice the space behind it, and ducked your head down underneath instead. 

There is a closed door a few steps away from the roof entrance staircase. It was a glass door covered with black plastic and a No Entry sign plastered on it. Those words ring a bell in your head.

You pushed it open gently and was pleased to see that it wasn't even locked. Whoever's trying to guard this place from students obviously isn't very good at their job.

The door opened up just enough for you to slide yourself inside. You weren't surprised to see a room of forests hidden inside.

This must be the garden. It wasn't quite like you dreamed it, but it was accurate enough.  It's smaller than expected,  and it's much more empty than I envisioned. 

You circle the place, paying attention to the roots and veins that have crawled up the walls, stepping your feet on the overgrown weeds and leaves. 

You flinched when you hear the leaves ruffles and turn to see the invader. Your shock immediately subsided and morphed into irritation when you saw her.

“Are you following me?” You ask in disbelief. 

Clarisse frowned and denies it. “No? I was-?” She takes the time to think of an excuse until eventually she just sighs and shook her head. “Yes, okay maybe I did follow you here- but only because this is forbidden ground.”

“And you're so good at obeying rules?” You sarcastically question, earning an eye roll. “No, really though, what are you doing here?” 

“I had a dream about the garden.” Clarisse waved her hands in confusion and frowned deeper. “Okay…that’s great?” You gave up trying to explain to her and focused back on your surrounding.

You tilted your head up at the sky, almost expecting to see the roof and a broken railing, but there is tinted dark glass coves the school roof for the safety of the mids, you thought.}, so all you saw staring back down is a closed building.

“You know, there you used to be a weeping angel here.” Clarisse spoke suddenly. “Hm?”

“A statue. Right in the middle.” She clarifies.

“Did they remove it because of Samara?” You asked. Clarisse's eyes widen and she looks you up and down with her hands on her hips. “Who told you about Samara?” 

“My roommates.” 

“Of course they did. Can't keep their mouth shut for shit.” Clarise scoffed. You feel overprotective over your friends, knowing them to have good intentions. “Don't talk about them like that.” 

Clarisse ignores your warnings and instead moves like she's about to leave. “We should go. The teachers like to do a 360 before locking shit up.” She walks out without waiting. And despite your annoyance, you followed her still.

The two of you quietly walked side by side until you're out of school grounds and entered the dorm building together.  There were some girls hanging out on the water fountain and near the elevator, but they paid no mind to either of you.

Clarisse's head is aimed straight ahead, and you consider it the longest she's gone without saying something stupid to you. 

Once the elevator stops at her level, she gives you one last glance, her fierce eyes boring deep into yours for that split second. You thought you saw a shadow of a smile ghosting over her face, but before you could confirm, the door closes, and you're on your way to the Hecate level. 

After unlocking the door of your dorm, you threw your bag onto the ground and basically swung yourself on your bed, making Harper jump while she's putting on her skincare. “You look like shit.” She tells you.

You snorted and rolled over until you're facing the ceiling. “I feel like it.”

She hummed casually and went on with her business. 

You lifted your head up slightly to see Tella, but she's nowhere to be found.

“Where's Tella?” You asks Harper. “Showering.” She responds. “I don't know what's taking her so long, but you'll probably see her when you go to the bathroom.”

You nodded in understanding and began to undress yourself from the school clothes, putting them on the side for washing later. 

You then started pulling out your notebooks that had homework in it and stacked it on your desk. Only after you pulled your pencil case out, you remembered about the piece of paper Clarisse had given you.

Curiously, you basically snatched it from inside your case, and unfold the paper from its small size into a large white A4 again. 

Inside was the ugliest cartoonish image you’ve ever seen in your whole life.

It's a drawing. A badly drawn girl, half up only, with hair that supposedly, looks like yours. And a nose that didn't have the right proportions for the face size. 

You smiled at the image subconsciously. You're sure Clarissebhad given this to you as some sort of trade, her picture for her, and your picture for you. It could even mean a truce between you two. 

But instead of stressing over what deeper meaning does her doodles really have, you folded it back and kept it by your night lamp.

“Why are you smiling like that?” Harper asks, you meet her eyes through the mirror. “Nothing, I just remembered something funny.” You lied. She squints her eyes really hard as if she’s trying to read through you for any lies but then gives up after a few seconds of it.  

Your smile disappeared as soon as it came, you picked your towel up and acted as if nothing happened and made your way to the bathroom. 

What is your stance towards Clarisse? Inconclusive. She’s there behind every ostracizing event that has occurred to you so far. And you wonder just how big of a part does she really play into all of this. Her gaze still burns in the back of your mind, it’s almost impossible to escape her even when she’s not centered around any of the issues. 

Should you let things play out in her way or should you keep fighting her off, stubborn to break the cycle of a moth to a flame,