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perfectsunlight · 2 days ago

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[32] ENOUGH

warnings: therapy sessions, overwhelming emotions, family conflict, intense feelings of isolation and public scrutiny.

JULY 2018

the therapist’s office felt too bright, almost too sterile, with white walls that seemed to reflect every thought jennie was trying to push down. she sat on the edge of a plush couch, her hands folded tightly in her lap, the weight of her secret pressing harder than ever. she couldn’t even look at the therapist—some stranger who was supposed to help her sort through the mess of emotions she couldn’t afford to acknowledge.

jennie had agreed to come here because her manager insisted. it wasn’t for her, though—it was for the image. “you’re under a lot of pressure, jennie. it’s okay to talk about it,” they had nagged. but she wasn’t here for herself. she was here because someone had told her to be. across from her, the therapist—a woman in her late 40s with kind eyes—sat quietly, her notepad resting on her lap. she wasn’t asking anything intrusive yet, only waiting for jennie to open up.

but she couldn’t.

“jennie,” the therapist smiled, her voice warm and steady, “i understand that things have been moving very fast for you since your debut. how are you feeling about everything that’s happening right now?” the idol stiffened at the mention of blackpink. the group’s rise to fame had been overwhelming, every step met with more pressure, more eyes on her. she wanted to say something, but the words felt trapped in her throat. this wasn’t about being a star—it was about the other part of her life, the one she had to keep hidden.

"everything’s fine," jennie replied, her voice flat, distant. "it’s just a lot to handle sometimes." the therapist simply nodded, her expression calm. "i can imagine. you’re balancing so much. what’s been the hardest part for you?"

jennie’s mind raced. the hardest part? where could she even begin? she was living a double life, caught between the woman the world saw and the woman she had to hide. she was expected to be jennie kim, the idol, the one who smiled for the cameras and smiled through the pain. but what the cameras didn’t know was that there was another life—a life she couldn’t talk about. the one where she was a mother.

her chest tightened as the thought crossed her mind. her daughter. her ivory. her baby girl, who she had to keep from the world. no one can know. no one could ever know.

the secrecy suffocated her.

"i’m just tired," the rapper replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “all the time, it feels like i’m pretending. i’m not allowed to be real. there’s always this pressure to be perfect. to be this person for everyone, but no one knows the real me.”

the therapist leaned in slightly, sensing the vulnerability behind the idol’s words. “that sounds really exhausting. can you tell me more about what you mean by ‘pretending’?” jennie let out a breath, but no words came. she didn’t know where to start. how could she explain the tension in her chest, the constant guilt, the way her heart ached every time she had to leave her daughter behind? she couldn’t even say she was a mother. she had to keep that part of herself locked away.

“it just all feels fake.” the idol had answered, her voice tinged with a frustration she couldn’t quite name. “like everyone wants me to be this one thing. they expect me to be perfect all the time. it’s like i have to be this persona, and if i show any cracks, everything will fall apart.”

jennie’s slender fingers gripped the edge of the couch, her knuckles shades of her daughter’s name from the pressure. she didn’t dare look at the therapist, afraid that if she did, she might reveal too much. she had to hold herself together—even here, she had to be jennie kim, the image the world adored, the person they thought they knew.

the therapist, quiet and patient, let the silence stretch between them. she understood—jennie didn’t need advice or platitudes right now. she needed someone to hear her, someone to acknowledge the struggle that came with the life she had chosen.

the idol finally spoke again after a few beats of silence, her words a soft confession, her voice breaking slightly with the weight of what she wasn’t saying. “there’s always someone who wants something from me. always someone who wants to use me. nothing feels real, nothing feels genuine.”

the therapist nodded slowly, leaning back into her leather chair but maintaining her focus. “that sounds incredibly isolating. to feel like you have to keep everything locked inside, and not be able to share your true self with anyone.”

the idol’s gaze dropped to her hands, now fidgeting nervously. she didn’t want to share her true self. she couldn’t share it. she couldn’t risk it. the truth, the part of her that was real, wasn’t something the world could ever accept.

it was too dangerous. too fragile.

“i don’t know who i’m supposed to be anymore,” jennie whispered, her voice barely audible. “i don’t know how to be everything they want me to be. and still be me.”

there was a pause, and the therapist gave her the space to gather her thoughts, even if the words felt impossible to say. jennie had spent so many months—years, really—burying parts of herself. she couldn’t even let herself believe she could be anything other than the image she had crafted. even now, sitting in a therapist's office, she couldn’t speak the truth about who she was beneath all the layers.

the therapist spoke again, her voice quiet but insistent. “well, it sounds like you're carrying a heavy burden. you don’t have to bear it alone. is there anyone in your life who makes you feel seen? someone who knows the real you?”

jennie wanted to laugh in her face and just walk out the door, the absurdity of the question hitting her like ice in her veins. who could ever understand this? who could understand her?

her eyes flicked to the woman who sat waiting, her gentle expression a stark contrast to the ocean of thoughts drowning in the idol's mind. the question had unintentionally struck a nerve. of course, there was no one. not in the way the therapist meant.

no one could understand the weight of the mask jennie had to wear. no one could see past the glossy surface of the public persona, the polished image that was expected of her. and even if someone tried to see me, would they even care?

jennie’s fingers curled tighter around the fabric of her jacket. “no,” she said, the word escaping her like a cold, sharp breath. “no one knows me. not really.”

she didn’t even believe it herself. not completely. it was easier to lie, easier to convince herself that she was better off this way—alone in her truth, because the alternative was too terrifying. to be seen, to be known by anyone, meant the possibility of being rejected, of being abandoned by the very people who adored the version of her they had created in their minds.

the therapist sat back a little, not pushing her further, but giving jennie the space to breathe, to consider her words. the silence in the room felt heavy now, almost suffocating.

the idol cleared her throat, fighting back the lump in her throat. her gaze dropped to her hands, which were twisting and folding in her lap, betraying her anxiety. she had to get out of here. she had to escape from this room, from the vulnerability that was creeping in, inch by inch.

“i don’t know how to be me,” jennie muttered under her breath, the words barely audible. “i don’t even know who that is anymore.”

as if on queue, the timer went off, signaling the end of their time together. jennie felt a rush of relief surge through her chest. it was as if the weight she’d been carrying for the past hour finally lifted, and for the first time that day, she could breathe. she didn’t even bother with pleasantries as she stood up. "thank you," she muttered almost automatically, her voice a little hoarse. she wasn’t sure if it was gratitude or just a desperate need to escape the room, but either way, she was out of there as soon as the words left her lips.

as she hurried down the hallway to the parking lot, the rest of the world seemed to fade into a dull hum. she didn’t want to think about the things they’d discussed. she didn’t want to process the way the conversation had unraveled parts of her she wasn’t ready to face. all she wanted was to be home, to be with ivory. the little girl who somehow made everything feel right, even if only for a while.

when she stepped through the door, jieun was there, but jennie barely spared her a glance. her mind was already on ivory. her heart, which had been tight all through the session, began to loosen at the thought of holding her daughter.

“i’ll be with her,” the idol said quietly, her tone flat. jieun, sensing her need for space, gave a soft nod and stepped back, leaving her daughter to retreat into the quiet of their home.

jennie’s pace quickened as she made her way down the hallway. she opened the door to ivory’s room softly, and there the little girl was, sitting on her little rug, her tiny hands putting bows on kuma. at the sight of her, the idol felt the first wave of peace she’d had all day.

ivory looked up and saw her mother, her brown eyes lighting up with pure, unfiltered joy. “mommy?” she said in surprise, her head tilting to the side, a grin spreading across her face.

the idol’s own face softened, though there was a tightness still lingering in her chest. she didn’t answer with words. instead, she moved to the floor and immediately pulled ivory into her arms, her heartbeat slowing as she pressed her daughter against her. jane’s little body fit perfectly in jennie’s arms, a familiar weight she could never grow tired of.

they didn’t need to talk. jennie didn’t want to talk. there was no need for anything else at that moment. she just needed to hold her daughter, to feel her warm breath against her neck, to know that, for a little while, she didn’t have to be anything other than here.

jane nestled against her, sighing contentedly, her small hands reaching up to trace her mother’s face, as though memorizing the shape of it. jennie closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of baby lotion and something uniquely ivory.

for a while, the room was quiet, the only sound was the soft rhythm of their breathing. ivory shifted in her mother’s arms, her face nuzzling into jennie’s shoulder, and jennie tightened her hold, as if trying to shield her from everything—everything outside of this room, outside of this moment.

it didn’t matter that the world was still waiting for her, that the pressures, the expectations, the fear—everything—was still looming. in this little bubble, with her daughter in her arms, none of that mattered. she could almost forget it all.

she could just be jennie, the mother. the most important title in her life.

as the hours slipped by, the idol found herself reluctant to move, reluctant to even speak. she just wanted to stay like this, to hold her daughter close and pretend that the rest of the world didn’t exist. the way ivory’s tiny fingers curled into her sleeve, the way she let out soft giggles as jennie kissed her head, made her heart swell.

and for that fleeting moment, that brief escape from everything else, jennie allowed herself to believe that this was enough.

—

OCTOBER 2025

the office space was painted in dark, muted colors, the kind designed to be calming. dark blues and greens lined the walls, interrupted only by a row of shelves filled with books and puzzles. a small table in the corner held crayons and coloring sheets, their cheerful appearance clashing with the suffocating weight jane felt pressing against her tiny chest.

she didn’t want to be here. the only reason she agreed was because jennie had asked her to. however, ivory was starting to question why in the world she agreed to it.

the therapist was a kind-looking woman with dark eyes and a soothing voice. she sat across from her, the wall behind her littered with framed awards and certifications. ivory couldn’t remember her name—ms. something—but it didn’t matter. the woman was just another stranger, someone who didn’t understand.

“hi, jane,” she said, her voice warm like honey. she opened one of her notepads and grabbed a sleek looking pen from her drawer. “it’s so nice to meet you. your grandma and your mom told me a lot about you.”

the eleven year old glanced at the therapist in slight annoyance, then quickly averted her gaze to the patterned rug beneath her shoes. it felt safer to stare there, at the swirling blues and whites, than to meet the woman’s kind, probing eyes.

she didn’t want to be here. matter of fact, she had no idea why both her grandmother and mother thought this was a good idea. the therapist paused for a beat, giving her space, then continued.

“they said you’ve been feeling a little sad lately. that you’ve been missing your mom a lot when she’s away. is that true?”

jane’s fingers gripped the hem of her grey oversized sweater. it was a gift from her mother. a one of one vintage designer piece. she didn’t remember exactly what brand, all she cared about was that it was from her mom. she wanted to laugh at the question, to stand up and just walk out already.

of course she missed her. she missed her every single day that jennie was gone, every moment she had to pretend she was like every other kid when her life was anything but.

but how could she explain it? how could she look at this stranger and tell her the truth? that her mom wasn’t just some busy woman working long hours, but jennie kim—the jennie kim? that her absence wasn’t just because of an ordinary job, but because of cameras and flashing lights and a career that consumed her whole world?

so she stayed quiet.

the therapist tilted her head slightly, her expression patient and encouraging. “it’s okay if it’s hard to talk about. you don’t have to say anything if you’re not ready.”

the young girl’s throat tightened as the therapist’s words hung in the air. she clenched her jaw and stared harder at the patterned rug, as if the swirling shapes could somehow anchor her, stop the storm of emotions from bubbling over.

the room was too quiet. the kind of quiet that made everything feel louder—the hum of the air conditioning, the subtle creak of the chair as she shifted, even her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

“i…” jane started, her voice barely a whisper. but the words caught in her throat. she could feel the therapist’s eyes on her, gentle but expectant, like she was waiting for her to find the words to continue.

the silence stretched on, unbearable. her slender fingers twisted the hem of her sweater tighter, the soft fabric biting into her palms. she thought of her mom—her amazing, beautiful mom—smiling at her from the screen, her voice like sunshine when she called from some faraway hotel room. jane hated how much she craved those moments, the rare ones where her mother felt like just her mother.

but they weren’t alone moments. not really. there were always fans, schedules, cameras. always someone else demanding a piece of her mom.

jane swallowed hard. she couldn’t say any of that. couldn’t say how much it hurt to share her mom with the world. to feel like she was competing with millions of strangers for her attention.

“i’m fine.” the young kim whispered, giving a firm nod of her head. the therapist didn’t react right away. she just nodded in reply, her smile small and understanding, like she knew the young girl wasn’t fine but wouldn’t push her to admit it.

“sometimes it helps to draw or write about how you’re feeling,” she said, sliding a blank sheet of paper and a box of crayons across the table. “no one has to see it. it’s just for you.”

jane’s eyes flicked to the paper. her hands didn’t move. she hated how everyone kept asking her to “express her feelings” like it would magically fix everything. the young girl gave the therapist a look, one that definitely meant jane knew what the older woman was trying to do. when the therapist realized the girl wasn’t going to take the bait, she leaned back slightly.

“do you want to tell me about your mom?”

that question hit harder than it should have. jane’s chest tightened, and her lips pressed into a thin line. “what about her?” she finally scoffed, her voice a bit sharper than she intended to. she could feel the irritation bubbling up inside her, the urge to push back, to defend the one part of her life that was supposed to be her own. as if this therapist even knew who her mother was. jane could already call it from a mile away—the polite, clinical smile on the woman’s face, the soft, empathetic tone.

but it was all fake, wasn’t it?

jennie had probably used one of her four (and yes, she had counted) fake names when signing jane up for this session. four. because there was no way anyone could know who jennie kim really was—not even a therapist. not in a place like this. not in this life jane had to pretend to lead.

the therapist, not flinching at the sudden shift in jane’s tone, asked again, “what’s she like?”

it was a loaded question, at least to the young girl it was. what was jennie kim like? to the world, she was untouchable—charismatic, talented, adored by millions. she was the kind of person people wrote songs about, the kind of person who could command a room with just a glance. but to ivory, jennie was a puzzle, one she couldn’t quite figure out.

her mom, who could light up her entire world in one moment and then disappear from it the next.

she thought of the sweater she was wearing, the way her mother had handed it to her with a bright smile, saying, “this reminded me of you.” she thought of the lullabies jennie used to sing when she was younger, of the way her mom’s hugs felt like the safest place in the world.

but she also thought of the canceled birthdays, the missed school plays, the empty chair at dinner. she thought of how every time jennie said, “i’ll be home soon,” jane stopped believing it a little more.

ivory’s throat burned, feeling like shards of glass in her windpipe. she hesitated, her voice trembling a bit more than she had planned.

“she’s busy.”

the therapist’s head tilted slightly, her expression softening. “that must be hard. when someone you care about is busy a lot.”

jane felt the lump in her throat grow, the tightness in her chest spreading like a burning wildfire. she wanted to scream at the woman to stop, to leave her alone, to stop digging at things she didn’t want to talk about. but instead, she forced her voice to stay steady. “i’m used to it.”

the therapist paused, watching her carefully. “you must be very strong to handle that,” she said gently.

jane’s hands relaxed slightly at the words, but only for a moment. they didn’t feel like a compliment. they felt like a reminder—one she didn’t need. being strong wasn’t a choice. it was just something she had to be.

the session dragged on, filled with more questions jane didn’t want to answer and silences she couldn’t fill. by the end of it, she was exhausted, her body heavy with emotions she still didn’t know how to name.

jieun picked her up after the session, her usual warm smile in place as she waved from the car. jane slid into the passenger seat, her silence as thick as the tension in her chest. she felt jieun’s eyes on her along with the unspoken questions hanging in the air.

“how was it?” the older woman finally asked, her voice light but careful. jane stared out the window, watching the world blur past. “it was fine,” she muttered. the words were flat, stripped of anything that might invite more questions.

her grandmother didn’t press her, but as they pulled into the driveway and parked, she turned to the smaller girl with a softness that made the girl’s chest ache. “do you want to go back next week? you don’t have to if it’s too much.”

jane hesitated, her fingers curling around the strap of her backpack. the weight of the question pressed down on her. did she want to go back? did she want to sit in that room again, feeling like she was being pried open? did she want to pretend that someone else’s words could fix the cracks that had already run so deep?

“no,” she said finally, her voice quiet, even as her chest tightened further. “i don’t want to go back.”

jieun nodded, her expression unreadable. she didn’t argue, didn’t try to convince jane otherwise. “okay,” she said softly. “that’s okay.”

but as they walked into the house and ivory retreated to her room, she couldn’t shake the hollowness that had settled inside her. she dropped her bag to the floor and sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. the session had left her drained, not relieved. the therapist’s words echoed in her mind, the attempt at comfort ringing hollow.

"you must be very strong."

strong wasn’t enough. pretending to be strong didn’t make the loneliness go away, didn’t fill the spaces where words failed, didn’t erase the ache that came from being so close to someone and yet feeling so far away.

this wasn’t going to work, she knew that now. she couldn’t keep doing this—couldn’t keep sitting in rooms with people who wanted her to explain the things she barely understood herself. no one’s words were going to fix it.

no one’s reassurances were going to be enough. no matter how many fancy degrees or framed certificates they had hanging on their walls, they didn’t have the answers she needed. they couldn’t untangle the mess inside her head or quiet the ache in her chest. every question felt like a spotlight on something she wanted to keep in the dark, every answer she gave felt like handing over a piece of herself she wasn’t ready to share.

ivory sat on the edge of her bed, her hands gripping the comforter as if it might anchor her. the house was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed in on her and made her feel smaller. she thought of her grandmother downstairs, probably pretending not to worry, probably thinking about what to tell her mother later. for now she’d be giving her space, because that’s what jieun always did.

but space wasn’t what jane wanted. not really. what she wanted wasn’t something she could name, and it definitely wasn’t something anyone could give her. it wasn’t something she’d find in a therapist’s office, no matter how soft their voice or kind their eyes were.

her chest felt tight again, like it might collapse in on itself. she pressed her palms flat against her legs, grounding herself, but the weight of everything she was carrying still felt like too much.

this wasn’t going to work. jane had always known, deep down, that it wouldn’t. and now, staring at the cracks in her ceiling, she let that truth settle over her like a blanket. no one could fix this for her.

and no one’s words—not a therapist’s, not jieun’s—were ever going to be enough.

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CLOSED.

#jennie kim #blackpink #lesserafim #angst #kpop angst #original series #jisoo kim #roseanne park #lalisa manoban #kim chaewon #ivory #perfectsunlight

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alesiaaa · 3 days ago

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Tapestry of understanding

Geta is pissed off a whole day because of rumours, which results in hurt feelings and confessions of fears.

Warnings : none! It’s half fluff half angst-ish?..

First thing I post cause I forgot abt this blog haha!

1.2k words as it is kind of a drabble..

Today was a hard day.

For the senate, for you, and most importantly, for Geta.

There had been rumours that Geta and Caracalla was having trouble ruling the empire, that they weren’t capable of getting along. It was true, yes, but that didn’t have to reach the public eye. They had enough people around them to make sure nothing was going wrong.

Even if he knew everything was going good, Geta still stressed all day long. Every since that meeting with the senate, he had been on edge all day and whenever he got the chance to, he spoke words of admiration for Claudius, a former Emperor, or..his great-great grandfather.

Though, in the evening, when only you and him dined, as Caracalla didn't even bother showing up, Geta shouted at you. You had accidentally approached a more sensitive topic, and , as he was already pissed off by the events of the day, he shouted at you to keep your mouth shut, or he’d shut it himself. His words cut deeply, as he’d never spoken to you so roughly before. It wouldn’t have bothered you if you didn’t know that the words were genuine, but , as you saw the raw rage in his eyes, you know he meant every word.

As the two of you soon enough retreated to your bedchambers, his ramble started as soon as the two of you entered the hall, completely disregarding your feeling and seemingly forgetting about his actions from before.

The sound of his footsteps were loud against the cold marble floor of your chambers, as Geta walked from one side to another, rambling about the former Emperor that he admired. “ Claudius knew, he understood , everything! “ he exclaimed, as he continued on his pacing, while you simply listened. It isn’t like you were supposed to say anything, he was almost talking to himself.

Geta, with his body covered and marks and scars from long and dangerous battles, was most known by his strength, his rationality in battle. The people of Rome considered him a warrior, while he, seemingly, at least tonight, wanted to be known by the wise words he didn’t have. It wasn’t like he wasn’t wise, he just..didn’t express it properly, or at all.

He stopped in his tracks, slowly turning to face you, sat on your bed, looking at him with an odd expression. “ Why can’t I understand as he does? Why can’t I understand the- the fragility of Rome?..” he spoke, eyes fixed on you.

“ Geta..." you exhaled, letting out the breath you didn’t even know you were holding in. “ What is up with you tonight? Why tonight out of all days, are you not tired of everything today?”

Your words only resulted in a scoff, as she walked closer to the bed, till he was right in front of you. “ I am tired, but..” his breathing was slow, as he just stood there for a moment, thinking about his next words. “..there is this fear in me, solaris, and I mustn’t rest until I am at peace.” His expression was so..raw, so full of emotion, that you thought that was the most vulnerable you’d ever seen him before.

“ W-What?” You questioned quietly, your face filled with confusion that he seemed to mistake as judgement, which immediately made him shut down once more. He shook his head, sitting down aside you. “ It is nothing, rosa, forget I ever said anything.” His voice was a bit shakier than usual, yet still steady enough to not make you believe he shed tears.

His body inched closer to yours, before, he slowly laid on his back, his head resting on your lap. The moonlight made it possible for you to see the wetness in his eyes, as he looked up at you softly, his hands resting on his chest. “ My love..what bothers you so badly? I beg you, speak to me, because when you are not at peace, I am not as well.” You said quietly, your hands moving to cradle his face, leaning down to press a gentle kiss on his forehead.

Your acts of kindness and understanding only made tears escape his eyes, as he shut them swiftly , hoping you hadn’t noticed. Deep down, the way he’s acted to you the whole day also pained and stressed him. He felt as if he wasn’t deserving one bit of the kindness and love you were showing him.

“ I fear that centuries in the future, only thing that will be remembered of me is the battles I’ve fought, and not the man I am.” He spoke , exhaling as if a rock was taken off his heart, his voice seeming almost weak, hurt. It broke your heart to see him this way.

Despite his usual rough demeanor, when the two of you were alone, he softened each and every time. Every night, when you’d find yourselves laid on your bed , alone in the quiet of your bedchambers, he’d always tell you stories, from when he was a child, or, about how it was in the different zones he fought in, or just simply about his day. Perhaps, when praying before bed, he’d slip a few extra prayers for you as well, without ever realising it.

Your marriage had a rough start, but after so much time, the two of you grew to love and appreciate each other as if you had been married for decades, when you’ve been married for barely a year.

“ I- you don’t have to compare yourself to others, my dear,” you soothed, your fingers running slowly through his ginger hair , playing and tugging at the strands. “, I know you, and I know that you are truly a good man. And they know too, they understand. You aren’t the only Emperor to be known by strength, are you? I don’t believe it is wrong to be known as a strong man. Only jealous and incompetent people would consider you anything else but a capable Emperor.” Though your words didn’t seem to affect him much, he simply hummed with a small nod, opening his eyes to look at you.

A sigh escaped his lips, as his hands went to hold yours, pulling them on his chest. “ Dulcisa, will you forgive me? I acted so, so foolish today. It was wrong of me to take out my anger on you, my angel. You’re not at fault.” his words were reassuring, but it still hurt to know that he still meant those words.

Still, you didn’t complain, you didn’t respond negatively, you simply hummed, kissing his forehead once again, a gesture he took as a silent ‘I forgive you.’ He swiftly turned, so he’d be laid on his stomach, before he crawled over you, making you lay on the bed as well. Though his scope wasn’t to try any sexual act, and you knew that. He was tired of speaking, so just pushing you down to sleep was far easier.

His arm wrapped tightly around your waist, his head leaned on your arm. It wasn’t the usually position you went to sleep in, it was uncomfortable and irritating, but you didn’t say a thing and shut your eyes, breathing steadying as the two of you, soon enough, fell into a deep sleep.

#emperor geta #geta x reader #joseph quinn geta #joseph quinn #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #i love this man

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lirotationside · 3 days ago

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Your setup with Astarion? Far from standard, but hey, this is Night City. Nothing’s standard here. He’d latched onto you after you pulled him out of that shitshow, half-dead and running on charm. You figured he’d crash for a couple of days, maybe heal up, give you the intel he promised, and bounce. People didn’t stick around in this town; the city chewed through connections faster than your neural processors.

Credit where it's due - he delivered. His intel got you into that mixer, gave you the perfect shot at your Kong Tao mark. Clean hit, fat stack of eddies, even tossed him his cut. Should've been done. Gig closed. Next job.

But no.

Days bled into weeks, and somehow, he just... stuck.

He wasn't exactly a model tenant - scattered empty stims and synth-food containers like some twisted treasure trail - but hell, your own living space looked like a Scav den most days.

He even cooked once. Or tried to. Whatever the hell he’d attempted with the synth-meat still clung to the edges of the kitchen.

You weren’t gonna sleep with him—not after what happened—and he mostly kept out of your way.

Then there were the nights he’d vanish. No word, no note, just slipping into the neon blur like a shadow.

And when he came back?

He looked like he’d gone a few rounds in a back-alley pit fight with someone twice his size. Clothes shredded, lip split, cradling an arm that looked one hit away from falling off. Whatever poise and polish he normally carried was long gone, replaced by a raw, jagged exhaustion.

One morning, curiosity got the better of you.

“What the hell happened to you?” you asked as he limped into the kitchen, half-draped in his torn coat.

"Nothing," he said, waving you off, wincing as he slumped into the nearest chair. "Got into a little scuffle."

You snorted. “A little scuffle? Choom, you look like you kissed a cyberpsycho’s mantis blades.”

That got you one of his trademark smirks, though the effect was somewhat dulled by his split lip. “Should see the other guy.”

Classic deflection. You weren’t buying it, but you didn’t push. You weren’t his keeper.

Still, there was something about the way he carried himself—haunted, wary, like he was running from something bigger than Night City itself. It stuck with you, even when you told yourself it didn’t matter.

In Night City, you don't go digging unless you're prepared for what crawls out. And you weren’t ready. Not yet.

_________________

The moment you stepped through the door, you knew something was off. The air in the apartment was thick, humid, stinking of sweat and something sharp. You rounded the corner, and there he was—collapsed on the floor, shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked skin, pale as a ghost. One wrist locked to a water pipe with cheap security cuffs that have already torn skin.

Your stomach dropped, then twisted into a knot.

“What the actual fuck, Astarion?” you snapped, your voice ricocheting off the walls like a shot.

His head turned slowly; eyes glassy but flickering with recognition. “It’s... not what it looks like,” he rasped, his voice barely there.

You stormed over, anger bubbling hot under your skin. “Not what it looks like? You’re cuffed to my fucking plumbing, lying in your own sweat. What the hell does it look like?”

He winced, trying to sit up but barely managing a slump. “I didn’t bring anyone here,” he said, his voice firmer this time, but the words came with a tremor he couldn’t hide.

You glared, heat rising in your chest. “Oh, so I’m just supposed to take your word for it? I don’t care what you’re into, Astarion, but you don’t bring it here. This is my space, got it?”

He flinched, and for a second, the cracks in his usual charm showed. The vulnerability in his expression wasn’t something you were used to seeing, and it hit harder than you’d like to admit.

“I didn’t,” he said, his tone sharper now, almost desperate. “I don’t... I wouldn’t. Not here.”

“Then what the hell is this?” you demanded, gesturing at the cuffs, the mess, the whole damn scene.

His jaw tightened, and he looked away, refusing to meet your gaze. “It’s nothing,” he said finally, voice low and clipped.

“Fine,” you said, standing up abruptly. “Stay here. Figure your shit out. But this? This can’t happen again.”

You turned to leave, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on.

“Wait,” he called after you, "Can you hand me the key over there?"

you pause for a bit, pushing down the rage burning inside you, when you tossed him the key to the handcuff, he said softly, “I’m... sorry.”

You turned didn’t look back. “Yeah,” you said, the word heavy with exhaustion. “Me too.”

_______________________

The night stretched thin, neon lights bleeding through your grimy apartment blinds.

You stumbled through the door, the sharp tang of cheap liquor still on your tongue. The burn in your chest had dulled the anger from earlier, but not entirely.

Your eyes fell on Astarion as he moved silently, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on the floor.

He looked up as you swayed against the doorframe, a disarming smile already in place. “You’re back,” he said.

You feel like your head is spinning. You don't get the whole situation. shoulda kick him out, shoulda never let him in.

He stepped closer in your silence, cautious, "I know I owe you an explanation.”

“I promise you—no one else was here. Whatever you’re thinking… it’s not what happened. I’ll tell you everything. I just need to sort it out first.”

You sank onto the couch, arms crossed, glaring at him. “Why the hell should I believe you? You’re a con artist. A sweet-talking joytoy who’s too damn good at playing people.”

He took another careful step toward you, his presence intoxicating despite yourself. “I know I’ve made mistakes,” he said, his tone shifting, smooth and coaxing. “You’re angry, and you should be. But I see it. I see how you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. You want me. Let me prove I’m worth it.”

You stared at him, taken aback by this sudden change of topic. You realized that he never tried, and if he wants, how easily he can slip past your defenses.

“I’m not falling for this,” you muttered, voice weak even as you tried to sound firm.

He moved closer, his hand brushing yours, light as a whisper. “Aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice velvet-smooth. “Because I see the way you breathe when I’m near. The way your pulse quickens.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you snapped, but the words lacked weight.

“Oh, I think I do,” he countered, leaning in, his lips just a breath away from yours. “Tell me to stop, and I will. But if you don’t... well, that tells me all I need to know.”

Your heart raced, your body betraying you. The logical part of your brain screamed to push him away, but the pull was undeniable. He was too close, too intoxicating, and you hated how much you wanted him.

“Astarion…” you started, but his lips were already on yours, soft and teasing, testing your resolve. When you didn’t pull back, he pressed closer, his hands finding your face, cradling it like something precious.

When he pulled back, you swallowed hard, “You’re trouble, Astarion. I can feel it.”

He smiled, soft and knowing, “Maybe. But trouble has a way of finding you, doesn’t it?”

Whatever this was, you decided to let it play out. Maybe he was trouble, but for now, he was your trouble. And in Night City, that was as close to a connection as most people ever got.

______________________

The apartment was dim, the only light spilling out from the half-closed bathroom door. You kicked off your boots, the weight of another night in Night City heavy on your shoulders, but something was wrong. The air carried a sour stench that turned your stomach. You moved closer, and then you saw it.

Astarion.

He was curled in the tub, his body trembling violently, water splashing onto the tiled floor with each convulsion. His pale skin was flushed a sickly red, sweat mingling with the cold water that barely covered his shivering form. The floor was a disaster—puke smeared across the tiles, bile and spit dripping into the water below.

“Shit,” you breathed, rushing in and dropping to your knees beside the tub. “Astarion?”

His eyes cracked open, pupils blown wide, unfocused. His lips moved, but no sound came out, his body arching weakly like he was fighting something invisible. You pressed your fingers to his neck, checking for a pulse. It was there, but rapid—way too fast. His skin burned under your touch, fever-hot despite the cold water.

“Fuck, you’re burning up,” you muttered, already reaching for your holo. “I’m calling Trauma Team.”

“No!” His hand shot out, weak but insistent, grabbing your wrist. His grip was slippery, his fingers trembling like leaves in a storm, but his eyes found yours—bloodshot, desperate.

“You’re dying,” you snapped, heart pounding in your chest. “I’m not about to let you flatline on my bathroom floor!”

He shook his head, the motion jerky, his teeth chattering hard enough to sound like gunfire. “No... no Trauma Team. Please.” His voice was raw, barely audible over the sound of his labored breathing.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” you hissed, pulling your wrist free. “You’re burning alive, Astarion! I don’t even know what’s happening to you!”

He let out a strangled laugh, more of a wheeze, collapsing back against the edge of the tub. “It’ll pass... Just... need time.”

“This?” You gestured wildly at the scene, your voice rising. “This doesn’t just pass! What are you on?”

His eyes slid shut, and for a moment, you thought he’d passed out. Then, so softly you almost missed it, he whispered, “Nothing... not anymore.”

You froze, the words cutting through the chaos like a blade. Realization hit, slow and ugly. “You’re withdrawing.”

He didn’t answer, but the way his jaw tightened told you everything you needed to know.

“Goddammit, Astarion,” you growled, sinking back on your heels, running a hand through your hair. “What were you on? 'Dorph? Black Lace? Fucking Glitter?”

“Does it matter?” His voice was a rasp, sharp edges dulled by exhaustion.

“Of course it fucking matters!” you shot back, your voice cracking. “How the hell am I supposed to help you if I don’t know what you’re fighting?”

His head lolled to the side; his gaze unfocused again. “Don’t need help... I’ll handle it.”

“Yeah?” you snapped, gesturing at the mess around you. “This is you ‘handling it’?”

His breath hitched, a shudder running through his body, and for a moment, the anger drained out of you, replaced by something quieter, heavier.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, your voice softer now, though it still trembled with frustration. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you say something?”

His laugh was bitter, a hollow sound that made your chest ache. “Because... it’s my problem. Not yours.”

You stared at him, at the shadow of the man who had strutted into your life with charm dripping off him like oil. The veneer was gone now, stripped raw, leaving nothing but pain and vulnerability.

“It is now,” you said, standing up and reaching for a towel.

“What are you—”

“Move,” you barked, cutting him off. “You’re getting out of that water before you go into shock. I will call my ripperdoc, you can trust him.”

His expression was a mix of confusion and something else—something almost like relief. For once, he didn’t argue. He just nodded, letting you pull him up, shivering and unsteady, as you wrapped the towel around his trembling shoulders.

Astarion in Cyberpunk AU

POV: How you met him in Night City =P

You’re just another low-tier merc in Night City's meat grinder, same as any other. Sure, you smoke, you chug whatever synthalcohol gets your synapses sparking, maybe pop a little Black Lace now and then for kicks. But one thing you don’t do? Pick up joytoys from Jig-Jig. Nah, choom. Not your scene.

Until tonight's clusterfuck.

You were on a gig, dressed to fool the corpo crowd—chrome hidden under slick, expensive synth-leather. Playing at being one of Night City's untouchables. Then your optics lock onto him.

A joytoy, but not just any joytoy. Lux-grade. The kind of beauty that made your targeting systems glitch and your tits perk up. Picking him up wasn’t the plan—never the plan—but here you are, trying to blend in, figuring if all these suits are doing it, maybe you should too.

Preem bastard had a silver tongue worth more than his chrome, smooth like pre-War whiskey. He leaned in close, casually dropped the very intel you need - an exclusive corpo mixer, one hosting Kong Tao mid-level procurement officer - your target - fresh from Guangzhou. The two of you hit it off, chatting over overpriced drinks at the bar, and one thing led to another. His place.

Then you wake up.

Your choom on the other end of the link, screaming. Your brain feels like it’s been through a shredder. You’re sprawled out on some piss-stained mattress, butt naked, weapons gone.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

You’ve been played. Conned. During a job, no less. Just your fucking luck.

Gotta escape before they rip you open, gotta figure out where the hell you are. But one thing’s for sure—you’re gonna find that pretty bastard, and when you do, he’s got a world of hurt coming his way. _______

Your head’s pounding, but you’ve been in tighter spots before. You force a reboot, running a quick scan. Typical corpo blacksite flophouse—The stink of blood, sweat, and bad decisions clings to the walls.

You find a rusted shard of metal and grip it tight. Better than nothing. You rigged the lock and slipped out of the room, the sound of your bare feet drowned out by the buzz of cheap fluorescents overhead.

The hall’s empty. Nobody watching the cams—amateurs. You find a storage room with your gear dumped in a corner like garbage. Your Militech pistol? Check. punknife? Check. Even your boots. Slipping them on feels like hugging an old friend.

Now clothed and armed, you should be bailing, cutting your losses. But the faint sound of muffled screams crawls under your skin, pulling you back into the fray.

You creep closer, the door half-open. Inside, him.

The joytoy. Astarion.

Strapped down like a Maelstrom test subject, neural wires spiderwebbing from his temples into some black-market brain-dance rig. The machine's whining like a dying cat, each pulse making him scream. Some chrome-headed ganger's working the controls, grinning like he's watching prime-time BD entertainment.

“Picked yourself a zero, didn't ya? No creds, no dirt—just a fucking merc with nothin’ to give. You are lucky boss is not in town.” the ganger sneers, twisting a dial, “What good’s a pretty face if it doesn’t deliver?”

Astarion convulses, tears streaking his otherwise flawless face, “I—tried,” he whispers. "Please, give me another chance.”

Something snaps in your gut. You’ve seen people broken, but this guy? He’s built to endure. Still, this is next-level fucked.

Your blade whispers through the air, clean and silent. The ganger drops, and you catch the falling remote and cut the power to the rig.

Astarion slumps, breathing shallow. You free him, pulling the wires from his skin. He flinches but doesn’t resist.

“Can you walk?” you ask, dragging him to his feet.

He groans but nods. “I’ve had worse.”

The two of you fight your way out, bullets and curses flying. By the time you hit the street, you’re out of breath and out of ammo, but alive. Barely.

You lean against a wall, wiping blood off your hands. “I should fucking gut you for this,” you say, leveling him with a glare.

Astarion chuckles, though it’s more pained than amused. “I’m flattered. But I was under orders, if that softens the blow.”

“Doesn’t,” you snap.

Still, you don’t hurt him. Just turn to leave, figuring he’ll disappear back into whatever pit he crawled out of. But when you glance back, he’s trailing behind you.

“What are you doing?” you snap again, tired and still on edge.

“I have nowhere else to go,” he says softly, eyes downcast, his voice a quiet plea.

“Not my problem,” you grumble, turning to keep walking.

“Wait,” he calls out, stepping closer. When you face him again, the vulnerability in his posture is tinged with a familiar, deliberate charm. His lips curve into the barest hint of a smile. “I could… make it up to you. I’m quite skilled at certain things”

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “That so? You think I’m just gonna take you in because you bat your lashes?”

“Not just because of that,” he murmurs, tilting his head just enough to catch the faint light. “I can be useful. I wasn't lying before, you know? the mixer? I can get you in.”

You pause, damn it he is beautiful. He shifts closer, his voice dipping into something silkier. “Let me stay, just for a while. I’ll keep out of your way. Or,” he adds, his smile sharpening ever so slightly, “if you’d rather, I could be very in your way. Whatever you prefer.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Fine. One screw-up, though, and you’re out. Got it?”

“Crystal clear,” he purrs, bowing his head slightly. “You won’t regret this. I promise.”

As he falls into step beside you, you mutter under your breath. “Already regretting it.”

His soft chuckle is barely audible, but it lingers all the way home.

#having fun trying different writing style #Feels weird to write so different than the way I talk #good practice for diverse characters

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little-jana · 12 hours ago

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"A Calculated Risk"

Part 1

Pairing: Spencer Reid x f!reader

Genre: fluff

Warnings: kissing

Words: 750

Summary: Spencer teaches reader some important facts about germs.

The case had been exhausting, stretching long into the night. We were both tired, yet somehow, the fatigue seemed to have pushed us closer rather than further apart. As we sat in the dimly lit conference room, reviewing the final details of the case before wrapping up, there was an unexpected quietness between us. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but rather a silence that hung with a sense of anticipation, like the calm before a storm.

Spencer had been unusually still, his focus on the case file in front of him, but his eyes kept flicking to me, as though he was measuring something, searching for the right words—or perhaps the courage. I couldn’t deny that I was feeling the same pull, a growing tension in the air that wasn’t about the case at all.

I noticed how his fingers nervously tapped against the table, a subconscious gesture that I knew too well. He was overthinking, just like always. I wanted to say something to ease the quiet, to break the barrier between us that felt so fragile, yet so significant.

But before I could speak, he did.

“Do you ever think about... the possibility of... transmitting germs while kissing?” he asked, his voice soft and hesitant, as though he wasn’t sure why he’d even brought it up. His eyes were wide, earnest, and his usual shy smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

I couldn’t help but smile back, despite the absurdity of the question. Spencer had always had a unique way of turning even the most intimate moments into something logical, something quantifiable. “You mean, like the exchange of bacteria?” I asked, playing along, though my heart was racing.

“Exactly,” he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his face flushed with the slightest hint of embarrassment. “Studies show that the human mouth contains over 700 types of bacteria, many of which can be transferred during... close contact. I mean, statistically speaking, it’s a significant risk.”

I bit my lip to keep from laughing, but there was something so endearing about his scientific approach to something so inherently emotional. Spencer Reid was a brilliant man, but in this moment, I could see the nervous, vulnerable side of him—the side that didn’t quite know how to navigate emotions, especially when it came to something like kissing.

“Spencer,” I said softly, my voice quiet but warm, “sometimes... it’s okay to let go of the facts. You don’t always need to calculate everything. Some things, like this...,” I reached out, gently touching his hand on the table, “can’t be explained by science.”

His gaze shifted to my hand, and I could see the realization flicker in his eyes. I watched as his breath hitched ever so slightly, his usually composed demeanor faltering for just a moment. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but the words seemed to escape him. Instead, he leaned forward, just enough to close the distance between us.

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, the warmth of his presence enveloping me. The world around us seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of us in that shared space, that fragile moment. Without another word, I leaned in, my lips brushing against his in the softest, most tentative kiss.

It was gentle at first—almost shy—like he was still processing the idea, as if he needed to test the waters before fully giving in to the feeling. But then, something shifted. Spencer’s lips responded with a tenderness that took me by surprise, a deep warmth that spoke volumes, even without words.

As we pulled apart, I could see the flush on his cheeks, his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and awe, as though he couldn’t believe it had happened. I could feel the smile tugging at my own lips as I gazed at him.

“Well,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically breathless, “I suppose the risk of bacterial transmission just became... a little more bearable.”

I laughed softly, unable to resist his quirky charm. “You’re impossible,” I teased, but my voice was filled with affection.

Spencer, still clearly processing, looked down at the table for a moment, as though his brain was catching up to his heart. Then, he looked up at me with that trademark shy smile, the one I’d come to love more than I could admit.

“I’m... glad we did that,” he said, almost shyly, like he couldn’t believe it himself.

I reached for his hand again, giving it a soft squeeze. “Me too,” I whispered, my heart still racing from the kiss, and I had the overwhelming sense that this was just the beginning of something much bigger between us.

#criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid #mgg #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader

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lucathewyrm · 2 days ago

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ngl I feel like a lot of yall (understandably) think we should be more open about feeling like we're not human. be more abrasive. especially after the election.

but I honestly just... don't want to. like it doesn't feel right. and there's many reasons and one of them is the fact that no one genuinely sees me as nonhuman. they just accept me to be nice. they think I just like dragons even if I don't. that is more painful than being completely shunned and told I'm stupid. so much worse and so much more painful.

part of me (by part I mean most) just doesn't wanna come out. i can stay hidden. being outed makes me feel vulnerable. it makes me feel insecure. it genuinely makes me more dysphoric to show myself than to not.

I don't think I'm a creature humans should ever see or ever know about. I'm not supposed to be known. I'm supposed to hide from humans. I can't stop thinking about how much I don't want to post a drawing of what I look like and how even describing myself feels odd.

#nonhuman #alterhuman #otherkin #transspecies #otherkin community #therian #therianthropy #otherkinity #dragonkin #alterhuman community #nonhumanity #nonhuman community #therian community #alterhumanity

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jezebelblues · 6 hours ago

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live on tour (interlinked) | h.s | 2

pt 1, pt 2 (complete)

summary: we don't talk about it, it's something we don't do—cause once you go without it, nothing else will do.

cw: smut18+ unprotected (piv), degradation if u squint, choking, weed, alcohol, angst, sort of a slowburn idk, fem!reader, hs1rry

word count: approx 8.8k

| okay so here’s pt 2, smuts at the end LMFAO. sorry if u hate tumblr (right as i’m about to post) is like sorry too many words 🤪 so i had to SPLIT anyway

masterlist

Outside, rain drizzled. The show ended an hour ago, Harry was busy with greetings and photos. She stood in the doorway of the side exit, the breeze cool and carrying the scent of wet pavement and grass.

A cigarette hung loosely between her fingers, stains of her lipstick kissed against the filter. She thought it’d quell her nausea, the pins and needles in her fingertips—but all it did was make her chest feel lighter. Everything else stayed.

She’s heard the song a thousand times, rehearsals the entire summer, soundchecks, shows. But it was different this time. He pulled her to play with him for a reason, their unspoken games—it was a message.

Her breath hitched as she jumped slightly, a gentle hand against her shoulder. It was Harry, a quiet greeting as he settled beside her, along the wall next to the door. His eyes swept over her face, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her eyes slightly glossed over.

They had just stared at each other for a while, like their eyes held more words than their mouths could. She took her bottom lip between her teeth as she let the cigarette drift onto the gravel outside, watching the embers burn out under the rain. “Harry.” She sighed, her eyes soft, a frown on her lips. “This needs to stop.”

He leaned his head against the cement wall, his gaze unwavering. “What does?”

She swallowed hard, shifting to lean into the opposite side of the door frame facing him, the heavy door still propped open. The wind danced in her hair, goosebumps cascading down her bare arms. “Whatever this is. Us. This is just work, Harry, I don’t get it.”

“Just work?”

She paused, averting her eyes from his to glance back outside. There wasn’t much of a view, gravel, smooth pavement, a large chain-link fence that shook and sang in the wind. “I don’t get it. None of my other jobs have been like this. We tour, we play and it’s easy. Hell, half of the people on the Floyd revival were on coke and it was easier than this.”

He studied her for a moment, his breaths heavy although he tried to lighten them. His eyebrows knit together, a glint of light shimmering along the edge of his pupil that painted him a tragic work of art. “Easy.” He managed, his voice ragged, as if it was a struggle to get the words out. “This isn’t a gig, or a studio session—we’re a band. A team. It isn’t supposed to be easy.”

She clenched her jaw, snapping her eyes back to his. “Don’t. It’s not about the band, it’s about you. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“And what’s that?”

“You get under my skin, Harry! And then you just fucking stay there and pick pick pick until you avoid me again.”

“You do the same!” He was exasperated, his eyes widened as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “That night in Nashville. It was normal, it was easy.” He echoed the word, mocking. “And you just pushed it away. S’constantly a step fucking toward, two steps back.”

Her belly continued to twist, her frown deepening. “Cause I don’t know what the hell you want from me.”

“What I want—” He broke off, running a hand through his hair as his voice cracked slightly. “You think I know what I want? This isn’t exactly easy for me either, YN.”

The admission stunned her into silence, the weight of his words settling heavily between them.

For a moment, the anger in his eyes flickered into something else—something raw and vulnerable—but it disappeared just as quickly, replaced by his usual guarded expression. “You’re not the only one trying to figure this out.”

The silence between them thickened, pressing down like the weight of the rain-soaked clouds above. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. What was there to say?

Harry pushed off the wall, his movements deliberate but tense, his eyes still locked on her. For a moment, it looked like he might step closer, might reach for her, but his hands stayed stuffed into the pockets of his coat.

“You don’t get it,” he said finally, his voice low and hoarse, like it hurt to say the words. “You think I’m trying to mess with you? I’m just—” He stopped, jaw tightening as he looked away, toward the gravel outside. His hand raked through his hair again, his frustration palpable.

She crossed her arms tighter, trying to shield herself from the chill in the air—or maybe from him. “Then what? What are you just, Harry? Because all I see is you dragging me into something I didn’t ask for, and then acting like I’m the one making it difficult.”

His head snapped back toward her, a spark of anger flaring in his eyes. “You think I wanted this? You think I planned for this?” He motioned vaguely between them, his voice rising just enough to make her flinch. “Do you know how easy it’d be for me to just… not? To let this all go?”

“Then why don’t you?” she shot back, her voice sharp as she straightened up, uncrossing her arms.

The question hung in the air like a dare, but Harry didn’t take it. His lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something, but whatever it was, he swallowed it down. Instead, he let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he looked away again. “That’s the thing,” he muttered, his tone softer now, almost to himself. “I don’t know how.”

Her chest tightened, the weight of his words sinking into her ribs. But she refused to let him see the crack in her armor. She turned her face toward the rain, her jaw clenched, her breaths slow and measured.

“Well, maybe you should figure it out,” she said, her voice quieter but no less sharp. “Because I can’t keep doing this with you.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep, uneven breath, his face unreadable as he started to turn. “Fine,” he said, the word clipped, bitter. “Guess I’ll figure it out.”

He didn’t look back as he walked down the narrow hallway, out to wherever he was going.

She stayed frozen in the doorway, her arms hanging limply at her sides, her heart pounding too loud in the quiet. The door swung slightly with the wind, creaking on its hinges as she leaned against the frame.

She bit down hard on her lip, a sharp pang of regret bubbling up inside her, but she shoved it down, stuffing it into the same corner where all the other unspoken things between them lived.

The cigarette embers had long since faded, leaving only the faint smell of ash and rain.

Once you go without it, nothing else will do.

The bassline thumped steadily, drowning out conversation and vibrating through the floor of the packed venue. Laughter spilled over from corners where small groups huddled close, their faces flushed with warmth and the buzz of alcohol. Fairy lights strung haphazardly along the ceiling flickered, giving the room an ethereal glow that blurred edges and softened harsh lines. It was October second, a free evening before they had to start gearing up for Toronto, and they had found themselves at this party—an impromptu gathering of familiar and unfamiliar faces.

They had a few days to rest before they geared up for the Toronto show.

YN moved through the throng like a thread of color in an otherwise monotone fabric. Her dress clung to her in all the right places, its silky material catching the light with every movement. Her makeup was immaculate, her lips a striking shade that dared anyone to look away. Heads turned as she passed, her heels clicking faintly against the hardwood floor beneath the relentless pulse of the music.

Across the room, Harry caught the glance of a mutual friend before his gaze settled on her. She hadn’t noticed him yet—or perhaps she was pretending not to. That had been their dynamic since the DC show—stolen glances, sharp words, and an undercurrent of something unresolved that simmered just below the surface. Tonight wasn’t much different. If she felt his eyes on her, she didn’t show it. Instead, she let herself be led toward the bar by a guy whose name she couldn’t quite recall but whose interest in her was overtly clear.

Leo—or maybe it was Geo— was tall, broad-shouldered, with a smooth voice and easy laugh. He leaned in close, brushing his fingers lightly against her arm as he spoke, and her lips curved into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It wasn’t that she found him unappealing—he was attractive enough, charming in a way that was disarming—but she was using him. His attention was a distraction, a convenient shield from the simmering tension she refused to address. She wasn’t about to let Harry consume her thoughts tonight.

“Another drink?” Leo–Geo asked, his voice warm against her ear.

She nodded, watching as he flagged down the bartender and ordered for her. When the drink came, he handed it to her, his fingers grazing hers deliberately. She didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned into him, tilting her head to laugh at something he said. She wasn’t entirely listening, but it didn’t matter. She let him lead her to the edge of the dance floor, where the music was louder and the lights flashed in dizzying patterns.

His hands found her waist as they swayed together, the rhythm of the music guiding their movements. She felt his breath against her skin as he leaned in, his lips grazing the curve of her neck. It was easy, his touch, his attention. It dulled the edges of her thoughts, made the heat of Harry’s gaze on her back easier to ignore.

For a moment, she let herself get lost in it.

But Harry was watching. He stood near the edge of the room, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. The muscles in his jaw worked as he watched her laugh at something the other man said, her hand brushing lightly against the stranger’s chest. His stomach twisted, anger and something else—something sharper, more possessive—flaring within him. He told himself to leave it alone, to let her do what she wanted. But then he saw them moving toward the door, her hand loosely clasped in the other man’s.

Something in him snapped.

He moved quickly, weaving through the crowd with single-minded determination. She didn’t see him coming, not until his hand closed around her arm in a firm grip.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice was low, controlled, but there was no mistaking the anger in it.

She froze, her wide eyes meeting his for the first time all night. Her companion, caught off guard, let go of her hand and stepped back.

“Excuse me?” Her eyebrows furrowed, her voice laced with irritation.

“I said, what the hell are you doing?” he repeated, his grip on her arm tightening slightly.

“Let go of me, Harry,” she snapped, tugging her arm free. But he didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled her a step closer, his green eyes boring into hers.

“Do you even know his name?” he asked, his voice dripping with disdain.

Her lips parted, but no answer came. She didn’t know his name, and they both knew it.

“That’s what I thought,” Harry muttered, his jaw clenched. “You’re not going anywhere with him.”

“Harry what—no!” Her voice was louder now, drawing a few curious glances from the people around them. “You don’t get to decide what I do.”

He only ignored her.

“Harry—”

“Go,” Harry said sharply, cutting her off as he turned his attention to the other man. “Now.”

The man hesitated, glancing between them before holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, mate. She’s all yours.”

With that, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving the two of them alone in a small bubble of tension that felt ready to burst.

“Are you happy now?” she asked, her voice shaking with anger, eyes threatening to gloss over.

“You were about t’leave with a stranger,” he said, his voice still low but tinged with frustration.

“So what if I was? What does it matter to you?”

“It—“ He paused, voice barely above a whisper. His hand finally dropped from her arm, but he didn’t step back. Instead, he leaned in closer, his eyes searching hers. “Forget it, YN.”

The music pounded around them, but neither of them moved. The weight of his words hung heavy between them, unspoken things simmering just below the surface. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.

And then, abruptly, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the crowded room, her heart racing and her mind spinning.

After a while, she found her way back to the bar. YN perched on the edge of a high stool, her fingers wrapped around the cold glass of a freshly poured Midori Sour. She wasn’t sure why she kept ordering them—maybe because they were sweet enough to soften the edges of her mood. Maybe because the tang of melon lingered on her tongue in a way she liked. Or maybe because she knew it annoyed him.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Harry approaching, his strides long and purposeful, the faint clink of his rings catching her attention before anything else. He stopped beside her, leaning against the bar with an infuriating casualness, his profile sharp under the low-hanging lights.

“Another one of those?” he asked, his voice low but distinctly mocking. He gestured toward her drink with a tilt of his head. “You’ve got the palate of a teenager.”

YN didn’t even glance at him. “And you’ve got the personality of a Jack and Coke. Bitter, basic, and way too predictable.”

The bartender chuckled as he slid Harry’s drink across the counter. Harry’s lips twitched at the corners, not quite a smile but enough to tell her her barb had landed.

“Predictable, am I?” he asked, lifting his glass to his lips. His voice was softer now, dangerous in the way it dripped with quiet confidence. “At least I’m not clinging to a sugar high like I’m at prom.”

YN finally turned her head, meeting his gaze dead-on. Those green eyes of his were sharper than the whiskey he was sipping, and the way they pinned her in place made her chest tighten—not that she’d ever admit it.

“At least I’m not controlling your night to avoid saying what I really want to say,” she shot back, her voice steady but low, just for him.

Harry blinked, his brows raising slightly in surprise before he composed himself. He set his glass down on the counter, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “And what exactly is it you think I’m hiding?”

The word love slid off his tongue like a taunt, curling around her like smoke. It wasn’t affectionate—it was a challenge, one that dared her to push back. And god, did she want to push back.

YN leaned in too, her face just close enough to his that she could smell the whiskey on his breath, warm and heady. “I think you’ve got a lot of things you don’t say out loud,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the noise of the bar. “But don’t worry, Harry. I’m not dying to know.”

The tension between them was suffocating now, thick and electric. She saw the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers flexed against his glass like he was resisting the urge to reach for her instead. Her pulse hammered in her throat, each beat daring her to stay in this dangerous little game they’d started.

“You think you’ve got me all figured out,” Harry said finally, his voice like velvet lined with steel. “But you’re wrong, YN. Dead wrong.”

Her name on his lips was her undoing. She stood abruptly, grabbing her bag and tossing a few bills on the counter. “Why are you here again, Harry?” She muttered, “Your jealousy, which you refuse to admit, is insufferable. You ruined my night and I want to drink.”

Silence.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not doing this.” Her voice was low, laced in anger as she spun on her heel and headed toward the back of the bar where the restrooms were tucked away.

But of course, he followed.

She could hear him behind her, the weight of his footsteps matching the rhythm of her pounding heart. She ignored him, turning a tight corner.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he shouted, his voice low and gravelly. He was close—too close—and she could feel the heat radiating off him, suffusing her skin like a fever.

“Go away, Harry,” she said through clenched teeth, still nearing the bathroom doors that seemed to get farther and farther away with every step she took.

He stepped in front of her, one large step he made quickly and without effort. “Not until you tell me what your problem is,” he snapped. His hands smacking against the walls abruptly, caging her in. His chest was barely an inch from her back, and she could feel the way his breath hitched, like he was struggling to keep his composure.

YN whirled around, forcing him to step back just enough to meet her glare. “My problem?” she repeated, her voice sharp enough to cut. “My problem is you. You’ve been a thorn in my side since June, and I’m sick of it. Sick of the looks, the comments, the—”

“The what?” Harry interrupted, his voice rising. “The fact that I actually give a shit about what you’re doing? The fact that I care if you’re about to make a mistake?”

“A mistake?” she echoed, her eyes blazing. “What the hell do you care if I—”

“What was his name, YN?” He spit, an echo from earlier, nostrils flared and jaw tight. He already knew the answer, she didn’t know.

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to keep her anger to a low simmer. “Fuck you.”

They didn’t just hold each other’s gaze. They gripped it. Like a rope stretched between them, fraying under the strain. Her scoff sliced the moment clean, and she ducked under his arm, her stride sharp, deliberate, toward the bathroom door.

Her fingers curled around the knob, twisting it with the kind of force that spoke louder than words. The door swung open, her heels clicking against the tile, a precise rhythm against the muted bass thumping somewhere beyond the purple-painted walls. She spun, gripping the edge of the door, and shoved it back with all the fury her body could muster. But it didn’t slam. It hit something solid—a thud, then a jolt.

His hand, metal rings against wood.

The door ricocheted toward her before she even registered what had happened. He stepped in, the breadth of him filling the space, his palm swallowing the knob as he pushed it shut behind him. The twist of the lock was a gunshot in the silence, louder than the music bleeding through the cracks.

“Are you fucking serious?” Her voice was a hiss, low and venomous, the kind of sound that cut through everything. Her chest heaved, each breath shallow and sharp, the thin sheen of sweat glinting along her collarbone like glass shards catching the light.

The room was alive, though barely. A flickering bulb above them glowed warm and harsh, its glass casing distorting the light into fractured halos. Yet, there were blues bleeding from LED's in the corner, washing them in warmth and cobalt—fire and ice.

His gaze dragged down her body like he couldn’t stop himself, like she was a work of art, damning and divine all at once. She was something out of a fever dream—wild, furious, her beauty distorted by the tension in the air. “We didn’t get to finish.”

Her laugh came hard and bitter, her nostrils flaring as she raked her fingers through her hair. “Finish what? This?” She threw her hands out, exasperation dripping from every gesture. “This isn’t fucking worth it!”

But he wasn’t looking at her hands. His eyes were on her lips, her eyes, back to her lips—then lower. Her chest, rising and falling. Anger looked good on her, he thought. Anger looked good enough to ruin him. “You didn’t hear me,” he said, quieter this time.

He stepped closer, and the air between them shifted. Compressed. Heavy. Her back hit the wall before she realized she’d even moved, the cool tile shocking against the heat rolling off her skin. She pressed her palms flat against it as though the room was tilting, threatening to spill her out into some uncharted void.

He loomed over her—it was foreboding, yet, it made a heat pool between her thighs.

“Get out.” She murmured, but her voice cracked under the weight of her own trembling breath. There was no steel in the words. Only rust.

“Say it like you mean it.” His voice was smoke, burning slow and low, roughened edges catching on her nerves. He was too close now, close enough that she could smell him—whiskey and spearmint, aftershave, and something deeper, earthier. The heat of him radiated against her skin.

Her eyes darted to his mouth, to the thin line of his jaw, then lower—to the silver chain around his neck. The pendant at the center gleamed faintly, catching the light like a drop of molten metal. It glimmered orange, blue—a ripple in the ocean bathed in harvest moon. “Harry—” she started, his name trembling on her lips.

But before she could say more, his mouth was on hers.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was raw, like barbed wire snapping, cutting deep and fast. She gasped against him, her hands clutching the fabric of his shirt, twisting it into her fists as if to keep herself upright. His body molded into hers, chest to chest, hip to hip, the press of him heavy and solid and absolutely inescapable.

“I hate you,” she muttered, the words breaking into his mouth, dancing onto his tongue. Her fingers were already tugging at the buttons of his shirt, feverish and clumsy, her frustration bleeding into every movement.

He moaned into her, guttural, reverberating from the bottom of his throat. “I know.” He breathed, his lips brushing along her jaw, down her neck.

Her head tipped back, hitting the tile with a soft thud, her hands shoving his shirt open. Her fingers traced his chest, dragging across the heat of his skin. “Fuck—you’re an asshole.” She bit out, her voice shaking with something between anger and desperation.

His lips curved into a crooked smile, amusement tugging at the edges even as his breath hitched. “Keep going,” he urged, his words strained but teasing, his hands finding the curve of her waist. His grip was firm, grounding her as if the tension might otherwise consume them both.

Her mouth crashed against his again, this time harder, rougher. Her fingers curled into his hair, tugging like she wanted to hurt him, to punish him for every maddening, chaotic feeling he’d pulled out of her. Every shiver. Every breath. Every ache.

“I hate how much I want this,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper, trembling with something raw and unfiltered.

“Yeah?” He sighed, his lips brushing hers, his voice cracked and ragged. He tilted his head, his dark eyes locking with hers, his gaze searing. “Hate me all you want, but you’re not stopping. Are you?”

Her only response was another kiss, pulling him closer, harder, until the line between them blurred. Until all the anger, the longing, the fire consuming them burned the world around them into ash.

Her fingers found his belt with a kind of determination that burned. Leather sliding through brass, sharp and deliberate. Her nails scraped his stomach as she pushed the belt free, her movements jerky, impatient. Every tug of her hands felt like a challenge, every drag of her fingers against his skin like she wanted to leave a mark.

"You think this is gonna fix anything?" she spat, her voice low and trembling, caught somewhere between anger and something that tasted sweeter. Bitter edges trying to cut through the heat swelling between them.

"Never said it would," he murmured, his voice rough, a rasp that settled low in her chest. His hands were already under her dress, sliding up the backs of her thighs. His grip was firm, too tight, bruising—like he was trying to make sure she wouldn't slip away.

When he bunched the fabric over her hips, the sound of it pulling free from her skin filled the air between them.

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" she bit out, her words sharp and breathless, her desire, her anger tearing through her. Her hands shoved his pants down, knuckles brushing against him in a way that made her stomach twist.

His laugh was dark, rasping out like a rough scrape of metal. "Says the one tearing my clothes off."

"Don't flatter yourself," she snapped, but her voice cracked, betraying her even as she glared up at him. "This doesn't mean anything."

"Sure, it doesn't." His words dripped with mockery—a blade under silk. His mouth brushed against her neck now, teeth grazing her skin. "Keep saying it, YN. You're real convincing."

Her head tipped back as he bit at her skin, the scrape of his teeth followed by the heat of his tongue. "You're so fucking–“ she started, but her words dissolved into a sharp gasp when his hand slid between her thighs, dragging over the thin barrier of lace that still clung to her.

"What was that?" He hummed, his tone laced with dark amusement, his fingers pressing into her just enough to make her hips roll forward, chasing him. "Didn't quite catch it."

"Don't," she managed, though her voice wavered, her breath catching as he moved against her again, more deliberate this time.

"Don't what?" he teased, his lips brushing her ear now, his free hand gripping her thigh and pulling it higher around his waist. His body pressed against hers, the hard line of him undeniable, the heat radiating off him making her skin burn. "Don't stop? Don't touch you?"

Her hands tangled in his hair, yanking hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth. "Don't act like you have the upper hand," she shot back, though her voice was shaking, her chest rising and falling against his as though the air between them had thinned.

His laugh rumbled against her skin, low and rough. "Petal, l've had the upper hand since the second you let me touch you."

"You're delusional," she snarled, but her body betrayed her again, arching into him as his fingers slipped beneath the lace, her cunt slick with arousal. A broken sound escaped her throat, and her nails dragged across his scalp.

"Yeah?" he breathed, his voice darker now, tinged with something ragged, unsteady. His lips caught the corner of her jaw, moving toward her mouth but stopping just short. "Then why are you shaking?"

"God, you're insufferable."

"And you're not going anywhere.” Harry's hands found her waist with the kind of grip that could bruise, his fingers digging in as he spun her around without warning. The breath caught in her throat as her body collided with the edge of the sink counter, her palms bracing against the cool marble.

She caught his eyes in the mirror, dark and feral, locked on her like she was prey.

"Look at you," he muttered, his voice low and rough, like gravel scraping the edges of his throat. His hands moved to her hips, holding her still as he pressed himself against her. The solid heat of him burned through the fabric separating them, and she bit down hard on her lip to stop the sound threatening to escape. "Desperate for it, huh?”

"No.” she quipped, but her voice wasn't as sharp as she wanted it to be. Her reflection gave her away—her lips parted, her chest heaving, her thighs trembling just enough to notice. "You're so goddamn cocky. It's disgusting."

He ignored her, or maybe he loved it—she couldn't tell. His hands left her hips briefly, his fingers moving to his slacks, shoving them all the way down in a rough, impatient motion. The sound of the fabric brushing against his legs filled the space between them, quick and deliberate.

Harry's hand slid up her front, rough but with ease, fingers curling under her chin. His grip was firm, enough to keep her still, his thumb brushing just once over the edge of her jaw before tilting her head up. The mirror stared back at her, unforgiving and vivid, and his chest pressed hard against her back, pinning her in place. "Eyes up," he muttered, low and commanding, his breath hot against the side of her neck.

His fingers flexed under her chin, urging her gaze to meet their reflection. "You're gonna watch, yeah? Gonna see exactly what I do to you."

She didn't answer—couldn't. Her breath hitched in her throat, and her body shivered under his touch.

His free hand slid lower, over her stomach, down between her thighs, where his fingers paused, resting just above where she needed him most.

He tutted, staring her reflection down. "Dripping mess already." He smiled, slow and wicked, his lips brushing her ear. "You think that guy could do this to you? Hm? Think he could get you this wet?"

"Shut up," she bit out, though her voice lacked conviction, trembling just like the rest of her. Her hands gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white against the cool marble, desperate for something solid to hold on to.

Harry's laugh was dark, rich, vibrating against her back. "That's not a no.” He drawled, dragging his fingers down, brushing over her slick folds in a featherlight touch that made her legs shake. "What is it, then? You just don't wanna admit it?"

"Admit what?" she shook, her tone sharp, though her hips betrayed her by rolling forward, chasing his hand.

"That no one else could make y’feel like this." His fingers pressed in harder now, slow and teasing as they circled her clit. His other hand kept her chin steady, forcing her to watch as his fingers moved, dragging against her in slow, maddening circles. "Look at you, YN. Fucking dripping for me. You see that?"

Her eyes flicked to the mirror, catching the way his hand disappeared between her thighs, the glint of wetness coating his fingers as they moved. Her cheeks flushed hot, but she couldn't tear her gaze away, her body betraying her with every soft sound slipping from her lips.

"Harry—“ she gasped, but her voice broke into a moan as he pressed his fingers harder, rolling them against her with deliberate pressure.

"There she is," he smiled, his tone mocking but warm, like he'd been waiting for her to break. "That's it. Don't hold back. I want you t’hear yourself, yeah? Want to know what y’sound like when it's me making you fall apart."

Her hands shook against the counter, nails digging into the marble as his fingers slowed again, agonizingly teasing. Her body jerked, desperate for more, and he smiled, smug and lazy, like he had all the time in the world.

"H, please–“ she whined, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

"Please, what?" he tutted, his voice dropping lower, rougher. His fingers dragged down, slipping inside her cunt just enough to make her gasp, then pulling out again. "Use your words, YN. Tell me what y’need."

"I hate you," she muttered, but it sounded hollow, the tremble in her voice giving her away entirely.

"Not what I asked," he growled, and his teeth scraped against the curve of her shoulder, a sharp bite that made her head snap back. His fingers pressed into her again, this time deeper, curling just right, and a loud moan broke free from her chest, her body arching against him.

"Look at that," he whispered, his hand still steady on her chin, holding her in place. "Look at you, petal. Such a pretty little slut for me." His thumb brushed over her clit now, slow but deliberate, and her hips rocked into him, chasing every movement. "You like watching, don't you? Like seeing what I do t’you."

Her only answer was another moan, louder this time, her lips parting as her head fell forward—but his hand caught her, tilting her chin back up. "No," he murmured, soft but firm. "Keep watching."

Her reflection burned into her vision—the way her mouth hung open, her cheeks flushed and glowing, her body pressed tight against his. The sight of his fingers moving, disappearing into her before dragging back out, glistening with her arousal.

"Good girl.” He breathed, his voice rough now, almost reverent. His free hand slid to her hip, holding her steady as he shifted behind her, his body pressing closer. "Now, keep your eyes on me. I'm not done with you yet."

Harry's fingers slid out of her slowly, teasing the slick heat between her thighs, a deliberate rhythm that left her trembling. The pressure was enough to keep her on edge, never enough to tip her over.

Every moan she tried to swallow only fueled him, and he made sure she knew it. "Fuck, look at you," he muttered, his voice a low rasp against her ear. "Falling apart on my fingers, and I haven't even fucked you yet.“

"Shut up," she breathed, but the bite in her tone was fading, her resolve crumbling with every slow, maddening drag of his fingers. Her thighs quivered, her knees barely holding her upright, and her hands gripped the edge of the sink like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

"Thought so," he said, smug and soft, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a wicked grin. His thumb circled her clit, slow and firm, drawing a whimper from her lips she couldn't hold back. "No one else knows how to ruin you, do they?"

Her body jerked against him, hips pressing into his hand despite the defiance still burning in her eyes. She wanted to tell him off, to push him away, but her voice broke every time she tried, each sound melting into a moan.

"Thought you were tougher than this," he taunted, his breath hot against her neck, his chest firm against her back. "Guess I was wrong. Just a mess for me, aren't you?"

Her head tipped forward, a choked sound escaping her throat, but his hand was there again, his fingers curling under her chin, tilting her face up to meet the mirror. "Uh-uh," he snapped. "Don’t let me see you do that again.”

Her reflection was a blur of flushed skin and trembling limbs. Her lips were parted, swollen and wet, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.

His chest, exposed by the open shirt still hanging from his shoulders, pressed against her back, radiating heat. The sight of his hand moving between her legs, glistening with her arousal, was almost too much to bear.

"Harry—" she gasped, her voice cracking, her fingers gripping the sink harder, her knuckles white against the marble.

"Say my name again," he growled, his tone dark and dangerous, his fingers pressing deeper, drawing a broken moan from her lips. "Go on, petal. Let’s hear it.”

Just as her hips bucked into his hand, chasing the pressure, he pulled his fingers away, leaving her empty and trembling. She let out a frustrated whimper, her nails biting into the counter's edge, but before she could snap at him, his hand slid to her throat, curling around it in one firm, possessive grip.

"Patience,” he murmured, though his tone dripped with mockery, his lips grazing the curve of her jaw as he pulled her tighter against him. "Want it so bad? I'll give it to you, but you better fucking take it."

She felt him behind her, his hard cock pressing insistently against her, the rough fabric of his boxers catching on her skin before she shoved them down. The anticipation coiled tight in her stomach, her breath hitching as he pushed them down just enough to free himself.

His free hand guided himself to her, dragging the head of his cock along her slick folds, slow and deliberate, just to make her squirm. He laughed when her hips rolled back against him, desperate for more.

"So fucking needy. Bet you'd beg for it if I made you."

She gasped, her voice shaking as her body pressed into his.

The words caught in her throat, tangled with the moan that escaped when he finally moved, thrusting into her with one hard, unrelenting motion. A cry tore from her lips, loud and unrestrained, her body arching against him as he filled her completely. He groaned low in her ear, his hand on her throat steadying her, his other hand gripping her hip so tightly it felt like he was branding her.

The stretch was slow, deliberate, the sharpness of it stealing the breath from her lungs as he filled her inch by inch. “So fucking tight—y’feel that? How perfect y’are for me?”

Her nails scratched against the smooth marble as he moved, each thrust deep and deliberate, pulling sounds from her she couldn't control. Her body arched into him, her head tipping back against his shoulder, her resolve finally shattering. "God, you're so fucking good like this," he rasped, his teeth grazing her earlobe. "Taking me so well. Look at yourself, angel. Look how fucking gorgeous y’are right now."

Her eyes fluttered open, catching their reflection again—her body against his, his shirt hanging loose on his frame, his hands commanding her as though she was his entirely. The sight burned into her, sending heat pooling low in her belly, her thighs trembling as he kept pushing her further and further.

And despite everything—her anger, her pride, her sharp tongue—she couldn't hold back the moans spilling from her lips, louder now, desperate and broken, as her body gave in to him completely.

Harry didn't ease up, not for a second. Each thrust was deep, rough, his grip on her hips bruising as he yanked her back into him, forcing her to take every inch. The slap of skin on skin echoed in the small room, mingling with her ragged breaths and broken moans, her body arching under his hands like it was built for this, for him.

"Love this cock, don’t you?" he growled, his voice gravel and heat, his chest pressing harder into her back. "Like how I fucking ruin you?"

"Please," she bit out, her voice sharp, defiant, even as it fell out as a moan. Her fingers clawed at the sink counter, nails scratching the smooth surface as her legs quivered beneath her. But still, she smirked, tilting her head just enough to catch his reflection in the mirror. "I’ve been fucked harder.”

Harry's laugh was low, a sound that rolled through her chest. "You're really gonna start with that?" he grunted, his voice a rasp of rough edges and heat. His hand slid up her back, the weight of it pushing her down until her cheek brushed the counter. The angle shifted, sharper now, and when he thrust again, a cry ripped from her lips before she could choke it back.

"And there it is," he moaned, his tone mocking, pleased. "That shut you up quick, didn't it?"

But she didn't give in. She never did. Her smirk twisted into something sharper, her breath coming in uneven bursts as she rolled her hips back against him just to prove she could. "Yeah," she slurred, her voice thick, daring. "What a waste–“ she paused, a moan emitting from the top of her throat. “–of a cock if–“ another pause, “if–if you fuck like this.”

His thrusts faltered, just for a moment—a slip that was more telling than anything he could've said. She'd gotten to him, and the flash of frustration in his eyes was enough to make her smirk widen.

"You just don't know when to shut that mouth, do you?" he snarled, his voice dripping with tension as he stilled entirely, his chest heaving against her back.

"Guess not," she shot back, her tone cutting despite the quiver in her thighs. "Maybe you're not man enough to–“

Before she could finish, his hand left her back, gripping her throat as he yanked her back up toward his chest again. He found her jaw with a force that made her gasp. His grip was firm, commanding, as his fingers pressed into her cheeks, forcing her mouth open.

"Open," he ordered, his tone low and unrelenting, the kind that left no room for argument. When she hesitated—just for a second—his grip tightened, his gaze locking hers in the mirror. "I said open."

Her lips parted, her glare defiant even as she obeyed.

"See? You do listen," he muttered, his lips curving into a wicked grin. His index and middle finger slid past her lips, pressing down hard on her tongue. Her eyes widened slightly, a muffled protest bubbling in her throat, but he just smirked. "That's better. Quiet suits you, angel."

Her teeth grazed his knuckles, her tongue squirming under the weight of his fingers, but she couldn't pull away—not while he still held her jaw firmly in place. His hips moved again, hard and unforgiving, each thrust making her body jerk forward against the sink.

He moaned, watching their reflection like it was some kind of twisted masterpiece. "Still trying t’fight me, even now. Stubborn little thing, aren't you?"

She glared at him in the mirror, her teeth biting down lightly on his fingers just to prove she still could. "Go on," he sighed, his tone amused as his fingers pressed down harder, making her gag slightly. "Bite me. Won't change a damn thing.”

Her body betrayed her-again. Her moans, muffled by his hand, spilled out in broken fragments, her hips pushing back to meet his thrusts even as her mind screamed at her to resist. The tears stinging her eyes weren't from pain, but from the overwhelming heat building low in her belly, threatening to swallow her whole.

He grunted, his breath hot against her ear as his fingers slid from her mouth, wet and slick—a mess of whimpers and moans escaping with it. "That's what you sound like when I've got y’completely undone. Maybe next time, think twice before y’run your mouth."

Her lips parted, a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue, but it never made it past her lips. Not with the way he pulled her against him, harder, faster, his hand returning to her throat, keeping her flush against his chest.

Her hands left the edge of the sink, trembling as they reached up to find him. She gripped his forearm, her nails digging into his skin, desperate to feel the solid strength beneath her fingers. Her body jolted with every thrust, her movements uncoordinated, but her claws pressed hard enough to leave marks she knew he'd see tomorrow.

Harry didn't flinch. If anything, her desperation only made him smirk. His hand on her throat stayed steady, holding her firm, keeping her close. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the coiled strength under her palms, and she knew he wouldn't drop her. No matter how rough he got, no matter how far he pushed, he had her.

He growled, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice as rough as the pace of his hips slamming into her. "You begging for more?"

Her nails dragged down his forearm, leaving a trail of red crescents in their wake. She gasped, head tipping back against his shoulder, her teeth catching her bottom lip as a moan slipped free before she could stop it. "You'll tire out before I do."

His grip on her throat tightened slightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to make her feel it, to keep her grounded against him. His other hand slid down her stomach, fingers pressing between her thighs again, circling her clit.

"Feel that?" he muttered, dragging his fingers in slow, deliberate circles, contrasting with the brutal rhythm of his hips. "That's not me getting tired, petal. That's me making sure you'll remember this tomorrow."

Her nails clawed deeper into his forearm, and her hips bucked forward, trying to escape the overwhelming sensation only to slam back into him. Her mind was fogged with heat, her body trembling under the dual assault of his fingers and the relentless thrusts that sent shocks up her spine.

"Fuck, Harry," she whimpered, her voice breaking in a way she hated, in a way he loved.

"That's it," he grunted, almost tenderly, though his actions were anything but. His lips brushed her temple, a cruel contrast to the way he dragged her closer to the edge.

Her grip on his forearm tightened, her nails biting into his skin hard enough to draw a hiss from his lips. But he didn't pull back. He wouldn't. His hold stayed firm, steady, a constant against the chaos he was dragging her through.

"You're so fucking close," he growled, his voice dark and ragged, his lips kissing her temple.

Her head fell further into his shoulder, her lips parted in a choked moan. The mirror showed everything—the way her body arched, her dress bunched high around her hips, his hand between her thighs. The sight of his fingers working her, his other hand wrapped firm around her throat, holding her steady as he pounded into her, was too much. It was filthy, mesmerizing. It was them.

"You're beautiful like this," he muttered, his breath hot against her cheek, his voice shaking with the effort to hold himself back. "Fucking perfect.”

Her hands clawed at his forearm, her nails raking over his skin as her body tensed, her thighs quivering against his. A sharp cry tore from her lips, unrestrained, as the tension inside her snapped all at once, her release washing over her in waves.

He slowed his movements just enough to drag it out, his fingers never stopping. His thrusts turned deep, deliberate, milking every last tremor from her body. "Good girl—just like that."

Her breath came in short, broken gasps, her body slackening in his arms as her hands slipped from his forearm to brace herself against the sink again. But Harry wasn't done—not yet.

His hand slid from her neck, resting briefly on her back to steady her as he pulled out. His release was a low growl, heavy with restraint, as he bent her forward over the sink again, her cheek pressing against the cool marble.

His hands tugged the bunched fabric of her dress, pushing it higher until it gathered at the small of her back.

She heard the wet sound of his hand stroking himself, the heat of him close enough to feel but just out of reach. He cursed under his breath, his voice rough and raw, his pace quickening as his own release built.

"Fuck, look at you," he muttered, his eyes glued to her reflection. His free hand slid down her back, his touch possessive, reverent.

The first hot spurt of his release hit the small of her back, a low groan tearing from his throat as he finished, his hand working himself through the aftershocks. He stayed there for a moment, his breath ragged, his chest heaving, the sight of her still bent over the sink keeping him rooted.

Harry let out a long exhale, his hand sliding up her spine in a firm, grounding touch as he leaned over her, brushing his lips against her shoulder.

The air felt thick now, heavy with the remnants of what just happened. The muffled bass of the music outside thumped distantly, but the bathroom was silent aside from their labored breaths. Neither of them spoke.

Harry stepped back, his hands dragging over her hips as if reluctant to let her go, before he turned his attention to himself. He pulled his slacks back up, the sound of the zipper loud in the quiet, followed by the faint clink of his belt as he buckled it.

She stayed bent over the sink for a moment longer, her forehead pressed against the cool surface, her chest heaving as she tried to steady herself. She could feel his eyes on her, burning into her back, but she didn't dare look up. Not yet.

Harry moved to the paper towel dispenser, yanking a mess of them free without a word. He returned to her, his footsteps deliberate, and she startled slightly at the first cool touch of the towel against her skin. He didn't say anything as he wiped her clean, his movements uncharacteristically gentle now, precise, careful, like he was undoing what had been rough and unforgiving moments ago.

When he finished, he tossed the crumpled towels into the trash. His hands returned to her thighs, sliding the lace of her panties back up, his fingers brushing against her skin as he smoothed them into place. He let his fingers linger there for a moment, his thumbs grazing the red marks he'd left behind on her hips.

Her thighs bore the shape of his hands, faint but unmistakable, and when she finally straightened and caught herself in the mirror, she saw the full extent of it. Her skin was marked—her throat faintly bruised from his grip, hickeys scattered along her neck and collarbone like splashes of color against her flushed skin. The swell of her hips ached where his fingers had dug in, and she knew the prints he'd left would bloom darker by morning.

The silence in the room wasn’t peaceful. It was thick, suffocating, a tension neither of them knew how to cut. Harry leaned against the wall like it was holding him up, his head tilted back, his shirt hanging open, and his chest still heaving like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. The air felt different now—charged and heavy, yet hollow at the same time.

She stared at him for a moment, at the way his jaw was clenched tight, his gaze fixed somewhere else. His usual arrogance was gone, replaced by something quieter, something guarded. He didn’t move to fix his shirt, didn’t even glance at the mirror to see what a wreck he looked like.

She didn’t think before stepping forward, her hands finding the loose edges of his shirt. His eyes flicked down to her, dark and unreadable, but he didn’t stop her. She tugged the fabric into place, smoothing it over his shoulders before starting on the buttons, working her way down.

Her fingers brushed against his skin, still warm from her touch, but she didn’t let herself think about it—couldn’t. The weight of what they’d just done hung between them, heavy and unspoken, something that felt too big, too raw to touch.

He stayed still, watching her, his arms limp at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to move. Like touching her again might unravel everything.

She didn’t dare look at him, her gaze focused on her hands as she reached the last button. Her fingers trembled as she smoothed the fabric flat, brushing out the wrinkles before finally stepping back.

They didn’t speak.

They wouldn’t speak.

It was something they didn’t do—not about this.

Her throat felt tight, her chest heavy, her pulse still racing from the way he’d made her feel. She smoothed her hands over her dress again, though it was already straight. The mirror behind her caught their reflection—two people standing too close but pretending the distance was enough.

Her lips parted, maybe to say something, maybe to breathe, but nothing came out. She glanced up, catching his gaze for the briefest second before dropping it again.

His chest rose and fell in uneven beats, and when he finally pushed off the wall, his fingers brushing through his hair, he let out a long, shaky exhale.

We don’t talk about it.

The words sunk into the hollow space between them like a quiet truth neither of them would ever admit out loud.

It’s something we don’t do.

Because if they did—if they said it, defined it, made it real—there’d be no going back.

And that terrified her almost as much as the thought of losing this, losing him.

Harry moved past her, his shoulder brushing hers as he reached for the door. He hesitated for a moment, his hand on the handle, his head tipping forward as though he might say something. But he didn’t.

She watched him go, her stomach twisting in ways she couldn’t untangle.

Once you go without it, nothing else will do.

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