#but he's on the edge of psychological free fall

[sumluckr]

Wolf at the door

Pairing: Geum Seong-je x female reader

Summary: One impulsive night leads to a secret you can’t escape. When your sister brings home her new boyfriend, everything you tried to forget comes back to haunt you.

Warnings: explicit sexual content, blackmail, toxic dynamics, non-consensual power dynamics and psychological manipulation.

The bass-heavy music thrums through your body as neon lights flash across the packed club. You stand at the edge of the dance floor, heart rattling in your chest. This isn’t you – or at least, it’s not the you everyone knows. Good girls from respectable families don’t sneak into clubs on a weeknight, don’t let strangers buy them drinks, and definitely don’t fantasize about reckless, illicit thrills. But tonight, you’ve shed your perfect-student skin. Tonight, you’re rebellion in a short black dress, determined to forget the suffocating expectations that cling to you like a second skin.

You down the last of your cocktail, sweetness and alcohol burning down your throat, and sway your hips to the music. It’s dizzying and a little liberating to be here alone – no parents hovering, no teachers, no judgment. Just for a few hours, you want to be someone else, someone free and bold and bad. Your eyes drift over the sea of strangers under pulsing strobe lights. Bodies move in dark silhouette. Laughter and shouts cut through the throbbing bass.

That’s when you feel his eyes on you – a prickle of heat at the back of your neck. You glance over your shoulder and catch sight of a figure lounging against the wall near the bathroom hallway. Even in the erratic neon glow, he stands out. Tall and lean, he’s dressed in a fitted black jacket and ripped jeans, exuding a casual menace. His hair is dark, a few unruly strands falling over one eye. And those eyes… fixed on you with an intensity that sends a thrill up your spine. In the shifting light, you can’t discern their color – only that his gaze is bold, unabashed, and dangerous.

Your pulse skips. A sensible voice in your head whispers that nothing good can come from locking eyes with a stranger like him. He’s exactly the kind of boy you’ve always been warned about – the kind your parents would never approve of, the kind who radiates trouble. Perhaps that’s precisely why you hold his gaze a second longer than you should. Why a spark of defiance flares to life inside you, challenging your own good sense.

He smirks when he sees you looking. It’s a lazy, confident curve of his lips, as if he finds your attention amusing. Under the flashing club lights, he pushes off the wall and begins to cross the room toward you. Instinctively, your breath catches. He moves with a predatory grace, weaving through the crowd without taking his eyes off you, as though he’s already decided you will be his next conquest.

Your heart thunders. Part of you wants to turn away, break the spell, retreat to safety. But your feet remain planted, curiosity and rebellion rooting you in place. The air seems to thicken as he approaches. You catch a better glimpse now: sharp features, a strong jaw marked by a fading bruise near his cheekbone, and a split in his lower lip as if he’s been in a recent fight. A white bandage peeks out from beneath the collar of his jacket, taped at his shoulder or neck. He should look beaten up, rough, scary… and he does. Yet none of it diminishes his appeal – if anything, the bruises and bandages only intensify the dangerous aura around him. He’s like a storm contained in a human frame.

When he reaches you, the scent of smoke and something musky washes over you. He’s a head taller, forcing you to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes. In the flicker of neon, you see now they’re a deep charcoal-grey, penetrating and cold. A shiver races over your skin. Too late to run now.

He doesn’t ask to dance. He doesn’t ask anything. Instead, the stranger’s hand lifts, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair off your face. The gesture is oddly tender for someone who looks like him, but the glint in his eyes is anything but gentle.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing here all alone?” he drawls, voice low to be heard over the music. There’s a hint of amusement in his tone, laced with something dark that you can’t quite name. Up close, his charm is edged with danger, like a knife cloaked in silk.

Your stomach flips. A dozen possible answers flit through your mind – a lie, an excuse, anything to preserve your dignity – but what slips out is the raw truth: “Trying to have some fun.” You’re surprised by the boldness of your own words. Normally you’d never admit that to a stranger, but the alcohol and adrenaline are dissolving your filter. If my parents heard me now… The thought almost makes you laugh.

He chuckles, a low rumble that you feel in your chest more than hear. His thumb trails lightly down your cheek in a mockingly affectionate stroke. “Oh, I can give you fun,” he says, leaning in. His lips hover by your ear, the heat of his breath making you tremble. “Question is, can you handle it?”

A bolt of heat spears through you, half excitement, half fear. The challenge in his voice and the flirtation ignite something reckless inside you. This is precisely what you came here for, isn’t it? To prove you’re not just the obedient daughter, the straight-A student, the well-behaved sister. To feel something real and wild, even if it’s just for one night.

You don’t trust your voice, so you answer by arching a brow, hoping to appear braver than you feel. “Try me,” you manage, the two words coming out steadier than the hammering of your heart.

His eyes darken, that predatory smirk widening. Without another word, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you onto the dance floor. The abrupt closeness knocks the breath from your lungs. He’s solid muscle under that jacket; you can feel the tension coiled in him, like he might spring into violence or passion at any second.

The music shifts to a sultry, grinding beat. He moves with confidence, hands sliding low on your hips. You follow his lead, letting him press you back until your body meets the hard plane of his chest. It’s intoxicating – his heat, the way he guides you as if he owns your body. You can smell a faint trace of blood mixed with his cologne, or maybe it’s your imagination. Either way, it sends a thrill through you. This is dangerous. He is dangerous.

And you’ve never felt more alive.

You dance, though it’s less dancing and more an excuse to touch. His hands roam over your curves in time with the heavy bass. When your arms loop around his neck, your fingers graze a row of bandages along the side of it. You realize they’re covering what look like half-healed cuts. Your eyes flick to his in question, but he only gives a lazy shrug and pulls you closer, grinding against you in answer. The message is clear: Don’t ask. So you don’t. You shut off the cautious part of your brain that wants to know what happened to him. All that matters is right now.

His thigh pushes between your legs as you sway together, and a small gasp escapes you at the pressure against your already thrumming core. You swear you feel him smile against your temple at the sound. Embarrassed by how quickly your body is responding, you turn your face up, intending to reclaim some control by kissing him first – but he beats you to it.

He swoops down and captures your lips in a bruising kiss that steals all thought. It’s not gentle or slow. It’s teeth and tongue and heat, a clash that sends sparks through your veins. You whimper into his mouth, and he takes the sound as invitation to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your toes curl. You taste a hint of copper – maybe from the cut on his lip – mixed with the alcohol on both your tongues. The metallic tang shouldn’t be arousing, but it only reminds you that this man is raw and real, not some polished prince charming.

His hand moves up your back, tangling in your hair, tilting your head to his liking so he can kiss you even harder. It’s like he wants to consume you, and you find yourself yielding, letting him set the pace. When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing hard. Your lips tingle, likely swollen from the ferocity of the kiss. A satisfied gleam lights his eyes as he looks at your dazed expression.

“Fun enough for you?” he purrs, voice dripping cockiness. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, which you realize is stinging slightly from a bite – his or yours, you’re not even sure.

A flush heats your cheeks. You bite back an instinctive polite reply. Good girls say thank you or demur. You force those impulses down and, mustering your bravado, give a soft, breathless laugh. “Not bad…,” you tease, trying to match his nonchalance, though your voice betrays you with a slight tremor. “But I thought you promised me fun. Is that all you’ve got?”

His eyebrows lift at your challenge, surprise flickering over his features. Then that wolfish grin returns, more wicked than before. He leans in so that his nose almost brushes yours. “Careful,” he murmurs, and you feel his hand tighten at your hip, fingers digging in possessively. “I might just have to prove I can blow your sweet little mind.”

Your heart skips at the promise laced in those words. Before you can form a reply, he captures your hand in his. “Come.” It’s an order, not a request. You barely have time to snatch your purse from a nearby ledge before he’s tugging you through the crowd.

There’s a surreal thrill in letting yourself be led. Normally, you’d balk at anyone manhandling you – but something about his confidence, the deliberate way he navigates through throngs of people with you in tow, is intoxicating. Part of you can’t believe what you’re doing. You met this boy mere minutes ago. You don’t even know his name. This could be incredibly stupid… No, it is incredibly stupid. And yet, you don’t resist. Whether it’s curiosity, desire, or the rebellious anger at your own sheltered life driving you, you follow him.

He pushes open a heavy door in the back, leading you into a dark hallway that smells of spilled beer and cleaning bleach. The sign on the door that slams shut behind you reads Restrooms. The bass from the main room fades to a muffled thump through the wall, and the sudden relative quiet makes your ears ring. The hall is lit only by a flickering fluorescent light. To your left, the door to the ladies’ room stands closed; to your right, the men’s. He ignores both, instead zeroing in on a third door at the very end – a single unisex bathroom or maybe a staff washroom. A small paper sign taped to it reads “Out of Order,” but he twists the knob and shoves the door open without hesitation.

Your pulse jackhammers as he pulls you inside the tiny bathroom and locks the door behind you with a sharp click. It’s a cramped space – just a sink, a cloudy mirror, and a toilet stall with a busted-looking door half off its hinges (so that’s why it’s out of order, you think absently). The only light comes from a single dim bulb overhead. The walls tremble faintly with the bass from outside, and through the vent you can hear the muffled chorus of the current dance track.

Suddenly, in the confined quiet, reality presses on you. This is really happening. You’re in a dingy club bathroom with a dangerous stranger, about to cross lines you’ve never come near before. A flicker of nerves finally cuts through the haze of lust and liquid courage. Your instincts rear up with a warning – this is too fast, too reckless. What if he hurts you? What if you regret this?

Sensing your hesitation, he steps forward, backing you against the sink. The porcelain edge presses into your lower back. He places his hands on either side of you, caging you in. There’s a thrill in knowing the exit is right behind him and you’d have to get through his strong body to reach it. Thrill… or terror. Possibly both. Your breathing quickens, but you lift your chin, refusing to show fear.

He notices – he notices everything, it seems – and one corner of his mouth twitches in approval. “Nervous?” he asks softly. He brings a hand up to your face and trails a finger slowly from the hollow of your temple down to your jaw. His touch is surprisingly light, almost a caress, at odds with the dangerous gleam in his eyes.

You swallow hard. “No,” you lie. Your voice is barely above a whisper in the quiet bathroom. The word comes out too fast, betraying you.

He actually laughs – a dark, husky chuckle that curls low in your belly. “Liar,” he murmurs. His finger tilts your chin up. “I can feel your heartbeat.” He presses his body against yours, and you realize he can likely feel it, given how hard your heart is thudding against your ribs. It’s practically vibrating through you.

Instinctively, your hands come up to press against his chest, whether to push him away or just to touch him, you’re not sure. They end up fisting in the material of his shirt. Beneath the thin fabric, his muscles are taut, and you become acutely aware of the warmth and power coiled there. He feels like a loaded gun in the shape of a man – all potential energy, ready to go off.

He dips his head, lips ghosting over the side of your neck. You gasp when you feel the scrape of his teeth against your sensitive skin, not quite biting, but threatening to. “If you want me to stop, you better say so now,” he breathes against your neck. It’s not really a question, more like a sly dare. The hint of sarcasm in his tone tells you he’s not used to anyone telling him to stop. He’s mocking the very idea that you might not go through with this.

Your pride flares, overcoming your nerves. You did not come this far to chicken out. If you back out now, you’ll return home to your perfectly curated life and lie awake every night wondering what would have happened if you’d been braver. And beyond that—your body is on fire for him, desire already coiling low in your belly. Fear is there, yes, but it only seems to heighten your arousal, sharpening every sensation. The danger is part of the thrill.

So you answer by grabbing the lapels of his jacket and crashing your mouth to his. It’s messy and ungraceful, but it sends your message loud and clear: Don’t stop. A low growl of approval emanates from him, and then everything becomes a blur of heat and motion.

He kisses you fiercely, drinking in your surrender. Your world narrows to the wet slide of his tongue against yours and the way his hands roam your body, claiming it as his. One hand cups your breast through your dress, fingers deftly finding your nipple and pinching just hard enough to make you yelp into his mouth. The sharp sting sends a lightning bolt of pleasure down your spine. Any lingering inhibitions crumble; you arch into his touch, craving more.

“Hmm, sensitive,” he notes with a dark chuckle, breaking the kiss just to watch your reaction as he gives that hardened nub another squeeze. You bite your lip to stifle a moan. He tuts disapprovingly. “No, let me hear you.” He pinches harder suddenly, catching you off guard. A cry escapes your lips before you can stop it, echoing in the tiny bathroom. You slap a hand over your mouth in shock at your own volume, eyes darting to the door. The music outside is loud—hopefully loud enough that no one heard.

He grabs your wrist and pulls your hand away from your mouth, eyes gleaming almost fever-bright in the dim light. “Don’t.” It’s a command. “We’re far from the only ones screwing in this club, don’t worry about them.” The crude confidence of his statement sends a flush through your cheeks. Before you can respond, he’s tugging the straps of your dress down your shoulders, not bothering to be gentle. The fabric slinks down, exposing the lacy pastel bra you’d worn – ironically one of your prettiest, daintiest pieces, chosen this evening on a hopeful whim.

He lets out a low whistle of appreciation at the sight of you, running his tongue over his bottom lip. “Better than I imagined,” he purrs, and you flush hotter knowing he’s been imagining you. The thought that this dangerous man picked you out of everyone in that crowd, and was picturing what’s under your dress… it sends a heady mix of power and vulnerability through you.

His hands slide around your back, and with an expert flick, he unhooks your bra. It falls loose, and you hesitate only a split second before allowing it to slip off your arms, baring your breasts completely to his gaze. The hungry way he stares could devour you whole. Self-conscious, you start to cross your arms over your chest, but he catches your wrists and pins them back against the mirror behind you. The cold glass presses into your skin.

“None of that,” he chides softly. “Don’t hide from me.” Again, that note of command. He’s not asking – he’s telling you to let him look. The dominance in it makes your breath catch, a mixture of indignation and unwilling arousal. You’re used to being in control of yourself; giving it up – even in this small way – feels foreign. But when you meet his gaze, the open heat and lust you see there sends a pulse of warmth straight between your legs. He wants you. Wildly, ravenously. Perhaps as much as you want to be wanted.

Slowly, you lower your arms, leaving yourself exposed to him. A slow grin spreads across his face. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and strangely, the praise – however mocking it might be – sends a thrill through you. Good girl. It’s what you always strive to be, what everyone calls you. But on his lips, in this context, it feels deliciously twisted, almost dirty.

Before you can dwell on it, he dips his head and takes one of your nipples into his mouth without warning. You cry out, the sensation of wet heat and suction pulling taut at that sensitive peak. His tongue flicks and circles expertly, while his hand finds your other breast, rolling and teasing the nipple between calloused fingers. Pleasure jolts through you, and you feel yourself growing wetter by the second, your panties dampening with arousal.

You clutch at his shoulders to steady yourself, head falling back against the mirror. Each lick and gentle bite he gives your breasts sends sparks skittering through your nerves. He alternates between them, clearly enjoying the way he can make you squirm and moan with just this. When he finally lifts his head, both your nipples are pebbled tight and aching, glistening with his saliva. The cool air of the bathroom hits the wet skin and you shiver.

The stranger’s breathing is heavier now, his eyes dark with lust as they rake down your body. “I knew you’d be responsive,” he mutters appreciatively, almost to himself. “Act so pure, but your body’s just begging for it, isn’t it?”

You should be embarrassed, maybe even offended by his cocky assumption – but the truth is there’s no denying how turned on you are. Your legs feel weak and an insistent ache is building between them. You bite your lip, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of admitting it aloud. Instead you reach forward boldly and brush your hand over the front of his jeans, feeling for the hardness you know must be there. You’re rewarded with the discovery of a sizable bulge straining against the denim.

His breath hisses through his teeth at your touch, eyes flashing. It’s the first time you’ve seen him react with something like surprise. “Careful,” he warns, but there’s a slight catch in his voice. You realize with a heady rush that you have an effect on him too. The great thing about egotistical boys is they’re often unprepared when you call their bluff.

You palm him more firmly through the fabric, emboldened. “Who’s nervous now?” you whisper, throwing his words from earlier back at him.

A dangerous grin spreads across his face, equal parts amused and aroused. “Alright,” he growls, “you asked for it.” In one swift motion, he grips your thighs and lifts you up onto the sink counter. A surprised laugh bursts from you, cut short as he steps between your legs, spreading them wide around his hips. The skirt of your dress hikes up to your waist in the process, and you flush as you realize how exposed you are – only a thin scrap of silk panty preserves your modesty, and even that is soaked through with evidence of your desire.

He notices, of course. Nothing escapes those sharp eyes. He runs a finger over the front of your panties and it comes away glistening. He holds it up, and even in the dim light you can see the slickness coating his fingertip. “All this from a little kissing and groping?” He tsks softly, though the pride in his voice is evident. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment. “And you claimed you weren’t nervous. Maybe it’s not nerves at all… maybe you’re just aching for a bad little adventure.”

You’re spared having to answer – or lie – because he doesn’t wait for a response. He hooks his fingers into your panties and, with one rough yank, tears them aside. The delicate fabric doesn’t stand a chance; it rips with a startling sound, the ruined pieces sliding down your thighs. A shock of cool air kisses your now bare sex, and you instinctively try to close your legs, a surge of shyness hitting you at being so exposed. But his body stands firmly between your knees, preventing any escape.

“Don’t hide,” he reminds you darkly, grabbing your knees and pushing them further apart instead. “Let me see.” The audacity of him just taking this without asking should anger you, should scare you – and yet the command in his tone only fuels the heat in your belly. You’re quivering with a potent mix of humiliation and arousal as he gazes down at your most intimate place.

“Perfect,” he murmurs under his breath, almost reverently, as one of his hands slides up the inside of your thigh. You feel a fingertip brush your folds, testing, exploring the wetness there. You choke back a moan when that finger lightly flicks over your swollen clit. He notices that too – the slight jolt of your hips – and rewards you by circling the sensitive nub slowly, sending waves of pleasure radiating outward.

“You’re so wet for me already… such a naughty girl,” he says softly, and for the first time there’s a hint of something almost gentle in his voice, though the words are degrading. It confuses your pleasure-fogged brain; you don’t know whether to be ashamed or pleased. The one thing you do know is that you need more. Each teasing swirl of his finger is driving you mad, winding you tighter.

“Please…” The word slips out before you can stop it, and you hate how desperate you sound.

He arches a brow. “Please what?” he prompts, mercilessly slowing his finger to an agonizing crawl. He’s making you say it. The smug bastard wants to hear you beg.

Your pride and need war inside you. A strangled whimper escapes your throat as he barely grazes your clit, denying you the pressure you crave. The ache is too much; pride crumbles. “Please,” you pant, swallowing your dignity, “more… touch me.”

His grin is triumphant. “Good girl,” he practically purrs, clearly satisfied at hearing your plea. In reward, he plunges that finger suddenly into your entrance, all the way to the knuckle. You cry out, back bowing at the sudden intrusion. He’s thick and his finger curls expertly inside you, dragging along your inner walls in a way that lights up every nerve. You clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle your moan.

He doesn’t chide you this time for quieting yourself – frankly, you couldn’t stop the moan from spilling through your fingers even if you tried. Instead, he inserts a second finger, stretching you. It’s a tight, hot pressure that borders on too much, but you’re so slick that he works them in easily. Soon he’s pumping them in and out, setting a relentless pace while his thumb resumes tormenting your clit. The combined sensations make you see stars.

“Shit—” you gasp against your palm, your free hand clinging to the edge of the sink as pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your core. He’s watching your face with rapt attention, as if cataloging each expression that crosses it. And he looks… hungry, like your pleasure is feeding something primal in him.

“You like that?” he hisses through his teeth. “Knew you’d feel good…” He scissors his fingers inside you, stretching you further, and you bite your lip hard to keep from screaming. It’s so much sensation, bordering the line of pain and pleasure in the most exquisite way. Every pump hits a spot deep inside that has you quivering. Your thighs begin to shake around his waist, and you realize with a shock that you’re already hurtling toward orgasm. It’s humiliating how fast he’s pushing you to the edge, but you can’t hold it back – he’s too skilled and you were too pent-up, too eager for this.

“Come on,” he growls, noticing the way your body tightens. He leans in, his breath hot on your ear as he works you ruthlessly. “Let go. Come for me, and maybe I’ll give you what you really want next.”

His raspy command is the final straw. With a muffled cry, you shatter. Pleasure crashes over you in a blinding wave. Your inner walls spasm around his thrusting fingers, and you clutch at his shoulders for dear life as your climax ripples through you. He continues to pump you through it, drawing out every last second of ecstasy until you’re trembling and limp against the mirror.

As you sag, catching your breath, a warm flush of embarrassment and relief floods you. You’ve never come that hard with anyone – not that your experience is extensive – and certainly not so quickly. The stranger withdraws his fingers from you slowly, and you whimper softly at the sensitivity. Through hazy vision you see him hold up his hand, coated in your arousal, and without breaking eye contact, he brings those fingers to his own lips and licks them clean.

The lewdness of the act makes your cheeks burn. “Tastes sweet,” he murmurs, smirking when you look away, flustered. “Don’t go shy on me now.” With his other hand, he grips your chin and guides your gaze back to him. You’re still dazed, the aftershocks of orgasm tingling through you. He presses forward, and you feel the unmistakable hard ridge of his erection nudging against your still-throbbing core.

A spike of nervous anticipation cuts through your post-climax haze. He’s clearly not done – not by a long shot. Your eyes dart down between your bodies as he uses one hand to unzip his jeans and free himself. You suck in a breath at the sight. Even in the low light, what he’s packing is… intimidating. Fully hard, he juts out thick and long, the tip flushed deep red and already glistening with a drop of precum. For a moment, a sliver of doubt flickers in your mind – will that even fit?

He notices your eyes widening and lets out a dark chuckle. “Don’t worry,” he says smugly, positioning himself, the head of his cock rubbing slickly against your entrance. “I got you nice and ready.” He’s not wrong – you’re still dripping from both your own release and his ministrations – but you still tense up instinctively at the pressure.

“Relax,” he orders, softer this time, almost as if he’s coaxing you. One hand strokes down your thigh in a parody of soothing. “Not getting cold feet, are you?”

“N-no,” you stammer, and to prove it, you force yourself to unclench, will your muscles to loosen. You hook your legs around his hips, drawing him closer in encouragement. The movement causes his tip to breach you, just an inch, and both of you gasp in unison – you at the sudden stretch, him at the tight heat enveloping him.

“Fuck… so tight,” he hisses, fingers digging into your hips. His control wavers; you see a flicker of strain in his jaw as he fights not to slam into you all at once. The idea that he’s holding back, even a little, for your sake in this moment is strangely… flattering. And reassuring. Maybe he’s not completely cruel.

You take a shuddering breath and nod. “Do it,” you whisper. I can handle it, you tell yourself, echoing your bold words from earlier. I want this.

His eyes lock onto yours, and for a split second, something like respect glints there. Then his composure snaps. With a guttural groan, he thrusts forward, burying himself inside you to the hilt. The stretch is incredible – bordering on painful for a heartbeat – but the slide is eased by how wet you are, and the slight burn quickly melts into a shockwave of pleasure at how deep he is. You cry out, nails raking across his back under his jacket, clinging to him as he fills you completely. He’s big enough that you swear you can feel him in your stomach, stealing the air from your lungs.

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” he growls against your shoulder, where he’s dropped his forehead as if to gather himself. His breathing is ragged, each exhale warm on your skin. You’re panting too, adjusting to the fullness. There’s a dull ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the raw sensation of him throbbing inside you. You hadn’t realized how empty you felt until now.

He doesn’t give much time for you to adjust. Lust and perhaps impatience drive him to move almost immediately. Pulling out an inch, he slams back in, jolting a gasp from you. Then again, faster – setting a pounding rhythm that quickly has the sink creaking beneath your bottom and the mirror at your back shuddering. He holds your hips in an iron grip, using it as leverage to fuck up into you hard and deep.

It’s feral and unrestrained; he takes you like he has a point to prove. Perhaps he wants to mark himself on you from the inside out, to ensure you never forget this night. Each stroke rubs against that sweet spot he found with his fingers earlier, and soon you’re keening with each thrust, any pain transforming wholly to pleasure. The filthy sounds of sex echo in the small bathroom – skin slapping on skin, your ragged breaths, his low grunts of effort, and the wet squelch each time he drives into your drenched heat.

Your head falls back, thumping lightly against the mirror. The coil in your belly, unbelievably, is tightening again so soon. He angles his hips and grinds against your clit on the next thrust, making you mewl and see stars. It’s overwhelming – he overwhelms you, consumes you. The room feels like it’s spinning, and you cling to his shoulders, lost in sensation.

He notices you tipping toward another climax and lets out a dark laugh, clearly proud of how quickly he’s wrecking you. “Gonna come again for me, huh?” he pants, punctuating his words with particularly sharp thrusts that make you cry out. “Such a greedy little thing… I bet no one’s ever fucked you like this, have they?”

You shake your head frantically, beyond shame, beyond words. It’s true – nothing in your sheltered life has ever felt like this. No boy you dated (under your parents’ watchful eye) ever came close to unraveling you so completely. You feel tears prick your eyes from the sheer intensity of it all.

He groans in satisfaction at your wordless admission. “That’s right,” he snarls, voice thick with possessive glee. One hand leaves your hip to grasp the back of your neck, pulling you forward off the mirror so he can latch his mouth onto yours in a bruising kiss as he fucks you. It’s all tongue and teeth, more claiming than affection, but it sends a thrill through you nonetheless. You can taste yourself faintly on his tongue, mixed with the copper of that cut on his lip that’s reopened from exertion.

“Mine tonight,” he growls against your lips, giving a particularly rough thrust that sends you both sliding a few inches along the counter. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

In the haze of pleasure, you don’t even question it. “I’m yours,” you gasp obediently, anything if he’ll just keep going, keep giving you this mind-numbing bliss. The words echo strangely in your head – you’ve never said such a thing to anyone. You barely recognize your own voice, breathy and wanton.

He rewards you with a hand slipping between your bodies, finding your overstimulated clit and rubbing it in tight, slick circles as he pounds you. The sudden extra stimulation rips a wail from your throat. Your nails dig into the back of his neck, surely scratching him, but he seems to only relish the slight pain, growling and thrusting even harder in response.

“That’s it… come for me again,” he grits out, sounding as unhinged with lust as you feel. “Come all over my cock, baby.” The crude command combined with the relentless attention on your most sensitive spot sends you careening over the edge for a second time. Your orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and all-consuming. You convulse around him, inner walls squeezing like a vice. He curses loudly as your climax milks his length.

With a few more erratic thrusts, he suddenly stills, buried as deep as possible. His grip on you is almost bruising as he groans into the crook of your neck, and you feel a burst of warmth flooding your core as he finds his own release. The sensation of him spilling inside you, the filthy reality of it, prolongs your pleasure in a sinful aftershock. He rides it out with a few shallow grinds, as if trying to push his seed even further.

For a long moment, the only sound is both of you gasping for air in the aftermath. Your heart is pounding so loudly in your ears, you barely notice the muffled thump of the club music or the faint ringing silence that follows your screams. Your body feels boneless, thoroughly used in the best way, and for a fleeting moment you understand why people get addicted to this kind of reckless passion.

He finally draws back enough to look at you. His hair is disheveled, damp with sweat at the temples; his lips are swollen and red; his pupils blown wide. He looks thoroughly debauched and extremely pleased with himself. You flush and glance away, suddenly shy now that the haze of lust is lifting and reality starts to seep back in.

He isn’t having that. Gently – almost surprisingly gently – he turns your face back to him with a finger under your chin. “Don’t go all shy now,” he murmurs. For a moment, his thumb strokes your cheek and you catch a glimpse of something like softness in his expression, a crack in the cocky facade. “That was…” He trails off, searching for the word. Instead of finishing the sentence, he just smirks and lets out a satisfied exhale. “Damn.”

A shaky laugh bubbles from your lips, relief and agreement in one. “Yeah. Damn.” You can’t help smiling a little, and his grin widens in response. For a strange second, you feel a connection – like you shared something beyond the purely physical. But before you can name it, he pulls out of you and reality rushes back in.

You wince slightly at the emptiness and the trickle of combined fluids already leaking out of you. With a mix of embarrassment and practicality, you hop off the sink on unsteady legs and reach for some tissue from a dispenser on the wall, quickly cleaning yourself as best you can and dropping the soiled paper into the waste bin. He watches you, tucking himself back into his jeans and zipping up. There’s a predatory satisfaction in his gaze, like a wolf that’s just feasted.

Your dress is still bunched around your waist. You tug it back up over your breasts, realizing belatedly that your bra is hanging around your elbows, completely undone. You flush and turn slightly away, trying to fasten it. Your hands are shaking, making the simple task frustrating.

Wordlessly, he steps close again and bats your hands away. Before you protest, he fixes your bra for you with quick efficiency, then slides your dress straps back over your shoulders. It’s an oddly intimate gesture – helping you dress after ripping you apart – and it leaves you momentarily breathless in a whole different way.

“Th-thanks,” you stammer, not sure what else to say. Your mind is a jumble. What do you even say after doing something like this? There’s an awkwardness creeping in that you don’t know how to navigate. The initial thrill of rebellion is wearing off, and a faint whisper of guilt tickles the back of your mind, uninvited: What have I done?

He tilts his head, studying you. In the quiet, you notice a faint purple bruise forming on the side of his neck – your doing, likely, from your desperate kisses or bites. Your cheeks heat at the evidence of your own loss of control.

“You okay?” he asks unexpectedly. The question surprises you; you hadn’t pegged him as the type to care after getting what he wanted. His tone is gruff, though, like he’s a bit uncomfortable asking.

“I’m fine,” you reply quickly – reflexively. It’s the good girl response, automatic, and it tastes bitter on your tongue given the circumstances. Were you fine? Physically, aside from the pleasant aches, yes. Emotionally… that’s harder to parse. You feel exhilarated, sated, and yet also strangely hollow now that it’s over. But you’re not about to divulge that to a stranger.

“Good.” He nods, seemingly satisfied. A beat passes where neither of you speak. The reality of your situation settles in heavily – you just had a raw, unprotected hookup with a violent stranger in a club bathroom. And now what? Does one exchange numbers after something like that? Part of you doesn’t even want to know his name; it’s easier to compartmentalize this as a one-time reckless fling if he remains a nameless fantasy.

Sensing the shift in atmosphere, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He taps one out and sticks it between his lips. He doesn’t light it – likely because we’re indoors – just lets it dangle there as he watches you with an unreadable expression. The earlier softness is gone; he’s cloaked himself back in cool detachment.

“So,” he says casually, voice echoing slightly in the tiled bathroom. “That tick the fun box for you?” He’s back to that cocky, almost mocking tone, and it puts you oddly at ease. It’s easier to handle than any attempt at tenderness.

You manage a wry smile. “It was… definitely not boring,” you reply, trying to sound nonchalant, though your pounding heart hasn’t quite settled.

His lips curl around the cigarette. “Glad to be of service.” There’s a beat, and then he adds, “You got a name, good girl?” The nickname drips with ironic emphasis.

For a second you hesitate. A part of you likes the anonymity. But it feels awkward not to introduce yourself, given he’s been inside you. “Y/N,” you answer quietly, using your first name only.

He repeats it, as if testing how it feels in his mouth. Something about the way he says your name sends a shiver through you – perhaps because in your mind it’s still shocking that this dangerous boy even knows your name now. This is real, you remind yourself. It happened.

“I’m Seong-je,” he offers after a moment, surprising you. You hadn’t expected him to volunteer anything personal. The name rings faintly in your mind – Korean, obviously, and unusual. You wonder if it’s a nickname or family name, but don’t pry.

“Seong-je,” you echo softly. He smirks at your pronunciation – maybe you said it a bit awkwardly – and for a brief instant, the corner of his eyes crinkle like he’s holding back a genuine laugh. The sight makes something flutter in your chest.

He steps back, running a hand through his mussed hair. Now that you’re not drowning in lust, you can’t help but take in more details about him. The smear of your lipstick is on the edge of his jaw. His shirt is rucked up a bit, revealing a slice of defined abs – and another bruise blooming near his ribs. Just what kind of life does he lead to be this banged up? The rational part of you whispers that this man is trouble, possibly more than just casual bar-brawl trouble.

As if sensing your thoughts, he reaches out and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear – a gesture almost sweet if not for the cruel curve of his smile. “Don’t overthink it, Y/N,” he chides lightly. “We had a good time. End of story.”

End of story. Right. This was always meant to be a one-night thing, no strings, no messy complications. That’s what you told yourself coming here. You should be relieved he’s on the same page.

“Right,” you say, forcing a bright tone that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Just… two people blowing off steam. I won’t read into it if you won’t.”

He nods once, seemingly satisfied. Then, without warning, he leans in and steals one last kiss – a swift, biting press of lips that leaves you breathless all over again. When he pulls back, he’s grinning. “For the road,” he says, winking.

And with that, he unlocks the bathroom door. Cool air from the hallway trickles in, and you suddenly realize how stifling the small room had become with heat and the scent of sex. Seong-je glances out, checking the coast. You’re keenly aware of the state you’re in: dress wrinkled, hair a mess, thoroughly fucked. If anyone sees you leaving together, it’ll be obvious what happened. A flush of embarrassment and strangely, pride, warms your cheeks.

He steps aside and gestures. “Ladies first.”

You slip past him, and he follows. The hallway is empty save for a drunk couple stumbling into the main restroom giggling. The club music is still pumping, oblivious to the small drama that unfolded in the back.

You and Seong-je stand there for a moment, facing each other under the harsh fluorescent light. There’s an odd look in his eyes – something like smugness, but also a flicker of… regret? No, probably just your imagination.

“So, uh… have a good night,” you offer lamely. You cringe internally at how stupid that sounds, but what else is there to say? Thanks for the mind-blowing illicit sex? You want to slap yourself.

Seong-je doesn’t seem to mind. He just exhales a stream of smoke from the cigarette now lit between his lips, even though he’s not supposed to smoke here. He flashes you one more of those insufferably attractive smirks. “Night, good girl.” The pet name lands differently now, making your heart give a confusing little twist.

With that, he turns and strolls away down the hall, as casual as if he’d just finished taking a piss rather than you. You watch his retreating back for a second – the confident saunter, the broad set of his shoulders – and then he’s gone, disappearing into the strobe-lit chaos of the club.

You press back against the wall of the hallway, legs still trembling, and exhale a shaky breath. What the hell did I just do? The gravity of it threatens to crush you now that you’re alone. But beneath the swirl of guilt and shock, an echo of pleasure thrums, and a tiny rebellious smile tugs at your lips. I did that. Me. The good girl broke bad for a night, and no one will ever know.

After gathering yourself, you slip out of the club and into the night, hailing a taxi home. As the city lights streak past the window, you replay the last hour in your mind on a loop. With every replay, you’re not sure if it feels more like an empowering victory or a dangerous mistake. Perhaps both. You tell yourself it’s over – a secret memory to treasure on lonely nights and nothing more. In a day or two, you’ll bury it and return to your regularly scheduled life of perfection.

As you quietly sneak into your house, still smelling of sweat and cigarette smoke, you have no idea that this night – far from staying a secret – is about to shadow your life in ways you can’t imagine.

⸻

Two weeks later, the memory of that reckless night still visits you in heated flashes. You’ll be in class or eating dinner, and suddenly your mind will drift – the music, the neon lights, his hands on your body, his voice growling in your ear. Every time, it makes your cheeks burn and your stomach flutter, equal parts shame and longing. You try to push it away. After all, what good is dwelling on it? You never even exchanged numbers. Seong-je was a stranger – a dark, thrilling stranger – and that’s all he was ever meant to be.

You haven’t told a soul about that night. Not your best friend, certainly not your sister or parents. It remains your illicit secret, something you hold close with a mix of pride and mortification. By day you throw yourself into your studies and chores with renewed vigor, as if being extra good now can erase how dirty you’d been that night. By night you lie in bed restless, sometimes waking in a sweat from dreams where rough hands and bruising kisses find you in the dark.

It doesn’t help that your sister has been chattering about some guy she met recently. Apparently she literally bumped into him at a café on her campus and spilled coffee on him, which led to exchanging apologies and phone numbers. The sheer rom-com sweetness of it made you smile politely while internally rolling your eyes. She’s been on a few dates with him, and from what she’s said, he’s “sweet, a bit quiet but really charming when he opens up.” You’ve been happy for her, albeit a bit envious of how wholesome her budding romance sounds compared to your own recent debauchery.

When your mother announces over breakfast that your sister is bringing her new boyfriend to meet the family tonight, you hardly react beyond mild curiosity. Good for her, you think. It’s been a while since she dated anyone seriously enough to introduce him. You only vaguely wonder what he’s like – picturing some clean-cut college boy from a good family. Whoever he is, he’ll have to withstand the polite grilling your parents are sure to give.

All day you go about preparing for the evening. It’s a casual family dinner, but your mom insists on breaking out the nice dishes and even nags you to wear a “pretty dress, but nothing too revealing.” You oblige, choosing a demure knee-length skirt and a soft blue sweater that your mother approves with a smile. It’s almost amusing how starkly different you look from the girl who stumbled into a taxi two weeks ago in a rumpled club dress and no panties. Good girl, back in uniform, you think wryly at your reflection.

By the time the doorbell rings, the table is set, the house smells of your mom’s famous japchae, and your dad is finishing a lecture to you about proper behavior. “Be polite, ask him about his studies, no phone at the table, and for heaven’s sake, don’t mention anything embarrassing about your sister,” he rattles off. You nod along, only half-listening, your thoughts wandering to whether this boy will get the Dad Speech about treating her right. Probably.

“I’ll get the door!” you chirp, glad for an excuse to escape Dad’s fussing. Padding to the foyer, you pull the door open, prepared to greet some awkward but earnest college guy.

Instead, the world flips upside down.

There, standing on your front step next to your beaming sister, is him.

Your dangerous stranger from the club is on your doorstep, one hand casually slung in his pocket, the other arm wrapped around your sister’s waist. He’s out of the club gear and bandages tonight – wearing a crisp white dress shirt under a beige blazer, looking for all the world like a picture-perfect boyfriend. His wavy dark hair is neatly combed, and perched on his nose are a pair of familiar half-rim glasses that give him an air of studiousness. He looks clean-cut. Polite. Deceiving.

But nothing can disguise those eyes – sharp and piercing, the eyes that haunted your dreams. In the split second of seeing him, your heart plunges into your stomach. A rush of heat and then cold washes over you. This can’t be real. Perhaps you’ve finally lost it, guilt conjuring hallucinations. But no – he’s real, solid, standing right there.

He meets your gaze, and for an agonizing moment, his eyes widen almost imperceptibly in recognition. You see it – the spark of surprise that flares and is quickly controlled. Yet on the surface, he remains the picture of composure. His lips curve into a polite smile, the kind you’d give a stranger.

And that’s exactly what he does. With a slight bow of his head, he says in a warm, respectful tone, “Hello. You must be Y/N.” As if we’ve never met. As if he wasn’t buried inside you, coaxing screams from your throat.

You realize you’re staring, frozen, mouth slightly agape. Words. You need words. But your brain is short-circuiting, flashes of that night ping-ponging wildly – his face over yours in pleasure, the feel of his hands pinning you down, the way he snarled your name. It collides with the sheer absurdity of him standing here, looking like the ideal suitor.

“Y/N?” your sister’s voice breaks through, a note of concern. She’s looking at you quizzically, no doubt wondering why you’re gawking.

You snap out of it, plastering on a shaky smile. “S-sorry! I…” Think, think. You pretend to fumble with the door. “It caught on the rug,” you lie weakly, stepping back. “Come in.”

They step inside and you shut the door behind them, hand trembling on the knob. This isn’t happening. But the scene continues to unfold, whether you’re ready or not.

Your sister is nearly vibrating with excitement. “Everyone, this is Geum Seong-je,” she announces proudly as she leads him into the living room where your parents stand waiting. “Seong-je, these are my parents, and you already met Y/N at the door.”

He offers a respectful bow to your parents. “Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. L/N. Thank you for having me.” His voice is polite, deferential – a complete 180 from the husky, taunting tone you heard in that bathroom. It sends a chill through you how convincing he is.

Your parents, of course, are immediately charmed. Your mother clasps her hands, clearly pleased by his manners. Your father shakes his hand and asks what he studies.

“Ganghak High, sir. I’m in my final year,” Seong-je answers smoothly. “I plan to attend university next year. I’m considering business or economics.” The ease with which the lie rolls off his tongue is chilling; you know for a fact he’s no ordinary high schooler – he’s a gangster, a delinquent, something dangerous. But here he is selling himself as a model student. And why wouldn’t he? He looks the part right now, all tidy and earnest.

“Ah, same year as Y/S/N, good, good,” your father nods approvingly.

You linger near the periphery, hands clutched together tightly to stop their shaking. Your heart hasn’t slowed since opening that door. You feel like you’re in a dream – or a nightmare. How is he here, in your home, holding your sister’s hand and charming your parents? Does she have any clue who he truly is? Who he is to you? You swallow hard. Of course she doesn’t. No one knows. And for the sake of everything, they can’t know.

Your eyes flick to your sister. She looks radiant, happier than you’ve seen her in a while, as she gazes at Seong-je with obvious affection. Jealousy twists in your gut unexpectedly – not the romantic kind, but a bitter envy that she can look at him like that, all hopeful and smitten, blissfully unaware of the monster behind the mask. You, on the other hand, know exactly what lurks beneath that sweet boyfriend veneer. You’ve felt it, bruising your skin and setting you on fire.

Suddenly the room is too warm, the air too thick. You force yourself into motion to avoid suspicion. “I-I’ll go help Mom with dinner,” you mumble and scurry off towards the kitchen.

As you flee, you dare one quick glance back. You catch Seong-je watching you retreat, an indecipherable expression in his eyes. Something like amusement flickers across his face as he notices your obvious panic. He gives the slightest wink – so quick you’d miss it if you blinked. Your stomach drops. That single gesture says it all: He’s not going to pretend nothing happened between us. Not entirely. He’s enjoying this.

In the kitchen, you grip the counter and inhale deeply, trying to steady your racing pulse. Your mother is humming as she stirs a pot of soup, oblivious to your turmoil. You desperately wish you could confide in her, or anyone, but there’s no world in which that wouldn’t implode everything. What would you even say? Mom, that boy out there had me against a bathroom sink two weeks ago and— No. You’d rather die than let your parents know you were involved in something like that. Besides, it would break your sister’s heart and likely your family’s trust in you.

No, you have to handle this on your own. Somehow.

You plaster on a facade of normalcy through dinner. It’s one of the hardest things you’ve ever done, sitting across the table from Seong-je while your sister and parents engage him in pleasant conversation. You mostly push food around your plate and nod or give one-word answers if addressed. Hopefully they’ll chalk it up to you feeling shy or just letting your sister’s guest have the spotlight.

Meanwhile, he is infuriatingly perfect. He compliments Mom’s cooking, discusses a few books Dad brings up, and even laughs modestly when your sister teases him about how he tripped when they first met. A story which he recounts with self-deprecating charm, saying he was so distracted by her pretty face that his feet forgot how to work. Cue your mother’s cooing approval.

It’s sickening. It’s terrifying. You can hardly reconcile this respectful young man with the sadistic, impulsive delinquent you know him to be. But you catch glimpses – subtle things only you would notice – that hint at the truth. The way his smile sometimes doesn’t reach his eyes. The slight impatience that flickers on his face when Dad talks too long about some political issue. The way his hand occasionally tightens on the utensils with a white-knuckle grip, as if restraining irritation. He’s acting. All of this is an act. And everyone is buying it.

Except you.

You can’t even swallow a bite of food. Nausea roils in your gut every time his gaze ghosts over you. He doesn’t overtly stare – that would be too obvious – but there are moments you feel the weight of his attention. It’s like a silent game to him: make you squirm without anyone else noticing. Under the table, you clench your fists in your lap, nails biting into your palms to ground yourself.

At one point, your sister gushes, “Seong-je’s been so helpful with my volunteer project too. He jumped right in to help organize the school supplies drive for underprivileged kids. Isn’t he just the best?” She leans her head on his shoulder, and he flashes a humble smile.

Your father nods approvingly. “Very commendable. Good to see young men caring about community service these days.”

You nearly choke on your water. Community service? Underprivileged kids? The cognitive dissonance is astounding. This is a man who in reality likely spends his free time beating people to a pulp for kicks, now cast in the role of altruistic boyfriend.

In that moment, bitterness momentarily outweighs fear. You find yourself speaking before you can stop. “That’s surprising,” you say, trying to keep your tone light, as if genuinely curious. “Someone your age juggling school and still finds time for volunteer work? You must have a lot of energy.”

It’s not much, but you hope he catches the barbed undercurrent: I know what you really do with your time. It’s petty, maybe even reckless, but a part of you wants to see a crack in his façade.

A brief silence falls. Your parents glance at you, slightly perplexed by your sudden interjection. Seong-je’s eyes meet yours. For a split second, something dangerous flares in them – a warning. Did the others catch it? Likely not; it was gone in an instant, replaced by a genial chuckle.

“What can I say, I like to keep busy,” he responds smoothly, lifting his glass of iced tea in a casual gesture. “Idle hands, devil’s playthings and all that.” His lips curve into a smile that to anyone else seems playful, but you feel the needle of that phrase aimed at you. Yes, he certainly had firsthand knowledge of devil’s playthings – your hands hadn’t been idle that night, nor had his.

You swallow, looking down quickly. Point to him. All you managed to do was earn yourself a subtle rebuke. Your cheeks burn and you resolve not to poke him again.

After dinner, everyone moves to the living room for dessert and continued conversation. You linger in the kitchen under the guise of clearing dishes, needing a moment alone to steady yourself. You grip the edge of the sink, staring at the running water as you rinse plates, mind racing. How are you going to survive this evening without slipping up? You thank your lucky stars that he’s pretending not to know you – it’s the only thing keeping you sane. But it unnerves you that you have no idea what he’s thinking or planning.

He must be loving this – fate practically handing him a loaded gun to mess with you. The knowledge that he could destroy you with one word, reveal to your entire family what you did… it hangs over you like a guillotine. You have to ensure he has no reason to actually drop that blade. As much as you loathe it, cooperating with his charade is your only option. For your sister’s sake, for your own, you have to play along and pray he eventually loses interest and goes away.

“Y/N, bring out the tea, please!” your mother calls from the other room.

You take a deep breath and carry the tray of tea and sliced fruit into the living room, your face composed in a mask of pleasant neutrality. You will not break. You’ve survived endless high-pressure exams and family expectations – you can survive one evening of this.

But the universe isn’t done testing you. As you set the tray down on the coffee table, your sister suddenly exclaims, “Oh! I almost forgot, I have something to show you.”

Your sister jumps up. “It’s in my car, I’ll be right back!” She pecks Seong-je’s cheek quickly making your stomach clench and dashes out the front door to retrieve whatever this thing is.

Your parents chuckle, engrossed in their own banter about something, and your mom heads to the kitchen to fetch some more honey for the tea, leaving you, your father, and him briefly in the living room. Your father stands by the window, preoccupied with adjusting the blinds. And then, just like that, you find yourself momentarily alone on the couch with Geum Seong-je.

Every muscle in your body tenses. You place a tea cup in front of him on the table with what you hope is a steady hand. He takes it, and for a moment, his fingers purposely brush yours. It’s subtle, to anyone else an innocent contact. But the touch is electric, and you snatch your hand back as if burned. Your father’s back is turned; he notices nothing.

Seong-je leans back casually, crossing one ankle over a knee. The posture of a young man relaxed and at ease – yet when he speaks under his breath, barely above a whisper, his words are a knife’s edge. “Careful, little lamb. Your family might think you’re afraid of me.” He sips the tea, hiding the smirk that tugs at his lips.

Little lamb. The phrase isn’t particularly special, yet hearing it from him sends a jolt of recognition and dread through you. It’s the tone – low, taunting – the very same he used in that bathroom when he teased and degraded you. And afraid? Damn right you are. But you can’t let it show.

You force yourself to sit down at the opposite end of the couch, smoothing your skirt. Taking a deep breath, you murmur back, voice tense, “What do you want?” It comes out more pleading than firm. You hate that – but you’re desperate for some hint of his intentions.

He doesn’t look at you. Instead, he swirls his tea lazily, feigning interest in the delicate cup. “What do I want…” he echoes, as if pondering a simple philosophical question. “That’s a long list. But at this very moment?” He turns his head slightly toward you. Behind the sheen of civility in his eyes, you see the spark of cruel amusement dancing. “I want to enjoy a nice evening with my girlfriend’s lovely family. That’s all.”

You grit your teeth. Girlfriend. Your stomach churns. He’s loving this power play, knowing you can’t call him out. “Why her?” you whisper, barely audible over the clink of plates as your mom returns from the kitchen. “Why my sister, of all people?” It slips out, the real question burning inside you. Is this some sick joke of fate or did he plan this?

His smile is slow and predatory as he regards you. He sets the teacup down with a soft clink. “Why not her?” he murmurs back. “She’s pretty, sweet, comes from a respectable family.” The emphasis isn’t lost on you. “And she practically threw herself at me that day in the café. Who was I to refuse such a polite invitation?”

Anger flares within you. His casual cruelty toward your sister – reducing her to some convenient naïve girl – ignites a protective spark that momentarily douses your fear. “She’s a good person,” you snap under your breath, eyes flashing. “She doesn’t deserve to get tangled up in… whatever you are.” You stop short of saying “monster” or “psycho,” but your tone says it for you.

He chuckles, a dark quiet sound. “Relax,” he says softly, danger lacing each syllable. “I’m not here to hurt her. I quite like her, actually.” He glances toward the doorway where your mom is chatting with your dad now. No one is paying you two any mind. Emboldened, Seong-je shifts closer by just an inch, his knee nearly touching yours. “In fact,” he continues, voice like velvet menace, “I think I might keep her around for a while.”

The implication makes your blood run cold. Keep her around. As if she’s a plaything. Does he genuinely like her? Or is she just a pawn in whatever twisted game he’s set his sights on now – a game that now clearly involves you.

You open your mouth to whisper a retort, but at that moment your sister bustles back in, a scrapbook and some papers in hand, Mom trailing behind her. You snap your mouth shut and spring up. The sudden movement draws your father’s curious glance. “Everything alright, honey?” he asks.

“Fine!” you answer, voice a bit too high. “Just thought I left the stove on, but I didn’t.” Another stupid lie, but no one questions it.

As everyone gathers to see what your sister is showing (some certificates and photos from her volunteer project, which she wants to share), you find yourself drifting to the corner of the room, letting the others cluster around the coffee table. You cannot stand to be near him right now – not with the way your insides are roiling with fear and helpless rage.

From your corner, you watch the scene: your sister excitedly talking about her project, your parents listening proudly, and Seong-je – Wolf in sheep’s clothing that he is – with one arm comfortably around your sister’s shoulders as he listens attentively. He occasionally chimes in with a supportive comment or a gentle squeeze of her arm that makes her beam at him.

It’s nauseating how convincing he is. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was genuinely the caring boyfriend he appears. You wonder if, in some twisted way, he does like aspects of this normal life. Or is every smile, every touch, purely calculated for your torment?

At one point, your sister pulls out her phone to show a short video. Everyone’s heads lean in, including his. He glances up briefly, and his eyes snag on you, hovering apart from the group. A subtle frown creases his brow, as if he doesn’t approve of you distancing yourself. You realize your aloofness might be noticeable. Blend in, you remind yourself sternly. Act normal.

So you step closer and feign interest in the video, peering at the phone from over Mom’s shoulder. It’s a harmless clip of school kids thanking donors. But you hardly see it, hyper-aware that now you’re standing only a foot from Seong-je. You swear you can feel the heat radiating off his body, and it makes your skin crawl and tingle all at once.

Suddenly, you feel a light touch at the small of your back – feather-light, quick. You jolt, startled. It was his hand, you know it. The others remain oblivious, eyes on the phone. You don’t dare react overtly, but you shuffle a half-step forward out of his reach. The nerve of him, touching you right behind your unsuspecting family.

Your heart is thudding again. Thankfully, the evening begins winding down soon after. Your parents, clearly satisfied with this meeting, exchange approving smiles. It appears Seong-je has successfully won them over. Your mother even sends you a pointed look as if to say why can’t you date a nice boy like that? You swallow back a hysterical laugh at the irony.

As your sister and Seong-je prepare to leave, you stand stiffly by the door. Your mind races for a way to handle future encounters. Surely this won’t be the last time – if he’s her boyfriend now, he’ll be around. The thought makes you dizzy with dread.

Your family bids their warm goodnights and “come again soon”s. Your sister hugs you and you hug her back tightly, whispers of “Congrats, he’s great” somehow leaving your lips because that’s what a supportive sister would say. You hate yourself for lying, but the alternative is impossible.

Then it’s your turn to face him. He extends his hand to you, the perfect polite gesture. Your parents watch expectantly, so you have no choice but to take it. As you shake, his grip firms just a hint more than necessary – a silent assertion of dominance. His eyes lock on yours, dark and knowing behind those glasses.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Y/N,” he says, voice smooth and cordial. Only you notice the faint trace of mockery hidden in the word “pleasure.” Your cheeks flame, recalling just what that word entailed between you two.

“Likewise,” you somehow manage to reply without your voice cracking. You retrieve your hand from his as quickly as possible, palms clammy.

He smiles – that lovely deceptive smile – and then he’s out the door with your sister, waving goodbye as they walk to his car.

The moment the door closes, you feel your knees wobble. Excusing yourself hastily, you retreat to your room and collapse onto your bed, heart pounding. You bury your face in your pillow and let out a silent scream of frustration and fear.

What am I going to do?

⸻

You spend the weekend in a state of high-strung anxiety. Every time your phone buzzes, you jump, half-expecting an unknown number to be him. But no text comes. No calls, no messages passed through your sister. It’s eerie, this silence. It gives you too much time to think of worst-case scenarios.

By Monday, you’re a nervous wreck but try to soldier on at school. At least there you can distract yourself with exams and friends’ gossip. But right after your last class, as you approach the school gates to head home, you freeze.

Leaned against the wall by the gate is Seong-je.

He looks out of place on your campus, not wearing the standard uniform that the other senior boys are in. Instead, he’s in that Ganghak High red blazer you’ve heard rumors about – a symbol of fear, some say, for other schools. And indeed, a few students hanging around whisper as they notice him, giving him a wide berth.

Your heart thuds painfully. How long has he been there? Did he come for you? How does he even know what school you go to? Perhaps from your sister or from some stalking.

Before you can retreat, his head turns and those wolfish eyes lock onto you. Caught. He smirks and pushes off the wall, strolling toward you with lazy confidence.

You glance around; some of your schoolmates are watching curiously, including a couple of your friends. Crap. The last thing you need is rumors flying that you’re talking to some notorious Ganghak guy. Taking a steadying breath, you force your feet to move and meet him halfway, hoping to get him away from prying eyes quickly.

“What are you doing here?” you hiss under your breath when he’s close enough, trying to appear like you’re just casually chatting.

He looks you up and down, making your skin prickle. “Is that how you greet your dear friend?” he chides with a soft laugh. Deliberately, he raises his voice a notch, loud enough for others to catch. “It’s been a while! I was just in the neighborhood and figured I’d surprise you after school, Y/N.”

Your eyes widen slightly. Friend? Surprise you? He’s giving anyone eavesdropping a false narrative. Why? To cover his tracks or to trap you further? You have no idea, but you play along, weakly replying, “Uh, yeah, long time no see.”

He grins as if pleased. “Walk with me a bit?” Without waiting, he throws an arm over your shoulders in a chummy way and steers you out the gate. The gesture looks friendly to an outsider, but to you it feels possessive, oppressive – his fingers dig just a touch into your shoulder in warning.

Once you’re a block from school, away from the curious eyes, you shrug off his arm and step out of his reach. “Seriously, what do you want?” you ask, keeping your tone low and urgent.

He tilts his head, feigning hurt. “Can’t I just want to see you?” He steps closer and you back up instinctively until you’re pressed against the brick wall of a closed bookstore. The afternoon rush hour masks your little confrontation; people pass by on the street without giving you two a second glance.

“I’ve been dying to talk to you,” he continues, voice dropping to a silken threat. With one hand, he braces against the wall next to your head, leaning in. The proximity floods you with a cocktail of feelings: fear, anger, and disturbingly, that unwanted spark of excitement your body still remembers around him. You curse yourself for it.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you whisper, chin lifting in defiance that you don’t quite feel. “I’ll stay out of your way, you stay out of mine. Just… leave me and my family alone, okay? You made your point.”

He chuckles, clearly amused by your attempt at bravado. “What point do you think I made, hm?” He brings his face dangerously close, and you shrink back against the wall. “I haven’t even started making points.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Please,” you try, softening your tone to a plea. “Don’t hurt them. They haven’t done anything.”

He blinks, then laughs outright. “Hurt them? Why would I hurt them? They’re lovely.” His hand moves from the wall to brush a stray strand of hair off your cheek in a mockery of tenderness. You flinch. “It’s you, little lamb, who I think could use a reminder to behave.”

You swallow hard, eyes stinging with frustrated tears you refuse to shed. “I haven’t done anything to you,” you manage, voice trembling despite your effort. “Why are you doing this?”

His expression hardens slightly. “Not yet. You haven’t done anything yet. But see, I know your type. Act all quiet now, but guilt can be a powerful thing. One day you might just crack and feel the need to spill your guts to sis or mommy or daddy about your naughty escapade. Maybe out of some misguided attempt to save your sister from the big bad wolf.” He sneers the nickname. “And we can’t have that, can we?”

Your blood runs cold. He’s essentially admitting he’s keeping you in line to secure his secret relationship with your sister. And likely for the sick thrill of having you at his mercy, toying with you.

“I wouldn’t… I would never tell them,” you insist urgently, grabbing his jacket lapel in desperation. “I swear. I know it would only hurt them. I won’t ever say a word.”

His eyes flick to your hands fisted in his blazer. One brow lifts. You realize you’ve touched him of your own accord – a bold move. You release him quickly, but the ghost of a grin on his face tells you he found that interesting.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he replies coolly. “But I’m not just going to take your word for it.” He leans in, his nose almost brushing yours. From afar it might look like an intimate moment between friends or lovers, but his words are pure threat: “You’re going to prove to me that you can keep your pretty mouth shut.”

“H-how?” you stammer, heart pounding.

He tilts his head, pretending to consider. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. To your confusion, he hands it to you. The screen is open to the new contact screen.

“Put in your number,” he says simply.

Your fingers tremble as you take the phone. You hesitate – but it’s not like you can refuse. With a few taps, you enter your cell number and name. He takes the phone back and presses dial. A second later, your own phone buzzes in your bag. Now he has your number, and you have his, presumably.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, that moniker making you cringe now. He pockets his phone. “Now, you and I are going to keep in touch. See, I want to make sure everything stays nice and quiet. And you’re going to help me do that by being very cooperative.”

You lick your dry lips. “What does that mean?”

He smiles slowly, and there’s genuine delight in his eyes – the kind a predator has when the prey is cornered. “It means, Y/N, that from now on, you and I have a little secret of our own. And you’re going to do whatever I ask, whenever I ask, to keep it.” His hand slides down the wall, and a knuckle deliberately grazes your thigh just below the hem of your skirt. The touch is barely there, but it jolts you. “In private, of course,” he adds, voice dropping. “We wouldn’t want to upset dear sister.”

Your breath shudders out. So this is it – his endgame. He wants to use you, the sister of his girlfriend, for his own twisted pleasure, right under her nose. It’s so perverse, you feel like you might be sick.

The sensible part of you screams to refuse, to run, even if it means telling someone the truth. But then images of your sister’s devastated face, your parents’ disappointment, and the havoc that could ensue – not to mention what he himself might do – flash through your mind. He could destroy your family as easily as snapping a twig, whether through violence or simply revealing your indiscretion and making it look like you seduced him. Who would your parents side with? Their dutiful elder daughter and her “nice” boyfriend, or you – the younger daughter caught lying about sneaking to clubs and sleeping around? The thought is sobering. Your credibility would be in shreds.

He reads the turmoil on your face and his smile widens. “Shh,” he coos mockingly, “no need to panic. If you’re a very good girl, this can even be… fun.” His finger trails up your arm lightly, as if in a caress, but it only makes your skin crawl (and, traitorously, tingle). “I won’t do anything you don’t secretly want, hmm?”

You glare at him, bristling. How dare he insinuate— But the words die in your throat, because some treacherous part of you had wanted him, that night. And the confusing part is, despite everything, your body still reacts to him; you can’t deny that your pulse quickened under his touch just now in more than fear. It’s disgusting and shameful, but he’s keenly aware of it. He’s weaponizing your own desire against you.

Seeing you speechless, he chuckles and steps back, giving you space. “Go home now, Y/N,” he says lightly, as if this were a normal goodbye. “I’ll be in touch very soon. Don’t ignore me.” The pleasant tone doesn’t mask the threat beneath.

You wrap your arms around yourself. “And if I… if I don’t show up when you…?” you ask haltingly.

His eyes harden to steel. “That would be unwise. I wouldn’t want to have to explain to your sister how I recognized her adorable younger sibling from a certain club bathroom video.” He pauses to let the horror sink in. “Yes, I know the club has cameras in the hallway. It’d be a shame if some footage fell into the wrong hands.”

You blanch. Did he actually get footage? He might be bluffing, but can you risk it? The mere idea that a video could exist of you in that state – or even just entering that bathroom with him – could ruin you if he shared it around.

“I understand,” you whisper, defeated.

“Good. Now run along.” He adjusts his blazer, then leans down, shocking you by planting a chaste peck on your forehead. To an onlooker it’d appear affectionate, but you feel the mockery in it. You flinch but stay still, heart hammering.

He walks away then, hands in pockets, whistling a tune. After a few steps, he calls back casually without turning, “Oh, and one more thing: don’t even think about trying to get a new number or block me. I have… other means to reach you and I’d be very unhappy. You wouldn’t like me unhappy.” He tosses a two-fingered wave and merges into the crowd, leaving you trembling against the wall.

You press a hand to your mouth, stifling a sob. The gravity of your situation settles in fully now. You’re trapped in a nightmare of your own making, blackmailed by a sadistic wolf wearing a prince’s clothing.

After composing yourself as best you can, you make your way home. You feel like a ghost moving through your own life. That evening, you can barely meet your sister’s eyes at dinner. She chatters on about how Seong-je surprised her at her campus today with lunch and how sweet he is. Each word is like a knife twisting deeper into your gut.

You force smiles and nods, throat tight. Inside, you’re screaming.

⸻

True to his word, Seong-je doesn’t wait long to make use of his new leverage. The following Friday evening, you get the text you’ve been dreading:

From Seong-je: Miss me? 😉 – Meet me tonight. 10pm. I’ll pick you up at the corner of your street. Don’t keep me waiting, lamb.

Your stomach plunges reading it. It’s 8pm when that arrives. You’re in your room supposedly studying, but in reality you’ve been on edge all day knowing he’d call on you soon.

Hands shaking, you respond simply: Ok. You consider begging him off, claiming you can’t sneak out, but you suspect he’d see right through excuses. And after four days of mounting threats – subtle touches or glances at school, another dinner at your house where he brushed his foot up your calf under the table – you know he’s done being patient.

Making an excuse to your parents that you feel restless and might go for a walk (which earns a puzzled look but no argument), you slip out at 9:50, heart in your throat. It’s drizzling lightly, the pavement shiny with rain under the street lamps. You wait under an awning, pulling your light jacket tighter.

Right on time, a black car turns the corner and rolls up beside you. The passenger window slides down, and there he is behind the wheel, looking effortlessly devilish in a leather jacket, his glasses notably absent – which sends a spike of nervous adrenaline through you. He only takes them off when he expects a “fight,” or some physical action. The significance is not lost on you.

“Get in,” he says mildly. You hesitate only a moment before obeying. The seat is cool against your thighs, which are bare beneath your skirt. At his earlier command, you’re wearing the outfit he told you he liked on you at the club: a short skirt and low-cut top, effectively your rebellion attire that he now uses as your humiliation attire.

As soon as you buckle in, he reaches over and, to your surprise, gently brushes a damp strand of hair off your face. The gesture is almost tender, but you know better now. “Glad you made it, baby,” he purrs, and his free hand gives your thigh a squeeze. You jump, biting your lip.

He chuckles and pulls the car away from the curb. “Relax,” he says, as if that’s remotely possible. “We’re just going for a little ride.”

“Where…where are we going?” you ask, voice unsteady, watching the neighborhood streets give way to a more industrial area.

He hums thoughtfully. “Somewhere private. I wouldn’t want any interruptions while we… chat.” The way he says “chat” sends chills down your spine.

Within minutes, he’s pulled into a deserted parking lot behind what looks like an old closed workshop. The area is dark and shielded from the main road. He cuts the engine. When he turns to you, the playful mask drops from his face, leaving something hungry and unhinged in his eyes.

Instinctively you shrink back against the car door. Your heart is pounding so hard it hurts.

He unbuckles his seatbelt and then yours, the metallic click loud in the silence. “Come here,” he says softly.

You hesitate a second too long. In a flash, he grabs your wrist and pulls. With surprising ease, he manhandles you from the passenger seat over the center console onto his lap. You gasp as your legs straddle him automatically to keep balance, your skirt riding up to your hips in the process. Suddenly you’re face to face, your hands braced on his broad shoulders, noses nearly touching.

He smirks up at you, hands settling on your waist firmly. “That’s better,” he murmurs.

Your breath comes in shaky pants. This position – it’s too familiar, too reminiscent of that night except now you’re painfully aware of the depravity of doing this while he’s dating your sister. “Seong-je, we shouldn’t—”

He tuts, silencing you. “We’re not in the mood to argue, are we?” His grip on your waist tightens, fingers digging in warningly. “You’re here to do whatever I want, remember that.”

You nod quickly, fear spiking. “I-I remember.”

“Good.” He drags one hand slowly up your body, from your waist to your ribcage, then higher to cup your breast through your flimsy top. You suck in a breath. His thumb rolls over your nipple, and despite yourself, it responds, hardening. He feels it and grins. “No bra? You actually listened. Good girl.”

Humiliation burns through you. Wearing no bra (and even no panties) were part of the instructions he texted earlier. You’d complied, cheeks flaming as you dressed. The proof of that compliance is now evident as his thumb circles lazily over the taut peak.

You bite your lip, stifling a whimper. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing your body still reacts, but it betrays you eagerly.

He watches your face avidly. “You’re blushing,” he teases, pinching your nipple suddenly. You yelp, reflexively grinding down into his lap at the shock of pleasure-pain. The friction rubs right against your bare slit on the crotch of his jeans, sending a jolt through you. He inhales sharply, feeling it. “Fuck, you really came out here with no panties. How obscene,” he growls appreciatively.

You squirm, trying to lift off the bulge that’s growing beneath you, but he clamps an arm around your lower back, forcing you down onto it again. Both of you moan softly at the contact.

“Please…” you whimper, not even sure what you’re begging for – mercy, or more.

He tilts his head. “Please what? Use your words.” His other hand comes up to grab your chin, thumb pulling your bottom lip down. “Be honest with yourself.”

Tears of frustration gather in your eyes. “I… I don’t—”

A sudden CRACK! jolts you as his palm smacks down on your rear, hard, beneath your skirt. You cry out in shock more than pain, the sound echoing in the car. The sting spreads over your buttock, and you realize with horror and unwanted excitement that he just spanked you.

“Don’t lie to me,” he hisses, eyes flashing. “You came here dripping for it. You knew exactly what would happen.” He shifts his hips up, grinding his erection against your exposed folds. The thick ridge parts your slick lips, nudging your clit, and you can’t help the moan that spills out.

He smirks. “See? Your body doesn’t lie.” His hand that smacked you now soothingly rubs the sore spot, then sneaks lower, under your skirt and between your legs from behind, one finger sliding into your wetness with ease from that angle. You jolt, nails digging into his jacket.

“Already soaked… You act so terrified, but you’re enjoying this, aren’t you, you little slut,” he breathes against your ear, slowly pumping that finger in and out, each movement pressing you down more firmly on his cock from the front and invading you from behind at once. It’s overwhelming and filthy, being taken from both angles even in this small way.

“N-no, I—” you protest weakly, but even as you say it, your hips have begun to rock, chasing the sensation. The dual stimulation sends sparks through you.

He clicks his tongue and withdraws his finger abruptly, making you whine involuntarily at the loss. He brings the finger around between your bodies and holds it up – coated in your arousal, strands of it glistening in the dim light. “Liar,” he whispers, before pushing that same finger past your lips.

Your eyes widen as you taste yourself on his skin. Instinct says pull away, but his arm on your back holds you firm. “Suck,” he orders quietly. Trembling, you obey, tongue swirling around his digit, because what else can you do? He watches, pupils blown, undoubtedly recalling your mouth on a different part of him that night.

“Better,” he groans, sliding his finger out with a wet pop. You’re panting now, humiliation and desire in equal measure flooding you.

Seong-je then moves fast. He yanks your top down, stretching the neckline until your breasts spill free. The sudden exposure to the cool air makes your nipples pebble up painfully. You flush and instinctively try to cover yourself, but he grabs your wrists and pins them behind your back. The action arches your chest forward, presenting your breasts to him.

He licks his lips, gaze raking over you. “God, you’re perfect,” he mutters and lunges. His mouth latches onto one nipple, sucking hard, while his free hand mauls the other, squeezing and rolling. You cry out, back arching more as a wave of pleasure crashes into you. The position has you grinding directly on his length; you can feel every inch of him through his jeans rubbing against your slick folds.

It’s all happening so fast. The car windows fog with your combined heat. The smell of rain and sex permeates the enclosed space. You’re losing yourself – it’s as if your body is remembering the ecstasy he gave it and is powerless to resist sliding right back into that state.

He alternates his mouth between your breasts hungrily, nipping one while pinching the other, then soothing with his tongue. You squirm and mewl, the pain and pleasure mixing intoxicatingly. It dawns on you dimly that he’s not even asking you to do anything; he’s simply taking what he wants, using you like a toy for his pleasure. And worse… you’re letting him, body yielding traitorously because it feels so damned good.

He releases your wrists, only to grab your hips. “Enough,” he grits out, voice rough. He’s reached the end of his patience. “I need to fuck you. Now.”

Your heart stutters. Despite everything, the word fuck said so rawly sends another pulse of heat through you, but also fear. Here, now? In his car? While he’s technically your sister’s boyfriend? Your conscience screams that this is so very wrong.

Sensing your hesitation, he narrows his eyes. “Don’t even think of denying me now,” he growls. One hand tangles in your hair at the back of your head and tugs, forcing you to look up at him. “You owe me this, and you know it.”

Tears spill over your cheeks, both from the pain of your scalp and the emotional agony. “I… I know,” you choke out. “Just… please, be quick.”

He regards you for a moment, then wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb. Surprisingly, he chuckles, a dark, almost sad sound. “So eager to get it over with? We’ll see.”

Then he’s maneuvering you off his lap. Confused, you start to move back to the passenger seat, but he grabs your thighs and turns you around so that you’re facing the windshield, your back to him, still straddling his legs. Before you can process, he pushes your upper body forward. “Hands on the dashboard,” he commands.

You obey shakily, pressing your palms to the cool dash and leaning over it. This angle presents your ass perfectly to him, and you hear him groan appreciatively behind you. The remaining scraps of your skirt are hiked up over your hips, leaving your butt and dripping sex completely exposed. You feel utterly debased… and frighteningly, that only heightens the illicit excitement coiling in your belly.

There’s the sound of his zipper unfastening, the rustle of clothing, a condom packet tearing – thank god he at least thought of that, or maybe he always carries them. Then his warm hands grip your hips, and you feel the thick head of his cock glide through your folds from behind, coating himself in your arousal.

You tense up, anticipating the thrust. He slides back and forth a few times, not entering, just teasing both of you. It has you quivering, a strangled whine escaping your lips as the fat tip nudges your clit on each pass.

“Do you want it?” he asks, voice strained – he’s clearly holding himself on a taut leash right now.

You screw your eyes shut, pride warring with need. He slows the movement deliberately, almost pulling away entirely, leaving you frustratingly empty. Your body betrays you as your hips subtly push back, seeking him. “Y-yes,” you whisper, barely audible.

He yanks your hair. “I didn’t catch that.”

“Yes,” you say louder, voice cracking. “I want it… please.”

The satisfaction in his grunt is the only warning you get. In one powerful thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside you. You both cry out – you at the sudden fullness stretching you, him at the tight heat enveloping him.

“Fuck,” he curses, stilling for a moment as your body adjusts, fluttering around his intrusion. He’s every bit as thick and long as you remember, maybe even more so in this position that lets him hit deeper.

There’s a brief flare of pain from the abrupt entry, but it quickly gives way to an incredible pressure that has you clenching around him. A guttural groan rumbles from his chest. “So tight… You missed my cock, didn’t you?” he pants, pulling out halfway and slamming back in, drawing a yelp from you.

He sets a bruising pace at once, clearly too far gone for gentleness. The car rocks with the force of his thrusts. His fingers dig into your hips hard – you know they’ll leave marks tomorrow – using them as leverage to pound you from behind.

Your moans mix with the lewd slap of skin on skin. It’s raw and animalistic, nothing like any romantic coupling. It’s use. He’s using you like a personal fucktoy, and the most shameful part is how your body responds eagerly. Each drive forward rubs that devastating spot inside you that makes you see stars. The angle, bent over the dash, allows him to hit even deeper than at the club. Sparks of ecstasy light up your nerves despite the sting of his roughness.

“You feel that?” he growls, one hand leaving your hip to snake around and press down on your lower belly while he impales you. The added pressure internally is intense. “Feel me splitting you open? Hnh, say who’s fucking you.”

“You… you are,” you gasp out, tears of pleasure at the corners of your eyes.

He lands another sharp smack to your ass. “Name.”

“Se-Seong-je…!”

Another smack, harder. The sound echoes. “Not what I meant.”

It clicks. He wants the perverse title. The humiliation of it sends a shameful thrill through you. “Wolf,” you sob, skin burning with embarrassment and arousal. “Wolf is fucking me!”

He growls in approval and as a twisted reward, his hand between your legs shifts, two fingers strumming over your swollen clit in rhythm with his thrusts. You keen, the added stimulation hurtling you toward the edge with frightening speed.

Your legs shake, and you scrabble for purchase on the smooth dash as your mind goes blank with rising ecstasy. Sensing your impending climax, he pistons into you faster, chasing his own end now too. “That’s it, come for me,” he bites out, breathing ragged. “Come on my cock like the needy little slut you are.”

The degradation pushes you over the precipice. With a wail, you shatter around him, inner walls clamping down hard in pulsating waves. Your vision whites out; you’d collapse entirely if he wasn’t holding you up by a firm arm across your waist now.

“F-fuck!” he chokes as your orgasm milks him. With a final deep thrust grinding as far as he can go, he stills and you feel his cock twitching, releasing into the condom, his own rough cry filling the car. He clutches you tightly to him as he spends himself, teeth scraping your shoulder in the throes of it.

For a few moments, the only sound is both of you gulping in air, hearts pounding in tandem. Your body continues to spasm weakly around him, drawing out every drop. You’re distantly aware of how utterly sinful this is – in a car, behind your sister’s back, with a man who’s effectively your blackmailer. Yet in this haze of climax, none of that matters; all that exists is the afterglow and the man throbbing inside you.

Eventually, as clarity slowly returns, so does the crushing guilt. You stiffen, a sob catching in your throat. What have I done?

Seong-je, still draped over your back, must sense the shift. He gently – almost tenderly – kisses the nape of your neck, an unexpected gesture that makes your heart lurch in confusion. Carefully, he withdraws from your sensitive body. You wince at the loss and collapse onto the dash, boneless.

He ties off the condom and tosses it aside, then pulls your skirt back down to cover you, and your top up over your breasts. You feel strangely numb as he helps you back into the passenger seat. Neither of you speak immediately. The silence is heavy with things unsaid.

You keep your gaze fixed on your trembling hands in your lap. You flinch when you feel his hand brush your cheek, turning your face towards him. His expression is unreadable in the dim light, but his eyes roam over your features, lingering on your tear-streaked cheeks, your swollen lips, the fresh marks blooming on your neck and shoulders from his mouth.

For a moment, you think he might apologize – there’s a flicker of something like confliction in his gaze. But then it’s gone. He smirks lightly, thumb grazing your lower lip. “You look thoroughly fucked,” he says, almost in admiration. “Wear those marks with pride, baby. Only you and I know what they mean.”

Shame floods your face, and you turn away, hugging yourself. It’s too much – the way he shifts back to callousness so easily.

He starts the car, and you’re surprised when he drives you not back to the corner where he picked you up (which might arouse suspicion if someone saw you returning from nowhere) but around the block, pulling up discreetly by your house’s side gate. He knows the layout from previous visits.

“How—”

“I pay attention,” he answers your unfinished question, shutting off the engine. “Now, before you go…” He grabs your chin again, but gently this time. “Remember our arrangement. You answer when I call. You do what I say. And in exchange, I keep our dirty little secret safe and maybe treat your sister like the princess she believes she is. Understood?”

Your throat tightens. You nod faintly, drained.

He leans in and kisses you – not rough, but slowly, deeply, leaving you breathless all over again. When he pulls back, he murmurs against your lips, “You were perfect tonight. Don’t disappoint me, and maybe I’ll even let you enjoy it again.” The arrogance in that statement would normally earn an eye-roll, but horrifyingly, you did enjoy it in some twisted way, despite the anguish of what it means.

Tears prick your eyes anew. He pulls back, his thumb wiping one away. “Shh. Now go, before you’re missed.”

On shaky legs, you exit the car. He watches as you slip through your side gate and creep into your house. Thankfully, your parents are asleep. You collapse into your bed, the scent of him all over you.

In the silent darkness, hot tears finally overflow freely. How did it come to this? You’ve betrayed your sister, your own morals, everything. And worst is, you’re not even sure you can fully blame him – because your own body and some secret part of your soul responded to the thrill. That knowledge shackles you in guilt.

A single text pings on your phone, lighting up the gloom:

From Seong-je: Sleep well, little lamb. 🖤 See you soon.

Clutching your pillow, you sob quietly until exhausted sleep claims you, his words and the ache between your legs a constant reminder that this nightmare is far from over.

⸻

The following weeks pass in a tense, clandestine haze. By day, you put on your best performance of normalcy – attending classes, eating dinner with your family, exchanging hollow small talk with your sister about her “wonderful” boyfriend. You even smile when she gushes over the bouquet of roses he sent her “just because” one afternoon. Inside, each lie and each praise for him is like swallowing broken glass.

By night or stolen moments, you live under his shadow. He calls, and you have to invent an excuse to slip away to answer, heart in your throat. Sometimes he simply talks as if you’re old friends, his tone disarmingly light – asking about your day, teasing you until you begrudgingly respond with more than one-word answers. Other times, his voice drops to that low timber that makes your stomach flip, and he describes in lurid detail the things he wants to do to you next time, asking if you’re touching yourself as you listen (you always say no; he always sees through it).

And there are the meetings – the secret rendezvous that you wish you could say you dreaded, but in truth, you now ache for with a twisted mix of craving and shame. In abandoned classrooms after school, in the backseat of his car in dark parking lots, even once in a restroom at a department store while your sister waited outside unaware – he takes you, again and again. Fast or slow, cruel or almost tender, but always intense, always leaving you boneless and soaked with guilt.

Each time, you tell yourself it’s the last, that you’ll find a way to break free. But each time, he lures you back in – with threats, with dark promises, with the simple undeniable pull he has over your body. He is a drug and you’re deeply addicted, even as you hate yourself for it.

And through it all, your sister remains blissfully oblivious. She notices maybe that you’ve grown quieter, paler. You claim stress about exams; she buys it, too wrapped up in her own happiness. The guilt of it gnaws at you till you feel hollow.

One evening, a particularly charged family dinner finds you nearly at breaking point. Your sister excitedly announces that she and Seong-je plan to attend a charity ball together, and she’s already dress-shopping. Your parents toast to the lovely couple. Seong-je – who’s dining with you all – reaches over to squeeze your sister’s hand affectionately. “I’m a lucky man,” he says with a charming smile.

His foot brushes yours under the table at that exact moment – a secret touch that makes you jump. He smirks subtly without missing a beat in conversation. You can barely eat; nausea and twisted arousal churn in your gut.

Later, as you clear the table, he corners you in the kitchen while the others talk in the living room. He presses up behind you as you stand at the sink, his hand sneaking under your skirt.

“You’re so quiet tonight,” he murmurs, nuzzling your neck. “Jealous of the ball? Don’t worry, I’ll make time for my favorite girl after.” His finger finds your slit, discovering you shamefully wet. “Already soaked? Naughty… We just did it this afternoon.”

“Stop,” you whisper, mortified and aching. Your parents and sister are mere feet away beyond the door. The risk is insane.

He only chuckles and slips a finger inside you, making you bite down on a moan. “Meet me later,” he whispers, pumping slowly. “Midnight, my place. I want you in my bed for once.”

Your eyes widen. His place? You’ve never been. Too dangerous. You shake your head frantically. He hooks another finger inside you and rubs your clit with his thumb, a ruthless combination that has your knees buckling. “Midnight,” he repeats softly, “or maybe I’ll have to entertain a different guest. Perhaps your sister—”

“I’ll come,” you gasp quietly, grabbing his wrist to halt the devastating movements before you cum right there.

He withdraws his fingers and licks them clean, winking. Then he’s gone, back to the others, leaving you trembling over the sink.

Midnight finds you standing outside a sleek apartment complex, hood up and heart rattling. He buzzes you in. The elevator ride up to the 10th floor feels like ascending into some surreal fantasy.

He opens the door shirtless, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. The domesticity of it – seeing him in a home setting – does strange things to your heart. “Right on time,” he purrs, ushering you in and locking the door.

The next hours blur in a fever dream. True to his word, he takes you to his bed – a large, plush bed in a surprisingly tasteful room. There, he peels off every layer of your clothing with agonizing slowness, worshipping every inch of exposed skin with lips and tongue until you’re writhing. This isn’t the hurried coupling in cars or bathrooms; this is drawn-out seduction.

You try not to think about how many girls he’s brought here or if your sister has been in this very bed. But he seems to sense your distraction. “Tonight, you’re the only thing on my mind,” he whispers at one point, as if reading your insecurity. And disturbingly, you want to believe it.

He ravishes you thoroughly: going down on you until you sob his name, then taking you in languid strokes that feel almost like an erotic caress rather than punishment. He even kisses you – really kisses you – throughout, as if you’re lovers. By the end, you’re nestled against his chest in a tangle of sheets, your sweat and his mingling, both of you spent and breathing softly in the dark.

For a fleeting moment, it feels like something normal. Like after all the depravity, you’ve circled around to a tender peace. In that vulnerable haze post-orgasm, you dare to ask the question that’s been buried in your heart.

“Why are you doing this… really?” you whisper, tracing an old scar on his shoulder absentmindedly. “You have her. You could just let me go and… be happy with her. Why keep tormenting me? Is it just the blackmail and sex, or…?” You trail off, afraid to voice the hopeful alternative your silly heart stupidly wonders about in the darkest recesses – that maybe, somehow, he feels something for you beyond just control.

He’s silent for a long time. You can’t see his face in the dim light, only feel the rise and fall of his chest under your cheek. Just when you think he won’t answer, he sighs. His hand idly strokes your hair.

“I’m not a good man, Y/N,” he says quietly, almost gentle. “I hurt people – because I like it, and because it’s the only way I survive in my world. Your sister… she’s a pretty doll. An escape maybe. But you…” He tilts your chin up, and even in the dark, you feel the weight of his intense gaze. “You stumbled into my life and saw the real me from the start – and you didn’t run. Hell, you fucked the real me.” A bitter chuckle. “You have no idea how… addictive that is. You make me feel—”

He stops himself. Your heart hammers. Did he almost admit to feeling something?

Abruptly, he pulls away and sits up on the edge of the bed, back to you. “This was a mistake,” he mutters, voice hardening. “Getting cozy.”

Panic flares in you. “No, I– I didn’t mean to upset—”

“Get dressed,” he snaps, standing. The sudden coldness in his tone is like a slap. You jolt up, clutching the sheet to your naked chest. His walls are back up, brick-solid. “I’ll drive you home.”

Tears prick your eyes. You scramble for your clothes, dressing in heavy silence. He’s already fully clothed, mask of detached calm in place. The vulnerable man who held you minutes ago is gone.

The car ride is silent and tense. When he pulls up near your house, you turn to him, desperate. “Seong-je—”

“Stop,” he cuts off, not meeting your gaze. His grip on the wheel is white-knuckled. “Don’t read into this. Our arrangement stands. Go.” His voice cracks slightly on that last word, betraying a hint of emotion that twists your heart.

You want to reach for him, to say something that might break through. But fear and pride hold you back. With a trembling exhale, you exit the car. This time, he doesn’t watch to ensure you’re safely in – he’s already driven off, tires screeching softly on the pavement.

You stare after the car’s tail lights until they disappear. A fresh wave of pain settles in your chest. Somewhere along the line, you realize with despair, your dark tormentor became more than just that to you. Inextricably, you’ve fallen for the one person you absolutely should not – the cruel, broken boy behind the monster.

And that, you think as you wipe away tears and steel yourself to creep back into your house, is perhaps the darkest tragedy of all.

Inside, the house is quiet. You slip into your bed, the scent of him still clinging to your skin. You know this twisted game can’t last. It’s a matter of time before it all combusts disastrously – secrets like this always do. But for now, you’re caught in his web, bound by desire and fear and something achingly like love.

As you drift into a fitful sleep, one thought echoes in your mind: There is no way out of this unscathed. And the little good girl inside you curls up and cries, even as another part of you – the part irrevocably claimed by Geum Seong-je – whispers that, given the chance, you’d do it all over again.

[vunblr]

A Hand in the Dark (#1)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Hurt/Comfort. Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Suicidal thoughts (neither Bucky nor Reader). Canon-Typical Violence.

Summary: In a brief moment of lucidity, Soldat makes a choice. And some choices echo across time, shaping the future in ways no one could predict.

Word Count: 2.6.k.

notes: More tags will be added in the future.

Somewhere in the 50s

She walked along the edge of a cliff, painting a dark curve against the greyish stones below. Her steps were measured, as was the soft crunch of her heels against the dirt, nearly swallowed by the distant crash of waves against rocks and sand. She reached a cluster of tamarisks swaying in the wind and slowed her pace, unaware that just beyond the low brush, hidden in the shadows where stone meets sand, lurked something -someone- watching.

Soldat was still as the grave, crouched while carefully working free a sliver of debris from the intricate servos of his metal palm. He should ask for gloves next time. Not that he had the right to ask, but still.

He was waiting for an extraction, new orders, and something else he couldn’t remember well. His senses were sharpened to notice even the slightest movement in the dark. So when he heard footsteps nearing his position, his body reacted before his mind did, and his hand went without hesitation to one of his weapons, narrowing his gaze.

Then the moon, free from the grasp of passing clouds, bathed the landscape in pale light. The woman wasn’t looking at him.

She was close now, near the very edge of the cliff, and her eyes cast toward the endless stretch of water before her. Without hesitation, she lowered herself down, letting her legs dangle dangerously over the precipice, curling her fingers over the stone as if testing its strength. She exhaled, slow and deep as if the weight of the night itself rested on her shoulders.

The Soldat watched, tense.

A no-witnesses order has been ingrained in his brain, a silent rule that dictated every interaction -or lack thereof- with strangers. He was to remain unseen, but this woman… she hadn’t even acknowledged his presence. She didn’t scan her surroundings. She wasn’t looking for anyone. She simply was there, existing in the same space as him but entirely unaware.

So he stared.

It wasn’t like he had anything else to do, really.

For a long while, she didn’t move beyond the occasional tilt of her head, or the slow rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathed in the salty air. Then, with resolve, she stood. The moonlight caught in the strands of her hair as she reached up and pulled out the pins holding it in place. One by one, they slipped from her fingers and disappeared into the earth at her feet. The scarf wrapped around her head came next, caught instantly by the wind and carried away into the night. He tracked its movement for a moment before his gaze snapped back to her.

She removed her shoes, letting them drop carelessly to the side.

Then, she looked down. Just for a moment.

Her hands went to the small buttons of her polka-dotted dress, undoing them with deliberate slowness. One after the other, until she reached the last. Then, with the same eerie calm, she reached for the hem, lifting the fabric inch by inch to pull it over her head.

The Soldat furrowed his brow.

His brain could be fried, scrambled, conditioned beyond repair, but even he understood this was no place to dive.

Not unless your intention was to snap your neck against the jagged rocks waiting at the foot of the cliff.

Once in nothing but her baby-blue cotton underwear, she kneeled, folding the dress with care.

She swallowed. Her hands rested on her folded dress, brushing her fingers over the little watch she had set beside it. It ticked on, indifferent, as if time itself did not care that she had run out of options.

How did she end up here?

She was to be married. Not by choice, of course, her choices had never truly been hers to make. The arrangement had been finalized in the sitting room of her childhood home, discussed over brandy and cigars, her father’s laughter booming as if he had won something. She had sat still, hands folded in her lap, pretending not to notice how tightly her mother gripped the armrest of her chair.

She had heard the whispers before, the rumors of what happened to his first wife. How she had become frail, withdrawn. How she had fallen down the stairs one evening and never gotten back up.

Her protests had been ignored. Her fears dismissed. This is how things are, darling, her mother had said. You’ll be taken care of. You’ll have a home, security. You’ll want for nothing. But she already wanted for something. She wanted out.

She had tried. She had run. But a woman alone in the world was a woman without a home, without money, without safety. She could not sign a lease. She could not open a bank account. There were no jobs that would pay her enough to keep herself afloat. The doors had been locked before she even reached them.

And now, she was here.

Her bare toes curled against the cold stone of the cliff’s edge. The wind tugged at her, inviting her forward.

Behind her, unseen in the shadows, the Soldat exhaled slowly through his nose, flexing his grip against the ground.

This was not a place to dive.

A sob.

And then another.

Her shoulders trembled, as her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides as if struggling to hold herself together. The sound was raw, torn from somewhere deep, a kind of grief that had no audience and expected no comfort.

Oh.

So that is what this is.

Soldat recognized it instantly. He had toyed with the concept more times than he would like to admit, or so he thought. He wasn’t sure. His mind was a fractured thing, full of gaps and half-formed memories, but this felt familiar.

Wanting to end it.

Wanting it to end.

His body, however, had never cooperated. His hands had never moved to the handle of the gun, the blade of the knife had never pressed near his pulse point, even when the desire burned hot and frantic in his chest. Even when he swore he would, swore he could. Something always stopped him. Some command buried deep in his brain, some instinct woven into his very bones.

But this woman?

She was free.

She could just-

Another broken sob, and his brow knitted.

Something about her despair unsettled him.

He did not understand why.

Or maybe he did.

He had once cared. He was supposed to care. It was buried somewhere deep in his mind, under layers of orders and conditioning, but it was there, flickering like a dying ember in the hollow of his chest.

Silent as a shadow, he pushed through the brush, weaving between stone and sand. The movements were precise, automatic, a predator closing in, but for what purpose, he wasn’t sure. He only knew he had to get closer.

Then, as if sensing something, she turned. The wind caught in her hair as she met his gaze, her face illuminated by the silver glow of the moon.

Dark, disheveled strands of his own hair kissed the edges of his vision, brushing against the shoulders of his dirtied tactical vest. He knew what she saw, a ghost of war, dressed in black and steel, and tired, vacant eyes staring out from above a mask that concealed the rest of his face.

They looked at each other in silence.

Somehow, her lack of reaction surprised him. No scream, no flinch, no frantic scrambling to get away.

Then again, she had nothing left to lose.

Before he could stop himself, the words tore from his throat.

"Ne prygay."

It came out rough, rasped from vocal cords that had little use for him besides screaming in the last years.

She tilted her head, not understanding the words, but recognizing the language.

And then, to his bewilderment, she chuckled.

A small, cynical laugh, breathless and edged with something bitter.

��A commie?” she mused, as the amusement curled faintly at the corner of her lips. "Look, buddy, I don't understand what you are saying, and I don't have anything useful for you to say, so..." Her words were light, almost careless, as if she were waving him off.

Soldat narrowed his eyes, watching her closely.

Then, he took a step forward.

The shift was subtle, but immediate. The momentary sense of detachment she had wrapped around herself -the numbness that had made this night feel inevitable- cracked.

He was close enough now that she could see him properly, the way his shoulders tensed, and how his hand twitched as if caught between action and restraint. The wind pulled at his hair, displaying the sleek black mask that covered the lower half of his face, clinging to the sharp planes of his jaw, molding to the contours of his face with ruthless precision, letting only his eyes on display, clear blue, watchful, and impossible to decipher.

Then, her gaze dropped, and she stilled.

His left arm wasn’t flesh. It gleamed dully under the moonlight, the metal catching on every shift of his stance. Not a crude prosthetic, not something meant to mimic a lost limb. This was sleek, seamless, and impossibly advanced. She had never seen anything like it. Soviet tech, maybe? A secret buried behind the Iron Curtain?

For the first time since she had stepped onto the cliff’s edge, she felt something other than resignation.

Uncertainty. He fucking disrupted her state of mind and now, she wasn’t sure anymore.

She had nowhere to go. No home, no future, no escape from the fate laid out before her.  And now, the only choices she had were the rocks and the sand below, or be caught by this russian spy with haunted eyes and a voice like rusted metal. This ghost who had emerged from the shadows, stepping toward her with God knows what intentions.

"D-Don't come closer. I told you, I don't have anything useful to say to you," she pleaded, her voice was shaking now, a tremor that hadn’t been there before.

He wanted to say more, wanted to force her to stop, but the words tangled in his mind, slipping between languages that didn’t fit together. Russian. English. Commands. Ghosts of things he had been told to say, taught to repeat. None of them were right.

So he did the only thing that made sense.

He stepped forward.

She shifted at his advance tensing her body and suddenly, her feet slipped, and the gravity claimed her.

Well, it was her first intention, after all. A little less sophisticated than she had planned? Yes. More dramatic? Sure.

The wind tore past her as the world tilted before her eyes. The jagged rocks below rose to meet her, and she came to realize that this was it.

Then-

A blur of silvered motion, faster than thought, faster than she could react. The commie.

He threw himself after her, cutting through the air with unnatural force.

She barely had time to register the impact of his arms wrapping around her before he twisted their bodies midair, moving like a goddamn cat- no, like something deadlier, something trained to survive at any cost.

He turned, forcing himself beneath her just as they crashed onto the unforgiving rocks below.

----

The first thing she felt was warmth.

A slow, creeping heat pressed against her cheek, coaxing her out of unconsciousness. Then came the sound, seagulls, shrill and relentless as their cries cut through the rhythm of the waves.

She blinked. Slowly.

The sky above her was too blue, the kind of blue that felt almost offensive when everything else in her life had gone so dark.

Her body ached, a dull, insistent pain radiating from her limbs, but nothing sharp, nothing unbearable. Her skin stung in some places, scraped raw by the rocks and sand, but she could still move. Nothing felt broken. Everything was in its place.

She exhaled shakily and pushed herself up onto her elbows.

What was she doing there?

Then, it all came back to her.

The engagement.

Her decision.

The cliff.

And… -her stomach twisted- the russian spy.

Had that been real?

She had downed nearly an entire bottle of brandy before coming out here. Maybe her mind had conjured something -someone- to stop her, some absurd figment of a guilty conscience. Maybe she had slipped and somehow survived, waking up in the aftermath of a drunken, failed escape.

But then she saw it.

Blood.

Plenty of it.

Dark smears soaked into the rocky surface a few feet away, stark against the pale stone.

She inhaled sharply, touching herself. Not mine.

Slowly, carefully, she shifted onto her knees, before pushing up to her feet. The sand clung to her bare skin, and she could see a hint of her dress still where she had left it, impossibly out of place in the scene around her.

And then-

Something gleamed beside her in the sunlight.

A piece of metal plate, half-buried in the sand.

She reached for it without thinking, brushing her fingers over its surface. Slick. Warm. Bloodstained.

Stainless steel? Titanium?

A piece of him. She didn’t made him up after all.

----

Present

The night was cold, the kind of damp chill that crept under clothes and clung to skin. The drizzle had started just as she stepped off the bus, little droplets of rain prickling her skin, an irritating, persistent drizzle that only made the ache in her feet worse.

Perfect. Just perfect.

She sighed, tucking her hands into her pockets, quickening her pace.

She should have taken the longer route. The safer route. But her feet ached from standing all day at the bookstore, and the exhaustion -and hunger- had won over common sense. She turned down the side street, cutting through the narrow alley beside her building as her mind drifted to her imaginary dinner.

Then she stumbled.

Her toe caught on something solid, and before she could react, she was sprawling forward with a sharp gasp, scraping her hands against wet pavement.

Not something. Someone.

She sat up quickly, her heart pounding, turning toward the dark shape on the ground. A man, half-curled on his side, motionless.

It wasn’t uncommon these days to find people slumped against walls, barely conscious, victims of a world that had only gotten harsher. A decade ago, she would have gasped and called for help immediately. Now?

She hesitated.

She should still call an ambulance. Should, at the very least, check if the poor bastard was alive. With a sigh, she squatted near his head, reaching out to check his pulse, gripping her phone in her other hand, ready to dial.

But as she reached for the man, she noticed that something was… off.

She looked closer.

Jaded combat gear. A tactical vest that was stained darker in some places. The matted hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and grime.

And then she saw it.

The dim glow of a streetlamp caught on something metallic, a steely glint that sent a jolt through her chest. His sleeve had torn at the seam, exposing a forearm that wasn’t flesh.

Her stomach dropped.

She had seen that arm before. Recently, in grainy, shaky news footage filmed from above as three helicarriers plunged into the Potomac. And if her suspicion was right… she had a piece of that very arm tucked away inside an old floral pouch in her closet.

A chill that had nothing to do with the rain ran down her spine.

But instead of walking away or calling the authorities, she reached out, hesitating only for a second before pressing her fingers lightly to his throat, searching for a pulse.

Warm skin. A steady, sluggish beat beneath her fingertips.

He was alive. Hurt. Unconscious. Vulnerable.

Dangerous.

----

"Did I ever tell you about the time I met a commie spy, dear?"

"Yes, Granny. A couple of times now," she answered, adjusting the pillows on the hospital bed.

"I meant it when I said he gave me a second chance, darling. So when I'm gone-"

"Don’t say things like that."

"Don’t be dramatic now, I didn’t raise you like that." Her grandmother’s voice was firm but warm. "When I’m gone, I want you to look in the second drawer of the kitchen. Pull everything out past the rails. There’s a crocheted pouch there, with a sunflower. I want you to have it, darling. Don’t let them throw it away."

Next Chapter

dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[spidermiguell]

For pain is what I yearn for. — Feyd Rautha (18+)

—fem!reader x feyd rautha harkonnen

—synopsis: You were sent to interrogate him, not touch him. But Feyd-Rautha was never meant to stay chained—he got under your skin, into your blood, and made you break every rule you swore by. Now he’s free, bruised and grinning, and you’re the one left exposed when the doors open. It wasn’t supposed to get this intimate. And it’s going to cost you everything.

—warnings: power imbalances, dubious consent, manipulation, explicit sexual content, physical violence, emotional violence, blood, injury, psychological tension, coercion themes, non-traditional power dynamics, emotional degradation, Stockholm Syndrome undertones

—songs recs while reading: creep — radiohead + where is my mind — pixies

It had been twelve days since the fall of the Harkonnen stronghold on Arrakis. Twelve days since the blood-soaked sands bore witness to the defeat of one of the most feared names in the Imperium. The Atreides emerged from the chaos victorious—scarred, battered, but standing. And among the prisoners taken from the wreckage was the infamous Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen: heir to the throne of Giedi Prime, sadist, killer, war-trained spectacle of brutality. A man raised on violence like it was scripture. Many had called for his execution. Public. Swift. Cleansing. But Paul Atreides had stayed the blade. “Let him rot,” the Duke said. “Let him be studied. Understood. He’s more useful alive.”

That’s where you came in.

Not a soldier, not a torturer. You were sharp where others were brutal—trained in observation, rhetoric, psychological warfare. You’d spent your life learning how to make people talk without touching them. So when they handed you Feyd, it wasn’t with weapons. It was with silence. Patience. Intellect.

And he hated that.

He was used to screams and fire, to proving himself with fists and blood. But you offered none of that. Just cold eyes and measured words. You treated him like a subject. Like a thing to be understood. And maybe that’s why he smiled at you like that. Like a dog shown a new kind of cruelty. Or maybe… something worse.

The first time you entered his cell to fully talk to him and not just watch him with others in silence, he didn’t even look up.

He sat on the edge of the cot, wrists bound in a high-security restraint that pulsed faintly red against his skin. The room was dim, lit only by a single glowglobe embedded in the ceiling, casting sharp lines across his face. He looked younger than you expected—more sculpted than monstrous. But the moment he glanced at you, you understood why the others avoided him. That gaze was sharp. Not just watchful—but calculating. Cold and amused all at once, like he already knew what kind of person you were and was just waiting for you to prove it.

You didn’t introduce yourself. You didn’t need to. He knew who you were. The Atreides shadow sent to interrogate him—only you weren’t using chains or drugs or blades. Just words. And maybe that offended him more than pain ever could.

“Another silent one,” he muttered, voice low, amused. “You people really know how to drag out the inevitable.”

You ignored him. He watched you with a tilt of his head, like a predator in temporary captivity, studying the hand that held the key to the cage.

“What’s your name?” you asked, finally.

He smiled. A slow, curling thing that didn’t touch his eyes.

“you know my name. You’ve been coming to observe me with the other Atreides freaks for the past 12 days. Glad you’re finally speaking though”

A pause.

You didn’t answer. You just stared. That always unnerved people eventually.

But not him.

No, he leaned into it.

“You’re not going to get what you want from me,” he said, voice lilting like he was reciting a joke only he found funny. “Not with patience. Not with politeness. If you want answers, you’ll have to dig. Hurt me. Break me.”

He grinned.

“Please. Try.”

There it was.

That glint in his eyes when he said hurt me. Not taunting, not bluffing, but longing. You knew that look. You’d seen it before in broken men trying to reclaim control through pain. But in him, it wasn’t weakness. It was power. A weapon he’d learned to wield before he could read.

And in that moment, something inside you shifted.

You didn’t pity him. You didn’t fear him.

You understood him.

And that was so much worse.

Because now you couldn’t unsee it. That hunger behind his words. The way he leaned into cruelty not as a tactic, but as comfort. Like pain…his or someone else’s, was the only language he’d ever been taught to speak. You weren’t sure if that made him more dangerous, or just more tragic. But it made him harder to hate. And that… that was the most dangerous thing of all.

You didn’t move from where you stood, didn’t let your breath falter or your spine ease, but inside, something shifted. Just slightly. Like a hairline fracture in glass—small, invisible, but growing. He felt it. Somehow, he felt it.

“There,” he said, voice low and pleased, almost reverent. “You feel it too. Don’t you?”

Your eyes met his, unflinching.

“What I feel is irrelevant,” you said calmly.

“Mmm.” He leaned forward, slow, as if savoring the space between you. “That’s not a denial.”

You didn’t rise to it. You refused. Letting him rile you was exactly what he wanted—feeding the fire he burned inside. He was waiting for you to break. Waiting for your hands to tremble, for your voice to crack. You gave him nothing.

But his smile didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened.

“You’re very good at pretending,” he said. “But you’re not hollow. You burn. I can feel it from here.”

You kept your face blank, but the truth of it prickled at the back of your neck. You were burning. Not with fear, but with the slow, grinding frustration of being studied like you were the subject. He was flipping the dynamic, piece by piece, and you were letting him.

“You think you know me,” you said, voice like ice. “You don’t.”

“Not yet,” he echoed, his smile turning razor-sharp. “But you’re so fun to peel apart.”

There was a moment—too long to be comfortable—where neither of you spoke. His breathing had steadied. His posture loose, familiar, like he was settling into something. And the silence between you no longer belonged to you. He had taken it, claimed it like territory.

You needed to take it back.

“You’ve never known anyone who didn’t hit back, have you?” you asked, stepping forward just slightly—just enough to shift the air. “Anyone who didn’t play your game?”

He blinked, just once. That was the tell. A flicker.

“Is that what you are?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Something else?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because deep down, you weren’t entirely sure. Not anymore.

And that terrified you.

Feyd tilted his head with that same, infuriating, almost crazy look in his eyes—like he was watching something beautiful unfold. Something inevitable.

“You think they sent you here to tame me,” he said, voice like heat dragging over skin.

“But you didn’t come to clip the monster’s wings. You came to see if he’d recognize something in you.”

You clenched your jaw. Hard. The tension bloomed in your chest and settled behind your teeth, bitter and slow. Don’t react. Don’t give him that.

You stepped back, cold air rushing in to fill the space he’d taken in your lungs. Your fingers curled at your sides.

“You’re not special,” you blurted out, far too loudly for your liking. “You’re just another twisted little tyrant who thinks manipulation makes him interesting.”

But even as the words left your mouth, you felt the hollowness in them. Like a shield you knew had already cracked.

He laughed. Quiet, indulgent.

“You’re adorable when you lie to yourself.”

Your control, once unshakable, pristine, rippled.

He shifted on the cot, the chains tugging as he leaned forward.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Say what you really want to say. No one’s watching. No command, no eyes behind glass. Just you. And me.”

You froze.

Not because you didn’t know what you wanted to say.

But because you did.

And when you moved, it was sharp. Unthinking.

Your hand grabbed the front of his collar and dragged him forward, yanking him off balance until his knees slammed against the edge of the chains that held him back. He barely reacted—eyes wide, breath caught, lips parting in something too close to wonder.

“Is this what you want?” you snapped, voice low and dangerous. “To be broken open? To be punished?”

He stared at you like you’d answered a prayer.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes. Finally.”

You shoved him back hard—back against the wall, his breath knocked out in a short, stunned laugh—but he was grinning, grinning like he’d won, even in chains.

“Hurt me,” he breathed. “Make it mean something.”

And you almost did.

Your hand trembled where it fisted in his shirt. Your other curled at your side, aching to strike. To burn. And for a split second, you saw yourself doing it—saw the violence, the release. Saw the understanding in his eyes turn to devotion.

And god help you, you wanted it.

Because you didn’t want to save him.

You wanted to ruin him.

And the scariest part?

He wanted it too.

You should’ve let go.

You knew you should’ve let go.

But he was laughing under his breath, low and breathless, like every second of your fury was a gift he’d been starving for. And somehow, his chains didn’t make him look powerless. They made him look offered. Like he was giving himself to you in the only way he knew how.

“Come on,” he rasped, breath warm against your cheek. “You can do better than that.”

You shoved him again, harder this time. His back hit the wall with a dull, satisfying thud. The way his eyes fluttered shut—fuck…he loved it.

“You like this?” you spat. “Being thrown around like trash?”

“No,” he whispered, eyes opening again—dark, fevered, locked on yours. “I like that you’re the one doing it.”

The sound you made was half fury, half disbelief. Your fingers twisted tighter in the front of his shirt. You raised your hand—open at first—but when he didn’t flinch, when he tilted his head slightly like he wanted it, the shape of it changed. You struck him.

A slap. Sharp. Loud in the stone chamber.

His head snapped to the side.

A breathless laugh escaped him—wrecked and giddy.

“God,” he groaned. “Do it again.”

And you did. You weren’t thinking anymore. You were feeling. Letting the weight of everything he’d said, everything he was, crash through your carefully built walls. You hit him again, and again—until your palm burned, until his cheek bloomed with red. He groaned through one of them, head lolling back against the wall, lips parted.

And that was the moment it shifted.

Not just violence. Not just power.

Something else burned in the air between you.

Your chest heaved. His too. Your hands fisted in his collar, dragging him close, and for the first time, he didn’t speak. He just looked at you—mouth swollen, cheek flushed, chain links clinking softly as he moved.

And he smiled.

But not cruelly. Not mockingly. It was… soft. Filthy. Grateful.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered.

Your breath caught in your throat. You hated how it sounded on his tongue—like worship. Like reverence. Like he meant it.

“You don’t get to—” you started, but the words tangled in heat and breath.

His lips brushed yours.

Not a kiss. Not yet. Just the ghost of one. The possibility of one.

“You could do anything to me,” he murmured. “And I’d let you. I’d fucking thank you.”

And you hated him. You hated him. But your body betrayed you—every nerve lit up, your grip didn’t loosen, and your mouth stayed far too close to his.

“You’re putrid,” you whispered.

“And you’re still holding me,” he breathed.

And you were.

Fingers curled into him like he was yours.

And he was still smiling.

That same, unbearable, feral smile—like you were divine, like every word you spat and every bruise you left was love to him. You wanted to wipe it off his face. So you did.

You shoved him back against the stone so hard the cot behind him scraped against the floor. His head hit the wall, but he didn’t flinch. He only looked up at you, breathless, chest rising and falling beneath the wrinkled fabric of his shirt.

“You hit like you’re scared of liking it.”

That snapped something in you. Again.

You struck him once more—this time with your whole body behind it. Not just a slap—impact. The kind that echoed through your bones. The kind you weren’t supposed to like either.

He groaned. This time not with mockery, but something deeper. Darker. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes brushing past his bruised cheekbone. He was drunk on this. On you.

“Again,” he begged.

Your hand fisted in his shirt and dragged him forward—and when he fell into you, you didn’t push him back. Not this time. You shoved him against your body, against your heat, your fury, your restraint finally gone.

He gasped softly, like he hadn’t expected that part. Like pain, he understood—but this? This closeness? It rocked him.

“You're sick,” you whispered, voice thick and low. “You get off on being hurt. On me hurting you.”

“Yes,” he breathed into your throat. “Only you.”

Your grip tightened, forcing his head back so you could look at him—really look. His lip was split, cheek flushed from your palm, and he looked ruined. Beautiful. Like art dragged through ash.

And still, still. He leaned into your touch.

“I could kill you,” you said.

“Then kill me,” he whispered. “But do it like this.”

And then—your lips were on his.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was a collision—teeth, heat, breath. His chains rattled as he surged forward into you, mouth hungry, answering yours with bruising need. You bit his lip harder than necessary and he moaned into it, pulling you closer with every inch of movement he was allowed.

You hated how much you wanted him.

How good it felt to ruin something already so beautifully broken.

His hands, still bound, brushed your hips—begging without words. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t stop yourself. Your body pressed into his, heat against heat, and the friction made you both gasp.

“Say it,” he growled against your mouth.

“Say what?”

“That you want this. That you want me.”

You pushed your forehead to his, panting.

“I want to break you.”

You heard the sound before you understood it— groaning under pressure, warping like clay. You froze.

Then, snap.

One link shattered. Then another.

You looked down just in time to see the chain unravel from his wrist like it had never belonged there. It hit the ground with a hollow clatter. The second followed without ceremony.

It was so easy. Too easy.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

And when your eyes snapped back up, Feyd was already watching you—head tilted, hands free, fingers flexing slowly like he was remembering what they were really for.

“Huh,” he murmured, inspecting his palm. “Almost forgot what it feels like not to be restrained.”

His voice was too casual. Too slow. You didn’t trust it.

You took a step back, instinct pulling at your spine. But he moved too—one step, then another, smooth and unhurried, like a predator circling something it knew wouldn’t get away.

“You…could’ve done that anytime” you breathed.

He grinned, and there was nothing sweet in it.

“Of course I could’ve.”

Your pulse jumped. Your hand brushed your hip like it might find a weapon there. It didn’t.

“Then why—”

“Because I wanted to see how far you’d go thinking I couldn’t touch you,” he said, taking another step forward. “I wanted to see what you'd do with a monster in chains. If you'd flinch. Or if you'd play.”

He was closer now.

You could smell the heat on his skin, the sharp tang of metal and blood still clinging to him. His fingers reached for your chin—but didn’t touch. Just hovered, maddeningly close, enough to make your breath catch.

“You surprised me,” he said. “You took control.”

His tone dipped—low, rough. The kind that slithered into your stomach and coiled there.

“And now?” you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Now,” he said, finally touching your jaw, thumb tracing just beneath your lower lip, “I’m wondering what happens when the monster decides to play back.”

Your knees almost buckled.

Because his hand wasn’t rough—it was glorifying. Like he still worshipped you. But now you knew he didn’t have to. He wasn’t kneeling anymore. He was choosing to touch you this gently.

And it made your skin burn.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“Do you want to run?”

You didn’t answer.

“No?” His smile widened against your neck. “Good. I’d hate to chase you. Unless you wanted that too.”

A chill danced down your spine.

You hated the way your body responded.

but deep down, you knew you loved it.

Unexpectedly, before you could even think or speak, Feyd moved viciously.

One moment he was smiling—lips split, blood on his teeth like a kiss he hadn't finished tasting—and the next, your back collided with the wall. The impact rattled your bones, but the gasp that escaped you wasn’t fear.

It was thrill.

Feyd didn’t hold you like a prisoner. He didn’t have to. His hands bracketed your head, palms flat against the stone, arms tense and caging—but you felt the restraint in it. The pullback. The control.

He could crush you.

But he didn’t.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear.

You scoffed. “Not from fear.”

“No,” he breathed. “You like this. Being wanted like this. Being seen.”

He leaned in slowly, dragging the tip of his nose along your jaw, and you hated how much your body betrayed you. Heat curled low in your stomach. He could feel it. He always could.

“I spent days chained for you,” he said. “Let you examine me. Let you pretend you were in charge.”

Your hand shot up before you even thought about it—crack. His face snapped to the side, blood spattering onto his cheek. His breath hitched.

He turned back to you, lip split wide, grinning.

You hit him again.

Harder.

His head thudded back against the stone, and this time, when he looked at you, something darker lit his eyes. Something holy

“Keep going,” he rasped. “Don’t stop now.”

“i fucking hate you; you piece of shit.”

He did nothing but laugh.

You shoved him back, but he let it happen again—let his body go limp just long enough for you to feel like you were winning.

Then he surged forward, grabbing you, and kissed you so hard your teeth clashed. His mouth was blood and heat and brutal want. You clawed at him, fingernails raking down his back, dragging skin. He hissed, gasped, moaned into your mouth.

“I should tear you apart, tell the Duke what an animal you are.” you breathed against his lips.

“Then what’s stopping you?” he whispered back, eyes wild, chest heaving. “Do it. Ruin me.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Too late.”

He reached for your hand, brought it to the side of his neck, pressed it there—your palm over his pulse.

“Take it,” he said. “Take all of me.”

Your fingers stayed at his throat, your palm pressed over that racing pulse—and something in you couldn’t help it.

You crashed into him like violence made flesh.

Mouths colliding. Blood mixing. Nothing soft left in you. Or him. He groaned into your kiss, the sound ragged, needy, as his hands finally touched you without caution. They gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, dragging you against him like he wanted to carve your shape into his body and keep it there.

You clawed at his back, dragged your nails down the muscle and bone, tearing open old scabs. He hissed loudly, but it wasn’t pain. It was pleasure. Your lips tore apart just long enough to see the red streaks you’d left on his skin, and the way he smiled through it made your breath catch.

“You like that?” you spat.

He laughed psychopathically.

“I’m a whore for it.”

Then his hands were everywhere. Sliding beneath your clothes, tugging at them with frantic purpose. You gripped his shoulders and kissed down his throat like you wanted to taste where your hand had once threatened him. He arched into it, chest heaving, grinding up against you without shame.

“You’re mine,” you whispered.

“I’ve always been yours, your animal,” he groaned, biting down on your shoulder hard enough to mark.

You slammed him back against the wall this time, the stone cracking behind his spine. He moaned like it was a blessing. Like you were ripping him apart in all the ways he’d ever wanted.

Clothes tore.

Fabric ripped.

Skin met skin with no room left between.

You shoved his shirt down his arms, raking your hands across his chest, and when your nails found the deep ridges of scars and fresh welts, he shuddered. His head dropped to your shoulder, and you heard him whisper, almost broken:

“Only you. Only you make me feel it.”

And still, he let you lead.

Even with his strength, his fire, his bloody mouth and brute hands—he let you choose how rough, how fast, how much.

But you didn’t hold back.

You bit him, shoved him, slammed him harder until he was panting beneath you, his knees threatening to give out, his hands clawing at your back like he was begging without saying it.

His eyes locked onto yours, wide and glassy.

“I yearn for you,” he gasped. “I dream about you breaking me.”

Right there against the cold stone, with blood drying on his lip and your name gasped against his throat like a prayer, you made sure to break him. Snap him. Throw him around like your toy.

Feyd was already gasping—eyes blown wide, skin slick and bruised beneath your hands—but he never told you to slow down. Never asked for mercy. He only watched you like you were holy fire, and he was desperate to burn.

You dragged him to the floor, hard, and he took it with a snicker—grinning even as his back hit the cold flooring of the cell, arms splayed, his bare back bleeding from your scratches beneath him. His chest rose and fell like he’d just come back from war. Maybe he had.

You straddled him without hesitation, knees braced on either side of his hips, and his hands flew to your thighs—but didn’t push. Didn’t grab.

Waited.

Even now, he waited for your permission.

And you gave it to him—with your entire fucking body.

You leaned down, lips crashing into his again, messier this time, soaked with blood and spit and teeth. You kissed like you were starving, and he kissed you like it would kill him not to. Your hips ground against his, the friction sharp and perfect, and when you shifted just right, he bucked up with a sound so guttural it vibrated in your bones.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “Please. Please!”

You laughed against his mouth.

“Didn’t know the great Feyd-Rautha begged”

“you’re the—fuck—exception” he groaned, clutching at you now, his fingers digging into your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish.

You moved again, hips rolling, slower this time, meaner. And he shook. He was writhing beneath you, but never taking control, never even trying. Just laying there, trembling, undone, letting you use him like he was built for this.

Because maybe he was.

Your hands gripped his wrists and pinned them above his head. He didn’t fight. Didn’t resist. Just looked up at you with glassy eyes, breath catching as your fingers tightened.

“You want it rough?” you whispered.

He nodded.

“Say it.”

he breathed. “I want to feel it for days.”

And you gave it to him.

You rocked against him, body colliding with his in a mess of heat and bruises and blood, the tension in your spine snapping with every grind, every breathless curse between clenched teeth. He arched, back bowing like he wanted to disappear into you, whimpering when your nails raked down his arms, when your teeth grazed his throat.

You bit him, drawing pools of blood from his collarbone.

And he came apart.

His body jerked beneath you, spine taut, his breath ragged as he shattered in your hands—loud, unashamed, eyes locked to yours even through it. Like he wanted you to see him break.

And god, you did.

You followed with a strangled moan, hands gripping his chest, forehead pressed to his as your body convulsed, your orgasm tearing through you like fire. You rode it out together—sweaty, shaking, feral and consumed.

When it was over, you collapsed on top of him, both of you gasping, chests rising and falling in chaotic sync. His arms wrapped around you, gentle now. Almost reverent.

“I let you win,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple.

You smirked against his throat.

“No,” you whispered. “You wanted to lose.”

He chuckled softly, body still twitching beneath yours.

Your limbs were still tangled with his skin. Hot, breath uneven, sweat cooling between every bruise and bite. You should’ve moved. Should’ve said something. Should’ve done anything but lie there like you weren’t already ruined.

Instead, you shifted just far enough to pull away, sitting back on your heels. The air hit your bare skin like a slap, but you didn’t reach for your clothes. Neither did he.

You didn’t dare look at him.

“You’re disgusting,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the stone floor.

Feyd laughed—soft, smug, and fucking dangerous.

“And yet,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head like he hadn’t just been begging beneath you minutes ago, “you still gave me everything.”

He stood, naked and unbothered, covered in bruises and blood—his own, but not from interrogation. He was supposed to be untouched. That’s how you operated. You made them crack without laying a hand on them. You were better than that. You didn’t let anyone get under your skin, didn’t lose control.

But Feyd? He made you forget that line. He made you forget everything.

You watched him from the corner of your eye, jaw tight, disgust mixing with something deeper—a quiet kind of fear.

“Tell me,” he said, walking toward you slowly, casually, like you were prey that had already surrendered. “How’s it feel… knowing you lost?”

You stood too—too fast—your knees still shaking. His body was inches from yours, radiating heat and something worse: certainty. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t have to.

“You think this means you’ve won?” you spat.

He smirked.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

And you did.

That’s when it hit you.

His body was marked. Blood splattered across his chest, dripping from his lip, a gash at his side. No one would believe this was from the controlled discipline you were known for. It was messy. Wild. Uncontrolled.

And worse? He was still standing. Still smug. Still victorious.

You had let him get to you. You’d broken every rule you ever had—and he was still here, smirking, like nothing had happened.

Oh god.

Anyone who walked in now wouldn’t see an interrogation. They wouldn’t see the stoic, disciplined you—they’d see this.

They’d see him free from the chains, with your marks all over him, like you were the one who had let him win.

“You realize how this looks, don’t you, I mean come on, look at me again darling.” he murmured, leaning in, voice like a secret wrapped in a knife.

“They’re not going to ask what I did to you,” he whispered, smiling. “They’ll ask what you, did to me.”

Footsteps.

Shouts in the corridor.

Closing in.

Feyd didn’t flinch. Just smiled wider, teeth stained black yet mixed with blood.

“You gonna tell them what happened?” he whispered. “Or should I?”

please remember, requests are always open, and feel free to reblog as they are highly appreciated ! <3

[liketolaugh-writes]

I just finished your recently completed DP fic and I LOVED it!!!!! I also caught up on the DPxDC crossover and love that too! I’m not in the DP or DC fandoms, but your fics were so amazing, do you have any fic recommendations? I don’t even know where to start looking, I know nothing about either fandom.

Thank you, I'm really glad you like them!! I always recommend first looking at the bookmarks of your favorite authors. Usually they'll read a lot of the same stuff they write, so it's a good way to find fics to your taste! I have about 400 DP fics bookmarked, but here's the highlights-

(Cut for length, there are so many, my impulse control is nil)

DP

Wake Me Up to Say Goodbye - A gradual Jack-centric reveal fic. Jack's genuine love for his family shines through so well here.

broken trust and the wounds hidden behind - This fic is particularly dear to me. Jack finds out about Danny without Danny realizing and starts working to make things right.

Prove That You Deserve the Answer - Jazz/Maddie bodyswap fic. One of my favorite reveals.

Dinner and Diatribes - Vlad traps Danny and Maddie in an underground bunker to play house. This one is, uh, a lot of the inspo for the Fentons' dehumanization of Phantom. But it has a happy ending.

How to Raise the Dead - Very short, sweet fic that isn't exactly post-reveal, but Jack and Maddie know anyway.

Now's The Time (Get In Line) - A fun reveal fic where the GIW raid Casper High for Phantom. The central battle scene in this lives rent-free in my mind.

definition of insanity (is doing the same thing) - Dash Baxter redemption, seriously confronts Dash's bullying.

A Play to Remember - The most interesting and complex A-listers reveal I've ever read.

That Razor's Edge - Halfa!Valerie. So wonderfully done. <3

Ghost on the Couch - Maddie makes Danny go to therapy. While they never quite get around to talking about most of the events of the series (rip) it's still a brilliant showcase of Danny's psychology and emotional turmoil.

DPxDC

If You Give a Bat a Burger - Obligatory, the quintessential DPxDC fic. Plot driven and engaging, and you'll see a certain reference to it in most other DPxDC fics lmao.

Vacation Crashers - Another staple. Plot-driven, but it has one of my favorite Bruce characterizations of any DPxDC fic. (It also inspired a lot of the Fentons' more... neglectful behavior in my fics.)

those who serve. - Can't pass this one up. Danny becomes Alfred's apprentice. Alfred is very concerned.

Wanted: Dead And Alive - Dead Tired. Everyone is scrambling to figure out who the hell Danny is, very fun without sacrificing feeling.

Some Kind of Miraculous Bind - A Demon Twins fic. Damian is very sweet here. <3

But I Want to Be Let In, Not Out - Probably my favorite Demon Twins iteration. Damian just wants to see his brother again, okay?

The Bat Trap - One last Demon Twins fic for good measure. This one plays with its premise so well and integrates the two worlds wonderfully.

Like and Survive - Phantom's Guide to Young Hero Survival - Fix-it field trip through the DCU. You don't know a lot about the DCU? You're about to find out. Very thorough and thoughtful.

Ghosts, Legacies, and CPS - Danny is removed from the Fentons' custody. Danny is inserted into Tim's custody. Vlad does something stupid. Beautifully done and very satisfying.

what dumb luck or good ghost led you from there to here? - Danny and Barbara, where Danny settles in the Clocktower and Babs coaxes him closer like a stray cat.

I Am A Retired Hero And My Love Interest Is A Former Crime Lord? - Dead on Main, obviously. Probably the fic that made me fall in love with this pairing, with a lot of excellent background and foreground plots. Jack and Maddie chase Skulker around to ask him questions about ghost culture. He complains to Danny about it. It's great.

What Binds Us - Such excellent worldbuilding around Crime Alley and Gotham in general. I loves it. <3 (This one by @breannasfluff)

Like Betta Fish Do - Dead on Main, both sweet and very fun. I love @clockwayswrites' characterizations and this particular fic handles their developing relationship super well. On that topic-

One Stop Soup Shop - My feelings,,,, tooth-rotting Dead on Main fluff.

Birdritch - Spirit Halloween, so much fluff between Danny and the Batfamily.

A Broken Sort of Normal - OOF. So many feelings?? Danny/Wally, with so much good angst.

(I can't keep going down the list, just take a run through PaperPuffin's profile, you won't regret it. <3)

I would also suggest following @nerdpoe, @stars-obsession-pit, and @sheepheadfred; they all have good taste in tumblr snippets!

Have fun!

[sincerelyhunnybee]

unchained | dark romance w. dabi

chapter 3

wc: 3k

cw: captivity/abduction, psychological distress, power imbalance, sensory discomfort, dubious morality, surveillance

ೀfrom bee: pardon my tardiness on this chapter, had some family visiting me. hope you're ready for some confrontation and dabi only growing softer for reader <3 give this love on ao3

You wake before the lights come on. Again, no sun. No clock. No way to measure time except by the ache in your joints and the smell of your own skin.

You need a shower. Badly.

That fact hits you harder than you expect, how much your body wants to be clean. To feel like it belongs to you again. You feel as if it’s all clinging to you, the still room, reminding you what’s been taken from you and what little control you have left.

Your wrists still ache. The zip ties haven’t been removed since the day you woke up here.

And it’s starting to feel permanent.

You don’t know how long you’ve been held. The days have begun to blur. You’ve done your very best to eat the food that comes and goes. Dabi comes and goes. And every time he leaves, you’re a little more frayed at the edges.

The door creaks open before you can spiral too far.

He steps inside, commanding your presence. Well, there isn’t much to command it anyway. Your eyes shift to his hand, he’s holding something in one hand—a knife. Not drawn. Just resting in his fingers like an afterthought. 

You stiffen automatically, heart kicking up in your chest. Looks like he’s finally decided to take you out of this misery.

“Relax,” he mutters. “If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t use a kitchen knife.”

Charming.

He takes slow steps towards you in the corner you’ve found comfort in. You sit up straighter, eyes following the blade. But he doesn’t come at you. He crouches in front of you and holds out the knife.

“Wrists.”

You blink. “What?”

He flicks his eyes up to meet yours. “You want to stay tied up forever?”

There’s no teasing in his tone. No malice. Just fact.

You hesitate, but extend your hands out towards him. 

He gently grabs one of your arms. The plastic tie digs into your skin as he slides the blade between the loop and your wrist. One swift pull, and snap—it’s gone. He catches your wrist when you instinctively jerk back.

“Easy.”

His hand is warm. 

Too warm.

He moves to the other wrist, repeating the motion. The second tie falls away. Dabi moves to your ankles, doing the same uncharacteristic movements.

The skin beneath is red and raw, and you flex your fingers, breathing a little deeper.

You’re free. Kind of.

He stands again and tosses the knife back into his coat pocket.

“Get up,” he says. 

Your eyes blink at him, like he’s just spoken to you in a different language. “I said, get up. I’m not dragging you.”

You rise slowly, the blood rushing back into your arms like lightning. Your legs are stiff, but they hold. Standing on your own two legs felt foreign.

He walks toward the wall opposite the camera and presses his palm to a panel you hadn’t noticed before. It clicks, swings open, and reveals a narrow tiled room beyond. A shower. A toilet. A sink. A shelf with a towel and soap.

You can’t help it. The relief hits you like a wave.

You inhale sharply, shoulders sinking as the tension you’ve been holding in your body begins to finally, finally let go.

“You’re letting me shower?” you ask warily.

He shrugs, stepping aside. “You smell like shit. It’s not charity.”

Your eyes narrow. “So it’s a favor to you?”

“I like not gagging when I walk in. Take it or leave it.”

He doesn’t follow you in. Just gestures with his head. “You’ve got ten minutes. There’s a clean change of clothes in there.”

You hobble over to the opening, then linger in the doorway, uncertain. This feels too generous. Too… human. Your eyes dart back to him, searching for the catch.

“I could lock you in there,” he says flatly. “Or I could drag you out mid-rinse. But I won’t. So just go.”

And for some reason, you believe him. 

You step inside.

The door stays open behind you, but he doesn’t look in.

You begin to peel away the clothes that have almost melded to your skin. You had forgotten that you were still wearing your scrubs. The dull blue of the fabric had patches of grime stained by the floor you had been sleeping on since your capture. Standing on the cool tile of the bathroom, naked, felt nice.

The water is hot.

Not lukewarm. Hot.

The first blast stings your skin, so sensitive, so worn, that even clean water feels different. But then the heat seeps in. And for the first time since this nightmare began, you feel alive. Water running down your body gives another illusion of freedom. Your oasis in the desert.

The soap is plain. You don’t care. You scrub your arms, your legs, your face, wincing when your fingers brush your raw wrists. You stand there until the grime is gone. Until the tightness in your chest eases. Until the air fills your lungs.

You don’t cry. But your eyes burn.

When you dry off, the towel is coarse, but dry. You pull on the clean clothes—gray shirt, soft black pants, socks that fit. Your old clothes are gone. You don’t ask why.

You step out slowly, sheepish.

Dabi is sitting on the edge of a bare mattress, one leg propped up, arms crossed. Wait, when did this room have a mattress? Did he move it while you were showering? Maybe it’s better not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He glances at you, then at the floor.

“Better,” he says.

You nod. “Thank you.”

The words fall out before you can catch them. He doesn’t react.

Just mutters, “Don’t make it a habit.”

You stand there. The floor feels a little less unforgiving now. You’re clean. Unbound. Still watched. Still uncertain.

But in this moment, for the first time, you feel like a person again. 

And somehow, that’s almost worse.

-

You both sit in silence for a while. You on the bare mattress, Dabi on a chair.

The mattress is old, the springs biting through the thin padding each time you shift. It's not soft or comfortable. But it’s better than the concrete. Better than nothing.

The air is still thick with steam from the bathroom, warm against your skin like a memory you’re scared to trust. You’re clean now—cleaner than you’ve been since this started. And your body hums with it, the strange afterglow of soap and hot water.

But across from you, Dabi sits like a shadow stitched into the room, a reminder that this isn’t freedom. Just a softer kind of cage.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just leans back in the chair, arms folded, one ankle balanced over his knee like he owns the room—or doesn’t care who does. His coat hangs open, the worn fabric slipping off his shoulder. In the low light, the staples running down his cheeks and chin glint like old nails in a coffin.

You wonder how long it took before he stopped feeling them. You wonder if he ever really did.

Finally, you break the quiet.

“…You always this talkative?”

He lifts his head and meets your gaze, eyes sharp but unreadable. “You’re the one who keeps starting conversations.”

You shrug, lips twitching. “Figured if I’m stuck here, I might as well know who’s keeping me in this shithole. You know why that is?”

He leans his head back again, eyes closing like your voice is something he’s tolerating.

“I don’t give a fuck,” he says, voice flat. “If that’s what you’re fishing for.”

“Not what I asked.”

“Too bad.”

You roll your eyes, tugging your legs up, arms wrapped around your knees. It’s a defensive position. It’s also warmer.

“I’m serious,” you say. “Why me? Why talk to me at all? You could’ve left me in silence. Would’ve been easier.”

He exhales through his nose—not quite a sigh. Not quite anything. Just a sound to fill space.

“Silence gets boring.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So I’m entertainment now?”

He lifts a shoulder in a slow, lazy shrug. “Something like that.”

You study him—his posture, his voice, the way he never really sits still for long, always one breath away from burning through the floor.

“I have a feeling you’re not like them,” you say, quieter now.

That gets his attention.

His eyes open. Sharp. Cold.

“The others you work with,” you clarify. “You act like you’re above it all. But you’re still here. Still doing the same things they do. So why stay?”

He doesn’t answer.

Not with words. Not with movement.

The silence that stretches between you is different now. Not cold. Not sharp. Just… heavy. Weighted with things you’re not sure you have the right to ask. But you asked anyway.

Finally, he says, “You ask a lot of questions for someone who should be scared of the answers.”

You hold his gaze. “I’m already here. What’s left to be afraid of?”

A dry sound escapes him—something between a laugh and a scoff. Not amused. Just surprised you said it.

“You’d be surprised,” he says, and for a moment, it almost sounds like a warning.

You shift again, watching the way his eyes flick away from you, to the floor, to the wall, anywhere but back.

“So… Touya,” you say, testing the name like stepping out onto thin ice.

He stiffens. It’s subtle, but you catch it.

You hesitate, then soften your voice. “Is that really your name?”

He doesn’t confirm. But he doesn’t deny it either.

You nod slowly. “You were someone else once. Before all this.”

“We’re all someone else before,” he mutters.

You chew your bottom lip, the next question is dangerous on your tongue.

“Did it hurt?”

He turns his head slightly. “What?”

“Becoming this.”

His jaw tightens. You expect the mask to snap back into place. Expect him to get up and leave again, slamming the door behind him. Honestly, he could just incinerate you here on the spot.

But instead, he’s quiet.

Still.

For a long time, he says nothing.

Then, voice low and flat, he answers, “I don’t remember what it felt like before.”

You let that sit. Let it settle into the quiet between you like dust.

Because in that silence, you hear something that matters. Something he didn’t mean to give.

And maybe that’s why it matters more.

After a moment, you whisper, “I think that’s the worst part.”

He meets your eyes again. And for the first time, there’s no fire in them. Just smoke. Faint. Fading. Human.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

You’re both quiet again, but it’s different now. Not guarded. Not hostile. Just two people on opposite sides of the same silence, trying not to drown in it.

You shift on the mattress, fingers running along the fabric of your borrowed clothes. They smell like soap and dust and something faintly medicinal. Not yours. Nothing in here is. Except your voice. That’s still yours.

You let the silence stretch, but it doesn’t ease anything. It just makes the thoughts louder. Thicker. More pointed. Your hands curl in your lap.

“You know,” you say finally, voice rougher than you expect, “no one’s ever actually given me an answer.”

Dabi doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

You press on. “About why I’m here. Why it was me.”

Still nothing.

You exhale hard through your nose, frustration catching under your ribs. “I mean, I’ve asked. Over and over. And the only thing I’ve gotten is ‘leverage.’ But leverage against who? I’m a fucking nobody.” Your voice cracks at the last part.

That gets him. A twitch of his jaw. Barely there, but it’s something.

“I’m not a hero. I don’t have connections. I don’t have money. So what the hell makes me valuable enough to keep breathing in this place?”

His gaze flicks to yours, sharp and unreadable.

You’re already spiraling. Might as well finish it. “Was it random? Did someone point at me on a map? Did I just look like someone who wouldn’t be missed?”

That last question hangs in the air, heavier than you intended.

Dabi leans forward, slow and steady, until his elbows rest on his knees. “You done?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He cocks his head slightly. “You want a neat reason? Some villain manifesto shit that'll make you feel better about being stuck here?”

 “I want the truth.” The words come out through gritted teeth.

Dabi scoffs faintly and runs a hand through his hair, fingers dragging along his scalp like he’s tired of carrying this conversation. “You were in the wrong place. That’s it.”

“That can’t be it.”

“It is.” He looks at you now, flat and direct. “You were seen. You were close. And someone thought you might’ve heard something. Or might’ve been useful. That’s all it takes.”

“That’s nothing.”

“It’s enough.” His voice drops a notch. “It’s always enough.”

You shake your head. “So I’m here because someone got paranoid?”

“Or bored,” he offers darkly. “Or cruel. Doesn’t matter which.”

You fall silent, the words crashing over you like water too deep to stand in.

Dabi watches you, expression unreadable.

“People get caught in crossfire all the time. Doesn’t mean they’re clean.”

The implication stings.

“You think I deserve this?”

His eyes meet yours again, steady. Tired. “I don’t think anything matters enough to deserve.”

You whisper, “This is insane.”

He shrugs. “Welcome to the party.”

Your eyes search his face, looking for something—remorse, doubt, anything—but you don’t find it. Just exhaustion and fire under the surface. A man built from aftermath.

“So why talk to me?” you ask finally, softer this time. “Why even pretend I matter?”

Dabi rises, slow and unbothered. His coat shifts around him like smoke.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks. “Maybe I just like the sound of your voice better than screaming.”

And with that, he turns away, leaving your question to echo in the space between his footsteps and the soft click of the door closing behind him.

Your hands curl into the mattress, the weight of it all pressing harder now. But part of you can’t let it go. Because if this is all a mistake—if you’re here just because you saw something you weren’t supposed to—then what does that mean for your future? For your chance of leaving?

-

He shuts the door gently this time.

No slam. No sharp finality.

Just a soft click, like he’s trying not to wake something fragile. He’s afraid it may become a habit.

Boots echo down the hallway as he walks, slow and measured. The steam from the makeshift bathroom still clings to his coat, and the scent of medicinal soap trails faintly behind him.

He shouldn't have let you ask so many questions.

He shouldn’t have answered.

But there’s something about the way you look at him—like you see what’s there, not what’s been painted over with fire and myth and rumor. Like you’re trying to read the smoke.

That’s dangerous.

That’s stupid.

That’s—

“Getting soft?”

The voice comes from just around the corner, and Dabi stops mid-step.

Shigaraki is slouched against the far wall, hood down, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s been waiting there the whole time. His red eyes gleam in the dim light, lazy and deliberate.

Dabi doesn't respond. Just stares back.

Shigaraki tilts his head. “You spent a long time in there.”

“They’re not dead, if that’s what you’re checking on,” Dabi mutters.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Dabi takes a step closer, posture loose but coiled.

“You bored, or just feeling nosy?”

Shigaraki shrugs. “Just trying to figure out what exactly they are to you. You treat them different. That’s not like you.”

“They’re leverage.”

“You said that three days ago.”

“It’s still true.”

Shigaraki’s gaze sharpens. “You don’t usually bring leverage warm food. Or towels. Or let them shower. Or a fucking bed.”

He pushes off the wall now, “You think I don’t see what’s happening?”

Dabi’s fingernail starts picking at the scarred skin on the side of his fingers.

“You see what you want to see.”

Shigaraki steps closer, and the space between them crackles with static—thick with words they’re both not saying. “They’re not a project, Dabi,” he says. “Not some broken thing for you to fix because you never figured out how to fix yourself.”

Dabi’s eyes narrow.

“They’re a risk,” Shigaraki continues. “You keep feeding it, you get burned. And don’t act like you don’t know how that feels.”

Dabi lets out a low, sharp laugh—humorless. “You’re one to talk about ghosts.”

They’re toe to toe now. Neither backing down.

Shigaraki’s hand flexes slightly—just enough to remind Dabi that he could end this conversation, and the wall they’re standing next to, with a twitch of his fingers.

“I’m not going to tell you how to handle your attachments,” he says, voice low and even. “But don’t let them handle you.”

Dabi’s hands stay at his sides, but his fingers curl.

“You think I’m getting soft?” he asks, voice flat.

“I think you’re forgetting what we do when things get soft.”

His gaze flickers.

Shigaraki grins—sharp, knowing. “Careful, Dabi. You start caring too much, you stop making smart decisions. You start asking the wrong questions. And one day, you hesitate.”

Dabi doesn’t respond right away.

The silence stretches just long enough to make it dangerous.

Then, voice quiet and deadly, he says, “So does pretending you don’t care about anything. Makes you sloppy.”

Shigaraki steps even closer—breath close, red eyes like blood in water. “Keep your head. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I’ve got it,” Dabi mutters.

“Good. Then prove it.”

Shigaraki turns, the moment finally diffusing—but Dabi speaks before he can get too far.

“If you’re so concerned,” he says over his shoulder, “maybe keep your pets out of their room.”

Shigaraki looks back. “Toga?”

“She pulled a knife.”

“She didn’t use it.”

“She thought about it.”

A beat.

Shigaraki smiles faintly. “Then maybe she’s the one who still has her edge.”

Dabi doesn’t answer.

He just keeps walking, fists jammed into his pockets, jaw clenched.

Because the truth is—he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

You’re not a weapon. You’re not a spy. You’re not anything but present. Quiet. Observant. Stubborn. And still human in a way he forgot people could be.

And somehow, that’s the problem.

You haven’t cracked yet.

And he’s starting to realize he doesn’t want you to.

reblogs + comments are very much appreciated !

taglist (open + ask to be added): @reggieswriter @d4rlinxs @dabislittlemouse @jelliephia

[ribbonedreverie]

Can't help myself, have to request again because I was thinking about this the other day, and I need to see what you would create out of this scenario:

The men of BSD reacting to their lover calling them drunk. (reader insert) just like a mini-drabble of how they'd be in this situation because we know they'd all have drastically different takes.

If you're not comfortable with this specific scenario maybe just them reaching out to them when they need help (like they're out late at night and they're scared) just like an interesting/vulnerable-ish moment is what I'm interested to see how they would each handle.

You can do whatever men you want but I was hoping for: Ranpo (I love how you write him), Dazai, Chuuya, Akutagawa, Fydor, Mori, Fukuzawa, Oda, and Ango if at all possible. Just because I'm most curious about them. I know that's a lot though so no worries if it's less or not possible.

It was just an idea I had and was curious about how you'd handle but never feel like you have to. I know you're working on other things and if this doesn't fall within things you'd like to write about, no worries at all. I just love seeing your natural dialogue flow and wanted to see where you'd go with this interesting scenario and cast of characters.

I hope you'll consider the request <3

Whispers Between the Lines

This contains several heavy psychological and emotional themes, including psychological manipulation, gaslighting, Stockholm syndrome, unhealthy dependency, emotional coercion, control, power imbalance, toxic relationship dynamics, alcohol use, intoxication, loneliness, isolation, emotional vulnerability, implied emotional abuse, existential despair, and feelings of entrapment. (Most of these are for Mori)

Chuuya Nakahara: “Love Spilled Between Midnight Calls”

The moment he picks up, the world stills.

His breath catches, sharp, and when he speaks, his voice is edged with urgency.

“Where are you? What happened?”

He thinks something’s wrong.

But then you speak—soft, trembling, a quiet storm of love and longing spilling from your lips.

And oh—

Chuuya goes silent.

You tell him how much you love him, how he is everything, how you never thought you’d have this kind of love.

How you don’t deserve him—but God, you love him anyway, with every trembling, aching piece of yourself.

And Chuuya—

He is drowning.

His chest is too tight, his heart hammering like it’s trying to break free. He presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose, his breath uneven, his grip on the phone unsteady.

You don’t say these things often—not like this, not in this raw, unguarded way.

And you’re drunk, which means you are honest.

“Damn it.” His voice is thick, heavy with something he can’t name.

“You really think you don’t deserve me?” A breath—sharp, unsteady. “You—God, you’re my whole damn world, you idiot.”

And if your voice wobbles, if you sniffle even a little—he’s done for.

“Alright, that’s it. Stay where you are—I’m coming to get you.”

He doesn’t care if you tell him you’re fine.

He doesn’t care if you say it’s nothing.

Because the thought of you, alone, drunk and overwhelmed with love, is unbearable.

And when he finds you—wherever you are—he doesn’t speak at first.

He just pulls you in.

His arms are strong, steady, unyielding, as if holding you tight enough might press all your shattered pieces back together.

You can feel it, the way his heart slams against his ribs, how he clings to you like you are something sacred.

“You love me, huh?” His voice is low, teasing, but there’s a tremor beneath it, something fragile, something breaking.

You nod, small and hesitant, as if love could slip through your fingers like sand.

And then—he kisses you.

Your hair, your forehead, anywhere he can reach. Soft, reverent, like a vow written into your skin.

“Good,” he breathes, his lips ghosting over your temple. ”‘Cause I love you more, and I’ll remind you every damn day if I have to.”

Dazai Osamu: “Whispers at the Witching Hour”

The phone rings, slow and syrupy in the late-night hush.

A lull of static, then a voice—soft, silken, and just the slightest bit unsteady.

“Dazai~,” you purr, your words curling like smoke, slipping through the receiver in lazy ribbons. “It’s late, isn’t it? Or… early? I can’t tell. But does it matter?”

A pause—just long enough to feel like a caress, just long enough to let the silence hum between you.

Dazai leans back, the corner of his mouth twitching into a knowing smirk. He recognizes that tone, the way it drips with something dangerous, something intoxicating.

“I’m bored,” you continue, sighing, and he can hear it—the delicate tilt of your lips, the way amusement colors the edges of your voice like the last traces of dusk. “And I thought of you… Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Dangerous?” Dazai hums, fingers twirling the cord of the phone absentmindedly. “My dear, you wound me. Are you saying I’m a bad influence?”

A giggle, light as the clink of ice in a glass. “Oh, Osamu… don’t play coy. You know exactly what you are.”

There’s a shift in your tone now—something teasing, something languid. It trails down his spine like fingertips dragging over silk.

“Won’t you come play with me?” you muse, voice dipping into something rich, something molten. “The night feels lonely without a little trouble to keep it company.”

Dazai chuckles, but there’s something sharp beneath it—something intrigued.

“And what kind of trouble are you looking for, my sweet?”

A laugh, breathless and honey-drunk. “Wouldn’t you like to find out?”

Dazai exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling, a lazy grin pulling at his lips. He can picture it—the way you’re likely sprawled out, limbs loose, eyes heavy-lidded and glittering with mischief. The way your lips would part just so as you speak, as if inviting him closer even through the distance.

His fingers twitch against the receiver, the weight of the moment settling over him like a silk sheet—thin, delicate, and undeniably electrifying.

“Come find me, Dazai. If you dare.”

And then, just like that, the line goes dead.

Dazai blinks. For a beat, he simply sits there, the air thick with your lingering presence. Then, a slow, breathy chuckle escapes him, rolling through the quiet like the first drop of rain before a storm.

“Ah…” he murmurs to himself, running a hand through his hair. “What an interesting little game you want to play.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his mind already spinning. He should let it go—chalk it up to drunken whimsy, let you stew in your own mischief.

But where would the fun be in that?

A dangerous game, indeed.

And Dazai has never been one to resist temptation.

Ranpo Edogawa: “Dial Tone Confessions”

Ranpo doesn’t answer immediately.

His phone buzzes once, twice—persistent, an insistent little thing that refuses to be ignored. It’s late, too late for reasonable conversation, but curiosity flickers in the depths of his knowing eyes as he finally picks up, bringing the device lazily to his ear.

“Hmm~,” he drawls, the syllables of his greeting stretching like melted caramel, smooth, slow, indulgent. “It’s past your bedtime, isn’t it?”

A giggle bubbles through the receiver, unfiltered and weightless, like the clinking of glass bottles on a city curb. Ah. He tilts his head, amused. There’s a slur in your tone, subtle but telling, a looseness that drapes over your words like silk slipping off a shoulder.

“Ranpooo,” you sing, voice syrupy, teasing, like you’re calling for a stray cat that refuses to be tamed. “Guess where I am.”

He exhales through his nose, a smirk curling at his lips. “On the floor.”

A beat of silence. Then a dramatic gasp.

“Okay, that was a lucky guess.”

“It wasn’t.” He yawns, stretching an arm over his head, already sinking further into his couch. “You’re drunk, and when you drink, you get clumsy. And when you get clumsy, you fall. You should be thanking me for my genius, really.”

Another laugh, softer this time. “What would I do without you?”

Now, that’s interesting.

His eyes glint with something keen, sharp, something infinitely amused but not entirely unserious. It’s always been like this between you two—an intricate push and pull, a game of cat and mouse where neither wants to admit who’s chasing who.

But here, in this hazy hour where the world is quiet and the walls are thinner, the game bends just a little.

“You’d be lost,” he murmurs, voice dropping into something quieter, something almost fond. “Obviously.”

You hum, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the faint crackle of the call, the weight of something unsaid pressing between you.

Then—

“You know,” you whisper, conspiratorial, as if telling a secret meant only for him. “If things were different… if I didn’t—if I wasn’t—” You hiccup, cutting yourself off. “We would be something.”

Oh.

Ranpo stills, lips parting slightly.

A lesser man might have asked something what? But Ranpo isn’t lesser—he is all-knowing, all-seeing, and the answer is already curled around his ribs like an old, familiar ghost.

Something ruinous.

Something catastrophic.

Something that would burn too brightly, too quickly, until all that’s left is the memory of its light.

But instead, he only chuckles, airy, effortless, a magician tucking a trick up his sleeve. “Oh, you,” he muses, closing his eyes. “You say the sweetest things when you’re drunk.”

You whine, half-complaint, half-laughter. “You’re so mean to me.”

“And yet, you keep calling,” he counters smoothly.

A pause. Then, barely above a breath—

“Because you always pick up.”

Ranpo’s eyes flicker open, caught, for the first time, off-guard.

But then, his grin returns, sharp and knowing, curling like the last move in an unwinnable game.

“Well, of course,” he murmurs, voice lighter than air but grounding all the same.

“I already knew you would.”

Mori Ougai: A Late-Night Conversation Between a Caged Bird and Its Keeper

The world was spinning.

Not violently, not chaotically—just in a slow, dizzying waltz. Like a star drifting off course, like the ocean tide lapping at the shore in endless repetition.

You lay sprawled across the floor of your dimly lit apartment, the ceiling blurring in and out of focus. A forgotten bottle of wine rested at your fingertips, its contents long since emptied.

Drinking away the silence had been the plan.

It didn’t work.

Loneliness settled deep in your bones, unshakable and cruel, whispering the same tired truth over and over: There is no one. You are alone. You will always be alone.

Your numb fingers fumbled with your phone. There was no thought behind the action, only instinct, only the need for another voice—any voice. The names on the screen blurred together until one stood out, sharp and clear.

Mori Ougai.

A dry laugh broke the silence. What a ridiculous idea. Calling Mori was like calling the executioner when already on the chopping block—foolish, dangerous, and yet… strangely inevitable.

Your thumb hovered over the dial button.

Don’t.

Pressed it anyway.

It rang. Once. Twice. Then—

“My, my. What an unexpected surprise.”

His voice was smooth as silk, sharp as a scalpel. He didn’t sound tired. He never sounded tired.

A shaky exhale. Hanging up now would be the right choice. Tossing the phone across the room and pretending this never happened would be the safest option.

But the line remained open.

“…Mori.”

His name slipped out, barely more than a breath, slurred just enough to betray your state of mind.

A chuckle. Soft. Knowing.

“What a rare occasion. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

You press a hand to your fevered forehead, warmth from the alcohol spreading beneath your skin.

“I… I don’t know.”

A pause. He was listening. He was always listening.

“Are you drunk, my dear?”

A small, breathless laugh. “Maybe.”

“And yet, you called me.”

The implication lingered.

Your fingers tightened around the phone. Maybe this had been a mistake. Maybe a distraction was all you needed—something to chase away the unbearable quiet, not… this.

But there was no taking it back now.

“Lonely, are we?” Mori’s voice was almost mocking, but not quite.

Silence.

He didn’t push, didn’t demand an answer. He didn’t need to.

“…Yes.”

A slow inhale. Then—

“How tragic. Loneliness is such a cruel thing, isn’t it?” His tone softened, coaxing. A doctor speaking to a patient on the verge of breaking. “No one to talk to, no one to hold you. It must be unbearable.”

A lump formed in your throat.

“It is.”

“But you called me.”

Not a question. A claim.

Shame coiled in your chest. What was the thought process behind reaching out to him of all people? Comfort from Mori? A joke. A pathetic, laughable joke.

“I should go.” The words were weak, barely convincing, but you said them anyway. The phone was halfway pulled from your ear when—

“Ah, but… if you hang up, you’ll still be alone.”

Your breath caught.

Because he was right.

It didn’t matter how dangerous, how cruel, how suffocating he was—he was still the only one answering the call.

Tears burned at the edges of your blurred vision. They weren’t welcome.

“Why are you doing this?” The voice that spoke barely sounded like your own.

“Doing what?”

“Being… this.”

A pause. A smirk, audible even through the phone.

“Being what, my dear? The only one who picks up the phone when you call?”

Damn him.

“If you need me,” he continued, smooth as a blade sliding between ribs, “all you have to do is ask. You know I take care of my own.”

Your breath hitched. His own.

Was that what you were now? Just another piece in his careful arrangement of pawns?

The worst part was that you couldn’t even argue.

Silence stretched between you. Long. Unspoken. Dark.

“Go to bed,” Mori commanded, voice deceptively soft.

A quiet rebellion flared in your chest. “And if I don’t?”

A chuckle. “Then you’ll stay on the line with me all night.”

A shiver ran down your spine—not from fear, not from warmth, but from something worse.

“…Goodnight, Mori.”

The call ended.

The phone slipped from your numb fingers, clattering against the floor.

But the damage had already been done.

The call had been made.

Ango Sakaguchi: A Call at the Edge of the Night

The phone rings at an ungodly hour.

You don’t expect him to pick up.

You don’t even know why you called—only that the weight in your chest was too much, too unbearable, and for some foolish reason, he was the first name your trembling fingers found.

It rings once. Twice. Three times.

Then, a click.

“Angoooo…”

His name slips from your lips, loose and unguarded, tangled in something fragile. Something you’ve spent too long trying to swallow down.

A long silence.

Then, a sigh—one you feel more than hear.

“Where are you?”

Of course that’s the first thing he says.

Not why are you calling me?

Not what do you need?

Just the same, measured question he asks when dealing with people who have become problems—something to be contained, something to be handled.

You laugh, but it’s small. Hollow.

“Does it matter?”

You hear him shift. The rustle of paper, the faint scrape of glasses being adjusted.

You can picture him now—sitting in that dim, quiet apartment, surrounded by papers that dictate the fate of people he’ll never meet.

Maybe you’re just another name on a list to him.

Maybe you always have been.

“You probably think I’m pathetic.”

You don’t mean to say it. But the words are already there, slipping through the cracks in your chest before you can stop them.

Another silence.

Not denial.

Not agreement.

Just Ango, sitting in the space between words, like he always does.

“What happened?” His voice is quieter now.

You close your eyes. Nothing. Everything.

It’s too much, and yet not enough to explain the weight pressing against your ribs.

Because maybe it wasn’t just tonight.

Maybe it was the months of exhaustion settling in your bones, the ache of always giving and never being given to, the unbearable loneliness of knowing someone cares but never quite enough.

And maybe—maybe—that’s why you called him.

Because Ango never lets himself care.

And somehow, that makes it easier.

“Ango,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, “If I disappeared… would you come looking for me?”

The silence is deafening.

Your heart twists.

You shouldn’t have asked.

You shouldn’t have asked because you already know how this ends.

Because you know what happened the last time he lost someone who mattered.

Because Ango doesn’t allow himself to want. To hope. To save.

Not anymore.

But then—his voice, low, steady, aching.

“Yes.”

Your breath catches.

It’s a lie.

Or maybe it isn’t.

Maybe it’s worse than that. Maybe it’s the truth he doesn’t want to admit.

You swallow hard, chest tight, fingers gripping the phone like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered.

“You shouldn’t say things like that, Ango.”

It comes out softer than you intend. A warning. A plea.

And maybe you imagine it, but for just a second, you think he wants to say something more.

But he doesn’t.

Because Ango always stops himself before he gets too close.

Before he lets another name become something more than just another loss waiting to happen.

The line goes dead.

And you’re left sitting there, staring at the empty screen, wondering why you ever thought he could be the one to pull you back from the edge.

Wondering why, despite everything—you still wanted him to.

────

Apologies for the delay; I found myself immersed in capturing these gentlemen as I perceive them. Admittedly, I might have enjoyed a drink or two while penning some of these. Additionally, I was engrossed in my psychology and philosophy classes, both demanding papers recently. I will post the remaining characters soon. ♡

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: A Departure.

Commissioned by the very lovely @ohsotearful.

Pairing: Yandere!Scaramouche x Reader (Genshin).

Word Count: 1.3k.

TW: Spoilers For Sumeru's Story Quest, Unhealthy Relationships, Mentions of Physical/Psychological Abuse, Themes of Forced Codependence, and Maladaptive Coping Mechanisms.

You arrived at the door of his shrine with no less than a dozen guards in tow – an even mix of Fatui soldiers and Akademiya matra. The most brazen among them attempted to follow you inside, but you dismissed them with a quick shake of your head, a pointed look to the more senior members of the mismatched legion. This was a well-trodden routine, by now, although one you never dared to come with the same entourage more than once. Your husband’s recent distance had not softened his jealous edge, and although you weren’t fond of those most complicit in the newest stage of your captivity, no mortal crime could be worthy of the wrath of such a violent god.

Your footsteps echoed – clipped and solitary – against the bare walls of the stone chamber. The architects of his divinity have already been sent away for the night, leaving you alone with the half-finished mess of wires and metal that was your husband’s fixation. The Shouki no Kami, you could remember the Doctor calling it during his first visits to your estate. A ridiculous name for a ridiculous machine that would only serve the ego of a ridiculous man. Bile rose into the back of your throat at the sight alone, but you swallowed your anger. He’d never been able to react to your rage with anything but his own.

You paused at the monstrosity’s feet, and his voice came to you – reverberating in the back of your mind like the final tones of a chapel bell. “Beloved,” he whispered in the back of your mind, sending a pang of pure agony through your skull. “You aren’t supposed to—”

“I will not hold a conversation with a mumbling voice.” You cut him off swiftly, teeth grit and eyes narrowed. “Either I will speak to my husband's face or I will not speak to him at all.”

A moment passed without a response. Then, stiltedly, one of his monstrosity’s hands tore free from its scaffolding, lowering itself to the ground beside you. With some reluctance, you stepped into his palm and allowed him to raise you to the frontmost panel of his abomination. You refused to call it a face, because to call it a face would be to admit it was his face, which would be to admit that this strange machine was in any way an extension of him. The metallic panel raised and disappeared into some unseen cavity, revealing the hollow, unit chamber behind it. Revealing your husband.

Or, rather, revealing the mess he’d made of himself.

He had never been the pinnacle of beauty, but his pale skin now seemed bleached and colorless, his lithe form limp and crumpled. Glass tubes filled with a pulsing, violet substance had been drilled into the nape of his neck, the base of his spine, the curves of his shoulder bones, and the smile he paid you as he came into view was labored, a fight against some artificial exhaustion. Before you could think better of it, you stepped out of his palm and into his chamber, falling to your knees beside him and wrapping your arms around his neck. “You are,” You pressed your lips into his temple. “the biggest idiot,” Then again, into his cheek, the curve of his jaw. “I have ever met.”

He let out an airy chuckle, melting into your chest. “It used to take a vat of water and thirty minutes of electrocution to make you kiss me like that.”

You ignored the phantom rope that coiled around your lungs at the reminder of the first decades of your relationship. You tried to think of it as little as you could, but his vision had always been more rose-colored than your own. “Can’t I show my husband affection?” You raked your fingers through his hair, resting your lips against his forehead. “It’s not as if I’ll be able to kiss the metal coffin you’re locking yourself inside.”

Another laugh, this one more labored than the last. “You could, if you wanted to. Just wait until it’s finished. It’ll be more glorious than you could possibly imagine – a vessel befitting of the most powerful archon this wretched world has ever bowed to.” He attempted to straighten, only to collapse under his own weight. “It’ll be an improvement to this form, at least.”

“I quite like your current form. It’s only a shame it has to house such a rotten personality.” You looked outward, to his empty shrine. At the time of your last visit to Inazuma (meaning, at the time of your last successful escape from your husband), his creator had still been locked inside a similar cage, or so another yokai had told you over bottles of sake and a game of cards. That visit had been one of your shortest. He knew you too well, by then, and it’d only taken him a few weeks to realize you’d run where you always would - home. “I suppose I’ll be left in the care of your doctor, when you’re finished.”

His response was immediate, purely reactive; a sudden snarl paired with a flash of bared teeth. “Dottore should be thankful to so much as breathe your air. You’ll be the paramour of a god.”

“I’ll be left alone while you turn yourself into a monster.” Your voice was hollow, distant. Even now, months into his transformation, it was difficult to describe the flavor of your devastation. He’d taken you from the place where you belonged and kept you as a trophy. He’d denied you any companionship aside from himself and cut away parts of your world until it revolved solely around him. He tucked dried flowers into the letters he wrote you near-obsessively whenever he couldn’t be at your side. He carved open your skin then demanded you keep your own mutilation out of his sight. He used to read you myths and fairy tales for hours every night, when human language was still foreign to your tongue. He was the closest thing to a friend you’d ever had.

And he was leaving you.

You wondered, briefly, if this was how he felt whenever you tried to get away from him, but discarded the thought quickly. It was your heart that ached the most in the wake of his betrayal, and your husband never did have one of those.

“I can’t remember the last time I was on my own,” you admitted, a pained smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “I won’t ask you to stop. It’s just, when you’re done, I—” The air snagged in your throat. You inhaled sharply, then rested your head on his shoulder. “I’d like your permission to return to Inazuma, my lord.”

Silenced lapse, thick and heavy, between you. He was the closest thing you had to a friend, which meant he knew just how where to plant his knife and, more significantly, just how to twist the blade.

“No.” Stern, stiff, unyielding. Rather than softening over the centuries you’d spent together, he only seemed to grow more callous. “There’s nothing for you, there. You’ll stay here, with me, and I will rule this rotting land with you at my side.”

You opened your mouth, prepared to protest, to argue the way you hadn’t since the first years of your imprisonment, but closed it just as quickly. You buried your face in the crook of your neck, and your husband let you, eager to soak in the touch you so often denied him. Fire, despair, anger bit and thrashed inside of you, but it was all you could do to hold him, to keep him near.

It was all you could do to think of what you would become, after he was taken away from you.

[narryffdreaming]

A TOAST TO THE FUTURE — TWO

Summary: Aurora and Harry used to be friends, but life happened and they grew apart. Now, 6 years later, they meet again.

Rating: +18

WARNINGS: The story contains explicit language and mentions a past abusive relationship (mostly the consequences of psychological/emotional abuse). Some chapters also contain explicit sexual content.

PART TWO: 14,9k words Please read: Part two explores a lot of Aurora's irrational thoughts and it shows how much she struggles to be herself after being married to someone who was emotionally abusive to her. From my perspective, it's a really important chapter to develop the relationship between Aurora and Harry, but I want people to be mindful of its content in case they don't feel comfortable reading about this, or in case it hits too close to them. Feel free to reach out if you want to skip something and you'd like me to fill you in. <3

PART ONE

Despite the line, getting through security would've taken Aurora hardly three minutes. That is, of course, if she hadn't had to wait for Harry for another ten. 

He doesn't look the least apologetic for the held back, though. Nor bothered in the slightest by the extra time he seemingly needed. Smiling at her and holding their shared tray as he tilts his chin to an empty table and leads the way towards it. 

Aurora follows him quietly, checking her watch just to make sure they won't run out of time. And she does it unconsciously, regretting every time she catches herself looking at her wrist. Because she knows they're early. She swears she knows. And she wishes she could relax and just enjoy things without that awful feeling rushing through her body. That feeling that turns into a voice and yells at her that she's constantly behind. 

Behind what, one could ask, and Aurora wouldn't be able to answer.

She's just… Behind. 

Behind, and watching her life go by.

All the damn time.

Harry stops by the table, and Aurora mimics him. She drops her bag and falls on one knee, pulling up the hem of her dress and uncovering her foot. The Nike sneakers she's wearing used to be white once, but now they are just old and dirty, and she loves them even more like this. She nibbles the flesh inside of her bottom lip while tying the shoelaces up, then changes to her other knee, and repeats the process. 

Once she's done, she stands up and pats her legs, getting rid of any airport floor dirt from her clothes. 

"You're fast," Harry says, putting his foot down from the edge of the table. 

Aurora pulls the fabric of her dress up her chest and furrows her brows. "I am?"

"Hm, yeah." He frowns with amusement and chuckles. "You sure are."

"Huh." She wiggles her eyebrows up and down, then quirks the corner of her mouth up. 

Maybe, she should point out that perhaps she isn't fast, but he is too slow. Or that, unlike him, she'd organized everything beforehand so she wouldn't waste any second longer than she absolutely needed to. But what good would that do? Besides, those thoughts don't even feel like hers. They don't sound like hers. 

So she says nothing, instead, and steps closer to where he stands. 

Harry gives the tray they're sharing a gentle push to her side, and puts his other foot up. 

Aurora promptly slides the tray closer to her and places it in front of her belly, next to her bag. 

Great. 

Saying nothing was a bad idea, because silence is awkward now. 

She licks her lips and keeps her attention on their belongings, not knowing exactly what to say. 

Time goes by, though, and the longer she waits, the more awkward it gets. 

So she decides to just say whatever, just to get them talking again. 

"Perks of being a mom, I guess." She blurts out, then grabs their passports and shrugs. "Being fast, I mean." 

Harry leans on his bent knee and looks at her over his shoulder, blindly tying up his own shoes. 

"Yeah? Why's that? You get any super speed powers when you're pregnant or something?"

Aurora freezes for a second, passports still in hand. She turns her head to the side, and narrows her eyes at him.

Harry's soft lips are pursed, his green eyes are twinkling with playfulness, and his cheeks are tinted with a boyish flush under his facial hair. He's clearly having fun with his own silly comment, and it causes Aurora to break into a short laugh — not because it's funny, but because she simply can't help it. 

She shakes her head, and looks back at the tray. 

"I rush to get ready so I can pay attention to Noah, okay?" she explains, grabbing the boarding passes and checking the names on them. She puts hers inside of her passport, and the other inside of Harry's. "It's not a big deal."

She'd never thought about it, but it's the truth — she is usually busy keeping an eye on Noah, even from a distance. The little monster can't stay still for too long, and no matter how much she adores how energetic he is or that she tries her best to let him explore things by himself, the truth is that he's still only four, and she can't leave him wandering around unattended.

Which is why she fought so hard to sign him up for preschool — it gave her time to slow down and do other things, too.

Okay. See? That — that right there — is Aurora's truth. That's a thought that feels and sounds like hers. A thought that she came up with on her own, based on her own experiences and her own mistakes. A thought that reveals how she's learned that taking care of Noah is her responsibility, and that if she doesn't pay attention to her son, nobody does. 

No matter how much she dreamed it would be different.

No matter how much she believed it should be different. 

"Ohhh," Harry says. "Ok, then."

She sticks her passport and boarding pass into the front pocket of her bag, maybe a little bit more forcefully than she needs to.

"Exactly. So don't judge me."

"What?!" Harry laughs, putting his foot down from the table. "I wasn't—" 

"I can't leave my son unattended, can I?"

"I—I know, yeah." His face falls, and he nods. "I get it. That's… It makes sense. Yes." 

"Right. Great." 

A second goes by, and then another one, and another one.

Silence settles again, but this time Aurora isn't worried about it being awkward or not. 

There's just… So much going on. 

Her heart is thumping loudly inside her chest, and her ears are buzzing. 

She shouldn't have snapped at him. 

She shouldn't have snapped at him.

It wasn't about him. 

It wasn't his fault. 

She pinches the tip of her nose and breathes in. Slowly, and steadily. 

One more time. 

Slowly.

And steadily.

And then, she moves again.

She holds Harry's things in her hand and leans on the table, reaching for his bag. Before she touches it, she looks at him over her shoulder and asks, "Do you mind if I open your bag?"

Harry doesn't answer, though. He's tilting his chin down and shaking his leg, making sure his pants are properly covering his ankles. 

Aurora purses her lips and straightens her back, then slides his bag across the table and pulls it closer to her body. 

Now everything's in front of her, the tray caged in between both duffel bags. 

She bites her bottom lip, but it's hard to stop her mouth from turning into a smile. 

Maybe the speed in which she moves isn't an inconvenience, after all. In fact, maybe it even comes in handy, because apparently if she doesn't move for both of them, someone will sooner or later shove them away. 

"Harry," she insists.

"Hm?" He looks up. A frown crinkles his face — his eyebrows are pulled together, his forehead is puckered, and his lips are curled downwards. As soon as he meets her eyes, though, his shoulders drop, and he shakes his head. "Sorry."

He scratches his jaw, dragging his nails over his stubble. 

Aurora stretches her arm, and pats her hand on the edge of the table, where his feet were a minute ago. "It's fine. I was just asking if it's okay to put your passport inside your bag."

"Oh! Yeah yeah, sure. Go ahead. Thanks."

"'Kay," she says, already unzipping the front pocket and putting things away. 

Aurora rolls her shoulders at the same time Harry moves closer, and she unthinkingly snatches his belt from the tray and hands it to him. 

"Here."

"Oh," he murmurs, grabbing it from her fingers. "Thanks."

He steps away, but there's something in his voice that somehow catches her attention, and Aurora turns her head. 

She glances over her shoulder, and peeks at his face. 

Harry is looking down again, chin pressed against his chest while he takes the end of his belt and puts it into the first front loop of his beige pants. His movements are casual, but he's holding back a smile, and Aurora can tell his mind is working on something.

Something silly, to be more specific. 

She curls her mouth up, then raises her left eyebrow. "What?"

Harry tugs his belt, threading it through the second loop. 

"What?" he repeats, and his mouth finally turns into a grin. 

She turns her body towards him, then places one hand on her waist and the other spread open on the table, holding up her weight. "C'mon, out with it."

Harry laughs, slightly bending his knees and throwing his head back. "I didn't even say a word!"

"Well, you didn't have to!" She rolls her eyes and chuckles, backing away from the table to put both hands on her hips. "I can see you're thinking something."

He shakes his head, looking down and threading his belt through the next loop. 

"Harry…"

He peeks at her through the corner of his eyes, then focuses back on his belt. 

"You're aware you can leave me unattended, right?" he asks, keeping a bright smile on his face and the light tone on his voice.

"What?"

"I mean I don't mind." He shrugs, eyes still on his current task. "Gotta admit it's kinda cute to see you like this." 

"I don't—"

"My favorite part was probably when you cleaned up the table."

"I—" Aurora closes her mouth, and exhales through her nose. "You put your feet there, Harry."

"I did, yeah. And you cleaned it up."

"Well, someone has to clean up your mess, don't you think?"

Harry glances at her, and smirks as mischievous and suggestive as he can be. "Oh, I always clean up my mess, love, don't worry about it."

He winks, and Aurora gasps. 

"Oh my God!"

She turns to face the table, feelings her cheeks getting warm. 

Harry laughs, though, so she steps closer to his side and nudges him with her elbow. 

"Shut up."

"'Kay mum."

"Ughhh." She rolls her eyes, then shuts them tightly and takes a deep breath in. "You're so annoying." 

Harry's laughter only grows louder, and Aurora shakes her head, blinking her eyes open again. 

It only takes him a moment to calm down, but the smile is still obvious in his voice when he speaks again. 

"I know. I'm just teasing you, tho. I'll stop now. I promise."

Aurora snorts. "Yeah, right." 

She believes his words as much as she believes Noah when he promises he will eat his entire dinner if he gets to eat dessert first. 

The thought brings a smile to her face, and she bites her lip to hold it back. 

Peeking inside the tray one more time, she finds several rings, a bracelet, a watch, and three necklaces. Her mouth twitches, and her chest trembles with amusement — no wonder why Harry took so much longer than her to get through security.

She pulls the string of her necklace from the tray, takes each side to the back of her neck and quickly clasps it back to its everyday place. Next, she grabs her watch, and puts it on just as fast around her wrist. 

"Well,"  she starts, then looks at him. 

Harry is, once again, deeply focused on his task — his chin touches his chest, his eyebrows are pulled together, and he's biting his bottom lip. 

"All yours now," she adds. 

Harry peeps at her through the corner of his eyes, his hands still attached to his belt as he finally reaches the last loop. He darts his vision to the tray, then back at her, scanning her chest, her wrist, and her hands. "You sure? All of it?"

"Mhmm."

A group of people walks to their table, and Aurora takes a step aside to give them more room.

"Ok." He buckles his belt, then fixes his shirt. "We can go, then."

"Oh. I didn't mean to rush you."

He smiles, putting one hand inside the tray and carelessly collecting everything that's left inside. 

"You didn't." He closes his hand into a fist, then shoves everything inside of his pocket. "It's just getting crowded here. C'mon."

"Hey, was my joke inappropriate?"

Past security and turning right, the hallway is significantly less hectic than any other area Aurora has walked through in the last hour or so. 

It is probably one of the brightest, too. 

"Hm?" she asks, tilting her head to give Harry her full attention. "Sorry, what joke?"

"About… Y'know, cleaning up my mess."

"Ohhh." Aurora laughs, then waves him off. "Please, it's nothing any of you guys haven't joked about before." 

"I know, but… Things are different now, aren't they? Don't want to make you uncomfortable, or, well, don't want to be disrespectful to your hus—"

"You're fine," she says, cutting him off before she'll be forced to either correct him or say nothing, implicitly letting him believe there's still a husband in her life. "Don't worry about it. Let's stop here so you can put your rings back on, yeah?"

She points to one side of the hallway, and walks in front of him to guide the way. It only takes her a few steps, then she places her bag by her feet and turns around. 

When she looks at him, she finds him frowning. 

Frowning and frozen on the spot. 

"Harry, hey!" She raises one hand and wiggles her fingers. "C'mon. I'll help you."

Harry's face softens. He shakes his head, then walks towards her while putting his hand inside of his pocket. 

Leaning against the white wall, Aurora watches him come to a stop right in front of her, then drop all of his jewelry on top of her spread open palm.

"Thank you," he murmurs. 

She finds his sight again, and a smile blooms across her face. "Sure, no problem."

His lips curve into a smile, too, and he looks down. He shakes his head and pulls his hair back, then turns his attention back to the items on Aurora's palms. He seems meticulous about which ring goes where, fiddling with them and hunting for specific ones. Eventually, he grabs three at once, and puts them on his pinky, middle and index left fingers. 

Aurora raises her chin and rests the back of her head against the wall, comfortably watching his relaxed face as he towers over her. 

From what she remembers, jewelry was never Harry's thing. Long hair and skinny jeans? One hundred percent. But the necklaces, the rings, and the bracelets? Those were things she'd no idea he'd be into. Or maybe not to the point of making them part of his casual look to the airport.  

"So," she teases, easing her dry lips with her tongue then forcing her voice to sound exactly like she imagines a reporter would sound like, "Harry, would you say you enjoy wearing rings?" 

Harry darts his eyes to her, and the expression on his face never falters, holding a serious and unamused demeanor as he moves his lips to say, "Bloody hate them."

She presses her lips together, but then she snorts, taking her free hand to cover her mouth. 

Harry shakes his head and grins, changing hands and catching two more rings to put on his right fingers. 

"Why? What's wrong with my rings?" 

She sighs and shrugs, calming down from her brief moment of foolish, silly laughter. 

"Nothing. 'M just teasing you."

He places the last two, and pulls the two golden strings from her palm. 

"Hmm…" Harry nods. He fixes his eyes on the jewelry and frowns, eying the many tiny knots that had formed along the necklaces. "Great, then. Glad you're having fun at my expense."

Aurora drops her jaw.

"You were making fun of me two minutes ago!"

Harry chuckles, although he's distracted by his attempt to untangle his necklaces. "Guess I was, huh."

He shakes his head, and Aurora steps away from the wall, getting closer to him.

"Which wrist do you wear this one?" she asks, lifting her hand and his bracelet.

"Left—I mean, right," he answers, and although they don't look at each other's faces, they both smile at the same time. 

Harry remains focused on the knotted strings between his fingers, but stops moving when Aurora curls one hand around his right wrist and pulls it closer to her face. In one quick movement, she clasps the item around it, then taps his hand twice. 

"All done. Now gimme that." 

She snatches the necklaces from him, and observes carefully before undoing the mess. One of the golden strings is longer than hers, but they're both just as delicate, and instead of a disk, one holds a cross pendant, and the other a tiny, thin tag. She bites her lip and patiently fiddles with the pieces of jewelry, taking her time to unwrap the tiny knots.

Things are quiet. Time ticks without a hurry. And after a minute, or maybe two, or three, she grins proudly, and lifts her chin to look at him.

"Look!" she says, even though she doesn't have to — Harry's already looking at her, already watching her. "I've done it!"

He blinks a couple of times, then nods, slowly mimicking her smile and her excitement. "Y—You did, yeah! Thanks."

"You're welcome." She grabs the longest string, picking each side with one hand, and takes a step closer to him. "I find untangling necklaces weirdly therapeutic." 

Harry widens his eyes. "What are you doing?!" 

Aurora rolls her eyes, and chuckles. "Calm down. I'm not gonna kiss you, don't worry."

"Right. No, yeah, I know that." He chuckles, too. "Of course." 

She stops moving and tilts her head, then raises her hands. "I mean, can I?"

"Wha—" Harry takes a step back. "Kiss me?!"

"Harry!" Aurora shrieks, also taking a step back and away from him. "Oh my God, no!"

She looks at him for a moment, taking in his bulged eyes and raised eyebrows. He looks mortified, and there's so much going on at once that she can't help but burst into laughter — at the misunderstanding, at the look of his face, but also at the terror in his voice. 

She turns away from him, throwing her head back as laughter breaches from her chest. 

"This is… I can't…"

"Sorry," Harry says, "I just—"

Aurora shakes her head, feeling warmth radiating from her chest throughout her entire body. 

"Oh my… Oh my God." She places one hand on her stomach and brings the other to her face, fanning herself while taking a deep breath in through her nose. "You should've… You should've seen your face… Oh God… Harry… You panicked so hard, I just…"

She wipes a tear from under her eye, and takes another deep breath in, working to calm herself down.

"I never… I never thought the idea of kissing me could… Could be that terrifying for someone. Oh God."

Harry sighs. "Auri…"

She turns around, and looks at him with the biggest smile on her face, her body still shaking from laughing. 

Harry isn't happy, though. Or at least he doesn't seem to be. He's narrowing his eyes, and furrowing his brows. His lips are pressed into a hard line, and his forehead is puckered. 

And just like that, Aurora's laughter fades away. 

Shit. 

She's too familiar with that dynamic, so she clears her throat and shakes her head. 

"I'm sorry. I—I know it wasn't funny. I just… I think I haven't laughed this hard in a really long time, so I just… I got carried away, I guess. I'm sorry. But I shouldn't—Sorry." 

"Listen, I didn't—"

"Yeah, yeah. I know." 

Actually, Aurora doesn't know. Of course she doesn't know. She has absolutely no idea what he was about to say, but she doesn't want to talk about it. She's been there before. And she's been there before so many times that her mind and body don't even know how to react any other way. How not to anticipate the humiliation and shame that is about to follow. How not to completely shut off. 

Thankfully, Harry seems to get it, because he nods, grabbing his necklaces from her hand and putting them back inside of his pocket. 

And this time, Aurora doesn't say anything about it, grabbing her bag from the floor and feeling ready to move on.

"Do you mind if we take a look around some of the shops?" Aurora asks, pointing around the World Duty Free and breaking the silence that settled between them for the past few minutes. 

Harry moves slowly next to her, keeping his hands inside of his pockets. "'Course not."

"Thanks." She makes sure to curve her mouth into a smile, then stops at the first shop to take a look at the makeup. 

Things are quiet, but Harry stands right behind her all the time, keeping her company while she brings a lipstick closer to her face to check the color shade, and then following her steps when she moves to a different shelf. 

"Hey," Aurora says, looking over her shoulder, "what's your cologne?"

"Hm..." He scratches his jaw and shrugs. "Depends on the day, I guess."

She nods, then turns to face some nail polish, aiming for the brightest options. 

It's been a while since she's done her nails. She used to love looking at her hands and seeing them colorful and filled with rings, it used to make her feel beautiful and delicate. Feminine. 

Zack used to love it as well, though, and to be honest at some point she stopped doing a lot of things Zack liked. Just because.

"Which one are you wearing today, then?"

"Why?" 

She shrugs. His voice is right behind her, but Aurora doesn't turn around to look at him. 

"'Cause you smell really nice." 

Maybe she could do her nails in Italy… Maybe one of the girls brought something with them. 

Or maybe she could get something herself…

The orange shades look nice…

She sighs, and steps away from the shelf. 

She can't. She shouldn't spend her money like that. She needs to be more careful now, especially since she spent a lot of unplanned money on that trip to Italy. 

She turns her head, wiggling her eyebrows at him. "So…?" 

Harry clears his throat. "Uh… Well… It's Guerlain."

Aurora twirls, holding her bag close to her body as her hair and dress follow her brisk movement.

"Cool! Let's find it, then." 

She walks away, and Harry's low chuckle echoes behind her. 

Although she can't see him, she feels his presence all the time, following her pace.

"What for?" he asks. 

"I don't know." She shrugs, looking from one side to the other. Scanning all the tiny duty-free shops. "I'm bored, I'm tired… Oh! There it is!" 

Her pace quickens, and so does Harry's.

Aurora only stops when she's in front of the Guerlain shelves, and then she turns around, staring at him with a smile on her face and pointing her arm to the many colognes displayed behind her. 

"Which one is yours?"

He clears his throat, and— 

Wait, is he blushing? 

Aurora purses her lips, holding herself back from laughing.

"It's L'Homme Idéal Extrême."

"Hmmm." She wiggles her eyebrows, and pulls one corner of her mouth up in a smirk. "Sounds sexy…" 

"Jesus Christ," Harry grunts, hiding his face behind both of his hands and shaking his head. 

Aurora laughs at his reaction, tapping his shoulder twice before turning on her feet and looking for his cologne. 

"What happened to you in the States, huh?" She leans down, squinting to read the names. "Never thought I would see Harry Styles getting all shy in front of me."

It takes him a moment to answer, but eventually he mumbles, "I've always been shy in front of you."

Aurora pauses for a moment, replaying his words in her mind. Images of them hanging out together pop up immediately — at the pub, at someone's apartment, after class, over the weekend. His cheeky glances, touchy hands and bold comments are always present, one way or another. He always craved attention, and people had no problem granting his wishes. 

It never bothered her, because he was young and had just joined university, but it certainly didn't paint him as a shy and reserved person. 

A snort leaves her mouth. "Yeah, right." 

She stands, and puts her hands on her waist. "What was the sexy name again?"

"L'Homme—" He sighs. "It's this one."

Aurora turns around, only to find Harry standing in the same place they were a minute ago. The shelf next to him is filled with bottles of the same cologne. Apparently, his cologne.

She gasps. 

"Harry!" She walks towards him, and Harry shakes his head in soft laughter, scratching the back of his neck. "I was standing right next to it and you didn't tell me!"

"It's just a very common cologne, Auri." He laughs, again. It sounds kind of shaky, though, and she frowns, stopping on her track. "I don't… Why are we looking for it?"

Uh… 

Well… To be honest… She doesn't have an answer for that. 

She doesn't know why they're looking for it. She is just joking. She just wanted to pass the time because she is exhausted, and because the longer she spends around people, the more afraid she is of falling apart at any moment. She thought maybe she could try it on, see if his cologne would smell as well on her skin as it smelled on his… Who knows… She was just… She wasn't thinking, okay? She was just being her stupid self.

Harry, on the other hand, isn't just messing around. Harry looks actually nervous. 

Her jokes are making him nervous. 

She is making him uncomfortable. 

In the middle of an airport, filled with people. 

Shit.

And she's done it twice now. 

First with the necklace… Now with the cologne… 

Fuck.

How many more times till he reaches his breaking point? 

How many more times till she finally pushes him through the edge? 

How many more times till she puts him in a position where he won't be able to stop himself from snapping at her?

Her hands shake, and her stomach quivers. 

"Yeah, no, I mean…" She shakes her head and smiles at him, closing her hands into fists and placing them behind her back. "You're right. Sorry. I—I'm really sorry. Hm… I think I… I should get a coffee."

Harry flinches his head back. "Wait  what?"

"Coffee. It'll keep me awake." She walks around him, and Harry follows her movements. 

"Auri, but what… Hey! What about my cologne?"

She waves it off. "Yeah, I know. I was just being annoying." 

She moves towards the exit of the duty-free, where all the departure gates are, and another yawn breaks through her lips. 

"Yep." She chuckles. "Definitely need some coffee."

"Auri," Harry calls, catching up with her. "Hey, stop. C'mon. Something just happened."

"What do you mean?" Aurora laughs. 

She flexes her fingers, curling and uncurling them. Her eyes wander around the airport, looking for a coffee shop. 

A coffee shop. 

A coffee shop. 

She needs a coffee shop. She needs to get herself together. She needs to busy herself with something before she does something silly and stupid again. 

"I… I don't know. Why did you change your mind?"

Harry walks next to her, and she offers him a smile. 

"About what?"

"What do you mean about what? About my cologne, Auri!"

Aurora flinches.

"Sorry. Yeah, no, right. The cologne. Yeah. I just… I made you uncomfortable and I was being childish. Sorry."

"I wasn't uncomfortable, Auri, I just—"

"I know."

"Auri, no, listen—" 

"Harry." She turns around and smiles, then places one hand on his elbow. "It's fine. You don't need to explain yourself. I just… I really, really need a coffee right now. I haven't slept all night, so… Yeah. I'd just like to get a coffee. If you don't mind."

She lets go of his elbow, and Harry sighs. 

"Ok, yeah. Let's get you some coffee, then."

They walk forward, side to side, and Harry speaks again. 

"Do you still drink caramel coffee?"

Aurora widens her eyes. 

"Wow… That's back from… Well, a long time ago."

It's small, and kind of timid, but Harry smiles, and then shrugs. "Used to get you one at least once a week, didn't I?"

"You did, yeah." She smiles back at him and nods, then faces forward again. There's a coffee shop only three stores ahead, and it seems to be already open. Thank God. "To be honest I can't remember the last time I had one. I drink plain black coffee now."

Harry nods, and they both walk in silence, side by side — always side by side.

It shouldn't be uncomfortable, but Aurora's chest is heavy, and her mind seems foggy. 

Truth be told, she thought she would have more time before she started disappointing her friends, before letting them know how much she's changed and how uninteresting she's become.

Meeting Harry at the airport got in between her plans, though. And she could feel herself breaking little by little each second. Having to face the memories of someone she used to be, someone she liked to be, but also someone she isn't anymore. And someone she can't be anymore. 

Looking at her feet, she bites the inside of her lip. She was acting like a child at the duty-free, wasn't she? Jumping around, excited about his cologne… 

God. She hasn't even left the country yet, and she's already ruining things. 

She needs to control herself. 

She isn't a teenager anymore. She can't embarrass him. She doesn't want to embarrass him. 

"Do you want something to eat?" Harry asks, and she stops walking.

They're in front of the coffee shop, but Aurora wouldn't have realized if it weren't for him.

She shakes her head. "No, I'll just get myself a coffee."

"Let me get it for you."

What?

She takes a step back. "Absolutely not."

Harry's smile falters, but he doesn't give up. "C'mon… Like the old times! Yeah?"

"No, Harry. I mean, thanks, but no. I can pay for mine."

"I know you can pay for yours, I don't—"

"Please." She shakes her head and looks down to the floor. "It's just a silly coffee. I can get it for me. Okay?"

Harry frowns. 

"Ok? Yeah." 

Aurora nods, looks at the shop, then back to the floor. "Are you getting anything?"

"No, I'll just wait here."

"Okay," she whispers, forcing a smile before turning around and walking away.

It's crazy to see how much Harry has changed.

That's all Aurora can think about while she stands in line and watches him type on his phone. 

He's still outside, waiting for her, and seems deeply engaged with his conversation, frowning while his fingers move rapidly. 

No more black skinny jeans, no more vintage t-shirts or Chelsea boots. No more curls that are longer than her own hair. No more thin shoulders nor skinny arms. 

His baggy pants — wide legged, high-waisted — are beige, his cute shoes are yellow, and she still can't get over the flamingo shirt he's wearing.

He looks older, too. Brooding features, chiseled cheekbones, growing stubble. His face is perfectly carved, his traces have hardened, and there is something very manly about the way he stands there, focusing on typing on his phone. 

It isn't just his physical appearance, though. He acts like a grown-up, too. There's something about the way he simply exists that screams how much he's changed. You would never tell the man standing outside is the same boy who used to make stupid bets with his roommates from uni. But it's clear that Harry isn't a boy anymore, and that he's turned into a man.

And Aurora wasn't prepared to deal with that. 

Aurora lowers her chin and rubs her eyes.

She is being ridiculous. 

Why would she need to be prepared for that? 

Of course Harry grew up! How old is he now, anyway? 29? 30? Of course he isn't the same anymore. 

She should focus on how nice it is to see him again, not about stupid things. 

Who would've thought she would actually meet him at the airport? Who would've thought they'd end up sharing the flight? Standing in line with him, hopefully getting some seats next to each other… She should appreciate having a friend by her side. That's all. 

Aurora can't remember why he stopped hanging out with the group, though, and now she can't stop thinking about it. She has absolutely no idea about anything that could be going on with his life. It was as if Harry had grown more and more distant with time, until he wasn't there at all.

She's still pretty sure the last time she saw him was at her and Zack's wedding. She remembers someone telling her he'd moved to the United States, but why wasn't she at his graduation? It didn't make sense. Especially considering how, around a year later, he was kind enough to send them a basket when Noah was born.

They weren't the closest friends, and they were in very different stages of their lives when they met, sure, but they were part of the same group, and she used to have a soft spot for him. Just like she used to have a soft spot for Niall. 

Usually, when they were all at the pub, everyone would leave and the three of them would stay behind, chatting and laughing until Aurora felt her lids closing by themselves and they would walk her home. They both used to make her laugh all the time, and she actually loved spending those moments with them. 

Until she met Zack, of course, and then she started spending her nights with him. 

Maybe that was it. Maybe it wasn't about him. Maybe she had grown more and more distant, until she wasn't around anymore. At all.

She knows it's something she's done with everyone else, at least. The girls would knock on her door from time to time, though, and she couldn't run from everyone whilst living in the same city, but Harry flying overseas was a different situation. So it makes sense they didn't keep up with their friendship. 

It makes sense, but it still bothers her. 

It bothers her because she forgot how easy, and fun, and electrifying it was to be around him. She forgot how affectionate, attentive, kind, and friendly he was. She forgot how spontaneous and cheerful she used to be with him. She forgot how much she enjoyed his carefree and easygoing way of looking at life. She forgot… 

Well, to be honest, it's like she just forgot about him. 

And how could she forget about him?

Harry used to be such a great friend. 

Just like Niall. 

But somehow different. 

Because there's something about the way Harry looks at her that she never found in Niall's eyes. It has something to do with Harry's curiosity, probably. How much he cares about details. How he likes to know more about people, about things, about everything. 

"Next?" the lady behind the counter shouts.

Aurora shakes her head, and darts her eyes away from Harry. 

She has no idea how much time she just spent staring at him. She didn't even notice she was doing it, to be honest. And she can only hope he didn't notice, as well.

The woman behind her taps her shoulder.

"That's you, miss," she says. 

Aurora widens her eyes and steps forward.  "Oh, yes, sorry… Hi!" 

Their flight is delayed. 

Aurora laughs, and rubs her fingers on her forehead. 

"And I was worried I'd be late," she murmurs.

They've been hanging out by their gate for at least half an hour now. Harry sits next to her, their bags placed together on his opposite side. He's leaning back comfortably, arms crossed on top of his abdomen and legs spread open in front of him. 

He nudges her arm with his elbow, then asks, "What was that?"

She shakes her head and waves him off with one hand, then double taps her phone with the other, lighting up the screen. 

It's 6:30. 

Noah should be waking up by now. Or at least Zack should be trying to wake him up. 

She unlocks her phone and opens up the app to text him. She takes a deep breath in, and her fingers hover the screen. She needs to be careful with her words, because she doesn't want him to think she doesn't trust him with Noah. That would be unfair with him. And it's not even about that. Of course it's not! She knows Noah's safe with his dad. She swears she never questioned him as a father. Whatever happened between them as a couple would never change the fact that Zack loves Noah to death. 

Aurora knows that. Really! The only reason why she wants to know how they're doing is because Noah has never woken up at his dad's new place, and because she knows what a long and emotional process it can be to wake him up. That's all. 

She bites her bottom lip, and types the same questions again and again, until she's happy with the way she's phrased them.

Hii! 

How are you guys doing?

How was Noah's first night over there? Did you guys have fun?

She sends the messages, and reads them over. And over, and over. 

That was good, wasn't it? She sounded friendly, right? She wasn't attacking him, right? He wouldn't be mad at her, right?

"I'll be right back," Harry says, getting up from his seat. He moves past her quickly, looking at his own hand and sliding his finger through the screen of his phone before taking it to his ear. "Hey… Yeah, I know… No, you listen to me…"

Harry doesn't sound happy — at all — and Aurora frowns. She watches him walk away, blending between people, then glances back to her phone.

No signs of Zack yet. Which is fine. Of course. It's not even been a minute. Actually, Aurora is usually so absorbed by Noah in the mornings that she doesn't check her phone until she drops him off at preschool. So it's fine. Really.

Hopefully he'll be able to make him have breakfast by 7:15, though. Otherwise they won't get there on time. Should she remind him of that? No, that's stupid. Zack is not stupid, and she always drives him insane for reminding him of the obvious little details. 

Maybe he won't even take him to preschool. Maybe he'll drive him over to his parents, instead. 

Or maybe she should just trust him. Maybe this would be the time he'd follow through with a promise he'd made.

Another yawn sneaks up on her. She slides down on her seat and rubs her eyes with the palms of her hands. 

Maybe she should accept Harry's offer and take a quick nap on his shoulder. She brushed the idea off minutes ago, but now she can't deny it sounds really tempting. 

God… How is she supposed to spend two days on a yacht? She's never been on one before. She also hasn't been around all her friends in a very long time… 

Is she going to be able to interact with them? Because if they're expecting her to act the same way she used to before getting married… Well, they'll be extremely disappointed.

The only thing about Aurora that'll resemble those old days are the clothes Maddie packed for her. 

Shit. Oh shit. Oh… Fuck! Her clothes. No, no, no. Shit! She is going to kill Madison. 

She can't wear all those clothes in front of Harry! There is no fucking way she'll walk in front of him in a bikini, or wearing those silk and backless dresses. There is absolutely no fucking way she's going to wear those tops that almost don't cover her breasts in front of him. 

Well, not just in front of him, of course…

She's thinking about Harry because he's the one with her right now, but she doesn't want to wear those clothes in front of anyone. Not just him. 

It isn't even about the people, really. It's about her body. A body that has changed a lot through the years. 

Oh, boy… She needs to sleep. She can't start spiraling about how unsexy she's been feeling for years. It's not the moment for that. It's not what the weekend is about. 

"Are you sleeping with your eyes open?" Harry's low and deep voice sounds right next to her ear, and Aurora jumps on her seat. 

Harry chuckles behind her, then makes his way around her seat. 

"Shit," she murmurs, taking her hand to her chest, but a shaky laugh still leaves her mouth. "You scared me."

He stops in front of her and furrows his brows, then tilts his head to the side and curves his mouth into a cheeky smile, narrowing his eyes to look at her. 

"What?" she asks. 

He doesn't move, though. 

And he also doesn't stop staring at her. 

Aurora shifts on her seat. 

But the staring still doesn't stop.

"Harry!" She chuckles, and looks away. 

And he still doesn't even flinch.

Oh, c'mon! That's ridiculous. 

It's like going back to university, honestly. He used to do the same when they were younger, usually at a pub or a club. He would stare at her like that until she stumbled over her own words, or until she forgot what she was about to do. He thought it was hilarious, but she never understood the point of it. 

"Knock it off, will ya?" She crosses her arms on top of her chest and rolls her eyes. "I was just thinking."

Harry (finally) laughs, face lighting up again — with dimples and wrinkles and almost fully-closed eyes.

He moves his arm, and puts a paper cup in front of her face. 

Aurora snaps her brows together.

"Sorry, love, I was just testing my skills," he says.

Aurora flinches her head back.

Why is he shoving that cup in her eyes? 

And also… "What skills?"

He shrugs. "Y'know, to rile you up just by looking at you." 

Harry presses his lips together, as if he can't wait to burst out laughing.

And Aurora knows that face, because Noah does the exact same thing. The cheeky little monster loves to surprise her, but he can never hold up a lie. He gives out the entire thing just by looking at her with the same excitement on his face. 

They honestly look the same. Except Noah is only four, and Harry a thirty-year-old man.

"Ha ha," she mocks him, looking away from his silly face. "You and my four-year-old son would be great friends."

"Aww!" Harry takes his seat next to her, chuckling and throwing an arm around her shoulders to pull her closer to his side. "I'm sure we would." 

She rolls her eyes. 

Harry squeezes her cheek against his chest, and she's so close to his body that she can smell the soap and cologne emanating from his skin. He smells good. Like a fresh shower. It's a nice combination, something both strong and smooth at the same time.

Shit.

She pulls away, and shakes her head. 

"It wasn't a compliment," she murmurs. 

Harry chuckles.

"Yeah, I'm aware of that." He withdraws his arm from around her shoulders and takes it back to his side, then puts his hand back in front of her face. The one holding a paper cup. "Now, this is for you."

Aurora raises her eyebrows. 

"And what's this supposed to be, exactly?" 

"Just try it." 

She doesn't make any movement to acknowledge his request, but Harry also doesn't make any movement to hint he'll stop shoving the cup on her face. Eventually, she sighs, and her entire body falls. 

"Harry…" 

"Oh, c'mon! Just a sip. Amuse me, yeah?"

Aurora glances at his hand, then back at his face. She presses lips together, then finally uncrosses her arms and lifts one of them to reach the cup, curling her fingers around it. 

For the sake of not ruining her mood, she ignores the way he cheers, or how he grins proudly before leaning his back against the backrest of his seat. She simply clutches the cup between both hands, instead, and its warmth is a high contrast with her cold skin. She can't help but hum at the feeling, and then she shivers, even her chin trembling a little. 

A timid chuckle escapes from her mouth, and she closes her eyes. She brings the cup up to her face and puts her nose close to the lid, breathing the flavor in. 

And just like that, her chest tightens. 

The smell is unmistakable, a combination between coffee and caramel that she would recognize anywhere, anytime. 

She blinks her eyes open, and turns her head to look at him. 

Harry is watching her attentively, without any traces of amusement or playfulness surrounding him anymore.

Aurora blinks a couple of times, gathering enough strength to ask him, "Did you… Did you get me a caramel coffee?" 

He nods once, only one side of his mouth lifting up. "Yeah."

She looks back at the cup in her hands, and blinks again. 

"Why?"

"I don't know," he says, softly. "Intuition, maybe. I know you already had your black coffee, but I… I don't know. I felt like you needed it? I don't know. Actually, now that I'm thinking about it, it sounds stupid. Is that okay? Hope I didn't—"

She nods rapidly — unable to speak, but also desperate for him to stop explaining himself. 

And thankfully, he does. 

Aurora doesn't know what to say about it, though. She doesn't even know if there's anything she can say about it. 

His words don't sound stupid to her. That's for sure. The thing is that Harry doesn't understand the meaning his gesture actually holds, which scares her. He was able to pick up on something she needed when she wasn't brave enough to admit it to herself in the first place. And it was something so trivial… It was just coffee. Coffee.

"Noah does that sometimes, y'know," Aurora murmurs, looking at the mass of people in front of them. She hunches down a bit, not bothering by her awful posture as she comforts herself with the hot beverage in between her hands. Changing the subject is the only way she knows how to answer him right now, so she keeps going. "Sleeping with his eyes half open. It freaks me out."

Harry hums.

"There's a name for that, isn't it?" 

His voice is as soft and calm as before, and Aurora nods.

"Yeah, nocturnal something… I don't know. I always forget the stupid word." She rolls her eyes, and a humorless laugh leaves her mouth, making her body shake. "How do people even choose these names, huh? Why bother naming it if it's gonna be some ridiculous word no-one can even pronounce?"

"That's… Yeah, I don't know. You have a point, though."

"Sorry," she whispers, looking down at her lap. "Zack drives me insane using all those terms all the time. Makes me feel stupid."

Harry doesn't say anything, but for once the silence between them doesn't feel uncomfortable. 

She exhales the frustration out of her body, taking the cup to her mouth and sipping carefully in case it burns her tongue. 

The coffee touches her lips, and its sweetness automatically invades all of her senses. Her tongue tastes the caramel, and there's something bitter behind it, but it is mostly mellow and buttery. Just like she remembers it. 

And just like that, she's remembering all of it. 

She's flooded with memories from the comfort of home, and about the fun of living. Memories with simpleminded thoughts and unpretentious actions. 

She's back to a place where she isn't scared of speaking her mind all the time, where she isn't afraid of letting people down by her silly behavior, where she isn't terrified of her personality being the embarrassment of those around her. She's back to a place where she knows her friends and family like her for who she is, and where she's proud of her because of that. 

She's full of affectionate touches, sincere words, and genuine feelings.

There's confidence inside her, and an entire world she's willing to find out. 

And when she finally gulps down the simplest sip of caramel coffee, warmth takes over her throat. It reverberates through every inch of her body, and she shivers — her body filling with goosebumps as she closes her eyes to the paradoxical feeling. 

A moment passes, and the weight of a soft textured fabric lands on her back.

"Before you say anything," Harry's deep voice murmurs next to her, and she opens her eyes to look at him. "I'm not wearing it. And it's driving me insane seeing you so cold, so please just wear it."

Aurora glances at her shoulders, finding Harry's checked jacket covering her skin. It feels good, and it feels warm. And she actually doesn't mind it. At all. But there's something about the way Harry has just talked to her that flies directly into Aurora's heart. 

Maybe it's the softness of his voice. Or maybe how worried he sounded. Or maybe the fact that he seems to pay attention to her. Or maybe just because he acts as if he knows her so well. Even after so many years without talking to her. Or seeing her.

Or maybe it's just because she's already on edge because of the damn caramel coffee he bought especially for her.

She doesn't know exactly what it is, but something in his words triggers her into instantly tearing up. She can't help the overreaction, and before she can figure out a way to hide it, the evidence of her crying falls down her cheek, and she's taking a hand up to wipe it off her.

"Auri, hey…" 

Harry's hand lands on her back. The last push she needs to turn into an emotional wreck. A sob bursts out of her chest, and she covers her mouth. Oh my God. 

"Auri, love, I'm sorry… Did I… I can get the jacket back, I didn't—"

She shakes her head and puts the coffee between her thighs, then takes both hands up to her face. She uses her palms to wipe down the tears from her cheeks, and a long and shaky sigh leaves her mouth. 

Harry takes the cup from between her legs, putting it down on the floor before shifting closer to her. His knees bump into the side of her thigh, and the hand that isn't on her back brushes softly her jaw, getting rid of another tear.

"I'm… I'm sorry," she whispers. "You're fine. You didn't… You didn't do anything wrong."

The last thing she wants is for him to see her like that. They haven't seen each other for so long… She doesn't want to welcome him back to her life with tears and drama. She also doesn't want him to feel guilty about something that has nothing to do with him. 

"Ok…" He sounds wary, and while one hand rubs circles on her back, the other grabs her hand. "What's going on, tho? What can I do to help?" 

Once again, Aurora shakes her head. "I'm… I'm fine. I think I'm just… I'm  just exhausted from not sleeping last night."

It isn't a lie, but it also isn't the truth. She doesn't want to admit how lonely she constantly feels, because she wants to learn how to be alone. It doesn't make sense to ask for help when all she wants is to learn how to not need help.

"Why didn't you sleep?" 

"It's nothing. Really… Don't worry about me, I'm just being dramatic right now."

He strokes his thumb up and down on the back of her hand, and Aurora sighs, leaning into the warmth of his jacket. 

Warmth. Apparently that's all she craves now. 

"Of course I worry about you, Auri. And I'm here if you need anything, ok?" 

She nods, but his care for her brings another wave of tears, and she hides behind one hand while the other holds tightly onto him. 

"C'mere," he murmurs, dragging the hand on her back to her shoulder and pulling her to his chest. 

She can't believe the amount of times she's been hugged by him in merely a couple of hours, but she doesn't fight him. In fact, she does quite the opposite: she snuggles into him and cries quietly. And when Harry squeezes her shoulders, she squeezes his fingers in response. 

"Talk to me, love, please. What's going on?"

She sniffs. "Nothing…"

He rubs her arm, softly and tenderly, then carefully adds, "I don't wanna force you, but I can tell something's up and I'm worried about you."

Aurora shakes her head, feeling the desperation in her body slip out of her mouth as she cries to him. "Please don't... I don't want… I don't wanna worry you, ok? I really don't. I don't want to bother you. I'm just… Overreacting. I'll be fine. I'll be—"

"Auri, that's not—"

"Yes. Yes it is. It's just—"

"Stop doing that," he says, squeezing her shoulder. "You keep shutting me off every time I try to explain myself."

"Sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, I swear. I'm sorry—"

"Auri—

"—I'm so sorry—"

"—It's okay—"

"—I really am—"

"Auri, hey!" He pulls back, grabbing her shoulders with both hands and forcing her to look at him. His eyes are warm and caring as he stares inside hers, but there's a frown all over his face that screams something different. Annoyance, perhaps? Or maybe… Frustration? "Listen to me. It's fine, ok? There's no need for you to apologize. It's fine."

She squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head. "No…"

"Yes, it's fine, Auri."

"It's not—"

"Yes—" 

"No!" Aurora opens her eyes, but tears quickly blurry her sight. She blinks, and before she knows it, she's fully sobbing and crying again. "It's not fine! Ok?! I'm not… I'm not fine, Harry. I'm not! I'm falling apart and I just… It's like I can't stop… And I just… I hate it, ok? I really do… I keep letting everyone down. And I… Fuck… I have no idea how… How am I supposed to spend the entire weekend…. The entire weekend pretending my life isn't a mess right now? I just… I can't… I can't pretend… I'm not… I can't…"

There's only a beat of silence before Harry pulls her into his chest again, squeezing her shoulders while he takes a long, deep, and heavy breath in. Then exhales loudly through his nose. 

"I don't know what's going on with your life right now," he says softly, resting his chin on the top of her head and closing his eyes while she sobs into his chest. "And I know I haven't been around, but I'm here for you, ok?" 

And just like before, Aurora melts into him. She hugs his waist, and leans against his body despite the uncomfortable and public position they're in. Crying all the tears she's been holding in so far. Silently sharing with him all the hurt, the doubts, and the insecurities she's been feeling. All the blaming, the questioning, and the yelling she's been hiding. Letting him absorb the wreck she is turned into after six years of marriage. All the failures. All the mistakes. All the countless "should've done better", and also "should've tried harder".  She lets it all out. With no hold backs, nor regrets.

"And you don't have to pretend, Auri," he adds. "At least not to me. Not even a little bit. Never… Why would you even pretend, huh? I can't be there for you if you don't let me know your life's a mess, and I want to be there for you. You know I do, yeah?"

Aurora can't answer him, not when her body's turning everything inside her into tears and sobbing, but he doesn't seem to be waiting for any words. Nor reactions. He rubs her back gently, while still holding her tightly, and then just keeps talking. 

"Besides, I don't expect anything from you, so—I mean, wait… That's not—Shit. That didn't sound good."

And despite everything, despite all the pain and all the tears and all the fears, a soft and low chuckle escapes from Aurora's chest. 

"That came out wrong… It's not—It's not what I wanted to say. Because of course I expect things from you, like… You're brilliant. You're amazing. You can do amazing things if you want to, ok? I know you can. What I meant is that—That there's no pressure, y'know? That's all. And that no matter what you do or what you say, nothing will change... I mean, I haven't been around, but you don't have to pretend things are good if they aren't, y'know? I'll be your friend even if… I don't know… Even if everything's falling apart… Actually, I want to be there especially when everything's falling apart, ok? So yeah, I just—Jesus Christ." He sighs. "Fuck. Auri please tell me you know what I'm trying to say here because I'm just freaking myself out right now."

Aurora's chuckle turns into laughter, and she nods against his chest, taking one hand up to her face to wipe off the last few tears. 

"I do, yes." She clears her throat, trying to get rid of some of the scratchiness. "Relax. I got it from the beginning." 

Harry smiles and sighs again, squeezing her shoulders. "Could've said something, huh? Stop me there. Save me the embarrassment, maybe?"

"You said I kept cutting you off when you tried to explain yourself, so…" Aurora shrugs. 

"Ohh, I see. Okay." Harry laughs. "We should work on your timing, then. Smartass."

She smiles, and sniffs. "My timing's perfect. It was cute, and I was having fun."

"Of course you were."

Although she can't see him, the smile is obvious in his voice, and she sighs. A long and heavy sigh. One that's strong enough to relax her entire body, and that makes her close her eyes and drop her shoulders. 

"Thank you," she murmurs, still into his chest.

"Yeah," he murmurs back. "Anytime, love." 

There's a pause between them. And then Harry speaks again.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really, to be honest… At least not right now."

"Ok…" 

Another pause, and then… 

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

She takes a deep, long breath in, then exhales while snuggling into his chest.

"Can we just… Stay like this for another minute? Just… Y'know… In silence?"

"Hm… So you want me to shut up, is that it?"

Aurora chuckles. 

"Well, I wouldn't put it like that, but…"

Harry chuckles, too. 

"'S fine. I don't mind. We can stay like this for as long as you want."

And so they do. 

They hug for a while. In silence. A tight embrace that's simple, but that's also intense enough to let her know that he's there for her. 

Aurora can't remember the last time she's been held like this, with honest tenderness and affection. The kind of hug that she doesn't question, and that comes naturally. That feels natural. 

"This was supposed to be a fun weekend," she murmurs, curling a little bit more into him and closing her eyes to avoid facing the world. "Can't believe I'm seeing you for the first time in years and already bringing all this drama to you."

Harry chuckles lightly. 

"Don't be silly, ok? We've been over this already… We're friends and this is what friends are for." He kisses the top of her head, and then rests his cheek against the same place. "Besides, we didn't leave London yet. We can still have plenty of fun."

Aurora sighs. "God. I really need to have some fun. I miss having fun."

"I'll make sure you get more than some."

He squeezes her shoulder, and Aurora smiles.

Still with her eyes closed, and pressing her ear against his chest, she listens to his heartbeat, and to the way he breathes. He isn't calm, but he is steady, and somehow comfortable. So she focuses on him, and only him. As if mimicking his rhythm, or syncing with his pace, could make everything in her life feel better. 

Harry sighs against her, and when the thumping inside him gets faster, she pulls one arm from around his waist to rest her hand on the left side of his chest. She spreads her fingers open where his heart is, and breathes in and out slowly, hoping to calm him down again. 

He takes one hand to her neck, sliding it to the back of her head and tangling his fingers with her hair. 

As he scratches her scalp, Aurora can feel every muscle of her body fully relaxing. It's soothing. And it's safe. There's no other place she would rather be right now, and she's convinced that, as long as she's holding him and he's holding her, she'll finally relax and rest like she hasn't been able to in so long. 

"Have you always been such a great hugger?" she asks, her voice as soft and as slow as her body feels.

Harry clears his throat, then murmurs, "I don't know." 

Aurora hums. 

Another moment passes, until she breaks the silence again.

"I'm sorry for being a shitty friend."

"You're not a shitty friend."

"But I am, tho. I have no idea what's going on with your life… It's been so long and I… I never reached out."

Harry sighs, and shifts on his seat. 

Aurora follows his movements, making sure the hug doesn't end even when he seems to be pulling away. 

He doesn't, though — pull away. He simply leans back on his seat, pulling her along with him. And because she's still comfortable against his chest, she doesn't see the way his face falls, how he presses his lips together in a hard line, or glares at random people passing by.

"It's fine," he eventually says. 

And she's so focused on her own past behavior, that she also doesn't notice the slight change in his voice.

"It's not, though."

"I never reached out either, did I? And I should have… I just… I should have." 

She fidgets with the fabric of his shirt, and although it takes her a moment to answer, the words fly easily out of her mouth. "I'm not sure if it would've made any difference, to be honest… I've pushed everyone away, would've done the same to you." 

"There's no fucking way I would've let you."

"It wouldn't be up to you, tho."

A ding-ding-dong blares from the speakers in the lounge area. 

"Attention passengers on Ryanair flight 1832 to Naples, we are now ready for boarding at gate 56. Passengers on Ryanair flight 1832 to Naples, we are now ready for boarding at gate 56. Boarding is for business class and passengers with…"

The attendant's voice fades as Aurora stops paying attention to it. She blinks her eyes open and, against her wishes, pulls away from Harry's arms.

"Finally," she breathes out.

When she looks at him, she finds nothing but honesty and affection inside his eyes, and it's enough to make her heart skip a beat. 

She curves her lips into a smile, then brings her hands up to wipe the dry tears from her cheeks. "Thank you."

Harry smiles, too. "You've said that already."

"I know." She nods, dropping her hands back to her lap. "I just… Thank you, really. For now and… And for the coffee. Even though I forgot to drink it."

He takes one hand to her face, and puts some of her hair behind her ear.

"We'll have time for another one," he says, then stares into her eyes again. "Yeah?"

"Yeah…" She gulps down, captivated by his gaze. "I think… I think it'd be nice if we could catch up, right? I mean, there's so much about you that I don't know…" 

Harry smiles, although it doesn't reach his eyes. 

"There isn't anything crazy to know about me."

Aurora furrows her brows. 

"Well I don't need crazy information, Harry," she scoffs, making sure the tone of her voice is carrying some playfulness while she rolls her eyes. "I just wanna know what's up with your life… Where do you live? Do you have any dogs, or cats? Where do you work? Do you have a girlfriend? Do you have any kids? Are you married? I don't know…"

Harry stares blankly at her for a moment, then looks away, reaching for their bags. 

"Those are too many questions, love."

Aurora shrugs. 

"Well, yeah…" She leans down and picks up her coffee. The cup feels cold, and although she's sad she didn't get to drink it, she wouldn't change anything about what happened in the last… Well, however long it's been since they got here. "I know. I'm curious. That's why I said it'd be nice to catch up."

She stands up and rearranges Harry's jacket, putting it on properly so it doesn't fall from her shoulders, then waits while he stands as well, picking their bags from the seat next to his.

"Ok, yeah. Sure. We can catch up." 

"Wow." She snorts and widens her eyes. "Calm down, now. Don't sound sooo excited, please."

Harry laughs. He puts his own bag on his shoulder, and she takes hers from his hand. 

"I'd love for us to catch up, Auri. I really would."

"Okay…" She narrows her eyes at him, putting her bag on her shoulder and walking towards the line. "Are you hiding something from me?"

Harry follows her, grabbing his boarding pass and passport from the front pocket of his bag. "Why would I hide something from you?"

"I don't know…" She throws the coffee cup away, then adds, "Maybe you're working with the FBI. Or, maybe you're married to someone who works for the FBI. Ohhhhh," — she widens her eyes, looking at him while he leads their way to the gate — "or maybe, you're married to someone who's being investigated by the FBI!"

Harry chuckles through his nose. He sneaks his hands inside Aurora's bag, pulling her boarding pass and passport from it.

"There's no FBI involved, I promise," he says, handing her the items. 

"Hmmm…" She grabs her things from his hand, and nibbles her bottom lip before asking, "But you're married to someone?" 

"Nop." 

"Okay… Dating to someone?"

He shakes his head, and Aurora nods.

"Are relationships a touchy subject, maybe?"

Harry smirks, and that's more than enough to give Aurora an answer, but she still waits for him to say something. 

Anything.

"I broke up with someone not too long ago." He shrugs. "So I'm not in the mood for relationships right now, to be honest. And that includes talking about it." 

The line moves quickly, and they take a step forward. 

"Oh, sure. Yeah. I get it. Of course." Aurora nods. "I'm sorry, tho. Y'know, that it didn't work out."

He shrugs, and they walk again.

"'S fine." 

The shift in his behavior is loud and clear, and it bothers her. The idea of someone breaking Harry's heart deep enough for the pain to overshadow his excitement and dull the brightness of his smile doesn't feel right. So it bothers her. It really does. Whoever it was, he surely deserved someone much better. He surely deserves someone better.

A flight attendant welcomes them with a grin and a cheerful good morning. Aurora smiles back, and hands him her passport and boarding pass, then waits for him to return them. He wishes her a safe flight, and repeats the same process with Harry. 

Aurora waits for him in silence, and once they're both ready to walk through the airgate, she picks the conversation back on. 

"I'm sure you'll find someone, y'know? It won't be that hard. You're still young, and dating was never a problem for you, so…"

There's a pause, and then Harry snorts. "Dating was never a problem for me? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Y'know… That's what you, Niall and Jayden used to do all the time, wasn't it? Dating and… Flirting and hooking up with everyone?"

Harry stops walking and turns to stare at her in silence, with widened eyes and flared nostrils. 

Aurora stops, too, biting her lip to hold back her amusement while waiting for him to say something. 

He doesn't, but he eventually laughs, throwing his head back and making her fully smile at him. He shakes his head, and starts walking again.

"Jeez, Auri, I'm so offended right now."

"Oh c'mon…" She chuckles, following his steps. "I meant it as a compliment, okay? Like… Girls were always into you, that's all."

"Not all girls, though."

"Fine." She shrugs. "Ninety-five percent of them, then."

He snorts again. "Ok."

"How old were you when we met? Twenty? Twenty-one?"

"Nineteen."

"Oh shit, really?"

"Yeah, it was my second year. Why?"

"Nothing. I think… For a moment I just forgot you're so much younger than me, that's all."

"C'mon, not so much, I'm almost thirty now."

"Well, yes, but I'm thirty-five."

"See? Same age."

She chuckles. "We're not the same age."

"Ok, but almost."

"Not even close, Harry."

"Oh c'mon! Then what are you now? Ancient? Should I call you grandma?"

She chuckles. "Well… I do feel ancient, to be honest."

He rolls his eyes. "This is ridiculous. You're just as young as I am."

She shakes her head. 

"Yeah, I mean, I know that… But I don't know… I mean, talking to you right now I don't feel like you're younger, y'know? Let alone that much. But also—"

"It's not that much."

"No, I know. But if you think about it, I already got married and I have a four-year-old at home, so like, I really am too old and—What?" Harry is frowning at her, and she tilts her head. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

He shrugs, then faces forward, away from her. "I'm trying to decide if I should kick your ass right now or just throw you into the ocean later."

She gasps, but then she chuckles. "What? Whyyy?"

Harry raises his eyebrows at her. "I'm only five years younger than you, Auri. Five. It's not even a big deal."

She sighs.

The line in front of them moves, and they move forward as well. 

"Sorry. You're right. Like I said, it doesn't feel like it right now, but I think… I don't know. When you were 19 and I was 24 it was different, yeah? I mean, we were in different stages of our lives. I was meeting Zack and you were—" 

"Yes, I know. I was there, remember?" 

She swallows down, and nods. 

"Sorry," she repeats, much softer this time. 

Aurora walks in silence, staring at the plane at the end of the hallway. 

She pretends to ignore the way Harry keeps glancing at her, or how he rubs the back of his neck, or how he rolls his shoulders. She knows she bothered him, and the idea of causing a scene when they're about to get into a plane feels terrifying. She should've kept her mouth shut, that way she wouldn't have them put them in that situation. Again.

It's like she's been riding on a rollercoaster she never knew she would get into in the first place. Going through multiple sudden changes of speed and directions. Slowly climbing a steep slope and painfully anticipating the fall before she actually drops directly into the ground. Holding herself during the unexpected tight turns and sharp curves, and gasping for air at every inverted loop. Experiencing the ups and downs of gravity as she's weightless and happy at the top of the hill, then all of a sudden her own personality is pushing her back down to reality. And by the end of it, the back of her throat hurts, her stomach feels funny, and there's just heaviness all over her body. 

"Hey," Harry calls. 

He shifts his bag from one shoulder to the other and puts his arm around her, pulling her closer even though they're still walking. He kisses the top of her head, and keeps his lips there as he speaks. "'M sorry. Shouldn't have cut you off like that."

Aurora shrugs. "It's fine." 

"It's not. We were just joking and I… I took it personally, 'm sorry."

He kisses her head, again, and her lashes flutter. 

She knows he's sorry, but she doesn't know what to say to him. She knows how easy it is for her to forgive when she shouldn't, and how many times in the last six years she believed in empty apologies. 

So although she knows, she isn't sure she can trust herself. 

She hasn't been trusting herself for a while now. 

A new flight attendant welcomes them into the plane, and they both pull away from each other.

Aurora walks in front of Harry, and she does her best to smile genuinely at the cheerful woman that's wishing them a good morning and a good flight. 

She holds the strap of her bag tightly on her shoulder, and walks through the narrow carpeted aisle, focusing on the numbers and letters above the seats as if she's looking for specific ones. She pauses here and there for other passengers that are getting settled, and it's only past the emergency door that Harry speaks again.

"Should we sit here?" he asks. He's pointing to the opposite side where she's facing, so she turns around, finding three empty seats.  

"Okay." 

She nods, and tilts her chin up to check the space to put her bag. Harry is quicker, though, because he is already closing his fingers around the strap on her shoulder and pushing it away from her arm.

"I'll put our bags together, yeah?" 

She doesn't want to fight him about it, so she simply thanks him with the best smile she can offer and allows him to easily grab her duffel bag. 

She slides through the two empty seats to reach the one by the window, not waiting any longer to secure the seat belt and make herself comfortable. Once she's settled, she clasps her hands together, and takes a deep breath in. Her chin trembles, and she looks down, biting the inside of her cheek. She doesn't want to cry again. She really doesn't want to cry again.

Also, she needs to sleep. She must get some sleep. There is absolutely no way she is going to handle spending the entire day awake, and if she doesn't sleep now, she'll only get an opportunity again at the yacht — meaning she won't get to spend any time with her friends. 

Harry sits next to her and puts his own belt on, then turns off his phone and shoves it into his pocket. Aurora doesn't look at him, but he turns sideways anyway, leaning his shoulder on the back of the seat and blocking them from any possible curious eyes. 

He grabs one of her hands from her lap and takes her fingers to his mouth, placing a long kiss to her knuckles before sighing. 

"Auri, love," his voice is soft, and a whisper for only them to hear, "I really am sorry." 

She nods, taking her free hand to wipe a tear before it could roll down her cheek.  

Shit.

"Please, don't cry."

"Mhm."

"Auri… Look at me, please."

She shakes her head, then. Because she knows that she'll fall apart all over again if she looks at him.

God, she's so tired.

"I didn't…" she murmurs, then takes a deep breath and tries again. "I didn't mean anything bad by the age thing… I promise."

"I know that, love. Of course I know," he says, pressing another kiss to her hand. "Fuck. I know. We were just joking. And I'm not mad about it, I promise. I mean, I was actually a stupid hormonal teenager back when we met, so yeah… You're right, things were different. But please, Auri, I hate that I made you cry just because I… Shit, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. It wasn't about you, I promise."

She stares at her knees and nods, because she knows he is. And she also knows she can trust him, which is probably why she — finally — honestly blurts out, "I keep messing everything up, y'know? All the time."

He brushes his thumb on the back of her hand, then murmurs back to her, "What do you mean?"

"I don't know. I just… I keep letting everyone down, and I hate it, but it's like I can't stop it. And I mean, to be honest I don't… I don't even recognize myself anymore. I used to have so much fun, and I felt so different about life… And I treated people around me so differently… And now I'm just… I don't know… I don't know why I say things, or why I do things. I don't know what I want, or what to do with my life… And I feel so… Lonely… All the damn time. But I get why I'm lonely, y'know? I mean it's true that I don't know how to be anything else besides being Noah's mum. And I'm so insensitive to other people because of that, and I keep saying things I shouldn't and I just… I look back and I realize how I pushed everyone away… How I… I don't know, I'm so tired of this. I'm just so tired of myself."

There is a pause between them, mostly because Harry's waiting for the people in front of them to settle and stop prying at their conversation. 

It's good, though, because it gives her time to catch her breath again.

And then, Harry leans deeper into his seat, still holding tightly to her hand.

"Is that how he made you feel?"

Aurora furrows her brows. "What—Who?"

"Zack. Is that how Zack made you feel?"

"I… No! Why—I mean, I'm just… I'm talking about myself." 

"Auri, c'mon… I know you're talking about yourself, but I can read between the lines."

She closes her eyes and takes her hand up to her face, rubbing her forehead while she prepares herself to just keep blurting out what her mind is begging her to tell him.

"I think…" she says, dropping her hand back to her lap and blinking. "I think he really messed me up, y'know?"

Harry sighs. 

It takes him a moment to say something. A moment that feels really, really long to her. 

And then… 

"Fuck." He puts his arm around her shoulders and pulls her to his chest, murmuring while resting his cheek on the back of her head, "I'm sorry."

She shrugs, snuggling into him and searching for his heartbeat, just like before.

"'S not your fault."

"But I should've been there for you."

"You wouldn't have known." 

"Still… This isn't how it was supposed to be." 

God, she's so tired… 

Her entire body is heavy, and she doesn't even know what's happening around them anymore. She can't even make sense of their conversation anymore. 

Harry feels too cozy, though, and she knows she's about to have the comfiest sleep of her life — she can feel it.  

"Harry?"

"Hm?"

"I got divorced six months ago."

Harry closes his eyes, then rearranges himself on his seat and pulls her closer to him.

"I know."

.

.

.

"You know? How?" 

"Niall."

"Oh. Okay?" 

"I texted him while you were getting your coffee."

She places her hands on his hips, holding her weight to pull away from him. 

Harry doesn't let her, though, squeezing her inside of his arms and locking her in. 

"Please stay," he murmurs. 

And Aurora doesn't fight him. She just relaxes again — she relaxes and listens to him. 

"You weren't wearing a ring… And I could tell something was up, so I… I asked him. That's all. Sorry if I shouldn't have, but I couldn't help it. I needed to know."

"Oh…" The concept of time is foggy inside her mind, but she's pretty sure a few seconds go by before she speaks again. "'S okay, I guess. I mean… Niall knows about the divorce, but he doesn't… He doesn't know the whole story. He doesn't know how bad it was."

"Does anyone know?"

"You?" She chuckles, but it's humorless, because she knows that not even Harry truly knows. "I just… I haven't been able to talk about it yet, or like… Process it, I think. I don't know. I keep justifying him a lot, which I'm learning it's something I shouldn't do."

He makes his cheek comfortable on top of her head, then takes one hand to play with her hair, scratching her scalp. "It can't be easy to go through something like this on your own, tho."

"I know…" She closes her eyes, appreciating his affectionate touch. "My mum's helping me a lot… She had to go back home now, but she spent over a month with me. Makes sure I don't skip therapy… Stuff like that."

"Hmm…" Harry says, and his voice echoes inside her body. "Always liked her. Smart one."

Aurora curls her mouth up. "Yeah…" 

Another moment goes by, and Aurora is filled with lightness as her body slowly drifts into sleep. 

"Thank you for telling me this, Auri."

"Mhmm… It's weird… To like, talk about it."

"I'll always listen. Whenever you want to talk about it, I'll listen."

"Thank you… 'M really tired, tho... And I think my brain is going to explode…"

Harry chuckles. "Get some sleep, yeah? I'll wake you up when we're about to land."

"'Mkay." She hugs his waist, and nuzzles against his chest. "Can't believe this all happened and we didn't even leave the country yet."

"Tell me about it."

"Mm… 'Kay… I'll sleep now… You're comfy… And I think… I feel drunk…"

Chuckling again, Harry presses a kiss on the top of her head, then slides down a bit on his seat, and she cuddles a little bit more into him.

"Ok love," he says. "You can relax now, I got you." 

And although Aurora doesn't answer, she knows he does. 

She doesn't need Harry to wake her up. 

Her brain drifts back to consciousness by itself, slowly making her aware of her surroundings way before the plane is even close to landing. 

She's warm, because of Harry's arms wrapped around her shoulders, but also because of his jacket covering her body. Her face is pressed against his shirt, and once again she's breathing from his skin. He still smells good — like a fresh shower — but now it's also mixed with a little bit of sweat, so it's somehow even better than before. 

It's hot. He's hot. Her insides feel hot.

She's also comfortable — so, so comfortable. It feels like she just took the best nap of her entire life. Like she's enveloped by a sense of calm and peace, a feeling that she doesn't want at all to end. Snuggled into his chest while his fingers keep playing with her hair, tracing random patterns on the back of her head. The movements are sweet, sweet enough to tempt her to go back to sleep. And she almost does. 

Except she can't. Not anymore. 

Because above all that, she can tell she's also kind of desperate. Clingy. Needy. Hugging his waist as if their flight landing in Italy depended on how tight her grip is. Both of her legs over his left thigh. His strong, firm thigh. She's holding onto him like a baby koala. A troubled one. A baby koala that's craving to be held by someone. Anyone. And as if she's terrified of the idea of being left behind while her mind shuts off from the real world. 

And maybe she is. Who knows.

She always liked to cuddle, and she hasn't properly cuddled in a really long time, so it's not a surprise. Still, it very quickly becomes embarrassing, and certainly not how Harry imagined things to go when, earlier in the airport, he offered his shoulder for her to take a quick nap. 

He offered his shoulder, not his entire body, for fucks sake!

So, against all wishes, Aurora stirs and groans — mostly because her mind is battling between sleeping for just two more minutes or acknowledging the reality of the world she's in — then pulls away from him. 

"Hmm…" She takes her hands up to her face, and rubs the last traces of sleepiness away from her puffy eyes, then sits back on her seat. "What time is it?" 

Next to her, Harry moves as well, withdrawing his arms from around her shoulders and placing his hands on his lap. 

"Must be around ten thirty now… Last time I checked was ten fifteen."

He sounds calm, so calm that she can't make any emotion out of his voice, so she turns her head to look at him.

Harry looks fully awake. Well rested. Peaceful. Soft. The only sign of him turning into her personal pillow are the wrinkles all over his shirt, but everything else looks… Perfect. Like heaven. He looks like heaven.   

"Hi…" He curls one side of his mouth up, and Aurora smiles, too.

"Hi…"

Only then it occurs to her that she's been staring at him, and she looks away, taking her hands to smooth out her hair then fix her dress.

"Did you sleep well?"

She nods, and takes his jacket off, instead using it like a blanket to cover her chest.

"Um, yeah… I did. Thanks. And thanks for… You know… Letting me crush on you? I mean, it probably wasn't comfortable for you, so… Yeah, thanks."

Harry scoffs, shuffling down on his seat and spreading his legs as wide open as he can. 

"Are you kidding me?" He takes both arms up and places his hands behind his head, resting on top of the palm of his hands. "You're a great cuddler. Went straight to my top five of all time."

The playfulness is clear in his words, which is why Aurora chuckles. Still, one question is loud and clear inside her mind: who are the other four great cuddlers? And most importantly, why isn't she his favorite one? 

The thoughts bring an uncomfortable feeling to her stomach, and she shifts on her seat. 

"That's kind of you to say, but you should see me during winter in the middle of the night… I'm like a baby koala and it's not a very pretty sight." 

"Huh." He smirks, and lifts his eyebrows. "Is that an offer?"

Aurora snorts and rolls her eyes, feeling her cheeks burn before she looks away. "Shut up."

Harry laughs, and just like that, everything between them goes back to normal. 

Getting into conversation with him is easy. Neither of them have seen their friends in a while, so they distract themselves by reminiscing old stories and laughing at silly things they used to do together. They also talk about Italy, about how neither of them have been to the country before, and how it's been a dream of both of them. They bond over small details, and find connections over silly things. And it's exactly what Aurora needs, as she finds out after minutes and minutes of light conversation and genuine giggles. 

It is only when they're about to land that her face falls again. 

Fully awake, the airplane movements become way more obvious than they did when taking off. And as soon as the belt sign goes on, and the pilot announces they're about to descend to Naples, Aurora's heartbeat speeds up.

She straightens up and leans her back fully against her seat, looking through the window at the bright sky. 

"Are you ok?" Harry asks. 

"Mhm…" She nods, and doesn't take her eyes off from the view. "Just… I don't like this part very much, that's all."

"Wanna hold my hand?" 

It is a nice offer, but one she doesn't think she should accept. So she doesn't. And as the plane gets closer and closer to land, every movement becomes even more clear. When it shakes, when it turns, when it's getting ready to touch the ground. 

She holds herself until the last minute. She holds herself tightly and firmly. Until it becomes too much, and one specific up and down of the airplane has her reaching for his hand.

It's like Harry is already waiting for her, to be honest, because she finds him quickly. Her sweaty and cold palm meets his warm one, and she turns her head to look at him. 

He's already watching her, and as soon as their eyes meet, his face lights up with a smile. 

Her belly quivers, and her chest tightens. 

"It'll be over in a minute," he says, squeezing her hand.

She nods, and swallows down, because it's the only thing she can do right now. She knows what he's talking about, and she knows it's true — they'll land, and everything will pass. 

Although something tells her that, whatever she's feeling right now, will not go away. It won't be over in a minute. It won't be over even when they're out and away from the plane. 

In fact, she's starting to believe that, as soon as Harry is next to her, looking at her like that, the fluttering in her stomach will never go away. 

if you've made it here, say caramel coffee :')

also, thank you for reading.

dani :)

PART THREE

[sumluckr]

At his mercy

Pairing: Niragi Suguru x female reader (toxic relationship)

Summary: You thought you could leave him. One bag, one goodbye, and you’d be free. But Niragi doesn’t do goodbyes—he does threats. Violence. Control. And when he reminds you of the tape—the one he swore would stay private—you realize just how far he’ll go to keep you his.

It’s not love. It’s ownership. And you’re too scared to run.

Warnings: emotional abuse, psychological manipulation, verbal degradation, physical violence, attempted sexual assault, non-consensual recording, blackmail involving revenge porn, and a toxic, coercive relationship dynamic.

You flinch as the door slams shut behind you with a violent bang, the sound reverberating through the tiny apartment. Your pulse jumps to your throat. Niragi stands in front of the closed door, one hand still pressed against the wood, blocking your only exit. His dark eyes burn with a dangerous mix of anger and twisted amusement. You clutch the strap of your bag tighter on your shoulder, knuckles white, as if the meager luggage could shield you from what’s coming.

“You think you’re going somewhere?” he sneers, voice low and dripping with venom. His lips curl into that cruel half-smile that always sends a chill down your spine. Tonight it only fuels your terror. Stay calm, you remind yourself, heart hammering so hard it hurts. You swallow, throat dry, and muster what little courage remains.

“I’m leaving,” you manage to say, your voice trembling despite your attempt to sound firm. The words hang in the air, scarcely louder than a whisper. It’s the first time you’ve said it aloud: I’m leaving. Two simple words, yet they carry the weight of months of fear, of countless nights spent silently crying beside him as he slept off another rage. You’ve rehearsed this moment in your head a thousand times, but now that it’s here, reality is far more terrifying than any scenario your mind conjured.

Niragi’s eyes narrow. He lets out a short, incredulous laugh—as if you just told a stupid joke. “Leaving?” he repeats, pushing off from the door. Each slow step he takes toward you feels like a predator closing in. He tilts his head, black hair falling into his eyes. That mocking grin never falters. “And where the fuck do you think you’ll go, huh?”

You instinctively step back as he advances, your back bumping into the edge of the kitchen counter. There’s nowhere else to go; the apartment is too small, and he’s effectively cornered you. The air feels thicker with each passing second, the silence between his words stretching taut. Your mouth opens and closes soundlessly as you scramble for an answer. You hadn’t planned for the conversation to go well, but a part of you hoped—prayed—he might just let you go. A foolish hope. You know better than to expect mercy from Niragi.

“Answer me,” he snaps, and you flinch again at the sudden sharpness in his tone. Niragi was always quick to anger—a volatile flame in human form—but lately he’s been a constant inferno, burning up everything in his path. Including you, you think bitterly, remembering the bruises currently blooming across your ribs from last week’s “argument.” You feel the phantom ache now as if on cue, a reminder of just how badly this can go.

“I… I’ll stay with a friend for a while,” you say quietly, forcing the words out. Even as you say it, you internally curse at how weak it sounds. You wish you could project confidence, but under Niragi’s withering gaze, you feel about two inches tall. “This isn’t working, Niragi. I c-can’t do this anymore.”

For a moment, he just stares. A deadly quiet that feels like standing on thin ice, waiting for it to crack. Then, with terrifying speed, his hand lashes out. You yelp as his fingers tangle in the front of your shirt, yanking you forward off balance. Your bag drops to the floor with a thud as you grab at his wrist instinctively, nails digging into his skin in panic.

“This isn’t working?” he parrots your words with a vicious snarl. He has you pulled so close you can smell the bitter scent of cigarettes on his breath, mingled with the lingering cologne that used to make your heart flutter and now only nauseates you. “You can’t do this anymore?” Each sentence is spit with such disdain that you shrink into yourself. His fist twists your shirt tighter, fabric cutting into your skin, making it hard to breathe.

A whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it. Your hands wrap around his forearm, not to fight—because you learned long ago that fighting him only makes things worse—but to steady yourself. Your legs feel unsteady, knees threatening to buckle as adrenaline floods your system. “Niragi… please,” you gasp, not even sure what you’re begging for. For him to calm down? For him to let go? The words are reflexive, submissive, a reaction beaten into you by the countless times you’ve been in his grasp like this.

He responds with a humorless chuckle. “Please?” he echoes, mocking. “Is that all you’ve got to say?” Niragi leans in, until his nose nearly brushes yours. Your heart stutters; you try to turn your face away, but with a swift motion he releases your shirt only to grab your chin, fingers digging painfully into your cheeks. He forces your head back up. “Look at me when you’re talking, you pathetic little bitch.”

The vulgar word lands like a slap. Not the worst he’s ever called you—God knows he’s called you worse in his rages—but it still stings. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You hate that he sees them, because it only ever excites him, fuels his twisted sense of control.

“I am looking,” you choke out, voice barely more than a broken whisper. His grip on your jaw is so tight you wonder if it will leave bruises shaped like fingerprints. It probably will, joining the galaxy of discoloration he’s painted on your skin over the months. You try to glare back at him, to summon some defiance, but it’s hard when your vision is blurring with tears and your whole body is trembling like a leaf.

Niragi’s smile widens into something truly deranged. He tilts your head a fraction to the side, examining your face—the tears, the fear he knows is there. He revels in it. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, almost softly. The sudden dip into a quieter tone is somehow even more frightening; it means he’s plotting something. “You really think you have a say in this, huh? That you can just walk out on me?” His eyes search yours, and you can’t tell if he’s expecting an answer or just enjoying the way you quake under his hold. “After everything I’ve done for you… after everything we’ve been through.”

A sick mix of rage and despair wells up in your chest at his words. Everything we’ve been through. He says it like he’s the victim here, like you owe him something for all the pain he’s caused. Typical Niragi—twist the narrative until you’re the unreasonable one. Until you’re the villain for wanting out of a relationship that is slowly killing you inside.

“I-I never asked for any of this,” you manage to say, voice shaking. Your hands grip his wrist, trying to pry his fingers off your jaw. It’s like trying to bend steel. “You’re hurting me, Niragi.” You hate how weak, how small your voice sounds. “You’re always hurting me.”

His eyes flash and for a split second, the mask slips—his expression twisting with naked fury. Then it’s gone, replaced by an icy glare. He releases your chin, only to shove you back. Hard. Your lower back collides with the edge of the counter and you cry out at the sudden pain shooting up your spine. Before you can recover, he’s on you again, pinning you against the counter with his body. The edge of the marble bites into your hip bones.

“You make it sound like I’m some kind of monster,” Niragi growls, one hand braced on the counter beside your waist, the other coming up to wrap lightly around your throat. Not quite squeezing, but the implication is clear—he could crush your windpipe in an instant if he wanted to. Your breath hitches, a strangled sound escaping as you fight the instinct to struggle or push him away. You force yourself to remain still; every muscle in your body is taut, coiled in terror. A prey frozen before a predator.

“You provoked me,” he continues, voice low and eerily calm now. “You know how I get when you act out. But you do it anyway. And now you want to leave? After everything?” He tuts under his breath as if scolding a misbehaving child. “Ungrateful. That’s what you are.”

Your vision swims with hot tears of frustration and fear. Hearing him twist it like this, blaming you for his own violence, it ignites a spark of anger through the fear. “I’m not ungrateful,” you whisper, but the words come out choked with the pressure at your neck. Your fingers curl around his hand where it rests at your throat. You don’t try to pull it away—you’re too afraid any movement might make him tighten his grip—but it’s an instinct, holding onto the wrist that could end you. “Please, just… let me go, Niragi.”

He scoffs. “Let you go?” he repeats, lifting one eyebrow. “Now why the fuck would I do that?” He leans in even closer, his forehead almost touching yours. You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment; you can’t bear the intensity of his glare. You feel his breath against your lips as he speaks. “So you can run off and spread your legs for some other guy? Huh? That what you want, you little slut?”

Your eyes snap open at the crude accusation, shock and indignation flaring within you. “W-What? No!” You shake your head as much as his hold allows. “I just… I just want to be safe. I can’t live like this, always scared of you—”

He cuts you off with a sudden squeeze of his hand around your throat, not enough to fully choke but enough to silence you. Panic surges; your hands fly to his, nails digging in. Air becomes a precious commodity you can barely draw in. Niragi’s face is inches from yours, and his eyes are wild. “You should be scared,” he hisses. “Maybe I haven’t made you scared enough if you still think you can leave.”

He loosens his grip just slightly and you suck in a ragged breath, coughing. Fresh tears spill over, tracking down your cheeks. Your entire body is shaking uncontrollably now. “Please…” you croak out again. It’s all you can think to say. Perhaps begging will calm him, soften him—though experience tells you it might just as easily feed his ego.

Niragi’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. He looks almost contemplative for a second. His hand leaves your throat, and you suck in more air greedily, coughing. But the relief is short-lived. He grabs your shoulder and spins you, shoving you forward. Your hips hit the counter and your chest lands against the cool surface as he presses up against your back, trapping you. One of his arms pins the small of your back, arching you awkwardly against the countertop.

Your cheek is pressed to the cold marble now, tears pooling where your face rests. You feel him lean over you, his lips ghosting by your ear. “You think some friend is going to take you in, just like that?” he murmurs, voice dripping with disdainful sweetness. “That you’ll get a fresh start? Start a new life without me? How fucking cute.”

His free hand snakes down and you suddenly feel it lifting the hem of your shirt, just enough for his fingers to graze the small of your back, just above your waistband. You jolt, instincts screaming. “No—” you gasp, trying to wriggle free, but his body weighs you down firmly.

“Sshh,” he whispers, almost gentle if not for the malice beneath it. “Remember this?” His fingers trace a slow, taunting circle on your skin. Goosebumps erupt across your flesh, a nauseating mix of revulsion and the ghost of what used to be pleasure. There was a time when his touch made you shiver with excitement and love. Now it just makes you sick with fear. “Remember all those nights you begged me to touch you? How you said you’d be mine forever?”

Your stomach churns. “Niragi, stop,” you plead, voice cracking. This is a side of him you hoped wouldn’t surface tonight—the cruelly seductive side that blurs lines and makes you doubt yourself. Toxic intimacy, that’s what the counselor you secretly started seeing had called it. The way he can mix tenderness with terror until you can’t tell up from down. Right now, feeling his breath on your neck, his fingers lightly stroking your skin as he’s effectively holding you down—it’s exactly that. Toxic, and terrifying, and confusing as hell. Part of your brain goes numb, dissociating, like it’s the only way to cope.

He chuckles when you don’t respond beyond a whimper. “What? Now you have nothing to say? A minute ago you were so eager to leave.” His hand suddenly slips lower, fingers dipping just under the waistband of your pants at the back, a barely-there touch that nonetheless makes your whole body go rigid. “You should be grateful I’m even still interested after you pulling this shit.” He presses his hips against your ass and you feel the hard outline of him through both your clothes. A disgusted sob catches in your throat. No, no, no… not like this. Not to keep you from leaving.

Your mind races. If he rapes you now, you think you might break entirely. But Niragi is unpredictable; maybe this is just another way to scare you. He’s done it before—taken things right to the brink of that line, just to see you panic, then backed off with a laugh as if your fear alone is enough satisfaction. You pray that’s the case now.

“Niragi,” you sob out, “please… don’t do this. I-I won’t go, okay? I’ll stay. Just… please…” The words tumble out in a desperate rush. You’re shaking violently, humiliation and dread washing over you. Begging him not to violate you, agreeing to whatever he wants just to escape this moment. How did it come to this? God, how did I ever end up here?

Your agreement seems to give him pause. He stills, and for a second, all you hear is your own ragged breathing and his, harsh and hot against your ear. After an agonizing heartbeat, he releases the pressure on your back and steps back, yanking you upright by the arm. Your head spins as you’re pulled off the counter and shoved back around to face him.

You stumble, catching yourself on the edge of the sink. Your hands grip the counter behind you to steady yourself. Fresh tears blur your sight, but through them you see Niragi watching you intently, chest heaving with adrenaline. A wicked smirk dances on his lips. He’s in control, and he knows it. The power imbalance between you has never felt more crushingly real than in this moment.

“You’ll stay?” he repeats slowly, as if savoring the words. He reaches out and brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, a grotesque parody of a loving gesture. You flinch at the touch. He tuts. “Look at you. Such a fucking mess.” His hand drifts, cradling your cheek almost tenderly now. But you know better; there’s nothing tender left when it comes to Niragi. “Who do you think will want you when you’re like this, hm? You think anyone else would put up with your bullshit? Only I can.”

“I…” You want to scream that anyone would be better than him, that you’d rather be alone forever than spend another second with his hands on you. But the words die in your throat. You’re exhausted, terrified, and still reeling from the near assault. And there’s the flicker of warning in his eyes—you know if you defy him now, he’ll make good on every threat, maybe worse. So you nod faintly, an almost imperceptible dip of your chin. “I’ll stay,” you whisper, voice hollow.

Niragi beams, and the sight is chilling. It’s the smile of a predator who knows his prey has given up. His hands slide down to your shoulders, then your arms, and he pulls you into him abruptly. It’s not a hug; it’s a claim. You’re stiff as a board in his embrace, hands trapped awkwardly between your bodies. He wraps one arm around your back, the other hand tangling in your hair at the nape of your neck. You feel his fingers tighten, not enough to hurt, but enough to hold you in place as you turn your face away from him.

“You made the right choice,” he murmurs against your temple. He sounds almost gentle, almost human—if not for the sick satisfaction underneath. “See what happens when you don’t fight me, baby? Things get so much easier.” He presses a chaste kiss to your temple and you shut your eyes, more tears leaking out at the grotesque normalcy of the act. As if he isn’t still squeezing you against him like a vice.

He draws back slightly, enough to look down into your face. His hand releases your hair to cup your chin again, tilting your head up. You’re too drained to resist this time. You meet his gaze, eyes red and wide with misery. Niragi sighs dramatically. “You know I hate seeing you cry,” he says, clicking his tongue. “But you brought this on yourself.”

There it is. The classic blame shift. You almost feel a dark, hysterical laugh rising in your chest at how predictable he is. He’s broken you down, made you agree to stay, and now he’s going to pretend this was all your fault. The anger sparks again faintly inside you, but it’s buried under so much fatigue and fear that it barely glows.

“You shouldn’t have tried to leave me,” Niragi continues, thumb stroking your cheek. He looks almost bored now, like he’s already over this whole drama and just wants to wrap it up neatly. “Do you realize how fucking stupid that was?” His tone is conversational, which somehow makes the words cut deeper. “You really thought I’d just let you waltz out and disappear? After all the fun we’ve had?”

You grit your teeth, a flash of resentment in your eyes. He notices—the slight change in your expression—and his hand drops from your face. Before you can blink, a sharp crack echoes in the kitchen. It takes a second to register the burning pain on your cheek. He slapped you. Hard. You reel, catching yourself on the counter again, a cry of shock spilling from your lips.

Any ember of defiance is instantly snuffed out by the sting radiating through the side of your face. Your cheek throbs, and you taste blood—your teeth must have cut the inside of your cheek. A frightened sob hiccups out of you as you raise a trembling hand to cover the swollen skin. Niragi flexes his fingers as if the slap was nothing more than swatting a fly, and in his mind, maybe it was.

“Don’t give me that look,” he says coldly. All hint of feigned affection is gone from his face, wiped clean by that familiar cruelty. “You think I didn’t see that? You’re still thinking of defying me?” He shakes his head slowly, clicking his tongue. “You really are a dumb little whore.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out quickly, instinctively. Your voice cracks on a sob. “I’m sorry… I wasn’t—” You cut yourself off, swallowing hard. Your cheek hurts so much, and you can feel it heating under your palm. But worse is the humiliation washing over you. He’s right; you had looked at him with anger, and he saw it. You should know better by now. Don’t antagonize him further, you chide yourself. You can’t afford pride or anger. Not when he’s like this.

Niragi watches you with a smug satisfaction as you apologize. The tears, the quivering lip, the hand cradling your cheek—it all seems to appease him, as if he’s thinking That’s more like it. “Good girl,” he purrs mockingly, confirming your suspicion. His hand snakes out and he pats your cheek—the same one he just slapped—lightly, patronizingly. You flinch at the contact, a fresh tear slipping free.

His touch drifts from your cheek down to your neck, then your shoulder. He picks at the strap of your fallen bag with two fingers. “So eager to run away,” he mutters, flicking the strap disdainfully. “You even packed your shit, huh?” His eyes roam to the small duffel bag that lies spilled open on the floor where it fell when he first grabbed you. A few clothes have tumbled out—your pathetic attempt at an escape plan laid bare.

Niragi’s gaze hardens at the sight of it. “You really thought you could just fuck off in the middle of the night without me noticing?” he asks, voice deceptively calm. “Did you think I’m that stupid, or are you just that pathetic?”

“I… I was going to tell you,” you lie weakly. Maybe if he thinks you weren’t trying to fully ghost him, it’ll soothe his pride somewhat. “I left a note…” In truth, you did write one—it’s still folded in your jacket pocket, because you lost your nerve to leave it on the table when you realized you had to face him anyway.

He barks out a laugh. “A note. How thoughtful.” He abruptly releases you, stepping away just enough to stoop and snatch up the strewn clothes and the bag. You stand there shaking, watching as he shoves everything back into the bag with violent motions. “You know what I would’ve done if I came home and found you gone?” he asks, not looking up as he zips the duffel shut with a harsh yank.

Your blood runs cold at the implications. You can’t answer, mouth dry and lips numb.

He straightens up, holding the bag in one hand. “I would’ve tracked you down,” he says simply. Then he lobs the bag across the room. It smashes into the wall with a thud, then drops to the floor, likely knocking over a lamp or something in its path. You jump at the sudden movement, heart in your throat.

“I would’ve hunted you like a dog,” Niragi continues, voice casual but his eyes are alight with that terrifying fervor. “Dragged you back here. And then…” He steps toward you again, his hand sliding into his back pocket. When it emerges, you see the glint of his phone in his palm. He holds it up, wagging it slightly. “…then I would have hit ‘send.’”

A chill colder than anything you’ve felt tonight settles in your gut. “Send…?” you echo faintly. But you already know. Somehow, you’ve known deep down he had an ace up his sleeve, something he was holding over you. You’ve felt it in the smug way he sometimes mentioned how much you “enjoyed yourself last weekend,” or how he joked that you should be careful with what you let him film on his phone. Every time, he’d said it with a grin that made you uneasy. Now the full horror of it dawns on you.

Niragi’s thumb lazily strokes the phone screen. The device lights up, and you catch a brief glimpse of a video thumbnail—bright skin tones tangled in sheets, the image too small and fleeting to see clearly but you know exactly what it is. Your stomach lurches.

“No…” The word is barely a breath. Your hands fly to your mouth as if to hold back the wave of nausea. “Niragi, please…”

He beams at your reaction, delighted. “Oh, yes,” he purrs. “You bet your ass I still have that video. Did you forget about our little movie night?” Of course you haven’t forgotten. It was one of the rare times he was in a good mood, playful and charming, convincing you it would be sexy to film yourselves. You’d been reluctant, but he’d coaxed you along with honeyed words and promises. And desperate to please him, to maybe capture some semblance of normal, loving intimacy, you’d given in. How naive you’d been.

Niragi tilts the phone so you can see it better. Sure enough, paused on the screen is an image of your own face, flushed and eyes half-lidded in pleasure, lips parted in a moan. Your heart stops. The you on the screen looks lost in ecstasy. You remember that night—how he made sure you were a drunken, pliant mess before turning the camera on you. He’d kept the angle mostly on your face and body, never showing his own beyond a stray hand or his voice coaxing you. It could be anyone behind the camera, but it’s undeniably you in that video.

“I was wondering when to bring this up,” Niragi says thoughtfully, as if discussing the weather. “Thought I’d save it for a special occasion.” He locks eyes with you, and there’s pure malice there. “Like my girlfriend turning into a disloyal little cunt and trying to abandon me.”

A strangled cry leaves your throat. Your knees nearly give out, and you grasp the counter for support. “Niragi… you can’t… please, not that,” you beg, voice ragged. The humiliation alone would kill you—if he sends that video to your friends, your coworkers, your family… oh god. Your blood roars in your ears with panic. “I-I’ll do anything, just please don’t send it.”

“Anything?” His eyebrow arches, and he approaches again, stalking forward until you’re cornered against the sink. He holds the phone up next to his face, a silent threat. “You know, I was ready to hit send the moment you walked out that door.” He nods toward the entrance—the one he still stands between and where your freedom died the moment he slammed it shut. “I have it all set up. One tap, and boom…” He smirks, “…gone viral. Your pretty tits and that sweet little voice of yours moaning my name, all over the fucking internet. Imagine that.”

You gag on a sob, pressing a fist to your mouth. It’s your worst nightmare come to life. He’s not bluffing; you can tell by the calm conviction in his tone. “Please… you can’t do that to me,” you whimper. “That would ruin me…”

Niragi clicks his tongue. “Aw, ruin you? You mean ruin your reputation?” He leans in, lips brushing your ear as he whispers, “What will your friends think? Your boss? Daddy dearest? Think they’d still see their sweet little girl the same way after seeing her take it up the ass on camera?”

A sob catches in your chest. You remember that night vividly now, in stark, horrifying detail. The things he talked you into doing on video… things you never would have agreed to if you were sober. You’d trusted him and he… he was planning to use it like this all along, wasn’t he? How could you have been so blind?

“Niragi,” you cry, openly sobbing now. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I tried to leave. I won’t, I swear I won’t. Just… please, please don’t send that. I… I’ll do whatever you want.” You’re fully begging now, pride shattered, clinging to his shirt as you sob. This is what he’s reduced you to: a pleading, terrified shell of yourself.

He exhales in a pleased sigh and wraps an arm around you, pulling you into him as if to console you. “Shh, don’t cry,” he coos, wiping a tear with his thumb again. “You know I don’t want to do it, baby. All I ever wanted was you. All I want is for you to stay with me, be mine. Is that so hard?” His tone is almost comforting, as if he’s the reasonable one. “Why do you make me go to such extremes, huh?”

He cradles you against his chest, rocking slightly. You feel numb, dissociated, like you’re watching someone else break down in his arms. This isn’t you—this broken, sobbing woman clinging to an abuser. But it is. It’s what he’s made you.

“You… you don’t have to,” you manage weakly against his chest. “I’ll stay. I won’t fight you. Just… put the phone down, please.” Your voice hitches on every other syllable. It’s a humiliating display, but dignity means nothing right now compared to what he could do with that video.

Niragi strokes your hair, petting you like one would a pet that just learned a difficult lesson. “Good girl,” he murmurs, satisfaction saturating every syllable. He finally lowers the phone, tucking it back into his pocket. But his other arm remains around you like a steel band. “See? Was that so hard? All you had to do was promise to behave.”

Relief and despair war within you. The immediate threat is gone—he’s not sending it right this second. But the larger threat remains, looming over every second of your future. He has that tape. He has it and he’ll use it to keep you leash-tight. You aren’t free. You might never be, not unless…

Your thoughts spiral desperately. Not unless you get that phone. Destroy it. But he probably has backups. A cloud account, something. He’s not stupid. If you ever try to take it, he’ll know. And then… you shudder to think what he’d do.

Niragi pulls back enough to look at you again. “You’re thinking awfully hard,” he remarks, eyes narrowing slightly. You quickly avert your gaze, knowing he’s adept at reading you. The last thing you need is him suspecting you’re plotting anything.

“I-I’m just… trying to calm down,” you lie, wiping at your eyes. Your whole face hurts—your cheek from the slap, your eyes from crying, your throat from choking back sobs. You probably look as wrecked as you feel. “This is… a lot.”

He regards you for a moment, then surprisingly, he nods. “Yeah. It is a lot. You fucking stressed me out, you know.” The way he says it, you almost want to laugh at the absurdity. You stressed him out by trying to quietly remove yourself from his life. But you bite your tongue. “I come home and see you ready to bolt… Not cool.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again, lowering your head. Your voice is hoarse from crying. “I didn’t mean to—”

He cuts you off, lifting your chin with a finger. He searches your face with dark, probing eyes. “Why’d you do it?” he asks suddenly, a sharp edge beneath the casual tone. “You that unhappy, or did someone put you up to it?”

You blink, confusion filtering through your exhaustion. “What? No, nobody— I’m just… I’m tired, Niragi.” Your voice trembles as you admit it. “I’m scared all the time. I… I can’t even recognize myself anymore.”

His jaw ticks. For a second something like hurt flashes in his eyes, but you don’t trust it. Could be anger, could be twisted pride, could be him playing victim. “So you thought running would solve it? You know you’re mine,” he says, almost quietly. The softness in his voice is laced with iron. “You belong to me. We belong to each other. You trying to break that…” He sighs, almost dramatically, then his hand suddenly fists in your hair at the back of your head, jerking your head back, forcing you to look up at him with a gasp. He looms over you, expression hardened again. “That’s the ultimate fucking betrayal.”

You wince, scalp burning where he’s tugging your hair. “I didn’t want to betray you,” you rasp, hands coming up to grip his wrist, not that it helps. “I just… I didn’t know what else to do. I was afraid.”

“You should be,” he snaps, eyes flashing. He loosens his grip on your hair just slightly, enough to stop the pain but still hold you. “But you should be more afraid of what happens if you try that shit again.”

“I am,” you assure quickly, chest heaving. “I am, Niragi. I won’t… I won’t do it again.” The words taste like ash. Each one a capitulation that sinks you deeper into this hell, but what choice do you have?

He seems to accept that. He releases your hair, smoothing it almost kindly right after, as if to soothe the ache he caused. The gesture is so jarringly normal you almost want to scream. Instead you just stand there, pinned by his hips against the counter, arms limp at your sides now, defeated.

A thick silence falls. You stare over his shoulder at the wall, dissociating a little as he simply holds you. Your mind flits to absurd details—the digital clock on the microwave blinking 12:07 AM, the faint drip of the kitchen faucet that needs fixing, the smell of burnt coffee lingering from the morning. Mundane things that almost make this feel like a regular night, if not for the fact that you’re trembling in the arms of the man who just blackmailed and battered you into compliance.

Finally, Niragi speaks, breaking the silence. “Clean up this mess,” he says, voice brusque but calmer. He nods toward the strewn items, the tipped lamp, the general chaos that ensued. “Then we’re going to bed.”

Your stomach twists. The idea of lying next to him right now—of possibly being expected to do more than lie there—makes you want to crawl out of your skin. But you nod silently. Arguing is pointless. Your compliance tonight bought you a temporary peace; you can’t shatter it now, or all of this will have been for nothing.

He steps back fully, finally granting you some personal space. Your legs are so shaky you worry they’ll give out. You gingerly lower yourself to a crouch to pick up a shirt that fell from your bag, partly just to disguise the fact that your knees are buckling. Niragi watches you from a few feet away, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, that ever-present smirk ghosting his lips as you obey him. You work in silence, hastily shoving the clothes back into the bag and righting the fallen lamp. The lampshade is dented, but it’s a small miracle it didn’t break.

As you zip the bag up properly and set it by the closet, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirrored door. The reflection is almost unrecognizable: eyes red and swollen, makeup smeared, hair disheveled, cheek flaming red with a handprint. A pathetic, broken girl. You swallow hard and look away, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from crying again.

Niragi pushes off the wall and comes up behind you. He meets your gaze in the mirror, his chin hooking over your shoulder. You go perfectly still, heart thudding. His arms snake around your waist from behind, and he pulls you flush against him. In the mirror it looks almost like an affectionate embrace. But your eyes are drawn to the image of your face, streaked with tears, and his face beside it: calm, satisfied, utterly lacking remorse. A monster holding his prey.

“See?” he murmurs, nuzzling into your neck as his eyes bore into the reflection. “We’re together. Like it’s supposed to be.” One of his hands rises to rest between your breasts, not groping, just feeling the rapid beat of your heart beneath your sternum. “No more running, baby.”

You nod shakily, not trusting your voice. He presses a kiss to your neck, watching you in the mirror with that possessive gleam. “You’re mine,” he whispers, and your eyes shut as a tear slips down your cheek.

His hand slides back down to your waist and he turns you around to face him. You keep your gaze down, unable to look at him right now without crumbling. Niragi hooks a finger under your chin once more, lifting your face. “Hey,” he says, surprisingly gentle. “No more tears, yeah? I’ll forgive you for this little stunt, but you gotta earn my trust back.”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek until you taste blood, forcing back the torrent of emotions threatening to pour out. “Okay,” you whisper. “I’ll… I’ll earn it back.”

He smiles, seemingly satisfied. He then gestures toward the bedroom. “Go on. I’ll be right there.”

You hesitate only a second, then move on autopilot, eager to be away from his suffocating presence even if only for a minute. As you pass him, he gives your ass a light smack—a gesture so casually objectifying that it makes you flinch—and he chuckles under his breath. You feel his eyes on you as you walk down the short hall to the bedroom.

Inside, the darkness is heavy. You flick on the bedside lamp and the soft glow illuminates the familiar space that suddenly feels alien and unsafe. The bed, which once held sweeter memories of tender mornings, is now just another place to fear. You sit on the edge of it, hands clasped tightly in your lap to hide their shaking, and stare at the floor.

Your mind is a storm of despair, anger, and a faint thread of something like resolve. Maybe it’s your survival instinct refusing to fully die out. This isn’t forever, you tell yourself internally, clinging to that thought like a lifeline. I will find a way out. Not tonight, but someday. It’s a silent promise you make to yourself as you hear Niragi’s footsteps approaching down the hall.

He appears in the doorway, the hulking silhouette of your nightmare. You force a weak smile onto your face, a pitiful attempt at normalcy, as he steps into the room. “Good girl,” he mutters as he shuts the door behind him, enclosing you both in that room for the night.

Your heart sinks but you keep that thin thread of resolve wound tight around your heart. One day, somehow, you’ll escape this. But for now, as Niragi comes forward and pushes you back onto the bed, crawling over you with a predatory grace, you do the only thing you can to survive: you endure.

And in the darkness, you pray that enduring is enough to keep the last shards of your soul intact until you can finally break free.

[letthemkook]

♡THE PANTHEON SERIES: AMORENT P.JM♡

Pairing: Eros!Jimin x Maiden OC (You as Evadne)

Theme: Divine obsession, reluctant romance, immortality vs mortality, possession disguised as affection

Genre: Dark fantasy, mythological romance, psychological drama

Warnings: Yandere behavior, emotional manipulation, divine coercion, obsession, non-graphic dubcon implications, power imbalance, eventual SMUT

Intro: He heard her song in the forest and followed, unseen. She sang for no one, yet he listened like it was a prayer. Eros does not fall — he chooses. And once chosen, she would never be free of him

*·˚ ༘ ➳ ♡

Part 1: Of Honey and Hemlock

The forest knew her name.

It wasn’t something Evadne ever questioned—how the leaves rustled gentler when she passed, how birds would draw near instead of flee, or how the stream’s current softened whenever her bare feet touched its edge. She had grown up in these woods, tucked just beyond the olive grove that separated her tiny village from the wilder realm. And every morning, she came here to sing.

She sang as the sun kissed the branches. Songs passed down from her mother, songs in praise of Demeter and Artemis, and songs she wove herself from dreams and longing. Her voice was clear and warm, edged with a melancholy softness that made the wind forget to blow and the deer stop mid-step.

On this particular morning, Evadne’s voice lifted with a lullaby her mother used to hum when her father still carried strength in his bones.

“Mighty gods of earth and sky,

hear the cry of mortal breath,

give us peace before we die,

shield us from the arms of death…”

Her voice broke at the final note, just slightly. She clutched the fold of her dress and blinked hard. She hadn’t meant to sing that one. Not today. Not after the night her father coughed so violently the oil lamp flickered and spat its flame in fear.

Behind a column of trees, cloaked in shadow and divine silence, the god of love stood watching.

Eros had not meant to enter the mortal plane that day. He had been drifting, half-bored and petulant after a quarrel with his mother, Aphrodite. Olympus reeked of indulgence and cruelty, and he wanted none of it. He had meant to fly over the mortal world, to toy with the hearts of kings or seduce a priestess out of curiosity.

But then he had heard it.

A song, laced with ache and grace, floating across the veil between realms. It pierced him—not with one of his own arrows, but something deeper. Something older. By the time he found the source, he had shed his wings and taken on the form of a mortal man, just to approach without alarming her.

She was unlike anything he had seen. Her beauty, yes—mortals would call her breathtaking, radiant, touched by divinity. But what struck him most was her soul. It bled into her music, colored her every movement. Her sorrow wasn’t bitter. It was soft, devotional. And it made him want her in a way that felt more dangerous than any conquest.

He watched her tuck her shawl around her shoulders and make her way back toward the village, the basket on her arm empty save for a single plucked daisy. Eros followed, unseen.

Evadne didn’t know she had caught the attention of a god. She had other things to worry about.

Her father, Lysandros, lay pale and weak in the corner of their clay home. She knelt beside him, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead.

“You must stop singing in the mist,” he rasped, voice raw. “The forest will catch your voice and never give it back.”

She smiled softly. “Then at least something would remember me.”

He grunted, coughing. Evadne gently lifted his head to sip water and adjusted his blanket.

In the village, Evadne was known as the most beautiful maiden—though she hated the title. It made her a magnet for men she had no interest in. Suitors spoke her name like it was a prize, never a person. And yet none of them visited when her father fell ill. None of them stayed when she wept at the healer’s door and received only bitter herbs.

After washing the cloth, Evadne made her way to the market to purchase fruit. Her fingers brushed apricots and figs, her eyes calculating every coin. But she couldn’t move far without being stopped.

“Evadne,” crooned Theros, a butcher’s son. “You must try the honey I made.”

“No, thank you.”

“You wound me.”

Another voice—Pelios, the stonemason. “My father says you need a man to help you with your father. I am offering myself. Generously.”

“I decline. Generously.”

Their smiles twisted. Their voices sharpened.

“Think you’re too good for us?”

“She wants a prince, not a real man.”

Evadne turned her back on them. Her throat felt tight.

From a distance, leaning against a whitewashed column, Eros watched.

He saw the tilt of her chin, the stubborn grace with which she walked, the tremor in her fingertips. He wanted to scorch every man who dared speak to her that way. But she didn’t need fire yet.

She needed gentleness.

The next morning, Evadne opened her door to find a delicate silver comb resting on the threshold. It was shaped like a swan, the feathers carved so finely they caught the light like real plumage. A note, unsigned, read: For your hair, which puts the stars to shame.

She furrowed her brow and tucked the comb into a drawer without a second thought.

The next gift was a string of pearls, each one more luminous than anything found in the village market. Again, she refused it.

And again. And again.

A bracelet of sunstone. A cloak of woven crimson silk. Perfume in a glass vial that smelled like night-blooming jasmine. Each time, she returned the gift or left it untouched, confused but resolute. She did not want to owe any man anything. Not even kindness.

Eros began to ache. Not from rejection—he had never been refused anything in his immortal life—but from how carefully she guarded her heart. It made him furious at mortals. It made him ravenous.

He watched her from behind temple pillars, from treetops, from the shadows of her own home. And one day, he heard her singing again—but softer, cracked.

“If you see me, O gods above,

don’t send a prince or foolish love…

send me a cure, a drop of grace,

to keep my father in this place…”

She stopped. Her shoulders shook. And then she fell to her knees and prayed.

Eros swallowed something sharp in his throat. He had brought the wrong gifts. She didn’t want beauty or wealth. She wanted healing.

That night, he left behind a wrapped bundle of rare, enchanted root from the slopes of Mount Ida—mixed with ambrosia and fennel, known to ease fevers and slow the spread of illness. He placed it by her window with no note.

He returned, cloaked again as a mortal, to watch her reaction. But before he could see her reach the window, he heard shouting.

A man—one of the suitors from before—had cornered her behind the well.

“Stop pushing me!” she cried.

“You’ve had too many chances to be grateful!” the man snarled.

Eros saw red.

He did not draw his bow. He did not need it.

The air thickened. The earth quaked, subtly at first, then harder. The suitor’s hands flew from her arms as he stumbled back, mouth gaping in confusion. His eyes rolled back as invisible pressure crushed his chest—not enough to kill, but enough to paralyze.

“Touch her again,” Eros said, stepping forward with eyes glowing gold, “and I will reduce your name to dust.”

The man collapsed.

Evadne stared at the stranger with wide, trembling eyes. The golden shimmer in his gaze faded, replaced by something soft—concern, maybe. Or hunger disguised as affection.

She turned and ran.

He did not chase her.

But he appeared again that evening, standing at the edge of the grove with the bundle of medicine in his outstretched hand.

“You prayed,” he said, gently. “They listened.”

⸻

Evadne stared at the man in the grove.

The sun had begun to fall behind the hills, casting golden light over the olives and setting fire to the edges of his silhouette. He looked otherworldly like that—unreal, even. His dark hair caught the light like polished bronze, and his eyes, though now gentled, still flickered with something she didn’t understand.

And in his hand, the bundle of herbs.

She recognized the scent at once. Fennel, thyme, wrapped in linen with something far rarer beneath it—something resinous and sweet, like nectar and crushed laurel. She stepped closer, cautious.

“Where did you find this?” she asked, her voice low.

He smiled, but not in a way she trusted. “A place beyond your maps.”

She didn’t know whether to call him a liar or a miracle.

“You were there this morning,” she said instead, the tremble still in her voice. “You hurt that man.”

“I protected you,” he replied.

“No one asked you to.”

His expression faltered—only for a moment. “No,” he said. “But I heard you ask for help. And I answered.”

Evadne didn’t know how to respond. Her hands itched to take the medicine. She had no reason to believe it would work—but her heart told her it might. Still, this man… he made her feel like she was standing at the edge of a storm.

“Who are you?” she asked.

His smile returned, slower this time. “A friend.”

“I don’t know you.”

“Yet,” he said. Then held the bundle forward again. “Take it. For your father. No strings.”

That was a lie.

But Evadne didn’t know that yet.

She took the gift, hesitantly, her fingers brushing his. A strange warmth coiled through her wrist at the touch, like her blood had heated under her skin. She shivered and stepped back.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

His eyes darkened, not in menace but in desire. She didn’t see it—how his gaze lingered on her lips, how tightly he held his hands behind his back to stop himself from reaching out and tucking a curl behind her ear.

“You’re welcome, Evadne.”

Her breath caught. “I never told you my name.”

He tilted his head. “Didn’t you?”

And then he was gone.

⸻

The next morning, her father’s fever broke.

Evadne wept into his blanket when he opened his eyes with clarity for the first time in days. He sipped broth. He smiled. And he even joked about how she must have threatened the gods to make them listen.

She hadn’t told him where the herbs came from. Part of her didn’t want to. Part of her didn’t know how to explain.

The man—whoever he was—had vanished as mysteriously as he arrived. But she could still feel the echo of his presence in her house, like a scent that lingered too long. She hoped, selfishly, that he wouldn’t return.

He did.

That evening, she found a small box by her door. Inside, a carved figurine of Artemis in a hunting stance, flawless in detail, sculpted from ivory and set with eyes of lapis lazuli. It was beautiful. It was excessive.

And it terrified her.

She brought it back to the woods and left it where he had first appeared.

That night, she sang again—alone, or so she thought.

Behind her, Eros crouched on a branch, watching with parted lips. Her voice was softer now, less sorrowful. Still lovely. Still aching. He wanted her to sing for him alone.

He wanted—

The feeling struck him hard.

Possession.

Not the playful flirtation he felt for queens or priestesses. Not the amusement he gained from watching mortals fall in love. This was something ancient. This was claiming.

He thought of binding her wrists in silk and making her recite his name until her voice trembled. He thought of dressing her in nothing but starlight and keeping her in a temple carved from rose quartz. He thought of building a world where no man could look at her without dying for it.

He closed his eyes and exhaled.

He would wait.

For now.

⸻

Days passed.

She thought maybe he was gone for good. Life resumed its fragile rhythm. Her father healed slowly. She returned to the market, but she watched every shadow.

Eros did not appear.

He left no gifts.

But he watched.

She never saw the hawk that perched on the roof. Or the white rose that bloomed in winter behind her window. She didn’t notice how every man who spoke of her with lust fell sick for three days without explanation. She didn’t hear the whisperings of the gods growing uneasy.

Because Eros had never acted like this before.

On Olympus, Aphrodite leaned back on her throne and sipped pomegranate wine.

“You’re obsessed,” she said.

“She is mine,” Eros replied.

“Then why haven’t you taken her?”

“I want her to want me.”

Aphrodite laughed, too loudly. “Foolish boy. Love isn’t about patience. You make them want you. That’s the whole point.”

“She’s different.”

“She’s mortal.”

“She’s mine.”

Aphrodite shrugged. “Then claim her. Before someone else does.”

⸻

One night, Evadne returned home late. The market had been busy, and her father had insisted she take her time. As she climbed the steps to their home, she felt it again—that flicker of warmth, like eyes on her skin.

She turned.

He was there.

Sitting beside her door, barehanded, no gift this time. Just him. Mortal-looking. Gentle.

“You’re following me,” she said flatly.

“I never left.”

Evadne’s spine stiffened. “Then leave now.”

He didn’t.

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“Not even thanks for healing your father?”

“That wasn’t you. That was the gods.”

He smiled faintly. “I am the gods.”

She froze.

Something in his voice changed. No longer playful. No longer soft. Just truth.

“Eros,” he said.

The name tasted like honey and fire in the air. Her lips parted, disbelief flickering across her face.

“You’re lying.”

“Would you rather I said I was a man, just to comfort you?”

She took a step back.

“You can’t be—”

“Why do you think your heart races when I come near?”

“It doesn’t—”

“You think I didn’t hear you sing to me?” he asked softly, stepping closer. “You called, Evadne. I listened. I always do.”

She stared at him, terrified.

“I want nothing from you,” she said.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t.”

“I think,” he whispered, “you want someone to choose you. Not because you’re beautiful. But because they see you.”

He stepped closer.

“I see you.”

She bolted.

⸻

She didn’t remember how far she ran—only that her lungs burned, her sandals slipped in the dirt, and her heart thundered in her ears like war drums. Branches clawed at her arms. The forest that once knew her name now loomed like a stranger.

She stumbled over a root, fell, scraped her hands.

When she tried to rise, a hand caught hers.

“Don’t,” she gasped, struggling.

“It’s me,” came his voice, low and careful. “I won’t hurt you.”

“You already have.”

Eros knelt before her. His form blurred in the moonlight—not quite man, not quite god. There was a shimmer around his shoulders, a tension in the air like the moment before lightning.

“I told you,” he murmured. “I answered your prayer. That’s all.”

“You lied to me.”

“No,” he said. “I disguised myself. That’s not the same.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

He touched her cheek. She flinched. His brow furrowed.

“You don’t trust me yet,” he whispered. “That’s all right. You will.”

“You think you can follow me, spy on me, control my life and I’ll fall into your arms because you healed my father?”

He said nothing.

“You’re a god,” she said, voice shaking. “You could have anyone.”

“I don’t want anyone,” he said, softly, fervently. “I want you.”

“Why?”

“Because you sing like you’ve never known love,” he said. “Because you care for your father as if your own body were breaking in his place. Because you rebuff men who speak to you like you’re a trophy. Because your sadness makes even the stars grieve. I watched you, Evadne, and I felt.”

He leaned closer, his lips inches from hers.

“For the first time in centuries, I felt something I couldn’t name.”

Her voice trembled. “That’s not love.”

His eyes flickered gold again. “I am love itself. If that is not love I will rearrange the cosmos until it so.”

He reached for something behind him. A small clay pot, sealed and marked with divine script. He placed it before her on the mossy ground.

“Medicine,” he said. “Real medicine. Enough to ensure your father survives the winter.”

She stared at it.

“Take it,” he added. “There’s no catch.”

“There’s always a catch with gods.”

“Not with me,” he said. “Not with you.”

She hesitated.

He studied her expression. “You think I’m cruel.”

“I think you’re dangerous.”

“I am,” he admitted, his voice silk. “But not to you.”

She reached out with shaking hands and took the jar.

The moment her fingers brushed the cool clay, something shifted.

A tether snapped into place between them—unseen but binding. Eros felt it coil around his ribs like a ribbon. She had accepted something from him freely now. That was all the permission he needed.

He stood slowly.

“I won’t touch you again without your consent,” he said.

Evadne looked up at him warily. “Do I have your word?”

“You have more than that,” he said. “You have my oath. My vow. My obsession.”

Her blood turned cold.

He smiled, but it wasn’t warm. It was worshipful. Possessive.

“You don’t have to love me yet,” he said. “But you will.”

He stepped back, then disappeared—not walked, not turned, but simply vanished into air, his form dissolving into mist and petals of gold.

Evadne sat frozen for a long while, her hands around the medicine, her heart beating out a rhythm she didn’t understand

[sage-nebula]

PKMN: Deserving of Further Study

Summary: The last thing Friede remembers, he and his Charizard were fighting for their lives after falling from the Brave Asagi. Now he's imprisoned by the very same person who claims to have saved his life, and the news only gets worse from there.

Word Count: 2,668

Characters: Friede, Spinel, Charizard, Agate

Relationships: Friede & the RVT Crew, Friede & the Kids, Friede & Spinel (negative)

Genre: Hurt no Comfort, Angst, minor Psychological Warfare Snippet:

“Rakurium?” Friede murmured, just before a shock went through his heart. He whipped back around to face Char. “How are you feeling? Is it affecting you?” Char shook his head, the metal of the muzzle and chains clinking as he did so. Friede swallowed down the rage that burned his throat like bile; whoever did this to Char would be dealt with, if the opportunity arose, but revenge was far from the most important item on the docket. “Okay,” Friede said, and he forced a smile for his partner’s sake. It was harder now than it had been the last time he’d been conscious, dangling from the edge of the Brave Asagi. “Let’s get you free of those. Bend down so I can find the lock on on the muz—“ “You’re awake earlier than expected. Though given your penchant for surpassing expectations, I suppose I needn’t be surprised.” The voice—smooth, but muted thanks to the barrier between them—sent a sharp chill down Friede’s spine as Char’s snarl echoed against the walls of his muzzle. Friede whipped around, every muscle in his body tense on instinct as he spotted one of the Explorers—Spinel—standing on the other side of the glowing pink wall, smirking like a satisfied cat. Of course, Friede thought, taking a deep breath through his nose to slow the adrenaline already making its way through his veins. Who else but Spinel would be able to harness Rakurium to create a prison? Who else but the Explorers would try to trap him? Try, because Friede wasn’t planning on staying long—though he had to admit the odds were in Spinel’s favor, given Char’s restraints and Friede’s own injuries. Fortunately, Friede had never cared about the odds.

[Read on AO3!]

[laxmiree]

[CN] MLQC’s Lucien - Labyrinth Date - English Translation (2/2)

⚠️ SPOILER ALERT!! ⚠️

This post contains a detailed spoiler for a date that has not been released in EN yet! Feel free to notify me if there are any mistakes in the translation~

From now on, this prison is a paradise that belongs to us.

Translation under the cut!

Previous Part->[Here]

=[Part 3]=

??: "...In the year 2230 of the New Era, you enrolled in the School of Psychology and Cognitive Sciences, following the recommendation of the scoring system, with a minor in Sociology…"

??: "...During your first semester, you submitted a paper titled ‘The Role and Development of Psychometrics in Sociology’. The full text reads as follows..."

??: "...In your third year, under your advisor’s guidance, you participated in a symposium on How to Scientifically Quantify Standards for Emotional Auditing, and during the conference..."

A soft mechanical hum echoes through the room. Pale gray wall clearly displays scene after scene like frames from a long, lingering film.

A dark-haired young man appears on the projection. His eyes and brows still hint at youthful inexperience as he walks through the teaching building, yet his calm composure is already evident.

As I watch briefly, I prop my chin on my hand, then let my gaze fall back to Lucien.

It’s been a week since the memory erasure.

Every day, when it’s time for his projected education, he sits quietly on the edge of his bed like this, watching the fragments of his memories.

His expression resembles a sheet of untainted white paper—pure and earnest.

The data indicates that he has not shown any doubt or aversion toward the altered segments of the footage. Judging from this, the execution appears to be effective.

Lost in thought, I’m jotting down the situation on the electronic screen when I suddenly hear him utter a puzzled “Hm?”. I glance up and am momentarily caught off guard.

The memory fragment now playing is a scene from his workday, with the familiar consultation room bathed in warm-toned sunlight.

Lucien rests his chin on one hand, his expression focused as he looks at the wary-faced girl across from him.

…That’s the scene from the first time I sought him for counseling.

Could that afternoon actually be a profound memory for him, too? ...Was my case especially tricky?

A rustle of bedsheets brushes past my ear. Amid the shifting light and shadows, the person beside me turns his head to look at me.

Lucien: ...Miss Section Chief, what was our previous relationship?

It’s the first time he’s spoken since the memory erasure. I steady my inexplicably quickened heartbeat and look into those eyes.

MC: You used to be the psychology instructor at my college.

MC: There was a time when I struggled mentally, and I sought your guidance more than a few times.

Lucien: Even someone as rational as Miss Section Chief experienced a phase like that?

MC: Of course. A person’s stability naturally fluctuates.

MC: Back at the college, you also seemed rather…*

My voice trails off, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Lucien curiously moving closer to me.

Lucien: [approaching closer] Also seemed rather what? Can you continue?

Lucien: In addition to the system's objective records, I also want to know what kind of person I am in your eyes.

I observe him with keen intrigue and deliberately furrow my brows.

MC: But this isn’t within the scope of my work.

He blinks, seemingly not expecting me to respond this way. Yet in the next instant, something seems to occur to him, and the corners of his eyes curve slightly.

Lucien: Since Miss Section Chief appears in my memory fragments, you must’ve been my favorite student.

Lucien: For the sake of our past bond... is there really no room for a small favor?

His tone softens a little, and there’s a trace of a familiar smile in his voice.

The memories of the past suddenly flood my heart. Though this maneuvering feels more clumsy compared to before, it has now become a bit more intriguing.**

I can’t help but curl the corners of my lips upward, and under his expectant gaze, I steal a glance at the time.

MC: It’s getting a bit late now.

MC: But I promise you. We’ll continue tomorrow.

✂———————–

Since that day, I began 'working overtime' to 'accompany' Lucien outside of regular work hours.

At first, it was just an occasional arrangement. But after one incident in which I had to respond to his sudden dizziness, it gradually became a fixed part of my schedule.

The system judges that he is having an adverse reaction to the drug, leading to several physical indicators dropping below normal. As a result, his recovery period is extended, and nutritional injections are arranged.

So, in the time I spend with him each day, a caregiving routine is added. But most of the time, it’s him observing my procedures while asking his questions.

…I have to admit, this man’s curiosity is overwhelmingly voracious.

Lucien: How do I know my score from each system update?

MC: The monitoring hall’s equipment displays them publicly. You can also ask the management staff; we can see every prisoner’s score through the system.

✂———————–

Lucien: My heart seems to beat faster every time I receive care.

MC: [worriedly] That’s the nutritional injection taking effect… Strange, your memory of medical knowledge shouldn’t have been affected, right?

✂———————–

Lucien: How much longer is my recovery period?

MC: I’m not sure, let’s wait until your physical indicators return to normal.

Lucien: If I never recover… will MC keep visiting me every day like this?

Adjusting the syringe, my hands still mid-motion, I shoot a glance at him.

MC: Theoretically, yes.

MC: But I can see from the data that you’re recovering quite smoothly.

As if he fails to receive the cherished gift he has set his heart on, his eyes brim with plainly visible disappointment.

I find this version of him somewhat amusing, but as I turn, I hear his contemplative voice behind me.

Lucien: But do you really think the system can’t be deceived by data, MC?

Lucien: It evaluates efficiently yet never delves into the causes. If someone wanted to exploit it… it wouldn’t be difficult, would it?

MC: …!

His voice carries a note of skepticism as if he’s simply asking an innocent question. But I keenly pick up on the faint arrogance in his tone.

I set down the syringe and slowly turn around.

MC: ...Why do you think that?

Lucien: Because… it seems I’ve already succeeded in tricking it.

Lucien: My adverse reaction to the drug, that’s the system’s misjudgment.

As I stare at him in bewilderment and surprise, he narrows his eyes, a sly glint flashing in them.

Lucien: I haven’t actually felt any discomfort since the execution, just some habitual insomnia. So during the day, I occasionally feel fatigued.

Lucien: The other day, an interesting thought suddenly came to me while recalling my past medical knowledge.

Lucien: Symptoms like 'fatigue' and 'mental lethargy' are actually among the adverse effects of the drug.

Lucien: If I deliberately exhibit more signs of a drug reaction, how would the system judge that? …That idea suddenly popped into my head.

He raises a finger, tapping lightly at his temple.

Lucien: So I tried feeding a few controlled and precise cues to the Iris device, like intermittent accelerated breathing, and...

MC: ...Sudden dizziness.

The image of him from some time ago—eyes half-lidded as he leans against the headboard—crosses my mind. My palm tightens slightly.

Lucien meets my gaze without affirmation or denial, a clear smile showing in his eyes.

Lucien: [chuckles] You see, every piece of data it holds is actually precise.

Lucien: Yet even so, it still arrives at an erroneous judgment.

His dark eyes twinkle, like a child who has found the answer through his own hard work, laced with pure joy and a faint sense of pride.

I stare intently at the curve of Lucien’s lips, a slight chill creeping vaguely up my spine.

Even though his memories were clearly erased, and everything he receives is filtered by the system, how come a thought like that still born?

Is he playing a prank? Or… were his previous memories not completely wiped?

I try to find an inkling of jest in his refined brows and eyes, but my heartbeat accelerates uncontrollably.

There seems to be some kind of unexplained presence, and an unexpected development has emerged.

Two notification boxes suddenly pop up in my lens display, severing the tangled web of my thoughts.

System: Ten minutes remain until this month's system score update. Please proceed to the monitoring hall.

System: If no relevant action is taken, the system will automatically assume control and reclaim the data.

My gaze flickers slightly as I slowly begin to speak. 

MC: …Alright, story time is over.

MC: You should prepare yourself to undergo a new round of scoring by the system.

Lucien: You think what I just said was nothing but fantasy?

MC: [sternly] That would be the best-case scenario. Otherwise, you should start worrying about your own safety.

The air suddenly falls silent. Our eyes lock, as if we are using our gazes as blades, confronting each other invisibly.

MC: If you’ve been harboring this kind of dangerous mindset all along, it will definitely affect the evaluation.

MC: Should your score continue to fall short, your memory will be erased again.

MC: Of course, you can demonstrate it right in front of me. Show me how you’d outsmart the system’s evaluation… if you’re really as clever as you say.

Like a butterfly’s wings flutter, he blinks slowly and softly.

Lucien: Sure.

Lucien: But if I act as I please, wouldn't that get you in trouble?

He speaks in quite a good mood, tilting his chin toward the camera in the corner.

MC: Don’t worry. As the medical section chief, I have the authority to remove certain information that’s unfavorable to me.

MC: But if you’re deliberately wasting my time…

I ease down onto the edge of the bed. Leaning in close to Lucien’s ear, I lower my voice to a whisper.

MC: [whispers] The next time I punish you, I won't be so gentle.

✂———————–

[T/N]

*: I translated the word as ‘seemed’ for brevity and naturalness, but 表现 (biǎo xiàn— literally “manifested conduct”) conveys more nuance. It refers to the way one’s actions are outwardly displayed or expressed, how his observable actions are like. Combined with what he said afterward, his curiosity here isn’t merely about what he seemed like, but how she perceived him. (and interestingly, given what MC said earlier about a person’s stability naturally fluctuating before commenting on his observable actions... she at least knows him well enough to notice that Lucien isn’t always ‘stable’ either, and honestly, with the shits he pulls, he’s indeed unhinged to some degree LOL)

**: In this context, "maneuvering" refers to the act of carefully guiding or manipulating someone or something in order to achieve a goal rather than the usual ‘move carefully’. "斡旋" (wò xuán) is often translated as "to mediate" or "to negotiate," but here it carries the nuance of subtle psychological or emotional maneuvering that she employs to achieve her objective~

✂———————–

=[Part 4]=

I draw myself upright and lean back with unflappable composure, observing him from the side.

Lucien, however, doesn’t show a hint of surprise or hesitation. Instead, he calmly rolls up his cuffs, revealing a section of his slender, cold-white forearm.

He then takes a syringe from the nearby equipment cart, adjusts it somewhat unskilfully, and injects half the dose of nutritional solution into himself.

A faint sheen of sweat seeps from his neck—a common reaction to high-concentration nutritional fluid entering the body.

I frown, despite myself, I can’t resist speaking:

MC: The nutritional injection will affect the cardiac rhythm, so it needs to be administered slowly.

Lucien: I know. But there’s no time to let it take effect gradually now.

Lucien: Before the system updates the score, I need to calibrate my heart rate to the "standard" rate to pass the examination.

The countdown’s red glare reflects in his eyes, adding a touch of unpredictability.

Lucien: No need to worry... I also cherish this body you’ve so earnestly tended to, MC.

Lucien: 1.5 milliliters is exactly the precise dose to achieve the ideal condition without causing excessive burden on my body.

His tone is breezy and unquestionably assured, as if everything is under his control, compelling others to intuitively want to believe him.

This familiar feeling gradually overlaps with my memory, slightly startling me.

The seconds on the digital clock silently tick in the corner of our vision, then snap abruptly to the full hour.

Almost the next second, a prompt box indicating a successful score update pops up in my lens' view.

I stifle my rapidly beating heart and move my fingertips. Suddenly, the screen flickers, and a photo of Lucien appears with a flashing bright number flashing — '42'.

…This is indeed a score within the safe range.

My eyes widen, my mind even goes blank for a fleeting moment.

I can't believe it. He really fooled the system's review... How did he do it? Did he simply rely on the injection to change a few physical indicators?

How is that possible... If it were that simple, wouldn't all criminals who receive the nutritional injections be able to get out of prison?

Lucien: Because when the system evaluates a human's physical or even psychological condition, it simultaneously examines multiple indicators.

Lucien's voice rises beside me as if he had heard the question in my heart, as though he’s leisurely explaining a problem set.

Lucien: For example, to determine whether someone agrees with the system, it will retrieve their heart rate, blood pressure, and respiratory rate when exposed to related information.

Lucien: Of course, a single fluctuation can't fool it.

Lucien: Fortunately, I’ve been receiving nutritional injection care during this period. While watching videos, my heart rate and blood pressure were both elevated, naturally helping to avoid the system judging any feelings of disgust.

Lucien: Then, coupled with some seemingly genuine microexpressions...

He casually flicks the syringe's needle and gives me a calm, slightly confused smile.

...This expression is not unfamiliar.

Every day, when watching his memory footage, Lucien always shows this gentle, harmless expression.

MC: You're the first person I've seen who could ‘relapse into old patterns’ even after memory erasure and system re-education.

MC: You really were born for prison.

I control my slightly trembling breath, my gaze lingering on his face for a long time, my tone tinged with mockery.

Lucien, however, gently shakes his head, as if somewhat disagreeing.

Lucien: I originally thought the same. But just now, a new conjecture suddenly occurred to me.

Lucien: Since I can trick the system now, perhaps I could’ve done the same thing back then.

MC: ...What are you implying?

Lucien: I mean, what if being imprisoned was the result of my own choice?

He casts down his gaze and begins to speak unhurriedly.

Lucien: Suppose this counterintuitive conclusion holds, then there must be something here that I want to gain or achieve.

Lucien: But what is it that makes this prison special compared to the outside world?

His voice pauses, as if he's deducing something, yet also as if he's talking to himself.

Lucien: This place is on an island, its environment is closed off and highly dependent on the system.

Lucien: Dietary plans, medication dosages... the system makes real-time adjustments based on each prisoner's condition.

Lucien: So there's no need to wait for the bi-monthly scoring to know how it responds

Lucien: Looking at it this way, it's the most perfect place to test the system's vulnerabilities.

MC: …..

His eyes glimmer faintly. I meet his gaze for a beat, and a 'pfft' slips out before I can stop it.

MC: [laughs heartily] Sounds interesting, but this experiment you describe seems to have only the setting and a test subject.

MC: For a complete experiment, isn't something missing? Like someone who runs through the entire process, an observer?

The chains clink softly as Lucien leans slightly toward me, my doubtful expression reflected in his eyes.

His low voice seems probing, yet there's also some sort of genuine admiration in it.

Lucien: That's something I'll need you to confirm.

Lucien: Estimating from the time data in my memory projection, you entered the prison system exactly six months before I was sentenced.

Lucien: Regarding timing or identity, you seem like someone tailor-made for this experiment.

MC: …That’s enough.

MC: You're even using coincidences to piece together your fantasies now?

Lucien: Of course there are coincidences in this world.

Lucien: But when they happen one after another, that results from a guiding push. 

His fingertips brush across my face, carrying a warmth so faint it’s almost not there, like the rising steam from a teacup that afternoon. His softened voice seems to hold a subtle grievance.

Lucien: I understand that people need to leave themselves some room to maneuver.

Lucien: But I’ve already proven the system’s flaws; this experiment can end here.

Lucien: MC, can’t you be honest with me now?

Though he’s asking a question, there’s unmistakable certainty in his expression. It’s as if he already knows the answer before I open my mouth.

Just like that sun-drenched afternoon, it makes me momentarily dazed.

….

Lucien: Then do you genuinely hold unwavering faith in the system’s judgment?

I met the gaze of the man on the sofa. For a brief moment, we looked into each other’s eyes and saw a similar, unspoken danger that we both understood.

Neither of us knew who curved their lips first, but we both chuckled at the same time.

I propped my chin up with one hand and spoke with great interest.

MC: My mentor and I are truly in sync.

MC: Earlier, we were talking about employment… So what advice are you going to give me?*

Lucien: Clever girl.

He crinkled his eyes into crescents and tapped on “prison doctor” in my employment recommendation.

Lucien: Though the prison is a closed environment, it’s an ideal place to conduct experiments and verify certain hypotheses of ours.

Lucien: Perhaps, would MC be willing to enter the prison system early?

MC: Are you trying to gain certain conveniences through me?

Lucien: No, you only need to be a witness.

My gaze fell on his refined, handsome face as I pondered with interest.

It really does sound intriguing. Where I work doesn’t make much difference to me anyway.

Since that’s the case, why not work with someone of my own ‘kind’ to uncover the system’s flaws?

If it fails... there's no real danger.

I can keep this secret to myself, tuck my tail away, and climb upward obediently within the existing system.

And while I’m at it, I can take good care of my poor mentor— after all, he’s about to spend the rest of his life helplessly in a territory under my control.

But if his conclusion turns out to be correct—

I curve the corners of my lips into a smile and lean forward to take the unspent syringe from his hand.

MC: I was worried that after the memory erasure, you'd forget your original purpose and spend the rest of your life here, completely unaware.

MC: Fortunately, the outcome of this experiment turned out just as you predicted, Mentor Xu.

A faint tremor travels up from beneath my fingertips as Lucien seems to let out a few low chuckles.

His pounding heartbeat, carried on the scorching heat of his body, lays this intricate deception bare before me.

Lucien: So that’s what MC is thinking.

Lucien: I thought that if I failed, you'd be more than happy to keep me imprisoned under your watch forever.

MC: Am I really that cunning in my mentor's eyes?

Lucien: After all, a clever girl would never leave herself with only one option.

I let out a light laugh, steadying my heartbeat, which had long been racing with excitement, and projected the internal data from my lens into the air.

A vast array of criminal data and files shimmers before our eyes—a treasure trove that would dazzle any researcher.

Resting my chin on Lucien’s shoulder, I raise my voice with a dash of boast.

MC: I've already screened the profiles of these criminals. Hmm... twenty-eight of them have backgrounds related to medicine.

MC: What if we select half of them and give them subtle pointers about your experimental approach to trick the system?

MC: Given their foundational knowledge, they’re likely to catch on fast.

I speak with ardor and hear him chuckle.

Lucien: I think it would be better to choose people who don’t have a medical background but do have a rebellious mindset toward the system as the control group.

Lucien: All in all, aside from skill, the courage to question is even more important.

MC: Okay, I like this design~

MC: Then we can also flag those whose stance toward the system is unclear and gradually shift their position.

MC: Only with enough subjects can our experiment keep going for a long time...

Lucien strokes my head approvingly, and I pull on the collar around his neck with a smile.

The hazy darkness muffles the whispers in the shadows and conceals the hidden ambitions and secrets.

From now on, this prison is a paradise that belongs to us.

Lucien: Then, let the experiment begin.

——-FIN——–

[T/N] 

If you're wondering whether the collar MC pulls on refers to clothing, it's not. The term "颈环" (jǐng huán) specifically refers to a ring-like device worn around the neck. Sth sth xm giving her approval as mentor but mc pulling on his collar as an act of control can be read as symbolising how their imbalance dynamic somewhat balances itself ig LOL.

*: Remember what I mentioned in the previous note about MC using the formal "you" (您) earlier in the flashback? In part 4 of flashback, she shifts to the informal "你" (nǐ), and that shift is intentional as it marks a turning point in their interaction. By switching to "你," MC is effectively dropping the formal mask. She’s no longer addressing Lucien with the distance and deference of a mentor-student relationship. Instead, she speaks to him as an equal, or at least as someone she’s willing to engage with more boldly, directly, and on more intimate terms.

[Afterwords that mostly rambles]

THIS DATE HELLO???? Who gave them permission to be so deliciously messed up, like Lucien fooling the system was expected, but the fact that they BOTH are gaslighting the system and ME was not. "Let’s f*** up the system together" never sounded so romantic before kicked.

This AU date has some of the best world-building out of all the lovepro AUs, and I absolutely love how it highlights one of Lucien’s most captivating traits, his pure, obsessive fixation on truth and exploring the unknown. Just like the story says, he had no real reason to be in prison. The system actually benefits him immensely. But… he’s always been that kind of person, hasn’t he? Even with his memories truly erased and censored, he still manages to cunningly manipulate the system and use it to serve his goals. The way he's able to control himself even down to micro-expression and heart rate is almost terrifying, but this also makes his moments when he 'lost control' around her (like for example, in this date his heart rate was noticeably faster when she entered and got close but not during the execution) even more tender, because they feel like glimpses into something raw and real beneath all the layers of calculation.

He’s willing to risk losing what makes him "Lucien" in order to test a theory, relying on the belief that his strong feelings for MC will cause her to appear in his key memories and eventually make her the final piece of the puzzle. And honestly, thinking about it again, MC’s twisted backup plan probably factored into his calculations too. Like, even if everything failed, at least he could stay close to his favorite student. The way he looked visibly disappointed when she mentioned he’d recover soon and that way he won't see her every day… it really makes you wonder if he wouldn’t mind staying imprisoned under her care forever either lmfaooo.

Still, what really sets this date apart from previous ones is particularly MC. MC in this AU is fascinating because she's a rose that Lucien 'tended' through his guidance the little prince reference anyone - (interestingly this also somewhat reversed in prison where he's 'tended' by MC). It wasn’t until I reread the date that I realized all the hints had been planted from the very start (like MC subtly mentioning her backup plan after the injection, or how her "belief" in the system already showed signs of wavering in the flashback). But she’s so convincing that I actually believed she was completely loyal to the system at first.

With roles like Mentor and Student, Prisoner and Executioner, it’s easy to expect their relationship to hinge on taboo and ethical tension, or the angst created from their past connection or the nature of this dystopian au, but that’s not really what defines them here. Instead, it plays out as a battle of wits, and their imbalanced roles (ones that weirdly balance each other) just add more spice. They seem to “oppose” each other at first, but reveal themselves as two halves of the same coin, laying out their cunning plans like co-conspirators with matching brilliance (and matching danger) in the end, and I love that the story took this unexpected route <3. The prison has indeed become a paradise that belongs to two of them.

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hey Guys!

Another weekend without a fic list ready or any asks, so I took it upon myself collect some fics for a Spooky-Themed list that I will probably have never gotten an ask about anyway. Since I've a lot of Halloween lists, I thought I would try something different and put out some Horror and Thriller Themed fics! I went through my MFL list and tag-searched "horror" and "thrilller", so these fics are ones that the author has tagged as such, so I can't guarantee frights... but I hope that y'all will enjoy this list anyway! I haven't read any of these so please heed the tags!

AND if you have a fave horror or psychological thriller story you've written or want to recommend, PLEASE do in the notes or reblogs and I'll add them to this list!

Happy Spooky Season, everyone!

HORROR / THRILLER FICS (MFLs)

See also:

Halloween Fics (Oct 2018)

Halloween and Ghosts (updated Oct 31/21)

Halloween Fics 2023 (MFLs)

5FF: Spooky Saturday Edition (Oct 31/20)

Ghosts / Figments (Updated Oct 2023)

Within by songlin (T, 992 w., 1 Ch. || Horror) – Amazingly enough, John notices it first. It must be something to do with combat instincts, or paying attention to nagging feelings despite any amount of contradictory evidence, or just paranoia. Whatever it is, it boils down to this: something is wrong.

Little Slices of Death by Enterthetadpole (E, 994 w., 1 Ch. || Friends To Lovers, Horror, Humour, Happy Ending, Case Fic, Romance) – Sherlock Holmes gets involved in a case where the victims and crimes that are eerily similar to the works of a certain horror author stories. Will he solve the case before the people around him die around him?

I O U by MintoKitsune (T, 1,299 w., 1 Ch. || Horror / Drama, Kidnapping) – Moriarty kidnaps John and leaves Sherlock a little message... A short one shot about Jim being his mean ol' self. (FFNet)

These Hands of Yours by okapi (E, 2,700 w., 1 Ch. || ACD Canon || Supernatural Elements, Horror, Hands, Anal Fisting / Fingering, Halloween) – Holmes has casts made of his hands. Watson falls in love. So do the hands.

The Babadook by CatieBrie (T, 6,886 w., 1 Ch. || Babadook Fusion || Post-TRF, Horror, Demonic Possession, Violence, Halloween, Grief, Angst with Happy Ending) – “A children’s book,” John mutters as he flips it open. The pages are scrawled with beautiful charcoal lines and thick black ink. The cover, bright red, edges the open pages and something tugs at the back of John’s brain. It’s a familiar feeling, black and tarrish and thick in his thoughts. He shakes it off and picks the book up off his bed, turning so that he can sit on the edge and spread the book out across his knees. If it’s in a word or it’s in a look, you can’t get rid of the Babadook. He turns the page, ignoring the pressure building beneath his chest. There’s a closet on one page; paper doors meant to be opened by the reader flutter as John reads the text on the other page.

Black Cat by CatieBrie (E, 7,158 w., 1 Ch. || Psychological Horror, Supernatural Elements, Disturbing Themes, Body Horror, Sex, Major Consent Issues / Possible Rape, MCD, Intent Magic, Ambiguity) – He’s watching Sherlock crawl up his body, doesn’t have to see to know he has a blade tucked away somewhere, knows his body will react no matter what. “Do you know what this is, John?” Sherlock holds up a doll made of rudimentary cloth stuffed with god knows what. It’s wearing a crude rendition of John’s favorite striped shirt, denim pants and the hair is too fine and blonde-shocked-grey to be anything else but his. John tries to answer, has no voice, shakes his head. “It’s a poppet.” Sherlock explains, pushes the arms together and John’s limbs react, snapping to his sides and remaining there even as he tries desperately to struggle free.

The Spirit Child by VelvetMace (M, 7,287 w., 1 Ch. || Psychological Horror, Disturbing Themes, Horror, Gore) – A small wooden box filled with clay and feotus bones yields more than just clues to a violent murder. A Halloween Story. Read at your own risk -- and I do not say this lightly.

Leaves by DiscordantWords (NR, 7,513 w., 1 Ch. || Dreams and Nightmares, Dream Sharing, Halluciinations, Horror / Unsettling, Ambiguous/Open Ending) – It came on a Wednesday, with the post. 

Ruins of the Dark by philalethia (M, 8,205 w., 1 Ch. || Dark Sherlock AU ||  Post-TRF, Horror, Supernatural Elements, Blood and Gore, Suicidal Thoughts, Extremely Dubious Consent) – Three years after “The Reichenbach Fall,” Sherlock comes back. But he comes back wrong.

The Web by DiscordantWords (M, 8,421 w., 2 Ch. || Post-TRF, Horror, Spiders, Horrific Imagery, Spying, Mild Gore) – Moriarty is dead. That doesn't mean he isn't watching.

I Could Try by Arcwin (T, 9,583 w., 5 Ch. || Greek Mythology Crossover || Post-TRF, Orpheus and Eurydice Myth, POV John, Pining John, BAMF John, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Horror, Angst with Happy Ending) – John is grieving Sherlock's death post Reichenbach until one day, he sees the violin case, and something inside him tells him to pick it up. Crossover between BBC Sherlock and the Greek tragedy Orpehus and Eurydice, wherein Eurydice is killed for her beauty and taken to the Underworld. Orpheus, being the son of Apollo (the God of Music and Medicine) travels to the Underworld to convince (via playing his lyre) Hades and Persephone to let Eurydice go. Orpheus then must travel with Eurydice behind him, not looking back, until they exit to the land of the living.

Puzzlebox by  standbygo (E, 9,867 w., 5 Ch. || Hellraiser Fusion || True Love, Supernatural Elements, Psychological Horror, First Kiss, Post S2, Angst with Happy Ending) – A love story with horror. A horror story with a happy ending.

Apprehension by BashfulBunny (M, 14,339 w., 19 Ch. || Thriller, Romance, Kidnapping, Drug Use, Medical, Undercover, Road Trips, Hurt/Comfort, BAMD Captain John, Action/Adventure, Falling in Love, Angst with Happy Ending, Mercenary John, Fluff and Angst, Protective John/Sherlock) – John and Sherlock have never met and don’t know each other. For some reason John kidnaps Sherlock (maybe he thinks he’s working for good people, while in fact they are bad and lie to him; he’s got an order to kidnap Sherlock Holmes and deliver him to somebody. John himself isn’t a bad person though). John is protective. When he realises that he, in fact, has done a really bad thing (and was lied to, depending on the scenario), he saves Sherlock (from his employers perhaps) and wants to take him back where he’d taken him. But he won’t be able to get rid of Sherlock easily, or at all for that matter. Sherlock won’t go.

Scream! by johnwatso (E, 15,250 w., 8 Ch. || Scream Crossover || Post S4, Horror / Slasher, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Case Fic, Minor Character Death, Copycat Killer, Three Garridebs Moment) – An unknown number starts calling Sherlock and asking questions about horror movies. John is pretty sure it's a serial killer.

The Writing on the Wall by grannysknitting (M, 24,139 w., 11 Ch. || Pre-S2, Horror/Supernatural, Mild Gore) – Lestrade notices John behaving oddly at a crime scene. Unfortunately so does Mycroft. What is it about the people living at 221B? (FFNet)

Still of the Night by michi_thekiller (E, 30,762 w., 22 Ch. || 1950s Dark Vampire Greaser AU || Vampire Sherlock, Greaser Sherlock, Nerd John, Rape/Non-Con Elements, Period-Typical Homophobia, Horror, Seduction) – 1.) Curfew must be obeyed. 2.) Streets must be clear by sundown. 3.) If you find yourself out after curfew, seek shelter at the home of a friend, relative, or neighbor whom you know and trust. 4.) Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES should any unknown persons be allowed into the home after curfew.

From a Well, Dark and Deep by Vulpesmellifera (M, 32,691 w., 18 Ch. || Post S4, Supernatural Elements, Horror / Mild Body Horror, Bed Sharing, Possession, Hand Holding, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Coming Out, Alternating POV, Nightmares, Caring John, Happy Ending) – Sherlock Holmes is desperately trying to reconcile his newfound memories and feelings within his transport—a transport that won’t quit with the nightmares and the strange, fiddly anxieties that crop up at the most inopportune moments. On the advice of his psychiatrist—not that he’s thrilled to be taking the man’s advice, but needs must—he's going to mark the anniversary of Eurus’ torments. That explains why he visits the well. What he finds at the well, though, is entirely unexpected. Meanwhile, John Watson has finally come to terms with something he’s ignored his entire life. He’s ready to share that something with Sherlock, except Sherlock isn’t acting himself. It's not the time for confessions, and John determines he must get to the bottom of his best friend's affliction before he can reveal anything. Part 3 of Vulpes' Halloween Johnlock

Slender: However Improbable by philalethia (M, 33,378 w., 5 Ch. || Slender Man AU || Post-TRF, Case Fic, Horror, Science Fiction, Supernatural Elements, Mild Gore) – Six months after The Fall, John is falling apart. Then a homeless woman is thrown from the roof of St. Bartholomew's; a tall, thin man in a black suit begins follow him; and John slowly realises that both he and Scotland Yard are very, very out of their depths.

Where The Ghosts Have Voices by HappyJuicyfruit (M, 37,691 w., 12 Ch. || Supernatural AU || Ghosts, Magical Realism, Light Horror, Fluff and Smut, John Can See Ghosts, John Whump, Emotional Manipulation, Dark Magic, Coma, Injury Recovery, Blow Jobs, Anal, Happy Ending, John’s Past, Mr Holmes, Powerful John, Holmes Brothers, Sherlock’s Past, Past Viclock, Drug Abuse, Hair Pulling) – John has lived his whole life as an outcast. It is only when he meets Sherlock, that be realizes being a freak might not be such a bad thing, and that the curse he has lived with his whole life may be a gift after all.

This Is Family by SaraStarchild (T, 39,840 w., 16 Ch. || Hereditary AU || Psychological Horror, Body Horror, Demonic Possession, POV Third Person Limited, Protective Mycroft, Cults, Mycroft Whump, Sherlock Whump, Major Character Death, Graphic Violence, Retelling) – When the Holmes family's secretive mother and matriarch, Ellen Holmes, passes away, the family she leaves behind – father Martin, sons Mycroft and Sherlock, and daughter Eurus – begins to unravel cryptic and increasingly terrifying secrets about their ancestry. The more they discover, the more they find themselves trying to outrun the sinister fate they seem to have inherited. This is, pretty much, a word-for-word retelling of the 2018 Ari Aster film, Hereditary. Part 1 of Sherlock Halloween Stories

Emergency by EmeraldUrAFreak (M, 40,353 w., 24 Ch. || Teenlock AU || Teen Romance, Drug Use, Angst, Hospitalized John, Broken John, John Whump, Absent Parents, Sherlock Fixing John, Insecure John, Younger John, Older Sherlock, Helping Each Other, Papa Lestrade, Case Fic, Alternating POV, Mild Gore, Horror, Non-Graphic Violence, Corpses) – Recovering drug addict Sherlock Holmes meets supposedly permanently hospital stuck John Watson. As they become friends- and maybe even more - they have ups and downs finding out each other’s pasts. Sherlock is shocked at how deep John's goes resulting in a case of new stakes. Fixing old relations and creating new ones that are hard to keep in this dreadful time. They never knew what was waiting around the corner.

The Straw Man Fallacy by Vulgarweed (E, 40,422 w., 8 Ch. || Wicker Man AU || Ritual Sex, Sacrifice, Mystery and Horror, Romance, Fuck or Die, Dubious Morality, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pagan Festivals, Public Sex, First Time, Case Fic, Virgin Sherlock, Scotland, Kilts) – Summerisle is not a welcoming place to visitors, but it shows its best face at May Day. For ulterior motives.

Curse of the Were-Tuna by WhoGroovesOn (E, 46,916 w., 9 Ch. || Were-Creature AU || Nudity, Aquariums, Fish, Body Horror, Curses, Cuddling, Romance, Transformations, Frottage, Anal, Fem! Moriaty/Moran, First Time) – John couldn’t help but feel as though the large tuna beyond the glass was staring at him, which was weird because it’s not like fish had eyelids, they always seemed to be staring at things.

Distortion by holmesian_love (NR, 51,585 w., 23 Ch. || Post S4, Faked Suicide / Suicide Attempt, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Examination, PTSD, Psychological Horror, Blood, Spiders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Parentlock with Rosie, Angry John, Confusion) – John Watson is persuaded to move back into Baker Street with Rosie. The friendship -though delicate - is mending slowly after everything they've been through. That is, until strange events start happening to John which begin to disrupt the happy life they have been creating. Is there a medical explanation, or is something more sinister at play? Will they discover the cause before it tears them apart for good?

To Be Human by ohlooktheresabee (NR, 78,437 w., 13 Ch. || Post-THoB, Graphic Violence, Synesthesia, Case Fic, Serial Killers, Kidnapping, BAMF John, Sherlock is a Mess, Asexuality/Demisexuality, Torture, Protective John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Medical Procedures, Queerplatonic Relationships, Asperger Syndrome, Thriller, Insecure Sherlock, Touching, Caring John, Affection, Hurt Sherlock, Touch Starvation) – There is a serial killer on the loose with a penchant for collecting the brains of his victims. Sherlock, John and Scotland Yard are on the case, but something about the chosen victims has Sherlock on edge. While they piece together the clues that will lead to the killer, John begins to realize that the way his best friend thinks may sometimes be more a hindrance than a help...

The Killing Principle by Vulpesmellifera (E, 104,593 w., 46 Ch. || American AU || Gay John, Serial Killer Mary, Bum Appreciation, Sherlock is William, Dating Difficulties, BAMF Sherlock, Slow Burn, Thriller, Confessions, Whump, Angst with Happy Ending, Minor Character Death) – John Watson served twice in AmeriCorps, married his high school sweetheart, and then entered med school. A sudden arrest and accusation of multiple murders ends his promising career, irrevocably altering his life's trajectory. Acquitted of his wife’s crimes, John spends the next ten years as the maligned ex-husband of convicted serial killer Mercy Mary. A job offer draws him out of hiding and back to Connecticut - the very state where the crimes were committed. He needs the money, and the job is a dream. Then he meets the brilliant William Vernet, and it seems like he has a second chance at life and love. But the past has a way of catching up.

Monsters in the Woods by ArwaMachine (E,114,760 w., 16 Ch. || 1980′s Summer Camp Horror AU || Character Death, Violence, Gore, Spooky Stuff, Blow Jobs, Anal, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Period-Typical Homophobia) – John isn’t particularly sure why he took the counsellor position at Camp Baker Stream, an American-style summer camp for rich kids. He isn’t fond of the wilderness, nor is he fond of kids. He also isn’t sure if he’s fond of his cabin-mate, a strange bloke named Sherlock Holmes who seems perpetually on edge and more than a bit of an arse. It certainly doesn’t help that apparently the camp has a sordid past—a series of gristly murders that took place eight years ago, perpetrated by one James Moriarty. Sherlock seems convinced that the events of the past are doomed to repeat, but that idea seems to fall in the realm of the impossible. That is, until camp counsellors start going missing… Inspired by every 80s slasher flick that is so bad it’s good, this fic merges summer camp horror tropes with the BBC Sherlock universe, adding a sprinkle of smut for good measure!

Welcome to Silent Hill by Cleo2010 (M, 130,227 w., 37 Ch. || Silent Hill Fusion || POV First Person Sherlock, Unrequited Love, Psychological Horror, Violence / Gore, Monsters, Nudity, Drug Use, Harm to Children, Cults, Distressing Imagery, Torture, Death) – John is missing. When Sherlock receives a text summoning him to Silent Hill he's intent on reclaiming his friend but the town has other ideas. Our detective must battle through a world shaped by his own troubled psyche as he uncovers the town's secrets, attempts to find John and hunt down Jim Moriarty. Part 1 of the Welcome to Silent Hill series

In the Deep, Where Dark Things Sleep by HardlyFair (M, 184,979 w., 26 Ch. || Scorpio Races AU || Graphic Violence, 1960′s, Slow Burn, Past Drug Use, Bed Sharing, Water Horses, Folklore, First Kiss/Time, Horror Elements, Vet!John, Protective John, Magical Realism, Horse Racing, Mutual Pining, Angst with Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort) – The closer time crawls to November, the more water horses the Scorpio Sea spits out. The colder Thisby becomes. Sherlock Holmes is an islander - completely surrounded by the water. John Watson, he knows, comes from the mainland and lives for the Races. On the first of November, Sherlock will race. The man holding steady by his side is someone he never expects. A Scorpio Races AU (Maggie Stiefvater), but no knowledge of the book needed.

WORKS IN PROGRESS

Closure by S_IRIS (E, 28,718+ w., 12/45 Ch. || WiP || Alternate Universe || Viclock then Eventual Johnlock, Falling in Love, Horror, Case Fic, Adventure of the Gloria Scott Adaptation, Emotional / Psychological Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Angst with Happy Ending, Slow Burn, Sherlock in Denial) – After a brush with death, Sherlock is convinced by Victor to recover in their country house and give their crumbling marriage one last chance. But the retreat turns into a nightmare when Sherlock starts to feel a malevolent presence in the house and finds no one believing him except the son of the missing groundskeeper.

The Things That Haunt Us by BRNZ (E, 92,993+ w., 18/? Ch. || Graphic Depictions of Violence, Dead People, Child Death, PTSD John, Psychological Horror, Nightmares, Bed Sharing, Heavy Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Developing Relationship, Childhood Trauma, Domestic Bliss, BAMF John, Friendship / Love, POV John, Pining John, Therapy) – What happens when a post war vet with PTSD takes up with a madman detective and they spend time investigating and solving some truly horrific crimes? How does the doctor who can kill with steady hand process all that additional trauma? How do we recognise that our past still haunts us, in ways we don't realise? When you are caught in a vicious cycle of needing the thrill of the chase, and having to deal with the fallout...what happens when you might need to choose between the two for your own sanity? The story of how two damaged men managed to find their way back to each other and begin to make a future together.

[tinfoil-jones]

Gravity Falls: For Your Own Good, Ch. 14

Summary: A few years after moving to Gravity Falls and having his lab built, Stanford Pines happens upon his estranged twin brother, Stanley. He mentally prepared himself to be suffocated by his brothers neediness all over again - what he wasn't prepared for was Stanley walking right past him like he didn't even notice him.

Rating: M for language, violence, and adult implications

Preface: Dialogue only, but some actions will be annotated for clarity. Cross-Posted on AO3 Here

WARNING: TW/Mentions of past Suicidal ideations

First - Prev - Next

CH.14

“You’re just going to give him free reign of the house?”

“I did not think you of all people would have a problem with this, you were the one who expressed the most disapproval with keeping him in the containment unit.”

“Yes, but wasn’t your main concern that he would leave?”

“Fiddleford, he was homeless. Where else is he going to go?”

“Well there is that Rick character he keeps mentioning…”

“You sound a bit on edge, do you remember him from Backupsmore?”

“Remember him?”

“Do you remember Diane Sanchez? He’s her husband- well, he was her husband.”

“I’m afraid the name doesn’t ring a bell…”

“Hmm, I’m not surprised, engineering wasn’t her major. Regardless, you’re better off having not met him. I don’t believe we have to worry about him. He is… very far away.”

“And Stan has no hard feelings towards you?”

“On one hand, he tells me he believes I’m only keeping here as part of an elaborate, delusional grieving process, and he will ‘play along’ however long that process takes. On the other hand, he wrote ‘Look what I did to your other hand’ on my hand in marker while I was asleep, and on quite literally the other hand he drew a turkey. Fiddleford, stop laughing.”

“I wouldn’t call that malicious, but it certainly explains why you decided to keep your gloves on outside of the lab. And he agreed we could continue to study his memory loss?”

“Yes, he did - I assume that’s what you two were discussing earlier?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You were up in the attic with him for at least an hour this morning, I assume you were conducting another interview? Locking the door was a bit excessive but without a neurology or psychology degree myself I am in no place to question your methods.”

“Interview-? Oh, um, yes. Interviewing. That’s exactly what we were doing. And nothing else.”

“Of course. Now- do you know where he is? I need to talk to him about an upcoming Cryptid Hunt.”

“You’re going to take him with you?”

“I was hoping both of you would accompany me actually. But if he will not, I’d need you to stay back here with him if you wouldn’t-”

“I wouldn’t mind none.”

“Thank you for your patience and understanding Fiddleford, I’m glad I was correct in my assumption that you’d be the best suited to assist me.”

“Any of our other colleagues woulda called the cops on your presumptuous behind.”

“...I know, and I am grateful you didn’t. Now, where is he?”

“Last I saw him was in the attic trying to cover up the window with a sheet - some type of paranoia? And I heard him come downstairs a few minutes ago but I haven’t seen him. If I were to take a guess though, he most likely went through that hatch leading to the platform on your roof - it’s still open.”

“What? Stanley can’t be on the roof, he’s afraid of heights.”

*Stan abruptly drops from the hatch, landing on his feet*

“Guys you won’t believe this but some dude in a giant moth costume just flew by- woah, you alright there PhD? You look like you already saw a ghost.”

(...)

*a series of clicking noises and hoots*

“Antenna curling! That's his tell! I fold.”

“Sorry, Stanley, but it appears Mothman was bluffing.”

“What? I had 4 aces! That moth is a wizard! Guess it’s up to you to win this for us, Doc.”

*Mothman takes a bite out of a wool cardigan, Fiddleford nearby with no chips angrily crosses his arms*

“...He's mocking me.”

“I was cheating the last 8 turns, too.”

“Stanley, for shame.”

“What? I already folded. This cheater didn’t prosper.”

(...)

“Good on you for winning, Stanford.”

“Of course, I’m just sorry that I couldn’t win before he took more bites out of your cardigan.”

“Good thing I had this flashlight to distract him, he really is a moth.”

“...Did you steal that from my coat closet?”

“Yes.”

“What else did you steal?”

“Well it’s a good thing Mothman didn’t have any money on him ‘cause you wouldn’t have anywhere to put it.”

“Give me back my wallet, Stanley.”

“Poor sport.”

(...)

“D-E-F-P-O-T-E-C”

“Now use both eyes, what’s the smallest line you can read?”

“Line ten. L-E-F-O-D-P-C-T.”

“Oculus dexter and oculus sinister are both 20/20, but your oculus uterque is 20/15.”

“Look we’ve been at this snail chart-”

“Snellen chart.”

“Whatever, we’ve done this like five times. What’s the point? I already told you I don’t need glasses.”

“It just doesn’t make sense… We’re identical, your visual acuity should be 20/40 or above because years of straining would make your vision even worse than mine.”

“I dunno what you want me to tell you PhD, my eyes are fine.”

“...Did Sanchez have something to do with this?”

“Sanc-.”

“Rick Sanchez. I know that’s the Rick you’ve off-handedly mentioned several times.”

“How can you be so sure? It’s a pretty common name.”

“Because you would be familiar with that egotistical, destructive, jaded, cynical-”

“Okay so you do know Rick. And yeah, we ran in the same circle for a bit, what about it?”

“He was always doing morally questionable experiments-”

“That’s funny coming from you.”

“-but altering physiology was something he had a special interest in. Did he give you some form of eye surgery or technological implant?”

“You think I’d let that nihilistic asshole near my eyes while I was passed out… or awake? Hell no. I don’t remember ever having vision problems. The closest he ever came to ‘altering’ me or whatever the fuck you’re tweaking about was help me steal a bunch of pills from the Galac-the government.”

“You- Why did you steal pills?”

“I couldn’t get decent sleep, and after getting my stomach pumped it’s not like any doctor was ever going to give me ambien or anything stronger ever again. Also, to stick it to the man.”

“... Stanley, did you- did you overdose on ambien?”

“Twice.”

“... Was it on purpose?”

“... Once. Only once. Don’t-. Don’t look at me like I’m a kicked puppy. I know it’s messed up. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I did it to myself, it isn’t anyone else’s fault. And I dunno what the fallout of your separation ten years ago was like, but no matter what happened this definitely wasn't your fault.

Look, if it makes you feel better, whatever you and specs have been spiking into my food and water has been working pretty great. I’m getting way better sleep here than I have in years.”

“We have not been putting drugs into your food or water.”

“If you say so, Doc.”

To be continued…

[littlewormgrant]

Where the Worlds Collide

Kane x Reader / 3,290 words / Annihilation

If you like what you see, leave a like or reblog and follow me ♥

Written for A Sip of Coffee SFW Fanzine - check it out there's so many juicy fics! Next fanzine you'll see me in is folklore and fairytales.

Tags: Strangers to something more / gender-neutral reader / touches on psychological, cosmic, and body horror

The air itself shimmered like a mirage, twisting in and out of colours that shouldn’t have belonged to any known spectrum. At times, it burned a molten orange, pulsing with a heat he didn’t feel, then fractured into streaks of blue and violet, pooling like oil slicks in the hollows between trees. At the right angle, it seared a luminous red, a colour so impossibly rich it felt alive—watching. A slow, iridescent slither of light wound through the fractured canopy above, less a beam of sunlight and more a living thing threading its way between the leaves.

Kane had no way of knowing how long he’d been here. The rations suggested a few days had passed, but his body disagreed. There was no hunger, no thirst, only the mechanical memory of eating. Had he eaten? He must have. Yet when he tried to summon the taste of food, nothing came. The absence of time pressed against his skull like a persistent ache, like a memory he couldn’t quite reach.

Each time he stepped outside the tent, the world was different. The trees leaned at unfamiliar angles, their bark slick and too smooth, as though they had been molded rather than grown. The moss on the ground pulsed in patches, an almost imperceptible rhythm, like the slow rise and fall of breath. The only constant was change. That, and his morning coffee.

He sat with the tin cup cradled in his hands, listening to the songbirds mimic a new sound they had learned overnight. Sometimes, it was the usual chirps. Other times, it was warbles that carried an uncanny human lilt, as if an echo of a voice had been stretched and repurposed into their calls. Once, he had heard the scratch of a cricket’s legs—but it had come from high up in the trees, from something far too large to be a cricket. There had been whispers too, barely there, like words dissipating just before he could grasp their meaning. The forest was listening. Worse, it was remembering.

When the decision had been made to split up, it had come down to a vote. Two medics on the team—one would stay, one would go. The others had chosen the Tower, that nameless structure that had no right to exist on any map. His group had remained at base camp, performing the work that was expected of them. But Kane knew his true function. He wasn’t here to keep them together. He was here to keep them alive.

And yet, the question remained, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts like an animal worrying at bone.

What happened to the ones who came before?

Expedition Eleven. Ten had come before, and none had returned. Not a single one. Their presence still lingered—traces in the disturbed earth, in the equipment left behind, in the notes that trailed off mid-thought. But the people? Gone. Absorbed, perhaps.

He had tended to the Linguist’s wounds that morning, wrapping gauze over something that refused to heal, something that seemed to shift beneath her skin. When he had finished, he had found himself untethered. Free to roam, to wander, to slip further into the spaces between certainty and something else. The others made no effort to keep him close. He had long since lost the need to belong. There were no rules anymore, not ones that mattered.

“How long do you think the other group’s going to be gone for?” he asked, his voice breaking the quiet hum of camp. He was packing the last few items into his rucksack, shoving emergency supplies into the worn fabric. Preparing, though for what, he wasn’t sure.

You barely glanced up from your microscope. “I don’t question the Psychologist’s decisions,” you said. A measured response. “Just like I’m not questioning yours.”

A strange turn of phrase. Almost an accusation.

He let out a small breath, a ghost of a laugh. “I’m going to scout the immediate area. See if there’s anything we missed. Don’t miss me too much.” The words were meant to be light, to defuse whatever unspoken weight hung between you. He had expected pushback. A reason to stay.

“I won’t,” you said instead, detached, eyes still trained on your work. “Don’t go too far.”

Then, after a pause, “You got your shooter?”

Shooter.

That wasn’t a word you had ever used before.

Kane glanced at you, but you didn’t meet his gaze. He could hear the Geologist’s accent buried in your voice, the same tone, the same inflection. The Geologist, who had asked to be left beneath the tree weeks ago. “Leave me to decompose,” they had murmured, curling into the roots, their breath already slowing, eyes glassy with something more than death.

No one had gone back to check.

“Rifle’s right here,” Kane said, his voice overly cheerful, too loud in the stagnant air. He patted the strap, making sure you heard.

Then he left. He always had to be the first to leave.

The forest swallowed him whole.

With no real direction, he wandered. The deeper he went, the more the world unravelled. He had no name for half the things growing here. Vines hung in thick, twisting curtains, flowering in unnatural patterns, their petals curling inward like clutching fingers. 

He found an old road, forgotten, reclaimed. The trees had leaned in, pressing their roots through the cracks, warping the pavement into something organic. It looked almost ceremonial, a wedding procession of ivy and creeping moss, arches forming over the path as if nature itself had arranged it for something unseen.

His wife would have known the proper names. The Latin, the origins. He had never cared for any of that. To him, they were just flowers on the same vine.

Then he heard it.

His name.

It echoed from the trees, disembodied, panic threaded through each syllable.

Your voice.

Kane’s pulse spiked as he turned, eyes scanning the undergrowth. He called back, voice tight with urgency, but the echoes folded in on themselves, dispersing into the layered hum of the forest. He moved faster, breath sharp, feet crushing the damp earth beneath him. The direction felt wrong, but he followed it anyway.

The lake appeared suddenly, framed by the remains of a boat cabin. The sight of it made his stomach twist. He knew this place. It wasn’t possible, but he knew it. A memory clawed its way to the surface—fishing trips, his father, the scent of open water. He had thought this was where his love of the lake had begun. But something in him rebelled against the thought.

Had he always loved the water?

Or had something been waiting for him in it?

The air hummed. The birds had gone silent.

He called your name again.

Nothing.

The absence unsettled him more than the voice had.

That night, he had written about it in his journal, flipping back through previous entries only to find his own handwriting slipping away from him. Sentences collapsed inward, layer upon layer, like something had rewritten them over and over again until they were unreadable.

Where lies the strangling fruit that came from the hand of the sinner I shall bring forth the seeds of the dead-

He knew it was wrong, but he kept going back to that cabin.

Like the Linguist, who had torn at her own skin, convinced something writhed beneath it.

Like the Geologist, who had whispered leave me to decompose and done just that.

“They’re not coming back,” Kane announced one morning.

You finally looked up. “What makes you think that?”

He gestured around them, frustrated. “Look around. It’s just you and me. We lost all the others.”

“They aren’t lost,” you murmured. Then shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “Maybe we’re the ones who are.”

Kane stilled. His throat tightened.

“How? We’re at base camp,” he pressed, “they should’ve been back by now.”

“It’s been less than a day.”

The words slid through him like cold metal. “No,” he whispered. “We’ve been here for days. I shouldn’t be here. I should’ve gone with them.”

You reached for his shoulder, steadying him. “Take a deep breath. You want to go? Fine. But give me two minutes. You’re not going out there alone again. You’ve not been the same since you’ve been back.”

Kane hesitated. His hand brushed against yours as though to say thanks, but you pulled away first.

It didn’t take you much time to pack your bag. You tried to keep it light, who knows what you were walking into. Rations, emergency equipment, and a field kit to take samples while on the go.

As you walked over to where he’d waited for you, you glanced at the camp one last time. Certain you would never see it again.

The ground beneath your boots felt unstable, as though something just beneath the surface was shifting in response to your presence. Moss underneath offering a spring in each step. The forest exhaled around you, the hush between sounds stretching longer than it should. Even the insects, which had once filled every quiet space, seemed to be waiting.

Kane stood rigid, his posture coiled, his gaze locked onto the cabin as if looking at it too long might pull him inside. His breath came in uneven bursts, his fingers twitching slightly where they hovered near his rifle strap. You reached for his hand, grounding him, but he didn’t react. Or maybe he couldn’t.

“This isn’t the tower,” you murmured quietly.

No response. If he had heard you at all, he gave no indication.

Your attention shifted. The derelict boat overturned near the water, barely visible beneath its cocoon of vines, caught your eye. Its hull had been split by roots thick as a man’s arm, curling into the wood like grasping hands. But it wasn’t just overgrowth—this was something else entirely. The plants had fused, their species indistinguishable from one another, blending into an unrecognizable tangle of colour and texture. Leaves that should not have existed in the same climate pressed against each other, petals rippling in colours you had no name for. The vines pulsed faintly, as though drawing breath.

Your curiosity pulled you forward. Kane remained still, locked in his personal war with the past, leaving you to slip ahead. Your pack slid from your shoulder, landing softly on the damp earth as you crouched near the boat. The scent of wet wood and something faintly metallic filled your lungs.

Carefully, you reached into your field kit, retrieving a scalpel. The blade caught the strange ambient light filtering through the canopy, flashing red, then blue. You steadied yourself, choosing a section of vine where two distinctly different plants had merged, their cellular structure braided impossibly together. A light incision. Just enough to—

The moment the scalpel’s edge touched the vine, something shifted.

Not just the plant. The entire forest.

The background hum, the constant thrumming of unseen life, stuttered. The trees did not sway, but the light around them flickered, as if a veil had momentarily lifted and revealed something beneath. The air thickened, pressing against your skin. The ground beneath you felt—wrong. For a fleeting second, your senses betrayed you, your body insisting you were tilting sideways despite crouching perfectly still.

Then, the vine moved.

Not a natural movement, not the slow, creeping growth of a plant. It coiled toward your hand, deliberate, reactive, the wound you had made closing over itself like flesh knitting back together. A faint wet sound. Something between the slow tear of muscle and the slip of damp leaves unfurling.

A pulse of heat shot up your arm before you could recoil. The cut you had made sealed itself in an instant. The plant had accepted the wound—and returned it.

A sharp sting bloomed just below your wrist. You looked down.

A thin red line, identical to the one you had made on the vine, now marred your skin. Blood dripped down towards your hand.

“Kane—” you called for him.

Before you could finish, he was there, yanking you back, his fingers tight around your arm as he dragged you several steps away. His breathing was shallow, his pupils blown wide, darting from your face to the plant and back again.

“What the hell was that?” you stumbled.

He shook his head. “We need to go.”

You hesitated, glancing back at the sample you had failed to collect. But the plant had already begun to change again. The colours shifted subtly, and where you had touched it, the surface darkened, as if absorbing the memory of you. The moment you had shared with it.

Kane didn’t wait for you to make up your mind. His grip on your wrist tightened, his pulse thrumming against your skin, his urgency contagious.

He pulled you away from the boat. Away from the cabin.

Away from whatever had just recognized you.

You were sitting staring into the makeshift bonfire while Kane cleaned your arm and bandaged your stitched wound. He’d used some of the heated water to make you both coffee but you weren’t drinking yours. After he was done, he’d tossed the old bandages into the water and sat back down beside you on the log.

“I don’t think we’re going to find them.” You say quietly.

“What makes you say that?” Kane asked, reaching to put an arm around you.

“I dunno, a feeling.”

“Well what’s the plan now? Do we go back? Keep going forward?”

You hesitate to respond. “I want to stay here. With you.”

“You’ll be with me whichever direction we go.” He grinned.

That wasn’t what you meant and you shook your head. “I don’t want to go back. I feel like I’ve already lost you if I keep going.”

“You haven’t though. I’m right here. I didn’t marry you to give up on you.”

“What?” You say confused. You try to remember when you married him and it was there. The flowers, the perfect day. The memory was far enough away to feel like it wasn’t yours.

The fire crackled between you, casting warped shadows against the canvas of your tent. The flames flickered too quickly, too erratically, as though something unseen was breathing over them. Kane sat close, his body warm beside yours, his arm draped around you with a weight that should have been comforting. But something was wrong.

You stared down at the bandage wrapped around your arm, the clean white cloth already beginning to darken at the edges. The sting beneath it felt deeper than a simple wound, something curling under your skin, remembering the touch of the thing you had disturbed.

His voice reached you again, softer this time. “You haven’t lost me.”

But he was lying.

Or worse, he believed what he was saying.

The memory sat in your mind like a misplaced object. Your wedding. A day that should have been carved into you, vibrant, tangible. You could see the flowers—petals in soft, muted colours, a breeze stirring through them. You could hear the distant murmur of guests. Could feel the weight of the ring on your finger.

But when had it happened?

Where had it happened?

The edges of the thought were blurred, soft, like a painting left too long in the rain. The details felt secondhand, like something recited from a dream you had overheard rather than lived.

Your breath hitched as you turned to look at Kane. “Say that again.”

His brow furrowed. “You haven’t lost me.”

“No, the thing before.”

“I didn’t marry you to give up on you?”

There it was again. That certainty. Like he knew it to be true.

Like he had always known.

But the longer you stared at him, the more you questioned if you had always known him.

A sharp pressure bloomed at your temples. The fire crackled louder, though neither of you had moved.

“Where did we get married?” you asked.

Kane blinked. “What?”

“Where?” you repeated, each word weighted.

His mouth opened, but no sound came. He frowned, gaze flickering away, toward the trees, toward the nothingness that surrounded you both. You could see him grasping for it, for a detail, for a single thread to hold onto.

The wedding was real. Wasn’t it?

The firelight made his face unfamiliar for the first time. Shadows caught in the hollows of his cheeks, casting angles that hadn’t been there before. The longer you looked, the more those details refused to sit right.

“Kane,” you whispered, not sure anymore if you were calling his name or testing it.

He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. A short, humourless laugh left him, but it was frayed at the edges.

“I don’t—I don’t know.” His fingers flexed on his knee. “It’s like it’s right there, but—” He exhaled sharply. “Shit.”

The fire let out a loud pop, sending a spark spiralling up into the dark. Neither of you moved.

The silence stretched.

Then, finally, he met your gaze.

“Do you remember?” he asked.

The question sent something cold curling down your spine.

Because he wasn’t asking where.

He was asking if.

And for the first time, you weren’t sure of the answer. You shake your head.

The fire sputtered, low embers pulsing with uneven light, as though struggling against some unseen force pressing down on it. Somewhere in the darkness, beyond the perimeter of the fire’s glow, something moved—not a rustle, not the natural disturbance of undergrowth, but a slow, deliberate shift. The forest itself was listening.

Kane’s shoulders sagged, his fingers tracing absent patterns into the dirt beside him with his free arm. His breath came shallow, a quiet tremor beneath each exhale. “I think I know where the others have gone,” he murmured, the words barely making it past his lips. Then softer, almost reverent—“It’ll be me soon.”

A pulse of unease rippled through you, settling deep in your gut. The words weren’t spoken in fear. They weren’t a warning. They were a certainty.

“Don’t talk like that.” You reached for his arm, half-expecting the heat of his skin, the familiar solidness of him—but he flinched. Not from the touch itself, but from what it meant. 

“I’m not going to let that happen to you.” You reassert.

His head turned slightly, just enough for the firelight to catch his profile, the shifting glow casting moving shadows across his face. He looked like himself, but at the same time, he didn’t. The bones of him were the same, the slope of his jaw, the curve of his nose. But something beneath it—some small, imperceptible wrongness—made him feel like a memory poorly recalled.

He exhaled, his shoulders shaking with something between laughter and grief. “If you stay, you won’t ever be able to get back out. You’ll be stuck here with me.”

The words settled over you like a damp cloth. Heavy. Stifling.

There was no argument in his tone. Just another truth.

“And I can’t make you stay.” He finally murmured as though it pained him to say.

You swallowed, your throat dry, though you hadn’t noticed the thirst until now. Had you drunk anything today? The coffee still sat beside you, untouched, the surface unbroken. It looked wrong, as if it had been sitting there for longer than you had been at this fire.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your pants.

You should have wanted to leave. You should have recoiled at the thought of being trapped, of being swallowed by this place like all the others. But when you searched for that instinct—the one that should have screamed at you to run—you found only stillness. A quiet, creeping sense of inevitability.

Maybe this had always been where you were supposed to be.

“Maybe I don’t want to go.”

I had a lot of fun writing this one. If you enjoyed too please consider following, reblogging, or commenting and letting me know! ily have a good day

[soulless-computerbug]

The process of claiming and branding proxies can be grueling. Each Ender does it differently, but the series of steps all have the same purpose. Take, mark, manipulate, and own body and soul.

The most benevolent Enders try to not fall back on creating such bonds. Splendor just hires people to help him with his needs, counselors, caretakers, and teachers to help the children that wind up in his orphanage. Because of his particular diet, its in his best interest to keep the people around him as happy as possible. That, and he genuinely just doesn't like seeing people unhappy or unwell. He has only a couple claimed proxies, a pediatrician and two of his oldest children that had stayed with him to be caretakers.

Slender, or the Administrator, is nearly an opposite. He feeds off of pain and misery, and thus his proxies are always walking a wire with him. His best and most reliable live an easier life, but not a stress-free one. Keeping them on edge keeps them from thinking of escape plans, keeps them subserviant to his wrath when he needs them straightened out.

Claiming a proxy can happen even before the person has seen or had noticable contact with the Ender. Enders can reach out telepathically, and often do when searching for new fodder to easily find those that can be molded easier to their needs. Once the human is chosen, they are watched. Followed. Stalked for as long as they need. Theyre under tight observation and pressure, to both begin the process and further judge them for the role. This process can last anywhere from a few months, to several years, and the Ender may even subject the chosen to different tasks or experiences to further test and judge them. By this stage, the chosen usually knows theyre being appraised, or at least assumed to be hunted.

Once the Ender is satisfied with its decision, it will often ghost the proxy away to its territory and begin the process of claiming them. Usually this is the most physical process, as claiming or "branding" a proxy needs to leave a mark on their body, and a psychological impression on their mind. The process will always involve some discomfort, but good masters will normally try to neutralize that discomfort as much as possible. Others push it further, to force their proxy into submission. Once claimed, the proxy is connected to their master in mind, and owned in body. But most masters will continue to push their way into their proxy's psyche, to fully break them into their new role.