#might actually make a fanfic

[kadekae]

Hear me out on duke of the north akira and knight yamazaki

[redactedrem]

Headcanon where after so many arguments between the batkids and Bruce over his paranoia and complete disregard for his kids privacy, the entire family had compromised with (in the healthiest way possible) downloading life360 on their phones and that's how they all keep track of each other.

Now Bruce knew that this is mostly for his benefit and is supposed to be a healthy alternative for his unhealthy paranoia and helicopter parenting, but what he wasn't expecting was for his kids to start keeping track of him.

He's putting gas in his car and Dick calls him because apparently Dick has been watching him drive around on the app? And Bruce is currently at a gas station thats right around the corner from a Taco Bell and now Dick wants him to get food for everyone since he's already there.

He's driving home from a meeting and Steph calls him because her and Duke were shopping in the area and wants to know if he can pick them up, when he asks how she knew he was on the same street, he gets a "Oh I just like to stalk everyone on the app for funsies." as an answer.

Jason calls him and he can barely get out a hello before Jason cuts him off, "Bruce why the fuck is your phone battery on 5%, charge your damn phone" which completely stuns him because why does he know that. He clears his throat before answering. "Jason, what?"

"Everyone can see each others phone batteries on '360, now charge your phone." Is all he gets before Jason hangs up on him.

[halogalopaghost]

TIL that you can assign an AO3 next of kin to control your account in case of your death???

[ishipgenfics]

Outsider POV on Somewhere Else Jonathan Sims must be just. so much.

Like imagine. You're part of a support group, and a new guy decides to join. You ask him his name and he says, "Jonathan," and then after a long pause, "Blackwood. Jonathan Blackwood. But call me Jon."

He doesn't like tape recorders. You only know this because the person who hosts the support group is into retro things, and tries to keep a couple around. She turned one on once when someone asked about it, and you noticed Jon clutching his nails into his hands so tight he's nearly breaking the skin. You lean over and whisper, "Do you want me to ask her to stop?" He says, "It's fine," and you nod, but you still try and change the subject whenever people bring up tape recorders from that point on.

He full-body flinches one day when someone says Hello, Jon. Nearly slams into a wall and everything. He tries to play it off, but after that people say Hi Jon, or Nice to see you, or things like that. Anything but Hello.

He says he used to work at a 'non-profit for studying the supernatural'. Someone asks where it was and he says London. You tell your wife about it, and two days later she emails you an article. Magnus Institute Burns Down In 1999. It was in Manchester. You tell her not to bring it up again.

The guy is snarky and blunt and downright rude at times, but when a woman comes in and tells them about being trapped in a empty warehouse for a week, he comforts her in a way none of the rest of them know how. "I believe you," he says, repeats it like a mantra, like a prayer. "I believe you." He says 'I'm sorry' less like he's sorry this happened to her, and more like he's taking the blame onto himself.

He talks about Martin, sometimes. His reason, he calls him. Normally you'd point out that while it's of course good to love your partner, you should have other reasons to live, but you stay quiet. This guy needs all the happiness he can get.

You leave a little late that day, and when you do you hear him on the phone talking to someone. "She'd been touched by the Lonely, Martin!" he says. "Which is bad, of course, but--" he seems to choke up, "Martin, I didn't feel any compulsion for a Statement. A-at all. I think it's really gone."

You just walk by.

You don't know what's going on with Jon, but it really isn't any of your business. You're an anxious queer lesbian and he's a traumatized ace guy, and you aren't going to make his life any harder than you have to.

Just. Jonathan Sims in a support group.

[sunderwight]

Thinking about a bingqiu Dreamling AU where Shen Yuan and Shang Qinghua are both bored deities, just sort of taking a brief sojourn through the mortal world to shoot the shit and see some interesting monster or other that Shen Yuan has heard about, when they come across a tea house and decide to take a break and do some people-watching instead.

Shen Yuan is well into something of a shut-in phase, which Shang Qinghua doesn't like, mostly because when Shen Yuan is in those phases he doesn't do particularly well either. Shen Yuan's a social butterfly, for however little he cares to actually acknowledge it about himself, and his critique of Shang Qinghua's literary masterpieces gets so much harsher when he's not getting enough enrichment.

So when they overhear one of the kitchen boys solemnly insisting that he is going to do everything in his power to never die, and Shen Yuan laments that the boy would probably regret such a wish if it came true, Shang Qinghua decides to bestow a rare bit of godly power onto this mortal and grant his wish.

He doesn't make him a god, of course, that wouldn't even be in his ability. At least, not without using up more time and effort than he's prepared to expend on this one random kid. But immortality on its own is not that difficult. The boy will still finish growing up, and will still be able to be harmed, to know hunger and pain and illness. It just won't ever kill him.

Shen Yuan sighs that it's a cruel thing to do to a mortal, especially one with such low odds of ever cultivating other skills to mitigate the potential torment of it all. But Shang Qinghua just shrugs and they place bets, that this boy will ask for the immortality to be revoked in a hundred years, or two hundred, or so on, or else he won't. Shen Qingqiu approaches the kitchen boy and flusters and bewilders him by telling him to meet him back here again in a hundred years time.

A hundred years later, the tea house is larger. The boy has grown to be a striking young man, who looks at Shen Yuan with wariness and something else, something almost like awe, as he asks what manner of creature he's made this bargain with. Shen Yuan assures him that he has no nefarious intentions, and instead asks Luo Binghe how the past century of his life has gone.

Horribly, at least at first. Binghe's mother had already died by the time they met, but afterwards he managed to earn enough money to travel to a nearby sect. Working in the tea house's kitchen was just a minor stopover along the way. Shen Yuan was wrong, it seems, about his odds of becoming a cultivator -- Luo Binghe earned entry as a disciple.

Yet, he had no success. The master who took him on was unaccountably cruel and mercurial, and Luo Binghe's attempts to cultivate failed. Looking back he sees now that there were many times when he should have died but didn't, but when it was all happening he just thought himself lucky. At least until an enemy sect attacked a cultivation conference, and he suffered mortal wounds that absolutely should have killed him (or anyone) but still didn't die. (No demon race or abyss in this AU, but there are still demonic and fantastical creatures.)

His cruel master, upon witnessing this, accused him of heretical practices and tried to kill him as well by flinging him off the edge of a gorge. The fall was terrible. Binghe lay at the bottom in a horrifying state, injured beyond reason and yet, still, he didn't die. Eventually his body recovered enough for him to drag himself out, and once he did the only thing on his mind was getting revenge. For the next several decades he managed to ingratiate himself to all manner of potential allies, forging alliances, accumulating blackmail, and convincing people that he had to be some powerful cultivator through his supernatural resilience, lack of visible aging, and a lot of bluffing. He got revenge on his old teacher, drove his first sect into ruin, and rose to prominence as a feared and respected leader of the cultivation world.

Shen Yuan listens with clear interest, asking plenty of questions and seemingly quite taken up with the story. At the conclusion, Luo Binghe admits that his actual cultivation is still mostly a matter of smoke and mirrors, and wonders if -- now that the hundred years have passed -- Shen Yuan means to strip his immortality from him.

Shen Yuan asks if Luo Binghe wants that. When Luo Binghe says no, he accepts the answer, and tells him to meet him back here again in another hundred years. Luo Binghe calls after him, but before he can ask anything more, Shen Yuan has disappeared again.

A hundred years later, Binghe arrives back at the tea house with an entourage befitting of an emperor. The tea house has also expanded. Luo Binghe orders a lavish feast from them, which everyone hastens to provide. He's spent the past several decades consolidating his power, forging alliances with key political players via several marriages, producing heirs, and crushing his enemies. As he brags about the state of his massive harem to Shen Yuan, the deity's eyes begin to glaze over. He doesn't seem impressed. He also doesn't seem to care much for the food, and eventually his attention is stolen away by a conversation at another table. The diners are discussing the exploits of a promising new poet and novelist. Try as he might, Luo Binghe fails to regain Shen Yuan's attention before the evening is done. Shen Yuan doesn't think it's a big deal -- after all, if Binghe is still riding on top of the world, he's probably not going to want his immortality gift revoked just yet!

Another hundred years go by. The tea house has returned to a more modest situation, the next time Shen Yuan sets foot in it. He waits an unusually long while for his guest to arrive, and when he does, he's almost stopped at the door by the tea house's servers. It's only when Shen Yuan bids them let him through that Luo Binghe is able to come to the table, almost collapsing against it and desperately falling onto the arrangement of snacks with obvious hunger.

Shen Yuan wonders if this, now, will be when the boy (no longer a boy) asks for the immortality to be revoked. Surprisingly, he finds himself resistant to the idea, even though it's also clear that the game has run too long. Maybe hundred year check-ins were too short? He doesn't like the implications of what's gone on, even if he's not really surprised about it either.

Between desperate mouthfuls of food, Luo Binghe explains that without mastering inedia, going hungry but never dying is a deeply unpleasant experience. Shen Yuan orders more food. Once Binghe has finally eaten his fill, he begins, haltingly, to explain his situation. His clothes are ragged, he is painfully thin, and his gaze is haunted.

Apparently, several of his wives conspired to assassinate him, despite his reputation as unkillable. Realizing that most poisons and such didn't kill him, but that he could still be incapacitated, they hatched a scheme to dose his food with a powerful sleeping agent, and then walled him up in a famous ancestral tomb. They went to great length to ensure that it was impossible to escape from. It took Binghe decades to do it anyway, digging away at the floors, and when he got out he found that his power base had collapsed. In-fighting and the incursion of his enemies had led to the deaths of all of his children, and what wives had survived had either fled or remarried. Not that he particularly wanted them back at that point, since the ones actually most loyal to him had also been killed early on after his own "death". His face marked him, to the eyes of his enemy, as a surviving descendant of himself. He was hunted down, chased across the continent and back again, until he managed to fall into enough obscurity that his pursuers abandoned the chase. Except that he has nothing, and any time he tries to regain something, he runs the risk of being hounded again. Those who might see some potential in him still remember the collapse of his recent "dynasty" and slam doors in his face, or else try and turn him over to those now in power in pursuit of a reward. Those who don't know that much see only a dirty beggar, and usually run him off on that basis instead.

Shen Yuan, almost hesitant, asks if Luo Binghe would like to have his immortality revoked.

Luo Binghe declines. How will he be able to take revenge on those who wronged him if he is dead? He has a hit list a mile long by now.

Which is definitely not the most noble of reasons to persist, but Shen Yuan finds himself reluctant to ask twice. Instead he orders more food, and then even reserves one of the traveler's rooms above the tea house for several days. By then the sky is turning grey, and Luo Binghe is losing his apparent battle with exhaustion. Shen Yuan presses the key into his hand, thinking it's probably not enough, but there are limits to how much gods are supposed to interfere and Shang Qinghua already stretched them to the breaking point with this entire scenario.

He leaves, not seeing the hand that reaches after him just before he is out of the door and gone.

Another hundred years pass. This time, Shen Yuan arrives to find Luo Binghe already waiting for him. He isn't surprised to see that Binghe's situation has visibly improved -- maybe he was keeping closer tabs on him, just a little bit, for this past while. If only to be sure he wouldn't have to warn the tea house workers to expect an unorthodox visitor again! But no, Binghe has been doing well enough for himself. No more harems or thrones, though. He dresses more like a well-off merchant now, deliberately posing as his own mortal descendant rather than as a great immortal cultivator. The food at the table looks far more delicious than usual too (Binghe commandeered the tea house's kitchen himself this time). As they chat, Shen Yuan is regaled with the exploits of Luo Binghe's travels and adventures, how even though he initially set out to claim revenge on those who overthrew him, by the time he was in a position to actually do so they had already died of the usual causes (time, illness, their own schemes backfiring, etc). Subsequently, only their children and grandchildren were left with the scraps of power they had obtained, and when one of those children employed Luo Binghe as a bodyguard, his initial plan to assassinate them eventually fell by the wayside. After all, the wrongdoings weren't actually theirs. From that point, Binghe was able to restore himself to a more comfortable life, joining his new employer on their travels until he had set aside enough earnings to take his leave before his youthful good-looks earned him suspicion. He then began investing in travel and trade, specifically cargo ships, because never spending too long in the same place or around the same people helped disguise his immortality. He had found that, at least for now, this served him better than playing the part of a cultivator. It also gave him time to try and actually repair his ruined cultivation base somewhat, and fighting pirates proved very diverting.

Binghe is midway through recounting his adventures with a gigantic sea monster, while Shen Yuan hangs on every word, when they're interrupted by the arrival of a brash young mistress, clearly wealthy and trained in cultivation. The young lady declares that there is a rumor that a fallen god and a demon meet in this tea house once a century, that they wield strange powers, etc etc, and she intends to interrogate them both with the assistance of her hired muscle and her own spiritual weapon, and discover the truth of the matter. Then she whips out, well, a whip!

Before Shen Yuan can deal with the matter, Luo Binghe is already on his feet, disarming the goons and breaking a few arms in the process. Shen Yuan is so distracted that he almost misses the whip aimed right for him, but before Binghe can catch the barbed weapon with his bare hand (wtf, Binghe, no) Shen Yuan deflects it with a wave of his fan, and then efficiently knocks the troublesome young lady unconscious. The hired muscle flees, Shen Yuan arranges for their assailant to be placed in a room upstairs until she regains consciousness, and he and Binghe resume their meal and conversation in relative peace.

Even though it's clear that Luo Binghe has not yet reached the end of his tolerance for life, Shen Yuan nevertheless finds himself strangely reluctant to part ways at the end of the night. Still, he does, because that's what is expected of him, gently denying Luo Binghe's suggestions that they find some other establishment to continue their conversation at. He also has to investigate these "rumors" that the young lady mentioned. It's probably nothing (Shang Qinghua has a loose tongue when he's drunk, and a lot of imaginative storytellers have frequented this tea house over the years) but he doesn't like being caught unawares like that. Heavenly politics are... complicated, it's best not to court unwanted attention in any capacity.

Another hundred years go by. This time, when they meet at the tea house, Luo Binghe asks Shen Yuan why he keeps it up. Why did he pick Binghe? What is he really after? When Shen Yuan fails to give any kind of clear answer, Luo Binghe shoots his shot and makes a (very obvious) move on him.

Shen Yuan, flustered, gets up and flees. Ignoring Luo Binghe's calls after him. It just doesn't make any sense! Why would Binghe do that?! He's a man who once had a harem of wives in the triple digits! Clearly he's not gay, so what was that all about? Was he just messing with him?! How dare he! Etc, etc.

Another century passes. Luo Binghe waits at the tea house, which has fallen onto hard times again. With the construction of some new roadways, travelers no longer pass through as often. Binghe listens, worried, to the proprietor's laments that this old place will probably not be around in another hundred years. He listens because he has no one else to speak to, because Shen Yuan has not shown up. Not that morning, not during the day, not come evening, and not now that it is closing time. Binghe nevertheless charms and bribes the proprietor to let him stay even after the place has shuttered.

It seems damning, of course. He pressed too hard and now his mysterious benefactor wants nothing more to do with him. Except, no, he refuses to accept that. He's still immortal. And he has gleaned enough of Shen Yuan's character by now that he thinks that even if he was rejected, he would be let down more clearly and gently than this. The more he thinks about it, the less willing Luo Binghe is to believe that he has been deliberately stood up (also, since the tenor of his confession was different from Hob Gadling's, he never delivered an ultimatum about what it might imply when they met up again).

Over the centuries, Luo Binghe has built up a few contacts with similarly strange and supernatural stories. Cultivators, sure, but also others, fortune tellers and people of strange ancestry, questionable abilities, those who have interacted with powerful beings of mysterious provenance. He makes his way to a certain gambling den, frequented often by such people, and while he flashes around enough money to draw curiosity, he collects information. Shen Yuan wasn't the only person who started paying more attention to the kinds of rumors surrounding the two of them after their confrontation with the young cultivator a couple centuries ago. And in fact, Luo Binghe has been spending many, many years trying to find out more about his mystery man. Though, too many potential deities and immortals fit his description for him to have ever conclusively figured much out.

This is how Binghe gets wind of a rumor that an eccentric occultist has somehow captured a god in his basement...

[kwilquib]

Driving you Mad

Series: Promised 9

Chapter - 3

Chapter 0 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4

Lee Chaeyeoung (Fromis_9) X Male reader (ft. Seoyeon)

Word Count: 21.8k+

a/n: See tags...

Recap:

What started as an ordinary weekend after a night with Chaeyoung unraveled into dread when you discovered Jiheon had woven false memories into your mind—crafting a counterfeit love story you’d lived as if it were real.

You wake up, gasping, the weight of two lives clawing at your chest, crushing the air from your lungs. The memories Jiheon shoved into your skull haven’t just buried the real ones—they’ve fused with them, a grotesque snarl of half-truths and lies bleeding into each other like ink dumped in water. You can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, and the chaos is eating you alive.

You see it all at once—her fabricated love story etched in vivid, nauseating detail, every fake touch branded into your skin, every whispered promise echoing in your ears. But the truth screeches behind it, clawing at the edges of your mind, a faint, ragged whisper you can’t ignore. The two don’t even fight—they coil together, mocking you, daring you to pick which one’s real. First dates you never lived, her lips brushing yours in a ghost of a kiss that never landed, vows you swore to nothing but air. Then the jagged reality: Jiheon’s cold, surgical hands slicing into your past, rewriting you like some lab experiment gone wrong.

Your phone buzzes, a violent jolt against your nerves. Friday, 6 AM.

You stare at it, eyes burning, body locked in place. The last thing you can grab onto—Sunday night—slips through your fingers like sand. A whole week, gone. Vanished. Just a black void where your mind used to be, a gaping hole that laughs at you.

You don’t move. Can’t. The sheets cling to your sweat-soaked skin, the cold air biting at your face, and exhaustion sinks its teeth into you, dragging you down. You’re awake, but your head’s trapped, spinning in the wreckage of memory and madness, begging for something—anything—to claw its way out of the mess and make sense.

The morning light slashes across the walls, slow and cruel, but time’s lost its grip on you. In one twisted version of your head, this is her room—yours and hers—the faint stench of her perfume choking the pillow next to you. In the real world, she was here once, just one night, but it’s enough to make you gag on the lie. Your shaking fingers graze your phone, itching to dig through it—messages, photos, something to tether you to the ground. But dread coils in your gut. What if it’s all fake too? Doctored pictures of a life you never lived, texts spelling out a love story you never wrote—proof of her fingerprints all over your soul, even now.

The faucet drips. One drop. Another. Uneven, unhinged, a stuttering pulse drilling into your skull. Drip. Drip. Drip. It’s alive, taunting you, unraveling you. Each sound rips another shred loose: her laugh ringing in a café you’ve never seen, her fingers locked in yours on a beach you’ve never touched, her sobs choking the air in a fight that never fucking happened. The emotions hit harder than the images—warmth that burns, tension that strangles, the gut-punch of losing something you never had. She didn’t just plant memories; she stitched them into you, thread by thread, so you’d feel every cut she made.

Your heart slams against your ribs, erratic, too fast.

You slam your hands against your eyes, grinding until white-hot sparks explode behind your lids, desperate to shove it all out—her lies, your life, the whole damn mess. But it’s a flood now, a screaming torrent of fake and real smashing together, and you’re drowning in it.

Drip.

Your teeth grind, a low growl building in your throat.

Drip.

Your nails dig into the sheets, clawing at the fabric like it’s her skin.

Drip.

Something molten erupts in your chest—rage, raw and jagged, clawing up your spine.

She did this. She broke you. She tore you apart and stitched you back together wrong, left you like this—this twitching, fractured thing.

The faucet drips again, and you shatter.

Fury floods your veins, a wildfire scorching everything it touches. At Jiheon. At them. At the pathetic, trembling mess staring back at you from the void. You let them in—you let their whispers and their twisted games sink their hooks into you, and now you’re coming apart, thread by thread, a puppet with its strings slashed.

Your mind spins, a frantic loop of blame—them, with their cryptic bullshit and their memory-warping tricks, then you, for being too stupid, too weak to see it coming, then back to them, because they’re the ones who lit the match and watched you burn. Your fists ball up, knuckles white. You suck in a breath, ragged and sharp. Let it go. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps.

The anger doesn’t fade—it festers, throbbing behind your ribs, thick and suffocating. You need to do something—scream, smash, find her and make her undo it. Anything to stop the buzzing in your head, the war tearing you in half.

Your phone sits beside you, a cold, mocking weight. You don’t think—you can’t think. Your hand lunges for it, fingers trembling like they’re about to snap, unlocking the screen with a swipe that feels too violent. The glare stabs into your eyes, cutting through the dim haze of the room, and everything’s wrong—the air buzzes with static, your memories twist and writhe like snakes, and your skull feels ready to split open. Rage floods your veins, too much, too fast, a feral thing clawing to get out, and you’re not sure if you’re holding it in or if it’s already tearing you apart.

You scroll past Jiheon’s name—her cursed fucking name—and your stomach lurches. Not her. Not now. You’d scream, you’d break something, you’d lose what little grip you’ve got left if you heard her voice. Your thumb jerks, hesitates, then slams down on Gyuri’s name like it’s a trigger.

It rings once. Twice. Then—

“Hey.” Her voice slides through, calm, steady, unfazed. Like nothing’s wrong. Like the world isn’t collapsing.

The sound of it—her casual, unshaken tone—snaps something deep inside you, a brittle thread you didn’t know was still holding you together.

“You knew.” The words rip out of you, jagged and dripping with venom, barely human.

She doesn’t answer right away. You hear something on her end—rustling, faint, deliberate. Papers? Fabric? You see her in your head, pristine and smug, perched in some sterile office, legs crossed, barely paying attention, already three steps ahead while you’re choking on the wreckage she helped make.

“You fucking knew, didn’t you?” Your grip on the phone tightens, knuckles bleaching, the plastic creaking under your fingers. “That Jiheon was—” You choke on it, the words tangling in your throat, too heavy, too real.

Gyuri sighs—a slow, deliberate hiss, not defensive, not sorry, just tired. “Of course I knew.”

The silence hits like a punch.

Then the rage explodes.

“And you didn’t stop her?!” You’re out of bed now, stumbling, pacing like a caged animal, your voice shaking with something unhinged. “You just fucking—let her do this to me? To my fucking head?!”

“I couldn’t risk it.” Her voice stays level, but there’s a crack beneath it, a wire pulled too tight.

“Risk?” Your laugh is a mangled, vicious thing, scraping out of you like broken glass. “Risk what? What was so fucking precious that you let her shred me apart? Too scared to cross your little psycho queen Jiheon? Or was it just easier—huh?—to sit there and watch while she turned my brain into her fucking playground?”

A pause. You feel it—the way she hesitates, calculating, deciding how much of you is worth her breath.

Then: “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it!” It’s a scream now, desperate, wild, clawing out of you. You need something—anything—to aim this fire at before it burns you alive.

She hums, slow, deliberate, and then she drops it: “You think you were the only one affected?”

Your breath catches, sharp and painful.

“What?”

“You act like you’re the only one suffering,” she says, voice still smooth but slicing deeper now, an edge creeping in. “Like Jiheon walked away clean. Like we’re all just laughing while you fall apart. Do you really think that?”

You stumble, your pulse hammering unevenly, tripping over itself. Because no—you hadn’t thought about it. You’d been drowning in your own splintered mind, your own violation, your own rage, and it never crossed your fractured skull to wonder—

Jiheon’s face flashes behind your eyes. Hollow. Guilty. A ghost of herself, crumbling under what she’d done.

Your fingers twitch, your jaw locks. No. Fuck that. You won’t let her haunt you with pity. You won’t let this twist back into your fault.

“Don’t you fucking—” Your voice shakes, splintering with fury. “Don’t you dare try to make me feel sorry for her!”

“I’m not.” Gyuri’s tone hardens, the polish cracking at the seams. “I’m saying it’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple!” You’re roaring now, throat raw, words slamming against the walls. “I didn’t ask for this—I didn’t fucking deserve this!”

And then—

“Neither did she.”

The silence is a void, swallowing you whole.

Your breaths come hard and fast, ragged gasps that scrape your lungs. Your nails are carving bloody crescents into your palm, and Gyuri’s not saying a damn thing, and that’s worse—it’s worse—because it leaves you alone with the storm in your head.

You feel it shift now, the ground tilting beneath you.

She’s slipping too.

You hear her exhale, sharp and unsteady, like she’s clawing herself back from a ledge, but she’s already falling.

“Do you think I wanted this?” Her voice drops, low and taut, trembling at the edges. “You should’ve asked me for help.”

Your mouth opens—no sound comes out, just a hollow wheeze.

“Do you think I enjoy watching this implode? You think I wanted you tangled up in our shit? You think I don’t—” She stops herself, her breath hitching, and for the first time, she’s shaking.

And it hits you.

She’s burning too.

Not just at you—at Jiheon, at the Promised 9, at the whole rotting mess. At herself. The heat in her words, the tremor behind them—it’s the same feral, helpless rage that’s been gnawing you alive.

Click.

The line dies.

You stare at the phone, hands quaking, heart slamming against your ribs like it’s trying to break free. The rage is still there, a living thing coiled in your chest, but now it’s got nowhere to go—no target, no release.

Gyuri was supposed to be the wall you’d smash it against. But she’s not a wall—she’s a mirror, cracking under the same fire that’s torching you.

And that only makes it worse. The flames climb higher, hotter, feeding on themselves, and you’re running out of things to burn.

You call her again. Once. Twice. Ten fucking times. Each unanswered ring is a blade twisting in your gut, your pulse slamming so hard it’s rattling your skull.

No answer.

The screen glares back at you, a harsh, mocking light. She’s ignoring me. You knew she’d do this after hanging up—Gyuri, with her calculated little sigh, abandoning you to choke on your own chaos—but the silence gnaws, relentless, a living thing sinking its teeth into you.

You rake a hand through your sweaty, matted hair, about to smash the call button again when something slams into focus—something off.

Your phone’s… stuck.

No new notifications. No new calls. No new texts.

You squint, heart lurching. That’s not right. That’s not fucking right.

You swipe to your messages. The old threads are there—random chats, group texts, stupid memes from weeks ago—but nothing fresh. Not a single new word since… when?

Emails? Same deal. Professor nagging about deadlines, pinned lecture notes—all frozen, timestamped days back. No updates, no reminders, no org newsletters clogging your inbox like they should.

A cold, greasy panic slithers up your spine.

You fumble to the call log, stabbing at a name—some guy from class, a nobody, someone too boring to be tangled in their web.

It rings. And rings. No pickup. No voicemail. Just… dead air.

You try again, fingers trembling, jabbing harder like it’ll force a connection. Nothing.

Your breath comes fast, shallow, scraping your throat raw. No. No way.

You stagger to the window, nearly tripping, and mash your face against the glass. Outside, the world’s still turning—students drifting past, cars nosing into the lot, everything mocking you with its normalcy.

You unlock the latch with stiff fingers and shove the window open. Cold air rushes in, biting against your skin.

Then—you yell.

"Hey!"

Your voice cuts through the air, sharp and desperate. A few people pass directly below, their heads tilted in conversation.

No one looks up.

You grip the windowsill, knuckles white. Your breath shakes.

"Can anyone hear me?!"

Nothing. Not even a glance.

It’s like you’re not even there.

Your stomach flips, sour and tight.

You stumble into the hall, the dorm stretching out too quiet, too long. It’s the same as ever—chipped walls, scuffed floors—except every door’s plastered with flyers, loud and garish. Every single one.

Except yours.

Yours is blank, a void in the noise, like you’re not even here.

Rent was due days ago. Your landlord’s a bloodsucker—should’ve been hammering your door down, blowing up your phone with threats. But nothing. No calls. No texts. No knocks.

You lurch outside, past the entrance, into the open. People brush by—chatting, laughing, breathing—and you’re a phantom, invisible. No eyes catch yours. No heads turn.

It slams into you, a frigid, suffocating wave.

They’ve cut me off.

A laugh tears out of you, sharp and unhinged, bouncing off the emptiness.

Of course. Of fucking course. The Promised 9. Gyuri’s bullshit “I couldn’t risk it”—what a sick, twisted lie. Risk what? Protecting you? No, this was them, flexing their claws, severing every thread tying you to the world. No new messages. No new calls. No rent demands. Like you’ve been paused while everything else keeps spinning.

You stare at the crowd—oblivious, alive, real—and it’s like you’re slamming against a glass cage, unseen, unheard.

It’s impossible. It should be impossible. But they bend reality like it’s their toy, don’t they? Always have.

Your fists clench, nails carving into your palms, blood welling up.

“Fine.” The word growls out, low and shredded.

You storm back inside, kicking the door shut so hard it shakes in the frame. The lock snaps into place—a useless little click against their game. You’re trapped, a rat in their maze, and they’re rewriting the walls while you run.

You gulp air, ragged and desperate, trying to claw your way back to solid ground. But your mind’s splintering—rage and paranoia twisting into a jagged, screaming mess.

Are they watching? Right now? Hiding in the shadows, giggling at your collapse?

Your jaw locks, teeth grinding until they throb. You drop onto the bed, slamming your palms into your thighs, gripping so tight your knuckles bleach, fighting to keep from shattering completely.

But it’s slipping. The anger’s boiling now, a scream clawing up your throat, and if you let it out—if you let go

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t know what you’ll break. Or who.

Time slips away. You don’t know how much.

Minutes? Hours? Days?

It’s all mush now, a smeared streak of nothing. The silence isn’t just outside anymore—it’s in your head, thick and suffocating, wrapping around your thoughts like damp rot.

It’s just you.

You and the jagged mess clawing inside your skull.

You collapse onto the bed, fingers twisting into your hair, pulling until it stings. Your mind lurches, dragging you down into the undertow—

Jiheon.

A flicker—a memory, or whatever the hell it is.

You’re in the back of a taxi, city lights streaking across her face, sharp and fleeting. She nudges your shoulder with hers, her voice a low murmur, teasing, curling into your ear like smoke. Her hand brushes yours—warm, soft—or did it? Did she ever touch you like that?

Another flash—her laugh, quiet and velvet, a secret carved out just for you, spilling into the dark.

Real? Fake? Does it even matter anymore? You don’t care. You let it roll, let it flood you.

Your eyes flutter shut, and you chase it—her phantom warmth, the shape of her beside you, a lifeline to a past that might be a lie. You breathe it in, greedy, desperate, clinging to the edges of something that could’ve been.

Knock.

Your eyes snap open, wide and wild.

The room’s dead still. Your breath snags in your throat. Then—

Knock. Knock.

It’s sharp, real, slicing through the haze like a blade.

Your heart slams against your ribs, erratic, too loud.

Who—?

You lurch upright, dizzy, palms slick with sweat. You haven’t heard a human sound in—fuck, how long? Days? Weeks? The world’s been a void, and now this—this knock—it’s a lifeline, a threat, a scream in the silence.

Your mind scrambles, tripping over itself. Only one person knows this place. Only one person could find you here, buried in their mess.

“Jiheon.”

The name tears out of you, raw and instinctive, a growl from somewhere deep. Your body’s moving before your brain catches up—stumbling, nearly crashing into the wall, hands shaking as you lunge for the door.

Everything else burns away—the rage, the dread, the memory of her hollow eyes the last time you saw her, the way she broke you. It’s gone, torched in the frantic need to see her, to know, to rip something real out of this nightmare.

Your fingers claw at the handle, slick and fumbling.

You fling the door open, chest heaving, eyes wild—ready to face her, ready to break her, ready for anything—

Eyes lock onto yours through the open door.

Blue.

Not hers. Not Jiheon’s.

Deeper. Mesmerizing. A pull that sinks into you like hooks.

Chaeyoung.

“Missed me?” Her voice slithers out, thick and syrupy, laced with a taunt that makes your skin crawl. You freeze, brain stuttering, but she doesn’t wait—she glides past you, smooth and brazen, like the room’s already hers.

She surveys the chaos—tangled sheets, scattered bottles, the stale reek of too many days alone—and lets out a slow, mocking “Wow.” Her fingertip trails along your desk, collecting dust like it’s evidence, a smirk flickering as she wipes it off. “You live like this?” Her hum is low, teasing, a blade disguised as velvet. “I thought men only crashed this hard after a divorce. But you—” She pivots, those piercing eyes glinting, “you’re shattering over a little heartbreak, aren’t you?”

Your fists ball up, nails biting into your palms, blood prickling under the skin. “What do you want?” The words grind out, rough and unsteady, barely holding back the storm churning inside.

Chaeyoung tilts her head, sizing you up, that knowing smirk sharpening. “Why so tense? You were practically drooling to see who was at the door.” She steps closer—too close—her perfume curling into your lungs, sweet and suffocating. “Did you think I was her?”

Your jaw locks, teeth grinding, and her grin widens, delighted.

She moves past you, slow, unhurried, fingers grazing the door as she swings it shut. The lock clicks into place.

When she turns back, her gaze drips with amusement.

“Poor thing,” she purrs, her hand lifting, fingertips brushing your collarbone—light, deliberate, dragging down slow enough to burn. “Still waiting for Jiheon to crawl back? Begging on her knees, maybe?”

She leans in, her breath hot against your neck, voice dipping low. “Or maybe you wanted something else. Someone else.”

Your exhale is a jagged rasp, and her laugh—sharp and lilting—cuts through you like glass.

“Don’t be shy.” Her fingers dance across your chest, teasing, pressing, stoking something raw. “Locked up in here for days—alone, restless, no one to talk to, no one to touch—” She inches closer, her body brushing yours, “it’s gotta be eating you alive.”

Your muscles coil, heat spiking where it shouldn’t, where you don’t want it to. Your mind’s screaming—trap, trap, trap—but your body’s traitorously still, caught in her pull.

“It’s okay,” she coos, voice softening into something dangerous, something that coils around your throat. “I can make it easier. Just let go. Let me.”

And that’s when it breaks.

Something in you fractures, a dam splitting wide open. Before she can blink—before you can think—your hands lunge.

Fingers clamp around her throat, tight and trembling, and you slam her against the wall with a force that rattles the room. Her head snaps back, breath catching—

But she doesn’t flinch.

No fear. No shock.

Her lips twist upward, a slow, wicked smile blooming under your grip.

“Oh,” she breathes, voice rough but dripping with hunger, eyes blazing dark and wild. “There he is.”

Your grip tightens, pulse pounding in your ears, but her stare—unyielding, pleased—digs into you, unraveling what’s left of your fraying sanity. She’s not scared. She’s thrilled. And that—that—makes the chaos in your head scream louder, teetering on the edge of something you can’t claw back from.

Your grip tightens, fingers digging into her throat, the tendons in your hands straining as rage boils over, uncontainable. Her hands latch onto your wrists, tugging, but it’s weak—halfhearted—like she’s playing at resistance.

“You did this.” Your voice rips out, a guttural growl trembling with fury. “You and the others—you fucking isolated me. Cut me off. Why?!”

Chaeyoung tilts her head against the wall, barely fazed, lips twitching with the ghost of a smile. “Torment?” she tosses back, her tone light, mocking, like it’s a game.

“Don’t act fucking clueless!” Your nails bite into her skin, carving faint crescents, your breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts. “What the hell did I do to deserve this?!”

She exhales, slow and deliberate, a sigh that’s too calm, too unbothered for the pressure crushing her windpipe. Then—her eyes flicker up, locking onto yours.

A smirk curls her lips, sharp and venomous.

“Did you forget?” she murmurs, voice low, dripping with something dark.

“You chose this.”

Her lashes flutter, her gaze slicing through you—cruel, knowing, peeling back layers you didn’t know were there.

“You wished for this.”

Your mind stutters, a jolt of ice cutting through the heat. “Wished for this? Why the fuck would I—when—?” Then it hits—the memory slams into you like a fist. That night with Chaeyoung, her voice teasing, sultry, whispering ‘Be careful what you wish for’ as the room spun and her laughter faded into the dark. “That night? That stupid fucking wish you threw out there? How was I supposed to know—you didn’t even explain it!”

Her smirk deepens, unfazed by your snarl. “Either way, you’re with us now.” Her voice is velvet over steel. “You locked yourself in when you spent that night with me—and oh, so much more with Jiheon.”

One of her hands, still gripping your wrist, shifts—sliding up, slow and deliberate, caressing your cheek. Then it drops, her fingers brushing lower, rubbing against your crotch through your pants, a bold, taunting stroke.

“Why don’t you calm down for now?” she purrs, eyes glinting with mischief. “Or if you prefer this, I wouldn’t mind.”

Your breath hitches, a mix of fury and disbelief choking you.

“You’re fucked in the head,” you spit, voice shaking, incredulous.

Your grip clamps tighter, fingers sinking into Chaeyoung’s throat, your breath heaving, wild and uneven, like something’s clawing out of your chest. Her gasping, broken laugh spills out anyway, her chest shuddering under the strain, defiant even as you crush her windpipe.

“Ironic,” she wheezes, eyes half-lidded, glinting with something mocking, dangerous, her lips twitching despite the chokehold. “Coming from someone who’s losing his mind.”

“Insane?” Your voice cracks like a whip, jagged and unhinged, your grip tightening until your knuckles bleach. “What the fuck do you mean by that?”

She forces a ragged breath, her smile unwavering, predatory. “Haven’t you seen it? Felt it?” she rasps, voice low and cutting. “You’re coming apart. That memory’s eating you alive.”

Then—

A bang at the door—sharp, thunderous, rattling the frame.

“Hey! It’s me—Gyuri!” Her voice slices through, fierce and commanding. “Chaeyoung, open the damn door! I know you’re in there—enough with your fucking games, he doesn’t need this!”

Another bang, harder, the wood groaning under her fist.

“What was that crash earlier?!” Gyuri’s tone spikes, worry twisting into anger. “Open it—NOW!”

Your head jerks toward the sound, but your eyes snap back to Chaeyoung. She meets your stare, her smirk stretching wider, feral and gleeful, like she’s feeding off the chaos.

“What are you gonna do now?” she whispers, voice trembling with delight, strained and taunting under your grip. Her fingers twitch, still clutching your pants, pressing harder against you, shameless. “Unless… you wanna keep going?” Her lips part, a shaky inhale breaking through, her smile teetering on the edge of collapse. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Then—

The world shatters.

The door doesn’t just explode inward—it detonates. A violent eruption of force tears through the room, sending a shockwave rippling outward. The walls groan under the impact, picture frames shattering, glass spraying across the floor. Furniture is upended—your bed slams against the opposite wall with a deafening crack, a dresser topples, scattering papers and broken wood across the floor.

A crimson-red streak of light flares from the splintered remains of the doorway, burning hot, searing bright. The entire building shakes, the foundation trembling under the sheer weight of the force. Dust and debris rain down from the ceiling, the floorboards quivering beneath your feet.

A shard of wood slices past Chaeyoung’s cheek—a thin red line blooms, blood welling up instantly. She barely reacts, eyes locked onto the wreckage, onto her.

Gyuri stands amidst the destruction, breathless, eyes blazing like molten fire. Her silhouette is framed by the carnage—splintered wood, dust still swirling, the faint glow of embers flickering at her fingertips. She takes it all in—one sharp, furious sweep—the trashed dorm, the suffocating tension, the overturned chair, the damp stench of neglect.

And you.

Looming over Chaeyoung. Hand still locked around her throat.

Then—her eyes land on you.

And something shifts.

The raw, furious blaze in her gaze wavers, flickers—just for a moment. The fire dims, softens, but it doesn’t disappear. It settles into something steady, something alive.

She steps forward—slow, deliberate, like you’re a bomb she’s afraid to set off.

“Hey.” Gyuri’s voice cuts through, soft yet insistent, piercing the static screaming in your skull.

Your chest heaves, breaths ripping out in sharp, uneven bursts. You don’t move. Can’t. The world’s a haze of red and shadow, your hands locked, trembling, unrelenting.

Her fingers graze your arm—light, cautious, not forcing, just there, a fragile thread in the storm.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, her hand sliding to your wrist, warm and steady, curling around it like a lifeline. “Look at me.”

Your grip stays iron-tight, nails digging into Chaeyoung’s throat. Her smirk’s vanished—wiped clean. Her lips part, gasping, straining for air that won’t come, her chest jerking faintly. Her eyes meet yours—stripped of taunts, hollowed out, reflecting something shattered.

“Why should I listen to you?” Your voice claws its way out, raw and trembling, thick with rage. “You fucked with my head. You’re fucking with my life. You’re making me disappear.”

Chaeyoung’s gaze holds, unblinking, her wheeze barely audible under your chokehold. No defiance. Just that flat, eerie stillness.

Gyuri exhales—slow, controlled, a thin line of calm threading through your chaos.

“We did that,” she says, her voice deliberate, careful. “And I’m sorry. We could’ve done better—I could’ve done better.” Her fingers tighten around your wrist, not pulling, just grounding. “I should’ve cared for you more. Kept you closer instead of… this.”

Her words hang there, heavy with regret, but they don’t soothe—they sting, like salt in a wound you didn’t know was bleeding.

“We didn’t know how to handle you,” she continues, softer now. “Your mind—it’s fragile. We thought controlling everything, cutting you off, would keep you safe. But I see it now—we fucked up.”

Your vision blurs, red seeping into the edges, the room swaying as your mind teeters on a brittle edge—fury crashing against her confession, tearing you apart.

“Let go. Let’s talk.”

Her hand slides up, cupping your face, her palm pressing firm against your jaw—solid, unyielding, anchoring you. She pulls you in, closer, until her forehead rests against yours, her breath warm, steady, mingling with your ragged gasps.

A faint red glow flickers at the corners of your sight, pulsing faintly, warm and alive.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again, her voice cracking just enough to feel real. Her warmth seeps into you, threading through the tangled mess shredding your head, dulling the sharpest edges.

“Breathe.”

Your fingers twitch, the grip on Chaeyoung’s throat faltering—slowly, haltingly—until your hands drop, heavy and shaking, useless at your sides. She collapses with a choked gasp, air rushing into her lungs, but you don’t look. Can’t.

Gyuri’s hands stay, firm on your face, her forehead pressed to yours, her touch the only thing keeping you from spiraling into the void gnashing at your heels.

Your grip on Chaeyoung slackens, trembling fingers peeling away.

She drops, hitting the floor with a thud, gasping, coughing, hands flying to her throat. She doesn’t speak—doesn’t taunt. Just watches.

Gyuri doesn’t spare her a glance.

Gyuri holds you there, her fingers digging into your skin, a desperate tether dragging you back from the abyss gnashing at your heels. Your pulse thunders, a deafening roar in your ears, your mind spinning—fractured, teetering—but her eyes, steady and unyielding, lock you in place, keeping you from shattering completely.

“You need help. You know it yourself,” she says, her voice firm but laced with a softness that stings deeper than you want. “Let us help you. Me. No more of… this.” Her hand sweeps faintly toward the wreckage—the trashed dorm, the splintered door, the chaos seeping into every corner. “I promise this time.”

Her words dangle there, a lifeline tangled with guilt. You hesitate, chest tight, breath hitching. She’s right—you need help. They broke you, shredded your mind and left you clawing through the debris, but they’re the only ones who can piece you back together. It’s a cruel, twisted punchline, and the bitterness burns your throat.

You nod—just a twitch of your head—too drained, too furious, too lost to fight. Gyuri’s grip eases, her thumb brushing your jaw, a fleeting warmth you hate needing but can’t reject.

Behind you, a faint rustle. Then—Chaeyoung pulls herself up from the floor, slow and stiff, her movements deliberate, like she’s testing if her body still works. Her fingers flex and curl, trembling faintly before she clenches them into fists. “Great. Can we go now?”

Her voice is flat—no teasing lilt, no playful bite. She’s facing Gyuri, her back to you, her tone hollow, drained of its usual spark. You can’t see her face, but the air shifts—something unspoken crackling between them.

Gyuri’s jaw tightens, her eyes flicking to Chaeyoung, then back to you. “I can’t,” she says, quieter, a strain threading her words. “I need to stay. Clean this up.” She nods toward the shattered door, the mess of your dorm, her hands slipping from your face but hovering close, like she’s scared you’ll bolt. “The Mist can only do so much. We shouldn’t strain it more.”

Mist? Your brows knit, confusion spiking through the haze. “I thought we were done with that. Can you just explain—”

She flinches—barely—but doesn’t answer. Her gaze meets yours, heavy with something murky—regret, maybe shame. “Go with Chaeyoung,” she says instead, voice firming up. “She’ll take you to Saerom. She’s waiting. She can… give you answers.”

You scowl, frustration boiling over. “Then why her? Why can’t you do it?” You glance at Chaeyoung, expecting her usual smirk, but she’s still—too still. Her face is blank, no fire, no taunt, just a weary, distant stare. The cut on her cheek gleams, blood still wet, but she doesn’t flinch at it.

Chaeyoung turns to you then, and—like a mask snapping back into place—her smirk flickers on, jagged at the edges. “What’s wrong? Scared to be alone with me after our little dance?” she purrs, her voice dripping with mock sweetness, leaning in just close enough to let her breath graze your ear. “Don’t you trust me, baby? I thought we were getting so… intimate.” Her tone wavers for a split second, a faint crack betraying her, but she covers it with a low, taunting chuckle.

The air thickens, heavy and suffocating, as Gyuri glares at her. A faint red glow pulses at the edges of the room, seeping from Gyuri’s clenched fists, the light flickering like a heartbeat—angry, unsteady. She squeezes her eyes shut, her chest rising and falling too fast, and you feel it—a hum in the air, a crackle of something raw and red bleeding into the space. She’s meditating, or trying to, holding back whatever’s clawing to get out. When her eyes snap open, they’re sharp, glinting with a crimson sheen she can’t fully hide, and she deliberately avoids Chaeyoung’s grin.

“Just go with her for now,” she mutters, her voice tight, strained, like it’s taking everything to keep the red from spilling over. She pulls you aside, her fingers trembling faintly against your arm, and whispers, tense and low, “Chaeyoung acts like teasing’s her only trick, but she’s the one you can trust most. At least you know what she’s after.” The red light flares briefly around her, casting harsh shadows across her face, then dims as she forces it down.

You chew on that, the words sinking in slow and bitter. Gyuri, who seems to care but keeps proving otherwise with every move. Jiheon, who cracked your mind open and left it bleeding. The others, shadows you can’t read. Chaeyoung—at least she’s predictable, her edges sharp but familiar.

“Let’s gooo,” Chaeyoung sing-songs, her lazy grin stretching wide, but her hands fidget at her sides, fingers twitching—a crack in her act she can’t quite hide.

You hesitate. Gyuri’s hand presses lightly to your back, a gentle nudge. “Go,” she says softly, urging you forward.

You step toward the door, but Gyuri’s voice cuts through just as you reach it. “Chaeyoung.”

You both pause. You glance back; Chaeyoung doesn’t.

“I’m serious,” Gyuri says, her voice taut, eyes dark and piercing. “Don’t hurt him.” It’s not a request—it’s a warning, laced with steel.

For a split second, Chaeyoung’s mask slips. Her shoulders stiffen, her breath catches—just a flicker of something raw—before she forces a sharp exhale through her nose, rolling her neck like she’s shrugging it off. When she turns, the teasing glint is back, polished and bright, but her eyes are too tight, her smirk too forced. “I’d do eight other things with him before we get to that kink,” she chirps, voice airy, then leans toward you, dropping it to a mock whisper. “Unless you wanna skip ahead?”

You don’t answer. Don’t look at her. Just step past, out the door, your mind a snarl of rage and exhaustion.

Chaeyoung follows, her footsteps light but uneven, like she’s still steadying herself. For a moment, she’s quiet—too quiet—her breathing shallow, a faint tremor in it she tries to cover with a soft hum. She’s shaken, more than she’ll let on, hiding it behind that brittle grin and barbed words.

You don’t care. You keep walking, and she trails you, the two of you slipping into the unknown, toward Saerom, while Gyuri stays behind in the wreckage—alone with her promises and the mess she can’t undo.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The car hums beneath you, a low, steady purr cutting through Seoul’s streets with effortless precision. It’s not Chaeyoung’s usual blue Porsche, all flash and noise. This is subtler—a Lexus, four-seater, sleek and understated, the kind of luxury that doesn’t scream but commands. Familiar. You’ve seen it before, that night you first stumbled into their world, half-blind and reeling.

Chaeyoung doesn’t fill the silence with chatter. Her hands grip the wheel, steady, her eyes fixed ahead—no music, no distractions, just the engine’s rhythmic drone and a heavy, unspoken weight between you. You don’t ask where you’re going. You don’t need to. She’d dropped it once, casual and dismissive—Saerom will explain when it’s time. That time’s now, and it hangs over you like a blade.

The car slows, but not in front of the gleaming glass tower you’d braced for. Chaeyoung veers sharp down a ramp, plunging into an underground lot. Dim fluorescent lights buzz overhead, the hum of ventilation fans swallowing the Lexus’s glide. The world above fades, muffled and far.

She parks with crisp efficiency. Her fingers tap the steering wheel—once, twice—a quick, restless tic before she exhales and unbuckles her seatbelt. “Let’s go.” She’s out before you can blink, not waiting.

The elevator ride is silent, the numbers climbing higher and higher until they stop at the top. When the doors slide open, you step into a space that feels like the crown of the building. Not just an office—Saerom’s office.

The door is heavier than the others, a polished plaque with her name the only marker. Chaeyoung raps her knuckles against it once, sharp, then shoves it open without pause.

Inside, the air thickens—leather, fresh flowers, a ghost of perfume. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate one wall, tinted to hold the city at arm’s length. The space is pristine, curated, every detail deliberate.

At the center, behind a broad desk, sits Saerom. She doesn’t look up right away, her pen scratching across paper with a final, precise flourish before she sets it down. Only then do her eyes lift, locking onto yours. No surprise. No flicker of doubt. She’s been waiting.

“What took you so long?” Her gaze slides past you, pinning Chaeyoung.

Chaeyoung answers with a smile—thin, tight, not quite reaching her eyes.

You tilt your head, a smirk tugging at your lips despite the churn in your gut. “An actress with her own office, signing papers? Bit much, isn’t it? Almost like you run the place.”

Saerom doesn’t bite, doesn’t even blink. Chaeyoung lets out a low chuckle behind you, soft but sharp, like you’ve stumbled over something painfully obvious.

Saerom rises, smooth and unhurried, crossing the room toward you. When she’s close—close enough to feel the weight of her presence—she stops. “What happened to you?” she asks, her voice calm but edged, her eyes flicking to Chaeyoung.

You follow her gaze. The cut on Chaeyoung’s cheek gleams, still wet, but it’s her neck that draws you now—red marks blooming where your fingers dug in, faint bruises tracing the shape of your grip.

Chaeyoung flinches, just a fraction, caught off guard. “Nothing,” she says, too quick, a tiny hitch in her breath. “Just got a little excited.” Her hands land on your shoulders, rubbing them with forced ease, her smile flashing for Saerom—bright, brittle, a shield snapping back into place.

Saerom studies her for a beat, then turns, satisfied or uninterested—you can’t tell. She moves to the center of the room, settling onto a low couch by the coffee table, her eyes locking onto yours again. Waiting.

Chaeyoung’s hands give your shoulders a final tap. “Well, good luck,” she chirps, already retreating. “I’ll be outside.” Before you can say a word, the door clicks shut behind her, the sound sharp in the stillness.

You sit across from Saerom, alone now, her presence a quiet storm filling the room. Her gaze is unrelenting—steady, piercing, drawing you in whether you want it or not. No assistants buzzing around, no flashing cameras, no polished persona. Just her, seated in this private meeting room atop the city, waiting.

She doesn’t bother with pleasantries. Her eyes lock onto yours, unreadable, and she cuts straight to it. “Do you know the myth of the Promised 9?”

You exhale, sharp and bitter. “Yeah. Conveniently, I do.”

Silence. She’s waiting.

You hesitate, then give in. “Nine women, tied to humanity’s extreme emotions.” Your voice feels heavy, like you’re dragging it out of somewhere dark. “The King begged a deity for help, and they sent nine embodiments to carry that burden. But they needed an anchor—someone to keep them from losing it.”

The words hit differently now, tugging at a thread in your mind. Jiheon’s face flashes—tear-streaked, broken—“I wasn’t myself. Please, forgive me.” It clicks, heavy and sickening.

Saerom, as if reading your unraveling thoughts, breaks the quiet. “You’re that anchor. You keep us from spiraling.”

Your jaw locks. “Why me? Why now? Don’t you have someone else?”

She leans back, crossing one leg over the other, unruffled. “We weren’t always like this. Normal, once. Then one night, we woke up… changed. Something shifted, and we had no choice but to carry it.”

Your fingers twitch against your knee. “How long?”

“A few years. Less than ten.” She tilts her head, studying you. “We managed—until we couldn’t. We knew we’d lose control eventually.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “And I’m supposed to just step in? I don’t even know if I can—or how.”

Her lips curve, not quite a smile. “You already have. Twice.”

Your stomach twists. You don’t need to ask. Jiheon. Chaeyoung.

She watches the realization sink in, then adds, “And there’s more.”

You meet her gaze, wary.

“You resist us,” she says, matter-of-fact. “Our influence—our magic—it doesn’t take you fully. That’s why you’re different. Why you’re necessary.”

The words press into you, a weight you can’t shake. “You’re the perfect anchor,” she continues, voice low, steady. “Especially when we lose ourselves. Others would’ve broken by now. You haven’t.”

“And what? I just accept it?” Your voice rises, edged with frustration. “Chaeyoung said I chose this, but no one explained shit. You misled me—dragged me into this without a fucking word.”

Her eyes flicker away for a moment, staring past you, lips moving silently—like she’s cursing someone under her breath. Then she refocuses, unyielding. “I see. But what’s done is done. Doesn’t change that you’re what we need.”

“Why should I help you?” You shove up from your seat, voice cracking with anger. “After everything you’ve done? Jiheon fucked my head, and you—you made the world forget me!”

“Jiheon’s effect was… unfortunate,” she concedes, calm as ever. “But the rest? That was to protect you.”

“Protect me?” You laugh, harsh and hollow. “By cutting me off? Making me a ghost? You’re sociopaths—”

“It’s not just us who needs help,” she cuts in, stopping your spiral cold. “You need us too. That mind of yours—those memories—they’ll drive you insane. We can make it bearable, at least. Normal, even.”

“Convenient as hell for you,” you mutter, sinking back into your seat, defeated. “Might as well say you planned it all.”

“You think this is one-sided,” she says, leaning forward slightly. “That we’re just using you. It’s not that simple.”

Your fingers dig into your knee, but you don’t interrupt.

“We’re tied to you as much as you are to us,” she says, her gaze unflinching. “You anchor us, yes. But we take care of you in return. That’s the deal.”

“Sounds like a fancy cage,” you bite back.

A flicker of amusement crosses her face. “If that’s how you see it, fine. But it’s not cold. Not transactional.” She tilts her head, assessing you. “You’re already changing us—more than you realize.”

She leans back, ticking off names like she’s reading a ledger. “Gyuri—never begs me for anything. She did for you, just to get me here faster.”

“Chaeyoung—doesn’t give a damn about anyone outside us. Now she does.”

“Jiheon—reckless, shameless Jiheon—crippled with guilt over you.”

“Seoyeon—avoids responsibility like it’s a disease. Mentioned your name once, and she stepped up.”

Each name lands like a brick, stacking up in your chest. You don’t know what to say.

Saerom lets the silence settle, then drops it, casual but firm: “You should move in with us.”

Not a question. A statement.

It hits like a slap. “What?”

She doesn’t repeat it. Just watches you wrestle with it.

“That’s insane,” you say, shaking your head. “I barely know you. Why would I—”

“Why not?” she cuts in, smooth and sharp. “What’s stopping you?”

You open your mouth—nothing comes out.

“Your dorm was wrecked. No family waiting,” she says, voice low, relentless. “No career you’re tied to. No friends anchoring you. What’s keeping you out there?”

Your throat tightens, her words slicing too close. “I have a life,” you rasp, but it sounds weak even to you.

“Do you?” She leans forward, piercing. “A shitty dorm. Classes you sleep through. A routine you don’t care about.”

The ache settles into your bones. You can’t argue.

“You’d lose nothing by staying,” she says, softer now. “But you’d gain something.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?” Your voice is rough, brittle.

Her lips twitch—not quite a smile.

“A purpose.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The elevator chime cuts through the haze, a soft ding reverberating in the empty space. The doors slide open, revealing the underground parking lot—dimly lit, shadows pooling under flickering fluorescents.

You don’t move right away. Your hand clenches into a fist at your side, and you draw a slow, deliberate breath. This time, it steadies you.

For the first time in days your mind isn’t a storm of unanswered questions. The weight in your chest hasn’t lifted, but it’s shifted—less a choking fog, more a solid pressure you can finally wrap your hands around. Something real. Something you can face.

Anchor. Necessary. One of us now.

The words echo, but they don’t claw at you anymore. They’ve settled, heavy and certain, like stones in your pocket. It should scare you—shouldn’t it?—but instead, there’s a strange relief in the clarity. A thread to cling to, something to pull you forward when everything else has frayed.

You drag a hand over your face, rough against stubble, and step out.

Then you see her.

Chaeyoung’s leaning against the black Lexus, arms crossed, one boot kicked back against the concrete pillar. The faint light overhead glints in her eyes, sharpening the smirk tugging at her lips—a knowing, waiting curve.

Your gaze locks with hers, and you can tell in an instant.

She thought you’d run.

She thought you’d crack.

Instead, you exhale, a faint shake of your head as you step toward her. For the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel adrift. The ground’s still shaky beneath you, but it’s there—and that’s enough.

“Waiting for me?”

Her smirk widens. “Obviously.” She shifts, stepping toward you, closing the distance with a predator’s grace. “And I’m not done with you yet.”

You scoff under your breath, shoving your hands into your pockets. “I wasn’t planning on running.”

“I know,” she murmurs, her voice dipping, less tease and more weight—something off, something personal. “You won’t… you can’t… not with me.”

It’s not about Saerom or anchors or any of that. It’s her. Just her. Your shoulders stiffen as the words settle, heavy, like a snare you’ve walked into before.

You shake your head, exhaling hard. “She said you care about me.”

Chaeyoung snorts, amused. “Did she now?”

You shouldn’t ask, but it slips out. “Is it true?”

She steps closer, her gaze unwavering. “Does it matter?”

It does. You want it to. Your fingers twitch at your side. “What about Jiheon?”

Her expression flickers—brief, almost imperceptible—lips parting before she glances away, jaw tight. “You’re worried?” she says, sharper now, edged with something raw. “After what she did to you? Worry about her later.”

Your stomach twists. What if Jiheon didn’t mean it? What if she wasn’t herself when she broke you? The thought gnaws, but you don’t have an answer. So you don’t give one.

Instead, you nod toward the car, grasping for anything else. “This ‘anchor’ thing—what does it even mean?”

Chaeyoung exhales, shaking her head with a faint, bitter laugh. “You’re overthinking it.”

“I’d like a straight answer for once,” you snap, teeth gritted.

She leans in, voice low, teasing but barbed. “You keep asking like you don’t already know.”

You don’t. Or maybe you’re terrified you do.

Her smirk sharpens, a finger tapping her lips before she drawls, “Fine. You’re ours, we’re yours… yet.” She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “Happy now?”

Your chest tightens. “And sex—is that really how I help you?”

Her eyes gleam with mischief. “Why?” She steps closer, her breath brushing your skin. “Wanna test it again—see if I’m still worth it?”

Your lips part, but before you can bite back, she moves—quick, fluid, like she’s been waiting. Her hands slam against your chest, shoving you back through the open car door. You hit the backseat with a thud, leather and her perfume flooding your senses.

Then she’s on you, straddling your lap with slow, deliberate grace. Her fingers trail up your jaw, curling into your hair, tilting your head back to lock eyes. “Still undecided?” she murmurs, lips hovering just above yours, teasing the space between. She leans closer, her smile grazing your cheek. “Need me to remind you how good this gets?”

Your pulse spikes. You swallow hard. “Chaeyoung,” you rasp, “this isn’t the time—or place.”

Her lips curl sharper. “Then stop me.”

You hesitate—too long. She sees it, and the glint in her eyes flares, reveling in the edge she’s claimed.

“Chae—”

Your protest barely escapes before she’s on you, her fingers twisting into your shirt, yanking herself closer. Her mouth crashes against yours, fierce and possessive, a hungry edge to it that leaves no room for doubt—she knows what she wants, and it’s you.

Her lips move with bold, teasing confidence, pressing hard, demanding, like she’s playing a game she’s already won. The heat surges when her tongue brushes the seam of your mouth, coaxing you open—an invitation you shouldn’t take but can’t refuse. You part your lips, letting her in, and she dives deep, tasting like danger, sweet and addictive, pulling you under.

Her weight shifts, hips pressing into yours, her body molding against you with a deliberate grind that screams intent. You should stop this—draw a line before it’s too late. You know it’s a distraction for her, a power play, nothing more. But your hands betray you, sliding to her waist, tugging her closer, feeding the fire. You want her, even if it’s just this fleeting burn.

Then it shifts.

The kiss slows—her lips soften, less demanding, more lingering. The hunger doesn’t fade, but it melts into something warmer, something unguarded. Her breath catches, a faint tremor against your mouth, and the tease gives way to a quiet depth you didn’t expect. Her tongue brushes yours again, but it’s tender now, searching rather than claiming.

Your hand twitches, lifting toward her neck. You hesitate—flashes of earlier, your grip too tight, her gasping under your anger flickering in your mind. Guilt stalls you, but the kiss keeps pulling you in, softer still, and you can’t hold back. Your fingers find her neck, resting there—not choking, not controlling, just cradling, gentle and steady, a stark contrast to before.

She doesn’t pull away. Her lips stay on yours, warm and slow, a scrape of her teeth against your lower lip—not playful anymore, but raw, almost aching. When she finally breaks the kiss, it’s too sudden, a soft gasp slipping out as she stares at you. Her eyes widen for a heartbeat, mask slipping—surprise, vulnerability, like she didn’t mean to let it feel this real.

“Chaeyoung,” you murmur, voice rough, your thumb brushing the graze on her cheek—still raw from earlier, a mark you left behind.

She snaps back fast, that smirk curling her lips like armor, her gaze sweeping over you as if she didn’t just bare something unguarded. “What?” she teases, voice steadying too quick, too smooth. “Don’t tell me you’re hooked already.”

But your hand stays on her neck, light and warm, and for a moment, she doesn’t shake it off—the softness lingers between you, unspoken.

“You’ve been acting pathetic long enough,” Chaeyoung murmurs, shifting atop you. She pulls back slowly, settling her weight onto your hips, pinning you in place. “Let me take care of you.”

Her hands, warm and sure, glide from your thighs to your belt, fingers deftly working the buckle loose.

You catch her wrist, halting her. “Chaeyoung, we’re in public—”

“No one’s coming,” she interrupts, voice soft but firm, cutting through your protest. She leans in, her breath teasing your lips. “You need this.”

Her free hand fumbles blindly behind her, pulling the car door shut with a quiet click. She doesn’t say she needs it too, but the way her fingers tighten on you, the way her pupils flare, betrays her.

Your grip slackens.

A slow, wicked smile curls her lips. She shifts lower, unfastening your belt with a tug, sliding your waistband and boxers down in one fluid motion. Your cock springs free, and her eyes widen—just for a heartbeat—before that grin takes over, sharp and hungry.

Her tongue flicks out, tracing a deliberate, languid stripe up your length. A shudder rips through you as she swirls around the tip, savoring you, then takes you into her mouth. She sinks down, lips wrapping tight, the heat of her throat swallowing you inch by inch. A groan claws its way out of your chest, your hips twitching up instinctively.

She hums, the vibration pulsing through you, her tongue flicking against the sensitive underside as she bobs deeper, faster. Her fingers curl around the base, stroking what she can’t take, while her other hand teases your balls with a gentle roll. It’s too much—too good—pleasure coiling tight and fast. You’re close, teetering on the edge, when she pulls off with a wet pop, a thin string of spit bridging her lips to your throbbing tip.

She rises slightly, hands moving to her jeans. With maddening slowness, she unbuttons them, lifting her hips just enough to peel the denim down her thighs. Her dark panties cling to her, barely a barrier, and she kicks the jeans aside, settling back onto your lap.

Before you can catch your breath, she straddles you, grinding her hips down. The thin fabric between you does nothing to hide her heat, her slickness seeping through as she rolls against your aching length. Your hands grip her waist, fingers digging in, body taut with want.

“Mmm, you taste better than I remember,” she purrs, lips brushing your ear, nails raking your shoulders with a sharp thrill. “I want you inside me. Want you to fuck me ‘til I can’t stand.”

Her words ignite you, heat roaring through your veins. The slow drag of her hips has your breath stuttering, your hands itching to pull her closer, to lose yourself in her—

But then she stops.

Not hesitation. Not doubt.

She’s waiting, her focus shifting past you.

A beat hangs.

Then—click.

The car door creaks open, and your blood turns to ice.

“Chaeyoung…?”

The voice isn’t loud, but it slices through the haze, freezing you mid-breath. You don’t recognize it—not instantly—but the weight of that stare burns into you, heavy and unyielding.

“Oh… fuck—” A woman’s voice falters, stammering.

Panic hits like a flood. You jolt upright, scrambling to yank your pants up, fumbling in a clumsy rush. Chaeyoung, unbothered, slides off you with effortless grace, reaching for her jeans like it’s a casual pause in her day.

“Unnie, you’re here,” she says, voice light, almost bored, as she shimmies denim back over her hips.

You look up, heart slamming, and see her—Seoyeon—standing there, wide-eyed, caught in the doorway.

Your breath lodges in your throat, guilt and shock colliding as her gaze flickers between you and Chaeyoung.

Seoyeon freezes, her wide eyes flickering between you and Chaeyoung before dropping to the ground, like she’s trying to unsee what she just walked into. Her fingers tighten around her bag strap, and a faint flush creeps up her neck, barely visible in the parking lot’s dim glow.

That reaction—soft, unguarded—hits you harder than it should. Seoyeon, the quiet beauty you’d watched from a distance, always so composed, so untouchable. She’d had this effortless allure—serene, distant, captivating. And now, she’s flustered, unraveling before you.

Guilt twists in your chest, sharp and unfamiliar. You hardly know her—just fleeting glances, occasional nods—but her seeing you like this, tangled in Chaeyoung’s mess, stings in a way you can’t explain. Her expression, unreadable yet raw, makes it worse.

She shifts, hesitating, like she’s torn between bolting and pretending this never happened.

Then Chaeyoung moves.

Unfazed, she slides out of the car, rolling her shoulders as if shrugging off a minor annoyance. Her lips curl, eyes glinting as she turns from you to Seoyeon. “Seoyeon-ah,” she purrs, stretching the name with relish. “You’re so cute when you blush.”

Seoyeon stiffens. “I—I wasn’t—” she stammers, voice soft, faltering.

Chaeyoung’s laugh cuts through, stepping closer. “What? Didn’t enjoy the show? Or are you mad you missed your chance to play?”

Seoyeon’s breath catches, her grip on her bag whitening her knuckles. She doesn’t retreat, though—rooted there, trapped under Chaeyoung’s gaze.

You watch, a dark thread coiling in your mind. Chaeyoung’s teasing has shifted—no longer aimed at you, it’s sharper now, laced with an edge that feels almost territorial.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, closing the distance, her tone hovering between irritation and something colder.

Seoyeon hesitates. “You… said you’d drive me home.”

“Ah…” Chaeyoung tilts her head, smirk returning, but it’s tighter, meaner. “Right. I did, didn’t I?” She crosses her arms. “So, your little meeting’s done?”

Seoyeon nods, barely.

Chaeyoung spins back to you, her grin wicked. “Hear that? Our shy little puppy just signed a deal—her book’s getting adapted.” Her fingers trail up Seoyeon’s arm as she speaks, possessive, taunting. “Isn’t she incredible?” Her eyes lock on yours, gleaming. “Go on, praise her. She’d love to hear it from you.”

Your throat tightens, brain scrambling. A writer? You’d seen her in the café—alone, lost in thought, typing by her laptop. You’d guessed student, freelancer, anything but this.

“I—” You clear your throat, forcing it out. “Congrats. That’s… really impressive. I always wondered what you were up to.”

Seoyeon fidgets with her strap, eyes down. “I—I could just go home alone. I don’t want to interrupt—”

“Too late,” Chaeyoung cuts in, smooth and biting. Her fingers slide down Seoyeon’s wrist, tugging at her sleeve, and Seoyeon tenses—but doesn’t pull away.

“Join us,” Chaeyoung hums, tilting her head, lips curving sharper. “Unless…” She flicks her gaze to you, then lowers her voice, “you wanted a different kind of invitation?”

Your breath snags. Her hand drifts lower, fingertips brushing Seoyeon’s waist, pressing just enough to draw a faint shudder. It’s blatant, deliberate—performed for you, like she’s daring you to react.

Your jaw clenches.

Seoyeon bites her lip, face flaming, eyes darting away. She’s unrecognizable from the café girl—cozy sweaters swapped for something sleek, her softness sharpened by the moment, helpless under Chaeyoung’s grip.

And you—you’re still hard, the ache a cruel reminder of where this was headed. Chaeyoung catches it, her smirk flashing like she’s won something.

“Don’t go,” she murmurs, leaning closer to Seoyeon, fingers tracing her blouse’s hem. “Especially after crashing our fun.”

Chaeyoung glances at your still bulging pants.

She whispers something in Seoyeon’s ear—too low to catch—and Seoyeon’s breath hitches, her flush deepening.

Then Chaeyoung grins, turning to you. “Besides… don’t you want me to introduce you?” Her voice drops, eyes flicking between you both. “Show you who she really is?”

She tosses you the keys with a flick of her wrist. “Drive us, sweetie. Follow the GPS,” she says, mischief glinting in her stare. She glances at the backseat. “I want Seoyeon’s company back there.”

You slide into the driver’s seat, fingers clamping around the wheel, knuckles whitening. A quick check in the rearview shows Chaeyoung sprawled comfortably, dark hair fanning over the leather, one leg crossed casually. Seoyeon sits beside her, rigid, hands knotted in her lap, staring out the window like it might save her.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The car hums softly, the GPS’s faint beeps punctuating the quiet. The silence stretches—not heavy, but taut—until Chaeyoung slices through it.

“So… how much do you actually know about Seoyeon?”

Your fingers flex on the wheel, eyes flicking to the rearview. Chaeyoung’s smirking, amused, while Seoyeon jolts slightly, her gaze snapping from the window to dart between you and Chaeyoung.

You clear your throat. “Uh… I see her at Golden Brew a lot. She’s always there.”

Seoyeon blinks, startled—like she didn’t think you’d noticed her.

Chaeyoung chuckles, low and teasing. “That’s it? Just some café girl?” She slings an arm over Seoyeon’s shoulders, tugging her closer with casual possessiveness. “Come on, you’ve got more than that. Give us an impression.”

You hesitate, Seoyeon’s eyes on you now, soft but searching. What do you say? That she always looked so calm there, tucked in her corner, lost in a book—like the world couldn’t touch her? That she’s nothing like the flustered girl beside Chaeyoung now?

“I don’t know,” you mutter, eyes back on the road. “She just… seemed at peace there. Like nothing else mattered when she was reading.”

Seoyeon shifts, a mix of flattered and uneasy, while Chaeyoung hums, twirling a strand of Seoyeon’s hair. “See? He notices you.” Her voice dances with playful mockery, but it lands—Seoyeon’s cheeks flush pink.

The air shifts, no longer awkward but charged, teetering on something new. Chaeyoung’s either diffusing it or stirring it—you can’t tell.

Then—“So,” she drawls, stretching her legs like she owns the car, “when are you moving in?”

Your grip tightens, knuckles whitening. You knew it was coming—Saerom’s words made it inevitable—but resistance flares anyway, a reflex you can’t kill.

“Gyuri called earlier,” she adds, casual but pointed. “Asked if you’ve got anything sentimental in that dorm.”

The question jars you. Gyuri called her—not you? And moving your stuff herself? Your mind scrambles for something sentimental, but it’s blank—Saerom was right. A week with them, and they’ve already peeled back how empty your life was.

Your silence lingers too long.

Chaeyoung clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Still acting like you’ve got a choice, huh?” She leans forward, propping her chin on Seoyeon’s shoulder, eyes glinting in the mirror. “It’s not just about you crashing with us. It’s that head of yours—we’re keeping it from cracking open.”

Your jaw clenches.

“Your mind’s a mess,” she says, smooth and unrelenting. “It’s not a quick fix, sweetie.”

“We—or someone—” she loops an arm around Seoyeon’s waist, pulling her tighter, “has to stop you from losing it completely.”

Seoyeon stiffens, like she’s just now catching the drift. Chaeyoung doesn’t let her squirm away.

“Meet your minder,” she purrs, nudging Seoyeon forward like a prize on display. “Our best little memory-sorter.”

You catch Seoyeon’s reaction in the mirror—her fingers knot into her dress, lips parting in a half-formed protest she doesn’t voice.

“You,” Chaeyoung continues, dragging a finger up Seoyeon’s arm, making her twitch, “never step up unless you’re forced. But when Saerom asked for someone to help our poor, scrambled boy here, you volunteered fast.”

Seoyeon glances at you—quick, fleeting—then down. “I didn’t—” She swallows, voice thin. “It just made sense.”

Chaeyoung snickers. “Oh, sure. Made sense.” She mocks it, tilting her head. “Not because you’re perfect for untangling his head, but because you wanted to, right?”

“Because I’ve got the most experience,” Seoyeon snaps, face reddening.

“Mhm. Purely professional,” Chaeyoung grins, dripping sarcasm.

You keep your eyes on the road, but it’s sinking in—Seoyeon chose this? You’d figured it was thrust on her, like everything else with you. If she wanted it… why?

Chaeyoung leans closer to Seoyeon, voice dropping, teasing but firm. “Then why’re you blushing, sweetheart?”

You swallow hard, no answer forming. Seoyeon’s a stranger beyond café glimpses, but now—flustered, off-balance—she’s the last one you’d expect to sift through your fractured mind.

The wheel bites into your palms, city lights streaking past. You don’t want to unpack Chaeyoung’s words—or why Seoyeon’s quiet gaze in the mirror unsettles you so much.

Then— A sound. Soft, barely there. But in the thick silence, it cuts through like a blade. A… moan? Your grip tightens. Did you imagine that?

"You interrupted us earlier," Chaeyoung murmurs, voice slow, teasing. "He’s still probably hard from before. Don’t you think you owe him a show?”

You keep your eyes forward. You should keep them forward.

Another noise—fainter, but unmistakable—followed by the rustle of fabric, a shift of weight on leather. Your stomach twists, unease coiling tight. What the hell’s going on back there?

Chaeyoung’s voice breaks through, playful but laced with command. “See, Seoyeon’s brilliant with her spells, but there’s something she’s terrible at.”

You could look. One glance in the mirror would settle it. But with Chaeyoung, looking’s a trap—you know better. Still, your mind spins, torn between shutting it out and the nagging pull to understand. Is this her game again? Or is Seoyeon—? No. You kill the thought fast.

A soft, pleading whimper escapes Seoyeon. “Chaeyoung, please—” she mumbles, voice fragile, but Chaeyoung barrels over it.

“She can’t say no,” she teases, mischief dripping from every word. “Or rather, she’ll do anything but say it.” Another moan—clearer now—punctuates her taunt, leaving no room for doubt. “Such a sweet unnie, always so eager to please… or maybe you just love being used like this?”

Curiosity and dread tug your gaze to the rearview. The dim light barely outlines them, but it’s enough: Seoyeon pressed against Chaeyoung, her body yielding to soft, relentless touches. Chaeyoung’s fingers weave through her hair while another hand traces slow, teasing lines under her skirt. Seoyeon’s trembling grip clings to Chaeyoung’s arm, her gasps spilling out—small, desperate sounds of surrender.

“Mr. Driver, eyes on the road,” Chaeyoung chides, her tone sharp with glee. You snap your focus forward, heat prickling your neck, but the image sticks—burned into your mind.

“Sounds like someone’s enjoying herself,” she murmurs, voice curling with delight. “Seoyeon, why don’t you tell him? Describe every little thing I’m doing to you.”

Seoyeon’s breath hitches, her fingers digging into Chaeyoung’s arm. “Chaeyoung, I—” she stammers, voice a whisper, fraying at the edges.

Chaeyoung hums, feigning consideration, but her hands don’t stop. “What? Want me to stop?” A deliberate pause. “When you’re already this wet?”

Silence—thick, heavy. Then, soft and broken: “No… please don’t… I’ll do it.”

“Good girl,” Chaeyoung purrs, satisfaction dripping from the words.

The air turns stifling, filled with Seoyeon’s shaky breaths and Chaeyoung’s low murmurs. You grip the wheel tighter, fighting the urge to look, to let their game pull you in. The city lights streak by, blurred and distant, drowned out by the pounding in your chest.

Seoyeon’s voice trembles, halting. “I… I feel Chaeyoung’s fingers… sliding under my skirt… touching me…” Each word wavers, forced out between gasps. “She’s tracing circles… slow, then faster… it’s—ah—it’s tingling everywhere…”

Chaeyoung’s eyes flick to you in the mirror, a brief, wicked glint, before she leans closer to Seoyeon. “That’s it,” she coaxes, voice a velvet tease. “Let him hear every sound. Show him how irresistible you are.”

Seoyeon swallows, her breaths short and ragged. “Her fingers… they’re higher now… brushing—oh god—brushing my panties… they’re soaked… it’s too much…” Her voice climbs, desperate, unraveling.

You can’t see it, but you don’t need to—the picture paints itself: Seoyeon squirming, flushed and needy, Chaeyoung’s fingers working her into a frenzy. You force your focus on the road, but it’s useless—the sounds, the heat, the tension—they claw at you.

“Getting excited, Seoyeon?” Chaeyoung whispers, lips grazing her ear. “Does my touch make you all fluttery inside?”

A strangled moan is her only answer, nails biting into Chaeyoung’s arm.

“I think he needs to know,” Chaeyoung murmurs, fingers teasing the damp fabric. “How much you’re loving this. Tell him how wet I’m making you.”

Seoyeon whimpers, her body squirming against the seat. “I… I’m soaking,” she confesses, voice trembling, barely holding together. “Chaeyoung’s fingers… they’re making me drip… my panties are drenched… I want—ah—I want her inside…” Her words break into a fractured moan as Chaeyoung’s fingers slip beneath the damp fabric, stroking her slick, eager folds.

Chaeyoung chuckles, low and dark, her touch unrelenting. “You hear that?” she murmurs, voice a taunting caress. “She’s begging for it.” Her fingers plunge deeper, a slick, rhythmic sound filling the car as she works Seoyeon open, drawing out sharper gasps.

Your grip on the wheel tightens, sweat beading on your brow. You shouldn’t look—you can’t look—but the pull is too strong. Your eyes flick to the rearview, catching them in fragments: Chaeyoung’s hand buried between Seoyeon’s thighs, her fingers curling inside with a slow, deliberate thrust. Seoyeon’s head tips back, lips parted, her chest heaving as soft, needy cries spill out.

“Chaeyoung… please…” Seoyeon’s voice is a broken plea, her hips rocking into the touch, chasing it. Chaeyoung leans closer, her lips brushing Seoyeon’s ear, whispering something too low to catch—but it makes Seoyeon shudder, her nails scraping the leather.

The car feels smaller, the air thick and stifling. Chaeyoung’s fingers move faster, a wet, obscene rhythm that syncs with Seoyeon’s escalating moans. “You’re so close, aren’t you?” Chaeyoung purrs, her free hand sliding up to grip Seoyeon’s waist, holding her steady. “Let him hear how good it feels.”

Seoyeon’s response is a high, desperate whine, her body arching off the seat. You can’t tear your eyes away—her flushed cheeks, the way her thighs tremble, the glistening sheen on Chaeyoung’s fingers as they pump in and out. Your breath catches, pulse hammering, the road blurring at the edges of your vision.

She’s unraveling—fast. Chaeyoung adds another finger, stretching her, and Seoyeon’s cry spikes, raw and unrestrained. “Yes—oh god—Chaeyoung—” Her voice cracks, teetering on the edge, and you’re staring now, fully caught, the wheel forgotten as her climax builds.

“Come on, baby,” Chaeyoung coaxes, voice thick with satisfaction, her thumb flicking over Seoyeon’s clit. “Let go for me—for him.”

Seoyeon’s body tenses, a taut bowstring ready to snap. Her gasps turn sharp, frantic, her hands clawing at Chaeyoung’s arm. You’re locked on her—her glazed eyes, her shuddering frame—watching the wave crest, so close you can almost feel it.

Then—a horn blares, loud and jarring.

Your heart lurches as the car swerves, tires skidding over the line. You jerk the wheel hard, yanking it back into your lane, adrenaline spiking as the world snaps back into focus. Shit—too close. Your eyes snap forward, chest heaving, the climax slipping past you in the chaos.

You miss it—the peak.

But you hear it: Seoyeon’s sharp, broken cry, a sound of pure release that cuts through the roar in your ears. It’s followed by a trembling gasp, then a soft, shuddering exhale as she collapses against the seat. Chaeyoung’s low hum of approval weaves through the aftermath, her fingers slowing, guiding Seoyeon down from the high.

You don’t dare look again. The road demands your focus, but the echoes linger—Seoyeon’s ragged breathing, the faint slick sound as Chaeyoung withdraws her hand. Your knuckles ache from gripping the wheel, your shirt clinging to your back with sweat.

“Look at this mess,” Chaeyoung murmurs, her voice smug, lazy, dripping with triumph. “You really enjoy him hearing how perverted you are, don’t you?” She shifts, and in your peripheral, you catch her wiping her fingers on Seoyeon’s skirt—casual, possessive, like marking her territory.

“You do realize this is Saerom’s car, right?” Chaeyoung adds, a teasing lilt in her tone.

Seoyeon’s too spent to reply, her breath still unsteady, a faint whimper slipping out as she slumps against the seat, boneless and dazed.

Chaeyoung chuckles, low and indulgent, leaning closer to Seoyeon. “Oh, don’t even try to play shy now. You loved every second of him listening—didn’t you, unnie?”

Seoyeon’s lips part, a weak protest forming, but it dies in her throat, replaced by a shaky exhale. Her hands twitch in her lap, like she’s grasping for control she doesn’t have.

“You don’t have to say it,” Chaeyoung continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though loud enough for you to hear. “It’s obvious. You get off on this—being use freely. Anyone can have you, anytime, anywhere, and you just melt for it.”

Your grip tightens on the wheel, the words sinking in. Free use? Your mind stumbles over it, but Chaeyoung doesn’t pause, her tone turning instructional, like she’s savoring the explanation.

“See, that’s her thing,” she says, glancing at you through the rearview with a smirk. “Seoyeon’s too sweet to admit it, but she thrives on being taken—however, whenever. No boundaries, no fuss. Just… available.” She runs a finger along Seoyeon’s thigh, drawing a faint shiver. “Why do you think she didn’t say no back there? She can’t. It’s wired into her.”

Seoyeon’s breath hitches, her head dipping lower, but she doesn’t contradict it. Her silence is louder than words—agreement by default, too overwhelmed to argue.

“Chaeyoung…” Seoyeon mumbles, voice barely audible, a plea or a surrender—you can’t tell.

“What?” Chaeyoung cuts in, grinning. “You’re not denying it, are you? Look at you—still trembling, skirt a mess, all because I decided to play with you in front of him. You didn’t stop me. You wanted it.”

Seoyeon’s fingers curl into the leather, her face flushed, but no rebuttal comes. She’s trapped—caught between exhaustion and the truth Chaeyoung’s laying bare.

The GPS chimes, a soft ping slicing through the charged air, signaling the final turn. The road stretches toward a towering mansion, its dark silhouette carving into the night sky, stark and commanding.

“Great, we’re here,” Chaeyoung says, stretching with a lazy roll of her shoulders, as if this were just another casual drive. “Park by the gate.”

You guide the car to a stop, tires crunching faintly against gravel, your hands still clamped around the wheel. Your mind’s a snarl—reeling from the sounds, the heat, the scene that burned itself into your skull from the rearview.

Chaeyoung slips out first, the door shutting with a crisp thud, her movements fluid, unbothered. You don’t follow. Not yet. Your fingers flex, uncertain, rooted to the seat.

Your gaze flicks to the mirror.

Seoyeon’s still there, slumped against the leather, her chest rising and falling in slow, unsteady breaths. Her skirt’s rucked up, thighs parted just enough to betray the aftermath—tremors still rippling through her, faint and fading. Her eyes are half-lidded, lost in a dazed fog.

You should say something. Move. Anything.

But before you can unstuck yourself, a light tap-tap raps against your window. Chaeyoung leans down, her smirk glinting in the dim light, sharp and knowing.

“Just leave her for now,” she says, voice thick with amusement, like she’s commenting on a spilled drink instead of a trembling wreck. “She’ll be fine.”

The way she says it—casual, dismissive—makes your fingers twitch against the wheel, a spark of something hot and unnamable flaring in your chest.

You exhale, sharp through your nose, and glance back at the mirror.

Seoyeon hasn’t moved. Her breaths are shallow, her body limp, a quiet shadow of the poised girl you’d glimpsed before.

You don’t respond. The silence settles, thick and unresolved, as Chaeyoung straightens and saunters toward the gate, leaving you with the echo of her words and Seoyeon’s heavy stillness in the backseat.

You shove the car door open, stepping out fast, gravel crunching under your boots as you close the distance. Before she reaches the gate, you grab her arm, pulling her to a stop. “What was that about?”

Chaeyoung turns, smirking like she expected this. “What, the show?” She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “Just giving you a front-row seat to Seoyeon’s little quirk. She’s fine—better than fine. She loves it.”

Your grip tightens slightly, jaw clenching. “Loves it? She could barely speak back there.”

“Exactly,” Chaeyoung says, unfazed, twisting her arm free with a casual shrug. “That’s the point. She doesn’t fight it—never will. Free use isn’t just her kink; it’s her nature. You could take her right now, and she’d let you. Hell, she’d probably thank you.”

You stare, the words sinking in, a mix of unease and heat stirring in your chest. “And you’re just… okay with that?”

She laughs, sharp and low. “Okay? Sweetie, I’m telling you to use it. She’s your anchor duty too, you know—keeping us steady means keeping her satisfied. Plus…” Her smirk widens, eyes flicking over you. “Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy hearing her fall apart. Take advantage of it. For her. For you.”

You don’t answer, the weight of her suggestion pressing down, tempting and unsettling all at once. Chaeyoung steps back, grinning, then turns toward the gate, leaving you standing there—caught between her words and the quiet, trembling figure still in the car.

The gates slide open with a low hum, machinery purring softly into the still night. Beyond them, the mansion rises—a sleek, modern sculpture carved against the dark. Sharp angles and clean lines meld glass and concrete into something precise, deliberate. Warm light pours from vast windows, pooling onto the manicured garden and the smooth stone walkway that stretches toward the entrance.

It’s grand but restrained—wealth distilled into control, not extravagance. Every detail feels intentional, a quiet flex of power.

Your shoes crunch faintly on the path as you step forward, the sound crisp in the silence. Chaeyoung strides ahead, unbothered, stretching her arms overhead with a fluid, careless grace.

You glance back—just once—at the car, where Seoyeon lingers. Chaeyoung catches it, peering over her shoulder, her smirk deepening as she reads your pause.

“Relax,” she says, voice smooth, gliding over the tension like silk. “She’ll come in when she’s ready.”

The front doors part before you reach them—automated, or maybe someone’s watching. A rush of cool air greets you, crisp and faintly floral, laced with the scent of something expensive and understated.

You step inside, crossing the threshold into their world. “Might as well show you around,” Chaeyoung says, glancing back with a faint smirk. “Wouldn’t want you lost on your first night.”

The interior gleams—sharp, modern, all polished surfaces and muted tones. Chaeyoung takes the lead, her steps echoing faintly in the cavernous foyer as she gestures with a lazy flick of her wrist.

“We’re barely here,” she says, her tone laced with casual confidence. “Busy as hell—shoots, meetings, all that chaos. The place stays empty most of the time.” She shoots you a sidelong glance, smirk tugging at her lips. “Just us. No staff, no stragglers, no visitors. Keeps it clean—literally and figuratively.”

You follow, shoes tapping against hardwood, the silence amplifying each sound. She veers left toward a small hallway—her lobby. “This is me, Hayoung, and Jiwon,” she says, pointing to three doors clustered together, a sleek bathroom tucked at the end. “Our little corner. Hayoung’s … very territorial—don’t touch her stuff unless you want a lecture. Jiwon’s chill, but she’s hardly around.”

She doesn’t linger, heading up a cold, modern staircase—glass steps, steel railing. You climb behind her, the house’s quiet pressing in. At the top, a long hallway stretches out, doors like sentinels.

“Second floor,” she announces. “This is where you’ll be.” She nods toward a lobby with five rooms—Saerom, Jisun, Seoyeon, Nagyung, and yours—flanked by three bathrooms. “Seoyeon’s is closest to you—she likes her quiet.” She nudges a door open with her hip. “Here’s yours.”

You peer in—dark wood floors, a wide bed with crisp sheets, a desk angled toward a towering window framing the garden. Sparse, sharp-edged, waiting to be claimed.

“Not bad, huh?” Chaeyoung leans against the frame, watching you take it in. “Beats that cramped dorm by a mile.”

You nod faintly, the reality of moving in sinking deeper. She pushes off, strolling down the hall. “Saerom’s got the big office up here—barely uses it unless she’s playing boss. Jisun is a neat freak, don’t let her see any of your mess, Nagyung’s… Nagyung.”

She leads you back downstairs, drifting toward the kitchen—a pristine space with gleaming appliances and an untouched island. “Jisun rules this when she’s here,” she says lazily. “Hates us touching her stuff—knife-throwing threats included.” She pauses by a wall of windows overlooking the garden, night pressing dark against the glass.

The tour stretches—past a living area with a plush sectional and stark art, a sleek bar counter, a lounge with low couches and a massive TV, a small gym with mirrored walls, a tucked-away balcony catching the city’s distant glow. “We don’t use half this stuff,” she admits, shrugging. “Too busy. Keeps it nice for crashing, though.”

She veers toward another small hallway on the first floor, two rooms facing a glass wall to the garden. “Gyuri and Jiheon’s lobby,” she says, pointing. “Gyuri’s closer, Jiheon’s farther.”

You stop, staring at Jiheon’s door. A storm churns in your chest—anger, disappointment, longing, hate, forgiveness, disgust, a twisted ache you can’t name. It’s heavy, bitter, and you don’t know what to do with it.

Chaeyoung leans close, her whisper brushing your ear, breaking the spiral. “Wanna knock?”

“No.”

She smirks faintly but doesn’t push, guiding you back toward the second floor. “Let’s check on our little star—give her time to pull herself together.” Her voice dips with that familiar tease.

When you first saw Seoyeon’s room—just down from yours—it felt normal. Quiet, orderly, a haven of books and lavender. But now, as you return, your steps drag, each one heavier than the last, like the air’s thickened, resisting you. Chaeyoung doesn’t knock—just eases the door open and steps inside, claiming the space.

Seoyeon’s there, perched on her bed, changed into an oversized long-sleeved shirt, the hem brushing her thighs. Her hair’s loose, faintly tousled, a soft flush still on her cheeks. She glances up as you enter, eyes widening briefly before dropping to her lap, fingers twisting into her cuffs.

You pause, the shift in the room undeniable—something sluggish, unseen, pressing down. But Chaeyoung just smirks, oblivious or unconcerned, and you let it pass, chalking it up to the day’s weight.

Seoyeon’s there, sitting on the edge of her bed. She’s changed—swapped the creased skirt for an oversized long-sleeved shirt that drowns her frame, the hem brushing her thighs. Her hair’s loose, still slightly tousled, and the flush on her cheeks has faded to a soft glow. She glances up as you enter, eyes widening for a split second before dropping to her lap, fingers fidgeting with the shirt’s cuffs.

Chaeyoung crosses her arms, smirking. “Look at you, all cozy now. Took you long enough.”

Seoyeon mumbles something under her breath, too quiet to catch, her posture stiff but not defiant. The room fits her—bookshelves packed tight, a cluttered desk with notebooks and pens, a faint lavender scent softening the air. It’s a refuge, even if she doesn’t look entirely at ease in it now.

Chaeyoung tilts her head toward you. “Told you she’d be fine. Didn’t even need a nudge to freshen up.”

You don’t reply, the air between you three thick with unspoken currents—Chaeyoung’s easy control, Seoyeon’s fragile calm, and your own unsettled place in this strange, polished world.

Chaeyoung glances at the sleek clock on Seoyeon’s wall, then back at you, a glint sparking in her eyes. “Still got a couple hours ‘til dinner. Plenty of time for you two to get started.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Started on what?”

“Healing that mess in your head,” she says, smirking as she nods toward Seoyeon. “She’s your little mind-fixer, remember? Might as well dive in now.”

Something nags at the back of your mind. A small, quiet wrongness.

Your gaze flickers to the clock.

The sleek, minimalist hands tick forward, smooth and unhurried. But something feels off. It takes a second to register—the movement isn’t quite… right. The rhythm is steady, but it doesn’t match the weight of the moment, doesn’t line up with the pulse in your veins, the breaths in your lungs.

Seoyeon shifts on the bed, smoothing the oversized long-sleeved shirt over her thighs, her composure steadier now—a stark contrast to the trembling wreck in the car. She doesn’t protest, just nods faintly.

You glance at the time again.

Something feels… off.

The second hand moves, but sluggishly, dragging itself forward in a way that doesn’t match the quiet tension in the room. The tick, usually sharp and precise, stretches—each second stretching just a little longer than it should.

The time is wrong. Not in numbers, but in weight.

Or maybe not. Maybe you’re imagining it. Maybe your mind is more broken than you thought.

“Fine,” you mutter, the weight of it settling in. You’re here, in their world—might as well see what this ‘healing’ actually means.

Chaeyoung steps back, leaning against the doorframe, her smirk widening as she eyes you both. “Perfect. A cozy little session. Just don’t get too distracted, hmm?” She tilts her head toward Seoyeon, voice dipping low and teasing. “Our sweet unnie’s still got that free-use itch, you know. Might be hard to focus when she’s so… available.”

Seoyeon’s cheeks flush faintly, but she doesn’t flinch this time. Her gaze lifts, meeting Chaeyoung’s with a quiet steadiness. “If he needs my help,” she says, voice soft but deliberate, “I’m here.” It’s passive, almost detached—yet the way her eyes flicker to you for a split second carries an anticipating leer, unspoken but undeniable.

Chaeyoung’s grin sharpens, delighted. “See? Always so willing.” She lets out a bright, cutting laugh, pushing off the frame. “You two have fun—I’ll leave you to it.”

With that, she slips out, the door clicking shut behind her, her laughter echoing faintly down the hall.

You’re left alone with Seoyeon, the air in her room thickening—lavender and paper mingling with the weight of her words. She sits there, composed but not entirely closed off, watching you with a quiet intensity that makes your pulse tick faster.

“So,” you say, voice rougher than intended, breaking the quiet. “How does this… healing thing work?”

Seoyeon pats the space beside her, a silent invitation. You don’t move right away, and she shifts, the oversized sleeve slipping past her wrist as she gestures again—patient, expectant, a quiet pull in her motion.

“Come here,” she says, soft but certain. “Lay down.”

You hesitate.

She doesn’t repeat herself, just waits, her gaze steady, unwavering. There’s no push, no command—just a calm assurance, like she knows you’ll come to her.

And somehow, you do.

You ease onto the bed, head settling into the pillow she nudges against her lap. The fabric of her shirt drapes over you, soft and warm, brushing your skin like a whispered promise. Her heat radiates through, steadying you in a way that catches you off guard.

Then she moves.

Her fingertips graze your temple, light as a feather, tracing slow, wandering patterns. Each touch is deliberate, tender—like she’s unraveling you, thread by thread, feeling the knots of tension still coiled beneath your surface.

Your eyes lift to hers.

Her gaze catches you, and something shifts. At first, her eyes are shadowed pools—deep, unreadable—but then they bloom. Color seeps away, melting into a grey that’s alive, liquid silver threaded with dusk, like the tender hush of twilight spilling over a still lake. It’s not stark or cold; it’s a soft veil, a mist kissed by starlight, drawing you into its quiet embrace. Her eyes shimmer with a gentle depth, as if they hold the weight of a thousand unspoken dreams, tender and infinite.

The air thickens—light, hazy, blurring the edges of the world until it’s just you and her in this fragile, suspended moment.

A grey fog unfurls at the corners of your vision, curling like tendrils of smoke. You don’t flinch.

Seoyeon doesn’t blink. “It’s okay,” she murmurs, her fingers still dancing, still grounding. “Just breathe.”

You do.

The pressure against your ribs softens—just a fraction.

“Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Her voice weaves through the haze, a guiding thread—gentle, not pressing, simply offering a space for you to fill.

You swallow. “Too much.”

She hums, a low, knowing sound that resonates in your chest. “Then start small.”

Her fingers press faintly, a quiet nudge, her warmth sinking deeper—sliding into fractures you didn’t know you’d left open.

Your lips part before you mean them to.

And slowly, as the grey haze wraps tighter, pulling you into its tender depths, the words begin to spill out.

You wake to silence.

The room’s dimmer now—not dark, but the warm gold of before has dulled into something softer, hazier, less defined. Your head rests in Seoyeon’s lap, her hand lying still against your hair, a faint warmth lingering in her touch.

You blink, sluggish, piecing together the gap. How long were you out? Something’s… off. Not wrong—just unmoored. Like waking from a dream where the edges don’t align, the fragments slipping through your fingers.

Your eyes drift to the clock on the wall, its sleek hands stark against the muted backdrop. You frown.

The seconds tick—or don’t. The motion’s too slow, a crawl that drags against the rhythm of time, you know. Did it move at all? Or is your mind lagging, stretching moments into something they’re not?

You must’ve been under longer than it felt. That’s it—right?

Your body’s heavy, limbs thick and reluctant, as if they’re wading through molasses. A fog clings to you—not exhaustion, not the ache of sleeplessness, but something stranger, weightless yet suffocating. A spell’s aftereffect, you tell yourself. Just the residue of whatever she did to pull you under, clouding your edges.

Seoyeon shifts beneath you, a faint rustle breaking the stillness. “You’re awake,” she whispers, voice so soft it barely stirs the air.

You swallow, throat dry. “Yeah.”

She studies you, her gaze searching—probing—for something you can’t name. Her fingers lift, returning to your temple, pressing lightly, delicately, like she’s testing a pulse beneath your skin.

You should ask. Should question the sluggish air, the way time feels like it’s pooling instead of flowing. But the words stick, caught in the haze.

Her head tilts, and those eyes—still a quiet, misted grey, like twilight caught in glass—hold you. They shimmer faintly, a silvered depth that seems to stretch too far, too still. “How do you feel?” she asks, voice threading through the fog, gentle but heavy with something unspoken.

You hesitate.

The question lingers, and you realize the room feels softer—too soft. The light bends at odd angles, the shadows too lazy to sharpen. Your thoughts drift, sluggish, curling inward like smoke you can’t grasp. It’s the spell, you think—it has to be. The aftermath of her magic left you dazed and untethered.

But beneath that reasoning, something prickles—a flicker of doubt, a whisper that this isn’t just residue. That the world itself is slowing, sinking, and she’s at the center of it.

You don’t voice it. Can’t.

You shift, pushing yourself upright. The weight lingers, but the room snaps into focus—too quick, too vivid, like a reel jerked back into alignment. For a moment, the air still hums thick, heavy with the promise of something unravelling—but then it steadies, settling into a fragile normalcy.

Seoyeon’s hand hovers near you, hesitating before pulling back. The grey in her eyes lightens, the quiet storm fading into something softer, more contained.

“Ri—right, it’s the first treatment,” she says, voice gentler, a little unsteady. “That was the first time… I’m sorry I couldn’t heal you fully.”

You shake your head, the spell’s residue still fogging your edges. “No, it’s okay. I knew it wouldn’t be instant. But I feel better now.”

And for a fleeting second, you believe it.

Until it strikes.

A flash—too fast, too brutal. Jiheon’s face, warped and sharp, tears streaking her cheeks. Not a memory—a violation, shoved into your skull with searing force. Pain blooms, white-hot, and you clutch your head, breath catching as it digs deeper.

Seoyeon’s eyes widen, concern flashing as she leans in. “Are you okay?” Her fingers graze your wrist, steady and warm. “Tell me—ask if you need anything.”

You force a sharp exhale, the image of Jiheon flickering, unstable, like a signal breaking up. “Actually, there’s something I need your help with.”

She freezes. Then—“Oh—oh…” Her voice lifts, a spark igniting in her tone. Her hand slides from your wrist to your thigh, fingers curling tight, gripping with sudden, eager intent. Her other hand follows, rubbing slow, firm circles higher up your leg, her touch bold and warm through the fabric. Her lips part, breath quickening, eyes glinting with something hungry as they dart to your mouth. “Then… tell me what you need.”

The air charges, her excitement pulsing through her grip, her body shifting closer—too close—her oversized shirt brushing your arm.

You blink, the misunderstanding hitting you late, electric and awkward. “I keep hearing ‘The Mist.’ What is it?”

Her hands stop dead.

“What…?” The word hangs, her eyes widening as the spark snuffs out. Color floods her cheeks, a flush of mortification chasing away the eagerness. She pulls back fast, hands retreating to her lap, pressing her lips tight like she could swallow the moment whole.

“The—The Mist…” she echoes, voice leveling as she forces herself steady.

A breath—shaky, then firm. She exhales, recalibrating, the blush still lingering as she meets your gaze again.

“Think of it as a literal mist or fog,” she begins, voice smoothing into something measured, deliberate. She glances toward the window, eyes tracing the faint glow of the outside lamps before flicking back to you. “Let’s say this morning, Gyuri blew up your door. Shook the entire building. A full-force explosion—undeniably real.”

Her fingers twitch against the fabric of her oversized sleeve. “But what if that wasn’t what really happened?”

Your brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“You saw it with your own eyes, right? But to outsiders? To anyone not meant to understand?” She tilts her head. “The Mist works on their perception. To them, it wouldn’t have been a single woman causing destruction. It would’ve looked like a gas leak. A structural fault. Something explainable—because that’s easier. That’s normal.”

The weight of her words sinks in, slow and unsettling.

“Or…” she hesitates, then leans in slightly. “Have you ever walked into a room and forgotten why you were there? Sworn something was different, but you couldn’t place what?”

She taps a finger against her temple. “That’s The Mist, too. It doesn’t erase things, not exactly—it redirects your thoughts. A missing object, a changed detail, a person who was never supposed to exist…”

Your mind flashes back. “That night at the café—when we first met. It felt wrong going back. Like something had shifted.” Your voice is careful. “Did you use The Mist then?”

She nods. “The Mist doesn’t just hide things. It bends perception, guides thoughts. It makes the impossible seem ordinary, the unnatural seem mundane.”

Her gaze holds yours, steady and unreadable. “It doesn’t just mask the truth.” A pause, the air thick between you. “It replaces it.”

"So you created The Mist?"

Seoyeon shakes her head. "No. It’s always been there—thin, spread out, almost insignificant. What we do is draw from it, shape it, use it as a tool. It helps us hide, keeps us at a distance… while letting us live normally."

Before you can respond, the door swings open.

Chaeyoung steps inside, scanning the room—first you, then Seoyeon. Her wound by her cheek, marks on her neck now gone, as if it never happened. Something flickers across her face, a mix of surprise and… disappointment?

"I leave you two alone, and you did nothing?" she asks, voice lilting with amusement, but her gaze isn’t on you. It’s fixed on Seoyeon.

A beat of silence.

"I hope you know what you’re doing," she murmurs, unreadable.

Then, without waiting for a reply, she turns on her heel. "Come on. Let’s eat."

The dining room hums with a lived-in warmth—familiarity etched into the clink of plates and the quiet rhythm of routine. Gyuri and Hayoung move with seamless precision, setting bowls and dishes across the table, a dance they’ve done countless times. You follow Seoyeon and Chaeyoung to your seats, easing into the house’s unspoken flow.

Gyuri keeps her focus on the task, her movements precise, not sparing you a glance. Hayoung’s eyes snag yours—sharp, fleeting—and without thinking, you start, “I’m—”

“I know who you are,” she snaps, voice cutting like a blade, venom simmering beneath. Her hand hovers over a glass, fingers tightening for a split second before she turns away, dismissing you.

You pause, then press on, undeterred. “—a big fan of yours.”

The words land softer, earnest, and Hayoung freezes mid-motion. Her head snaps back to you, eyes widening just enough to betray her surprise. The sharpness in her stance falters—her grip on the glass loosens, and a faint flush creeps up her neck. She blinks, caught off guard, the bite in her fading as something shy flickers across her face.

She doesn’t respond right away, her lips parting then pressing shut, like she’s unsure what to do with the compliment. The hostility doesn’t vanish entirely, but it’s tempered now, her gaze darting away as she fumbles with the glass, suddenly less certain.

You settle in, the air prickling faintly as the first dish remains untouched. “What about the others?” you ask, glancing around.

Chaeyoung, already pouring herself a drink, answers with a lazy drawl. “Saerom and Jiwon are tied up with work—won’t be back tonight. Jisun’s with Jiheon, eating in her room.”

Jiheon. The name drops like a stone in your chest, dragging up jagged, counterfeit memories—her tears, her touch, a love that never was. Your head throbs, the falseness of it clawing at you, and you force a nod, swallowing the ache.

Something’s missing, though. A gap in the tally nags at you—until the chair at the table’s far end scrapes lightly against the floor.

Nagyung sits.

No one reacts.

It’s not deliberate—no one looks her way, no one adjusts to include her. It’s as if she’d been there all along, or never there at all. Gyuri keeps arranging dishes, Hayoung pours water with a taut grip, Chaeyoung sips her drink. Seoyeon doesn’t flinch.

But you see her.

“Hey.”

The word lands like a glass shattering on tile.

Gyuri freezes mid-reach, her arm suspended. Hayoung’s glass clinks hard against the table, her jaw tightening as her eyes flick to you, narrow and edged with something bitter. Chaeyoung leans forward, smirk blooming with intrigue. Seoyeon’s gaze widens, a quiet shock rippling through her composure.

Nagyung tilts her head—just a fraction—brown eyes locking onto yours, flat and unreadable, like a still pond undisturbed by wind.

“What?” You glance around, unease prickling. “Did I say something weird?”

Chaeyoung’s chuckle cuts the silence, her fingers tapping a slow, amused beat on the table. “Not weird. Just… unexpected.”

Hayoung exhales sharply through her nose, a sound laced with irritation. “We’re not used to someone noticing her first,” she says, her tone cold, barbed. Her gaze lingers on you, heavy with something unspoken, festering under the surface.

Your brows knit. “Noticing—?”

Then it clicks.

The vague itch when you’d asked about the others, the way her entrance slipped past everyone like a shadow dissolving into dusk. She’s not just quiet—she’s apathy, a presence that erases itself, deliberately unseen.

And you broke that.

A faint spark—curiosity, perhaps—flickers in Nagyung’s eyes before she speaks, her voice smooth, detached, like it’s drifting from somewhere far off. “You see me.”

Not a question. A quiet acknowledgment, testing the air.

You hold her stare. “Yeah.”

The silence stretches, too long, too still. Then, without a ripple of reaction, Nagyung picks up her chopsticks and starts eating, as if the exchange never happened.

The clink of chopsticks against porcelain punctuates the quiet after Chaeyoung’s offhand comment.

“Oh right, we haven’t told Jiheon you’ll be living here from now on.”

Your chopsticks freeze above your plate, mid-reach.

“I—”

You don’t get further—if you even meant to argue—because Hayoung chokes across the table. A harsh, ragged cough erupts, her hand fumbling for water. The sound jars the room, but no one flinches. No one moves to help. It’s as if they’re used to her unraveling like this.

You exhale, leaning back, letting your chopsticks settle. “I don’t care.”

You do. Too much.

Hayoung wipes her mouth with a napkin, her gaze snapping to you—razor-sharp, venom simmering. “Of course you don’t.”

The hostility isn’t veiled anymore—it’s a blade, honed and pointed.

You don’t bite back. There’s no point.

But you notice.

Each time your chopsticks hover toward a dish—steamed greens, grilled fish, even the plain rice—Hayoung’s move first. Her motions are swift, precise, cutting you off before you can touch anything. Once might be chance. Twice, impatience. By the third, fourth, it’s a game—a quiet, spiteful claim over every bite, every inch of space you try to take.

You let her have it.

The tension coils tighter, a bowstring pulled taut, thrumming between you. It’s suffocating, unspoken—until Gyuri’s voice slices through.

“I’m leaving first.”

You turn, really seeing her for the first time tonight.

Her eyes catch yours, and for a brief, electric moment, she holds the stare. There’s something there—raw, flickering beneath the polished mask she wears so effortlessly. A storm brews behind her calm, a heat she’s wrestling to bury. Wrath, barely leashed, glints in the tightness of her jaw, the way her fingers flex against the table’s edge.

Then she forces a smile.

It’s thin, brittle—never touching her eyes.

And just like that, she’s gone, chair scraping faintly as she slips away, leaving the air heavier than before.

Dinner winds down, the clatter of dishes fading into a quiet hum. The table’s a battlefield of half-empty bowls and scattered chopsticks, the tension from earlier simmering beneath the surface. You push your chair back, the scrape soft against the hardwood, as the others begin to drift away.

Seoyeon rises without a word, her oversized shirt swaying as she heads straight for her room, steps muted and purposeful. Nagyung’s chair sits empty—you didn’t catch when she left, her absence slipping past like a shadow dissolving into the dark. Chaeyoung lingers, smirking faintly as she watches you, already poised to follow.

Hayoung stays behind, stacking plates with sharp, deliberate movements. Her jaw’s tight, her earlier hostility still clinging to her like a second skin. You hesitate, then step toward her, voice low. “Need a hand?”

She freezes, a bowl half-lifted, her eyes snapping to you—wide, caught off guard. The sharpness in her gaze falters, softening just a fraction, as if your offer punched a hole through her armor. “What?” Her tone’s still edged, but there’s a crack in it—surprise, maybe doubt.

“I can help clean up,” you say, reaching for a stack of dishes. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

For a moment, she doesn’t move, just stares, her grip on the bowl tightening then loosening. The hostility doesn’t vanish, but it dulls—her shoulders easing, her lips pressing into a thin line instead of a scowl. “Fine,” she mutters, turning back to the table, but there’s less bite in it now. A flicker of something—grudging respect, maybe—hints at her guard slipping, your thoughtfulness cutting through her resentment.

You work in silence, clearing plates, brushing past her as she rinses. She doesn’t snap again, doesn’t block you out. It’s not peace, but it’s a truce, fragile and unspoken.

When the last dish is stacked, you turn to leave—and Chaeyoung’s right there, leaning by the stairs , arms crossed, grinning like she’s been waiting. “Aw, look at you, playing nice,” she teases, voice lilting as she falls into step beside you.

You don’t reply, heading for your room, but she follows, undeterred, her presence a persistent hum at your side. Nagyung’s gone—slipped away sometime between bites, unnoticed again—and Seoyeon’s door is already shut when you pass it.

Chaeyoung trails you into your room, flopping onto the bed without invitation, stretching out with a lazy smirk. “So, hero of the night—how’s it feel to crack Hayoung’s shell a little?”

You shrug, the day’s weight sinking into your bones, but her eyes gleam—teasing, daring you to snap back. She’s not going anywhere soon.

You sink onto the unfamiliar bed beside her, the mattress yielding softly beneath you. Turning to Chaeyoung, you let the question drop.

“Hey. What was up with Gyuri earlier?”

She exhales, shifting to lean on one elbow, fingers slipping into your hair, twirling idly. “It’s expected.” Her tone’s light, but there’s a knowing edge lurking underneath.

“Expected?”

“No one told you, huh?” She tilts her head, eyes glinting as her fingers keep playing. “Using our powers nudges us closer to the edge. The more control slips, the less we fight it—a spiral. Gyuri trashing your dorm? That cost her. She’s wrestling it down now.”

You catch her wrist, pulling her hand away. “Then why keep using them?”

She slides her fingers right back, undeterred, smirking faintly. “If you had our gifts, could you really hold back?”

“If it risks my mind, yeah.”

“It’s not madness, exactly.” She tilts her head, considering. “Think of it like drinking. One glass—you’re fine. Two—you feel it, but you’re still sharp. Keep going, and suddenly you’re slurring, drunk on power. Literal power.” She pauses, voice dipping lower. "But we have to. Our powers help us cope with responsibility, make life manageable. So we focus as much as we can on controlling our emotions… ideally.”

“Like The Mist?”

She nods, a flicker of approval in her gaze. “Yeah. Seoyeon told you?” Then, after a beat, “It’s not usually that taxing, though.”

You wait. She’s not done.

“The bigger the cover-up, the more we lean on it, the worse the strain gets. And if someone breaks through?” Her exhale’s sharp, almost a scoff. “Keeping it steady turns into a fight.” She shifts, sitting up straighter, her fingers stilling briefly. “That night at the café, when you cut through The Mist? Seoyeon was holding it. She called it practice—said she’d make sure it never happened again. Since then, she’s been the one volunteering to manage it.”

Her voice drops, tinged with something rare—concern, maybe. “Your seclusion. The dorm explosion. She was probably weaving it together right up until this afternoon. And now?”

Her hand pauses, resting against your scalp, her eyes locking onto yours.

“Now she’s the one piecing your head back together.”

You’re lost in the thought, the weight of it pulling you under—so much so that you don’t notice how close Chaeyoung’s gotten. Her leg’s tangled with yours, her breath warm against your ear, her palm pressing firm on your chest, anchoring you there.

“You’ve yet to explain why you followed me here,” you say, voice low, catching up to her proximity.

“I think you already know why,” she murmurs, her lips brushing your ear, a smirk curling through her words.

“Really, now?” You shift slightly, exhaustion dragging at you. “Chaeyoung, I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

“Is that a no?” Her finger traces a slow, deliberate dance across your chest, then dips lower, her hand sliding to your pants, rubbing your crotch with a teasing pressure that sends a jolt through you.

Her touch lingers, bold and unyielding, her breath steady against your skin as she waits—daring you to push back or give in.

“You really need to stop pretending you don’t love this,” she murmurs, leaning close, her whisper a warm tease in your ear. “I’ll be gentle. Just lie back for me—I’ll make it quick.”

You shift, dragging yourself to the bed’s center, head sinking into the pillow. Chaeyoung stays glued to your side, her leg still brushing yours, her presence inescapable.

“Were you disappointed we got interrupted earlier?”

Before you can answer, she closes the gap, her lips catching yours in a soft, deliberate kiss. She pulls back just enough to flash a smile—teasing, knowing.

“Nothing wild,” she promises, voice low and sultry. “Just one slow fuck…” Her hand moves deftly, unbuckling your belt with a flick, your cock springing free as she grips it, stroking gently, her touch firm but unhurried.

She chuckles, a soft, wicked sound, watching you squirm under her. Leaning in, she pecks your lips—a tease—then lingers, her eyes flicking over your face, drinking in every twitch of pleasure. Her next kiss dives deeper, her tongue slipping past your lips, tangling with yours in a slow, hungry dance.

She tries to pull away, but you’re caught, chasing her lips, entranced, until air runs thin and you both break, breathless.

Her smile doesn’t falter. “Stay,” she commands, voice firm, playful.

She eases back, turning it into a show. Her top peels off slow, revealing smooth skin, then her bra drops, baring her chest. Her pants follow, sliding down her thighs, and when her panties come into view, the damp fabric clings, a dark spot betraying her arousal. She tugs them off, and a glistening thread stretches, refusing to snap, connecting her to the discarded cloth.

“Fuck, Chaeyoung, you’re already wet?”

“Just for you,” she purrs, her eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and hunger. “Always.”

Chaeyoung shifts, climbing atop you with a fluid grace, her hips hovering just above yours. She straddles you, knees pressing into the mattress on either side, caging your body between her legs. Her heat radiates, close but not yet touching, a tantalizing promise hanging in the air. “I can’t wait,” she breathes, voice low, edged with need.

She lowers herself slowly, deliberately, her slick folds brushing against your length. The first contact is electric—warm, wet, a soft glide that coats you in her arousal. She starts to grind, hips rolling with a lazy rhythm, her wetness spreading over you, slick and hot, marking you with every subtle shift. Her breath hitches faintly, a sound that betrays her own want despite the control she wields.

Each motion teases you further, her folds sliding along your cock, dragging from base to tip in a slow, torturous dance. She moves too far sometimes—deliberately or not—and your tip presses against her entrance, nudging just at the edge of her hole. It’s fleeting, a tease of pressure, her warmth pulsing there, inviting but never quite yielding. She pulls back each time, smirking as your hips twitch instinctively, chasing her.

“Fuck,” you mutter, voice rough, the sensation overwhelming—her slickness, the friction, the nearness of sinking into her.

She chuckles, soft and wicked, leaning forward to brace her hands on your chest, her hair spilling over her shoulders to frame her face. “Patience,” she whispers, though her own breath trembles, betraying the effort it takes to hold back. Her hips tilt, adjusting the angle, and the pressure intensifies—your tip catches again, slipping just past her entrance, enough to feel her clench, tight and eager, before she retreats once more.

Her wetness pools, a glossy sheen coating you both now, strands of it stretching between you with each grind, glistening in the dim light. She rocks harder, just a fraction, letting your length slide through her folds, her clit brushing against you with every pass. A low moan slips from her lips, unbidden, and her eyes flutter, but that smirk stays—teasing, daring you to take more.

“You feel that?” she murmurs, voice husky, grinding slower now, savoring it. “That’s all for you.” Her hips circle, dragging you through her heat, your tip nudging her hole again—closer this time, lingering longer, her body trembling as she fights the urge to give in fully.

Your hands grip her thighs, fingers digging into her skin, torn between pulling her down and letting her play this out. The tension’s a live wire, snapping between you, her control fraying at the edges as her own need seeps through.

Her hips circle, dragging you through her slick heat, your tip brushing her entrance again—closer, lingering, her body quivering as she teases the edge of giving in. Your hands tighten on her thighs, fingers sinking into her flesh, caught between restraint and the urge to pull her down.

Chaeyoung catches it—the tension in your grip, the way your breath hitches—and her smirk widens, eyes glinting with wicked delight. “Oh, you’re desperate for it, aren’t you?” she taunts, voice a low purr as she slows her grind even more, torturing you with the barest contact. She shifts, letting your tip press harder against her hole—just enough to feel her tighten around it, a fleeting promise—before lifting away again.

“Chaeyoung—” Your voice cracks, rough with need, the word half a plea, half a growl.

She laughs, soft and cruel, leaning forward until her lips hover near yours, her hair tickling your face. “What? Too much for you?” Her hips tilt, and your cock slides through her folds again, coated anew in her dripping arousal. She rocks once, twice, letting your tip dip just inside—warm, tight, a maddening taste of what’s coming—then pulls back with a sly hum. “Thought you were tired,” she mocks, echoing your earlier protest, her fingers trailing up your chest to pin you with her gaze.

You groan, head sinking deeper into the pillow, hips twitching up instinctively. “Fuck, Chaeyoung, just—”

“Just what?” she cuts in, grinning as she straightens, hovering above you again. Her wetness glistens, strands of it clinging to your length, and she drags her nails lightly down your stomach, watching you squirm. “Say it. Tell me how bad you want it.”

You grit your teeth, the frustration boiling over, but her eyes dare you—playful, unrelenting. “I want you,” you mutter, voice strained, giving her the win.

Her smile turns triumphant, and she finally relents. “Good boy,” she purrs, shifting her hips with agonizing slowness. She aligns you, your tip pressing fully against her entrance now, and pauses—drawing it out one last time, letting you feel her heat, her pulse—before sinking down.

The first inch is torture—tight, wet, her walls gripping you as she takes you in, slow and deliberate. She gasps softly, a rare crack in her control, but keeps going, lowering herself until you’re buried deep, her hips flush against yours. Her warmth envelopes you, pulsing, overwhelming, and she stills there, savoring it, letting you feel every shudder of her body adjusting to you.

“Fuck,” she breathes, a quiet, unguarded sound, her head tilting back as she settles. Her hands brace on your chest, nails digging in just enough to sting, and that smirk creeps back.

Chaeyoung’s hips settle against yours, her warmth gripping you tight, a pulse of heat that steals your breath. She lingers there, savoring the fullness, her nails biting into your chest as she flashes that triumphant smirk. “Told you I’d be gentle,” she murmurs, voice husky with a teasing edge.

Then she moves.

Her first roll is slow, deliberate—a long, languid grind that drags her walls along your length, coating you further in her slick heat. You groan, hands sliding up her thighs to grip her hips, but she swats them away with a playful tsk. “Nuh-uh,” she chides, pinning your wrists above your head. “Let me play.”

She picks up the pace, hips snapping faster, the rhythm sharp and relentless. Her breaths turn shallow, punctuated by soft moans as she rides you, her wetness soaking you with every thrust. The bed creaks faintly beneath her, her control absolute—until she shifts.

She slows abruptly, leaning down, her lips brushing yours in a warm, tender kiss. It’s soft at first, a contrast to the fire she’d stoked, her tongue slipping in to dance with yours, lazy and deep. “You feel so good,” she whispers against your mouth, her tone shedding its tease for something sweeter, her hands loosening on your wrists to cradle your face.

Before you can sink into it, she pulls back, sitting upright again. Her pace ramps up—harder, faster, her hips slamming down with a wet smack that fills the room. She tosses her head back, a low groan spilling out as she chases the edge, her breasts bouncing with each thrust. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” she pants, the affection threading through her voice now, raw and unguarded.

Your hands find her waist again—this time she lets them stay, her own fingers digging into your shoulders for leverage. The heat builds, her movements growing erratic, her walls clenching tighter around you. She leans down once more, kissing you fiercely, all warmth and want, her lips trembling against yours. “Stay with me,” she breathes, a soft plea wrapped in adoration, her teasing gone, replaced by something deeper.

Her rhythm stutters, hips grinding slower now, deeper, as she presses herself flush against you. Each roll is deliberate, drawing out the friction, her moans softening into whimpers. She kisses you again—gentle, lingering—her tongue tracing yours as her body tenses. “I’m yours,” she murmurs, voice breaking with affection, her breath hitching.

Then it hits.

Her hips falter, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat as her climax crashes through her. Her walls pulse hard around you, tight and hot, her body shuddering as she rides it out, grinding slow and deep to milk every wave. She leans into you, forehead pressing against yours, her kisses turning sloppy, warm, her arms wrapping around your neck as she trembles. “Fuck, I—” she starts, but the words dissolve into a soft, breathless moan, her affection spilling out in the afterglow.

Chaeyoung collapses against you, her body still trembling, her breath hot and ragged against your skin. You’re still hard inside her, the heat of her pulsing walls a lingering ache, and she notices—her hips shifting slightly, a soft hum escaping her lips as she feels you.

“You’re not done, are you?” she murmurs, voice soft but laced with a knowing warmth. She doesn’t wait for an answer, sliding off you with a slow, deliberate drag, her slickness trailing as she pulls away. The sudden emptiness makes you groan, but before you can protest, she’s moving—slipping down between your legs, settling there with a glint in her eye.

Her hand wraps around your base, slick with her arousal and yours, stroking once, twice, before she leans in. Her lips brush your tip, teasing, then part to take you in—slowly, her tongue swirling around the head, tasting herself on you. “Can’t leave you like this,” she whispers, breath ghosting over you, sending a shiver up your spine.

She sinks deeper, her mouth warm and tight, sucking with a steady, gentle rhythm. Her cheeks hollow as she works, tongue flicking along the underside, drawing low, guttural sounds from your chest. Your hands fist the sheets, hips twitching up instinctively, but she presses a palm to your thigh—firm, grounding—keeping you still as she takes control.

Her pace quickens slightly, lips sliding down further, taking you to the back of her throat with a soft, muffled moan that vibrates through you. She’s relentless but tender, her eyes flicking up to meet yours, watching your every reaction—your strained breaths, the way your jaw tightens as the pleasure builds too fast.

It doesn’t take long. The heat coils tight, a molten knot deep in your core, her steady suction dragging you relentlessly toward the brink. Her mouth’s a furnace—hot, wet, unyielding—each pull sending jolts up your spine, each swirl of her tongue a spark that ignites the fuse. Your breath turns ragged, chest heaving as the pressure builds, teetering on unbearable.

Then she hits it—her tongue curls just right, a deft, wicked flick against the sensitive head, and you shatter. “Chaeyoung—” Her name rips from your throat, a broken, guttural cry as the climax slams into you, white-hot and blinding. Your hips buck hard, thrusting deeper into her mouth, and she takes it all—lips locked tight, throat flexing as you spill into her in thick, pulsing waves. The pleasure’s savage, shredding through you, every nerve alight as she keeps sucking, drawing out every last shudder, swallowing every drop with a soft, triumphant hum that vibrates through your core.

Your vision blurs, head slamming back against the pillow, a raw groan tearing free as she milks you dry, her tongue still teasing, prolonging the aftershocks until you’re trembling, spent, and gasping for air.

She doesn’t stop there—her lips stay on you, softer now, cleaning you off with slow, deliberate licks, her tongue tracing every inch until you’re spent and twitching from the sensitivity. You both feel it—the pull for more, the raw want still simmering—but she pulls back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

“Keeping my promise,” she says, voice low, a little hoarse. “You’re tired—I said I’d be quick.”

She slides off the bed, legs still shaky, and pads to the bedside drawer. Pulling out a cloth, she cleans herself with quick, practiced motions—wiping her mouth, cleaning away the mess between her thighs, the glistening trails of her own release. You watch, too drained to move, as she tosses the cloth aside and returns, climbing back into bed.

She slips into your arms without hesitation, curling against you, her head nestling into your chest. Her warmth presses close, soft and steady, her breath evening out as she settles into your embrace—a quiet end to the fire she’d stoked.

Chaeyoung breaks the silence, her voice cutting through the soft hum of the room. “I’ll be gone for a bit. Overseas work.”

You shift, turning to face her, the weight of her words sinking in. “That’s why you were so eager tonight?” There’s a bite in your tone—disappointment laced with the nagging thought that you’re just a tool for them, a convenient fix. “Needed a refill before you jet off?”

Her eyes lift to meet yours, hesitant, softer than you expect. The look isn’t smug or teasing—it’s unguarded, almost reluctant, like leaving isn’t her choice. It makes you pause, reconsider the venom in your assumption.

“What, did you forget that hotel night?” she says, a faint smirk tugging at her lips, though her voice stays low. “You fucked me so hard I’d have to shatter the moon to lose my mind now.”

You narrow your eyes, not fully buying it. “So it’s just horniness then? You’re always this desperate?” The words slip out sharper than intended, brushing against an insult you don’t fully mean.

Her face shifts—something flickers, hurt flashing behind her eyes, a quiet disappointment dimming her usual spark. “You think I’d just screw anyone, anytime?” Her directness hits you square, catching you off guard, and then that smile creeps back, softer now, teasing but warm. “What’s this—jealousy? I’ve already told you, I’m yours. Always will be. The others too, actually, they just haven’t caught up to that yet.”

She holds your gaze, the reassurance steady, her hand brushing your chest as if to seal it, leaving the sting of your words—and her response—hanging between you.

She leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, warm and fleeting, then pulls back with a small, knowing smile. “Didn’t you say you’re tired?” she murmurs, her voice a gentle tease. “Sleep now—unless you want me to pounce on you again.” Her hand lifts, fingers brushing your face, tracing your jaw with a caress so tender it feels like a whisper against your skin.

No magic flares, no glowing eyes or woven spells—just her, her touch, her words wrapping around you like a quiet lullaby. Your eyelids grow heavy, the weight of the day melting under her steady gaze, and as her fingers linger, you drift—slipping into sleep as if she’d willed it so.

[stimpry]

mad scientist eridan au doodles + sprite edit i gotta write all my ideas down for this or something maybe make a fic abou tit who knows i just really really like this au i made check the tags for my ranting about it

[jade-len]

i think it'd be funny if someone transmigrated as xin mo. the goddamn evil sword. instead of taking it seriously, they just really fucked around with bingge. and, somehow, ended up having the opposite effect of what it's supposedly rumored to do.

picture this: bingge, on the quest for revenge and power, comes across the almighty xin mo. this demonic sword killed everyone that dared to even try wielding it. and, the few who were lucky enough to have it by their side, eventually succumbed to the swords' will.

it is said that the sword is unlike any other, that it etches into your head and eats away your brain, until eventually it consumes you whole. it whispers, speaking in lust, greed, and hatred. it slowly beckons the wielder into giving in to the worst part of themselves and feeds off of pure sin. but to him, it is no matter; luo bingge will surely tame it.

and then he gets to the sword.

demonic qi practically oozes from xin mo. the aura surrounding it makes every part of luo bingge scream, "run; get away, away from that monster." his gut prods at him, begging bingge that this is probably a really bad idea. it's a little terrifying, how even luo bingge, the determined, vengeful demon, is now getting second thoughts about wielding xin mo from just being in its presence alone.

but luo bingge is too, a monster. so he ignores the screams of plea; pushing every thought of doubt in the back of his head, and tightly grips onto the handle. the world around him seems to spin and shake, tumble and crack, from the amount of force bingge needs to use in order to pull the sword of sin out of its place.

when bingge finally has it perfectly fit into the palms of his calloused hands, he hears whispering. he knows that the sword has accepted him as its new host.

the sword's language crawls up to him, as if it were feeling around his body and mind. checking every nook and cranny for it to settle into bingge's form, truly becoming one with the embodiment of sin. the words flow through his brain like a tragically broken guqin, a melody that holds him in a frighteningly familiar trance - all while simultaneously eating away at his brain in the worst ways possible, akin to a child and their favorite snack. it seems to beckon something, but even with luo bingge's impressive hearing, he cannot make out any words from the tone-deaf musical notes xin mo sings.

and then, it is clear. the land around him settles, and everything is still. xin mo itself seems to be.. content. at least, that is what luo bingge believes.

the language of this wretched sword reflects the state around these two monsters.

luo bingge expects it to demand for bloodshed, for the erotic ecstasy of multiple women, for bingge to steal the last of the finest gems of these horrible, vast lands.

instead, he hears this:

"yoooo damn that shit was crazy. did you see what i did there? man, you know, it feels so fucking good to get out of the dirt. hey, do you know if people can like, feed their swords or something? i'm kinda craving something spicy. we never know, in this wack world! wait, don't hold me like that, buddy. it'll make things real awkward."

but luo bingge is determined to get his revenge, so he puts up with the swords' constant rambling about.. whatever the hell it's thinking.

"wait, dude, did you seriously fuck a dying girl? that's wild. yeah, like i know she was dying but it doesn't sound like you wanted it. yo, listen to me, consent is very sexy."

"HAHA hey, dude, sir, man. you wanna play some 'i spy'? we don't have anything else to do. no? too bad, we're playing it. i spy a loser who doesn't wanna play i spy. hint: he's holding me right now."

"okay i know i'm supposed to be this super evil sword and beg to be used - woah that sounded real wrong - but can you at least clean me when you're done killing shit? if you don't, i'm gonna refuse to respond to you and you'll look like a dumbass trying to wield me."

"i can't hear you lalalalalalala you're not being very it girl right now lallalalaalalalla-"

somehow, this is worse than if xin mo was actually eating away at his brain.

weirdly enough though, as luo bingge starts spending more time with this weird ass, seemingly possessed sword, it starts to become more of a.. comfort to have it by his side than pure annoyance. he finds himself responding to it more, like, actually having full on conversations with it. it puts him at ease, wielding xin mo. the hatred doesn't consume him, instead, it seems to soothe the burning rage (and, admittedly, just replace it with small irritation) that holds onto his darkened heart.

xin mo is actually quite kind and caring, for a sword that's supposed represent and be the literal embodiment of sin. sure, it is a hassle to have it cooperate with him sometimes, and it does just ramble on and on about the most random things ever, not giving a single shit if bingge was in the middle of sleeping with maidens and slaying those who get in his way. for the first time, bingge feels so comfortable around something.

it's.. odd. what was supposed to be the turning point in his life, a big step in his plan for revenge, is now something akin to an... acquaintance. not like mobei-jun, or any of the women he's come across, but an actual, dare he say, friend.

sometimes, he finds himself thinking all of this delusional. is this what people were driven mad by? perhaps they simply could not handle dealing with a talking sword. he understands that xin mo was undoubtedly unbearable to be around at the beginning of their alliance, but it has never actually beckoned for blood, power, and sex. if anything, it does the opposite.

maybe he's the delusional one. maybe this is xin mo's way of getting to him.

maybe, xin mo should be considered a thing. the thought feels terribly laughable, as if he were witnessing a person horribly explain themselves. it also makes his teeth grind together in pure agitation.

"hey, you know, you didn't deserve any of the things they did. it wasn't your fault, binghe. the fact that you're half heavenly demon doesn't make you a monster, or any of that wild stuff.. uh, i'm here for you, okay? i know you don't really like talking about all of this or opening up, but i just want you to know that you can.. talk about it. it's not like i can tell anyone else, anyways.

hey- shit i didn't mean to make you cry! wait, wait it's okay to cry! you need to let it out anyways, i promise it doesn't make you weak. there, there. i don't have any hands, so me patting you on the head with my handle will have to do. there, there.. everything will be alright, you'll be okay. i'll be here every step of the way, even if you want to get rid of me."

xin mo, the demonic sword, is more of a person - a good person - than anyone he'd ever come across.

...and then bingge and the xin mo transmigrator become besties or he falls for the damn sword. knowing him, he probably doesn't even know the difference between platonic and romantic attraction anyways. maybe bingge gets a plant body for xin mo using airplane's wack writing. idk i typed all of this down in one sitting.

(plot twist: it's not that the transmigrator xin mo had the opposite effect, it was literally just a placebo effect. luo bingge thought that, and thus it actually did help him lmao)

[wow-an-unfunny-joke]

Aaaaaaagh I wanna write mechanisms fanfiction so bad!!!! I don’t know the character thoooo it’ll be so bad

[luk4-luk1]

*Ensemble comes*

"LOATHINGGGGGGGGG"

[incorrectfatui]

okay, more HCs. This one is only Scara, so things might get a lil dark- I'm not normal about him. anywho: Scaramouche: -autistic. I am going to say this about every Harbinger, bc it's the truth. -most traumatized mfer in all of Teyvat. Seriously. someone give this guy a licensed therapist. -as Kabukimono, he's tried to eat several non edible items. This one is inspired by that one researcher who made up a story about him eating a humans arm. The image of little Scara munching on various dangerous items is so cute -related to the above: he still does it sometimes, to fuck with people. Dottore thinks its great. Pierro had to stop him from getting Kuni to eat a delusion. -Eyes (& markings) always glow at least slightly, even if he's not using his powers. Its not really noticeable in the day, but at night you can see it pretty well -hates Pantalone. Not bc he's jealous of him hanging out with Dottore or something (if anything, Pantalone gets jealous), but just because he is an ass. -Went to the Abyss again for a long time, just after Arlecchino became a Harbinger, and kind of forgot that Crucy was replaced. Came back and was like "who the FUCK- oh right". Why? because I think its funny -In general, has a better relationship with most of the female Harbingers than the male ones. -a little self indulgent, but I like to think that he was able to float a lil with electro as well. We see Raiden and Ei do it, and I think it'd be cute if he was able to as well, if to a lesser degree. -has used almost every element at some point, testing delusions with Dotty. Mostly bc I can't really imagine all those researchers just throwing 4 extra elements at shouki no kami and being like "figure it out" -speaking of delusions: I think he didn't use one. His electro is inert and I dont think he used another element. I see people headcanoning his delusion as Anemo, and I get it, but I don't like it all that much -SPEAKING of his electro being inert to his body- I refuse to believe he lost electro completely. The whole "oh he used up his divinity" is lazy. He can still connect to Irminsul, which he only learned while ascending, but he cant use electro anymore, something that he's had since birth? Bullshit. I understand him not using it, but I think it'd be more impactful if that was a voluntary choice. I'd really like to see him recover it over the course of the story -I think Youkai like him. Obviously this excludes Yae Miko, but I think as Kabukimono it wouldn't be strange to see him being followed by some Tanuki or the lesser Kitsune. I would really like to see him interact with the Youkai Children from that one Inazuma event, I think it'd be really cute. -I like seeing people write about him and Kujou Sara, both romantic, platonic and as enemies. The two of them are very similar in some aspects, and then radically different in others. I think it'd be really interesting to see Kujou Sara confronted with her own trauma being reflected onto Ei. I guess this is mostly because I just really like Sara and I want my favs to interact xD -more of a theory, but I think Pierro and Dottore, (will) remember him. He has a lot of foreshadowing in his voiceline about Pierro & Dotty, and other things. He's very clearly endgame/lore relevant, with his story not even being finished. -not a HC, but I wanted to mention it: I'm still stuck in Inversion of Genesis on my main account. I never played past it. I did the Fontaine and Natlan quests for friends/watched them online, but I'm still in IoG on my main, because I never fully decided on a name -last one bc character limit: I really like to imagine him interacting with Neuvilette. I think there could be a lot of interesting discussions had here- Neuvi would absolutely dissaprove of his attempt to overthrow Nahida, but at the same time I think he would, to some degree, understand his obsession with the gnosis. No, the gnosis/authority doesn't belong to Scara (or Ei, for that matter), but I think if you told Neuvi that Scara was quite literally created to hold it, he'd understand, to a degree.

[calicos-clones]

I don’t think people realize how freaked out fanfic readers get when their favorite author(s) doesn’t update their ongoing schedule ON TIME.

And it’s not cause we want the chapter…it’s cause we’re so fucking worried about the Author.

Like— OMG ARE YOU OKAY? YOU’VE BEEN GIVING US THE TRAGIC UPDATES OF YOUR LIFE IN THE NOTES THE PAST 10 CHAPTERS?! WHY STOP? ARE YOU DEAD? DID YOU GET STUCK IN THE WALL LIKE YOUR CAT?? HAVE YOU EATEN?? HAS YOUR BRAIN EXPLODED??

Readers no longer care about the story when they don’t get their usual update. We panic and flag S.O.S as we track down our wayward author who has been both blessed by the universe with a creative mind and cursed all the same with the worst luck.

So any authors who are reading this please understand— when we comment “hey are you okay?” in your comments. No, we are not asking about the chapter.

We are legitimately concerned for your wellbeing. Do not force yourself to shit out a chapter just to appease other ppl when you yourself are not in the mental state to enjoy it or even write it to begin with.

TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF DAMMIT

[jusst-you-race]

max and charles, 18!

i hope you don't mind that i made this volleyball au (i miss it) and also that it's... not really a kiss <3 thank you for the prompt!!!

a kiss as encouragement

The whistle blows as Charles slams the ball down on the other side of the court, easily breaking through the opposing block. Max swears loudly, and Checo winces, shaking out the hand that the spike had hit. There’s a chorus of cheers behind him from his team but Charles doesn’t turn to them just yet, instead he waits for Max to look his way. It doesn’t take long, they always seem to find each other’s gaze across the net.  

Charles blows a kiss at Max. Max scowls in response.

“Oh my god Charles you need to stop being a menace or the other team is actually going to kill us.”

Charles rolls his eyes.

“It’s for encouragement, Pear.”

“Encouragement?” Pierre asks sceptically.

“Yes. They are playing terribly today. Max always responds well to being pissed off.”

They both watch where Max has pulled the other team into a huddle, and can just hear his angry spitting from where they’re standing. Daniel looks like he’s trying very hard to placate Max, Lando and Oscar look like they're trying very hard not to laugh. 

Satisfied, Charles turns back to his own team. 

Lewis is levelling him with a very unimpressed look. 

“Charles, if you’re done winding up our opponents now? I’d like to actually talk about strategy.” 

A little bit sheepish, Charles worms his way into the group huddle, tucking himself into Pierre’s side. He only half listens to what Lewis is saying; Pierre is setting today and Charles knows his play style back to front so he’s not worried about missing any tactics. Instead his mind wanders, as it so often does, to Max. 

The blown kiss had mostly been a joke, something he knew would get under Max’s skin, which is Charles’ favourite activity after volleyball. But really, deep down, when he forces himself to acknowledge it, he did sort of want to blow Max a kiss.

It’s not just a kiss you want to blow…

Charles ignores his traitorous brain. The little voice in the back of his head that whispers about Max when he’s caught off guard and not violently beating it back with a stick. It’s getting a little bit louder every time they play the other team, and today has been especially bad. Max had shown up in a clearly borrowed t-shirt that must have been from Lando, judging by how it seemed a size too small. The way the shirt hugs the swell of Max’s chest has been incredibly distracting today, and Charles is genuinely glad that Pierre has been setting. He would have been absolutely screwed if Lewis was making him work for it with his clever sets. 

“Charles isn’t listening, he’s clearly thinking about Max.”

Charles winces, caught, and embarrassed that even Valtteri has picked up on it. Lewis just rolls his eyes. 

“Well Charles will just have to keep up,” he says as he waves his hand to dismiss the team and steps back away from the court. Charles flashes him a winning smile in an attempt to placate him, and then strides to his position by the net. 

Max is directly opposite him now. 

They lock eyes as George prepares to serve somewhere behind Charles. He brings his hands up to protect his head without breaking eye contact with Max. 

The whistle blows.

Max blows a kiss.

Charles’ brain short circuits.

[hellohellowelcome]

Feeling very optimistic about the final chapter because I am dying for Izuku to finally be able to unpack his feelings about everything he's experienced on his hero journey, and with regards to Katsuki (and All Might, respectfully everybody else get back). We've only gotten very small bits of introspection on his end, and with one chapter left, I hope that it's all given the space it deserves. Shipping aside, bkdk's relationship is core to the series and it would be extremely confusing for hori not to give them some semblance of proper closure or signal as to what their bond is going to evolve into after the events of the story.

(But on the other hand, slightly worried about the pacing based on the last few epilogue chapters...just pictured me sitting, reading, waiting for a bkdk handhold and the here comes cementoss and company for multiple pages 😭)

[theomencometh]

okay i've had this scene from an au stuck in my head recently so here's 3k of timkon identity shenanigans where kon has been recently taken in by luthor for nefarious reasons and is forced to attend a gala where tim and bruce show up. robin hasn't revealed his identity to the team yet even though they've been friends for years. canon/timeline has been put in a blender and liquified.

Kon takes a deep breath in through his nose, holding it for a few seconds before slowly letting it out of his mouth.  It’s a technique that Robin taught the team when he was trying desperately to get them on a more bat-approved training regime, including meditation and an acrobatics routine that Nightwing allegedly used on the Teen Titans years ago.  Kon is fully aware that he’s got weird stuff going on with his body’s organs and systems compared to humans, but the slow, rhythmic breathing still brings comfort and helps center him, slowing everything down enough so he no longer feels like he’s going to accidentally fry someone with his heat vision.

He tugs at the collar of his dress shirt, gulping and taking a deep breath again.  The shirt and tie feels so much more restrictive than his Superboy uniform, tightening like a noose around his neck, and the inflexibility of the suit coat makes him feel like a stiff, awkward mannequin.

“Stop that,” Luthor says, putting a heavy hand on his shoulder.  Kon immediately stills, straightening and trying to relax at the same time.

“These people are vultures,” Lex says, voice low.  Kon tries to focus his super hearing on him, rather than the woman with the loud laugh across the ballroom or the clink of glasses down the hall where the staff is continuously loading and unloading equipment.  He can hear the steady beat of Lex’s heart, the rhythmic whoosh of air traveling in his lungs, the slight gurgle of his stomach (gross!).  Kon decides he doesn’t like listening to Lex Luthor very much.

“Remember what I told you,” Lex is still saying.  “Be on your best behavior.  Today is about getting your name and your face out there.  Be polite, but not a pushover.  Never let them see weakness.”

Kon forcibly bites back the retort that his only weakness is kryptonite and makes himself nod instead.

Luthor leads him over to a group of people with his hand still clamped on Connor’s shoulder like a shackle.  From there, it’s an exhausting parade of schmoozing with millionaires and billionaires, shaking hands firmly (but not too firmly!), laughing at unfunny jokes, and pretending that he loves dear old Dad instead of wanting to punt him through the nearest wall.

Kon is charming.  He knows this.  It’s something that he’s known since he freshly came out of a test tube, and it’s something that he’s perfected with smiles and body language and a well-placed word or phrase.  Kon can get most people eating out of his hand with barely any effort, but it’s usually normal people a little closer to his age, not rich, egotistical, out-of-touch old people who want to pinch his cheeks but absolutely cannot be allowed to due to his invulnerable skin.  Kon forgets everyone’s name almost as soon as he hears it, clutching his flute of sparkling cider like a lifeline (but not hard enough to shatter).

Kon doesn’t know how long he gets paraded around as Luthor’s newest pet, but it feels like forever.  Everyone talks around where he’s been for the past 17 years of his life (nonexistent and then in a lab and then gallivanting around with superheroes and then, finally, as of two month ago a little farm in Kansas until Lex Luthor uprooted everything with a few well-placed threats), and Kon lets Lex tell the cover story about how he didn’t find out about Connor until recently, but he’s happy to be reunited with his son now.

Son.  Connor isn’t anyone’s son.  He was maybe getting to be a family member to the Kents finally, but Luthor threw a wrench into all of that.

Connor had a room at the farm.  He had a chore list to do and homemade meals to eat, and Clark has finally stopped flinching when he sees him.  Clark grinned at him the other day, not his public smile or a small, polite thing, but an actual, honest to goodness grin.  Connor bets he can kiss that goodbye now, just like he can kiss goodbye ever knowing Robin’s real identity, because there’s no way that Batman will let him tell Kon now that Kon is semi-legally under the guardianship of a supervillain, and just like there’s no way that Kon can have anything remotely resembling a normal teenage experience as the ward of a billionaire and forced showpony, and just like–

“I’ll be damned,” Lex breathes next to him, interrupting Kon’s spiral.  Kon follows his gaze to the entrance of the ballroom, ears picking up the loud, boisterous laugh of Bruce Wayne clapping someone on the back a little too forcefully.  Kon has never seen Bruce Wayne in person, but he’s difficult to miss in the papers, especially with how often he finds himself in trouble.  Robin has told him of a few instances when he or one of the other Gotham vigilantes has had to rescue him, and Kon knows that Lois interviewed him once and Clark has informally run into him at a gala such as this.

Clark says he tried really hard to be the journalist from the Planet here tonight once Lex demanded that Connor be there, but it was too late notice.  Neither Clark nor Lois are among the reporters clustered in the corner.  Kon is alone.

“He didn’t RSVP,” Lex says, miffed.  Kon immediately likes Bruce Wayne significantly more because of it.  “Oh, and he brought a friend.”

Kon peers around the crowd that has quickly amassed around Gotham’s favorite billionaire and finally spots the person Bruce Wayne has a hand on the shoulder of.  It’s a teenage boy, dressed in a dark suit with dark hair parted in the middle to keep it out of his eyes.  He’s slight, but not skinny, and he’s not overly tall, probably closer to Robin or Bart’s height than Connor’s.  He doesn’t show any signs of discomfort at the press of adults around him, offering polite handshakes and letting the women kiss his cheeks the way some of them have tried with Kon.  Bruce doesn’t stray far, taking the boy with him when they finally finish with the crowd near the door and head to the bar.  The boy doesn’t seem to mind the attention.  Kon, however, does not appreciate the tone of voice that Lex used when he said friend.  He’s ready to do some superheroing if he needs to.

“Let’s go,” Lex says, putting his hand on Connor’s shoulder again to steer him through the crowd.  “Let me handle Bruce Wayne.  The kid is Timothy Drake.  He recently became the head of his parent’s company when his father died.  This is the first time he’s been seen at an event since the death.  Bruce is almost certainly going to adopt him.  Timothy stayed with him when Jack Drake was in a coma, plus he has the dark hair and light eyes and Brucie favors in his kids.  He’s your focus for the rest of the night.  Forget about everyone else.”

“Lex!  I didn’t know you’d be here, you old dog!” Bruce calls before Connor has time to process all of that, slinging an arm around Luthor’s shoulders and seemingly crushing all of the air out of him in less than a second.

“It’s my party,” Lex wheezes.

“Good thing I’m here to liven it up, eh?” Bruce asks, elbowing Luthor in the ribs.

Kon really hopes that Bruce Wayne’s obsession with dark haired, light eyed boys is an innocent coincidence, because he doesn’t want to apprehend him for being a pedophile when he’s pissing Lex off so easily.

“Hello, Timothy,” Luthor greets, holding out his hand.  Bruce pouts at being ignored while Timothy shakes politely.  “May I just say, it’s refreshing to see you out and about.  I’m sure running your parent’s company is stressful all by yourself.”

Timothy tilts his head, reminding Connor vaguely of a bird.

“I’m happy to do it,” he says, polite but firm.  “It’s what my parents would have wanted, and they left things well organized for me.”

“And I suppose Bruce here has been giving you advice?”

“Now Lex,” Bruce says, wagging his finger at him, “you know that’d be a conflict of interest.  Besides, Tim could run circles around me.  I should be asking him for advice!”

Connor feels his eyes start to glaze over as Luthor and Bruce volley back and forth, seemingly forgetting that he’s even there.  Having Lex’s attention off of him and on someone else is a much needed break, so he’s not about to complain, but it’s also really fucking rude.  Connor hasn’t even been introduced to these two.

Timothy catches his eye, sweeping his gaze over to Luthor and Bruce and rolling his eyes.  Connor smirks.  Timothy raises an eyebrow and Connor mirrors him, just a slight quirk.

Timothy looks pretty nice, up close.  His eyes are the promised light blue, but his dark eyelashes are long and thick, framing them beautifully.  He’s pale, almost reflective in the glittering chandelier light, and he carries himself with a self-assuredness that Connor envies in this environment.  The suit fits him really nicely, hugging his shoulders and accenting his trim waist and long legs.  When he raises his flute to take a sip of the drink inside, Kon finds himself tracking the liquid as it disappears past his pale pink lips, his throat flexing as he swallows.

He’s not bad to look at.  He could easily turn out to be dull as a brick or a total douchebag, but so far first impressions are good.

“And who is this young man?” Bruce asks, snapping him out of his thoughts.  Luthor puts a hand on his back to push him forward a step, and Kon doesn’t have to move, but Lex is going to be mad if he doesn’t and the situation is delicate.

“This is my son, Connor,” Luthor introduces.  Kon offers his hand with his most charming smile.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, shaking first Bruce’s hand (better grip than he expected) and then Timothy’s (rougher than he thought it’d be, skin warm).

“Son, eh?  He must take after his mother!” Bruce laughs.  Lex’s face pinches, but Connor doesn’t have a chance to relish in it before Bruce is sweeping Luthor away with another arm around his shoulder, talking loudly about secret children and parenting hacks.  Luthor tries to protest, but it’s quickly drowned out by Bruce, and he doesn’t have a chance to so much as glance back at Connor before they’re swallowed by the crowd.

Kon blinks.

“Bruce will keep him busy for a while, sorry,” Timothy says, not sounding very sorry.  He takes another sip from his glass, then leans in.  Cologne tickles Connor’s nose.

“Hold your drink by the stem, not the glass,” he says quietly.  “It’s supposed to keep your drink from getting warm, an old etiquette thing.  It’s small, but it’ll help you blend in a little more.”

Kon looks around the room, taking in the people with flutes like him and where they’re holding it.  The majority are holding the stem, and the ones that aren’t are people that Luthor hasn’t bothered to introduce him to yet.  Kon adjusts his grip accordingly, off-balance and embarrassed.

“Thanks,” he says.  Timothy tilts his head.

“You want to get some air?  There’s a balcony over there.  Your father will be able to find you easily once Bruce releases him.”

“Yes,” Kon agrees immediately.  He’s used to not fitting in, but having the eyes of so many judgy rich people on him when he’s pretending to be Lex Luthor’s human son has been exhausting.  No one has been too rude so far, but the weight of Lex’s hand on his shoulder is heavy, and this complicated set of social rules that he still doesn’t understand puts him on edge.

Normally he’d say fuck the rules and do what he wants, but the situation is too delicate for that.  Clarke and Robin both told him that he needs to be careful and think twice about every move he makes, and for once neither of them sounded condescending about it.  He could tell that they don’t like the situation, either, worry and sympathy clear in their faces.

“Come on,” Timothy says, heading towards a set of double doors.  He doesn’t glance back, trusting Connor to follow him, and Connor does, stepping in his footsteps as he expertly weaves through the crowd, deflecting anyone trying to stop to speak to them with smooth excuses and a well-placed smile.  In no time at all he’s pushing open the large french doors, releasing them from the ballroom and into the cool night air.

Kon tilts his head up, blinking at the night sky above him.  It’s cloudy, obscuring what few stars manage to make their way through the light pollution to reach Metropolis.  Connor wishes he could fly up there, feel the dampness of early rain on his face, burst into the dark and escape everything.  For now, he keeps his feet on the ground, instead joining Timothy by the railing.

“So, how often do you come to these things, Timothy?” Connor asks, leaning back on his elbows.  The other boy perches with a hip pressed against the railing, arms crossed over his chest.

“Tim, please,” he says.  “Timothy makes me feel like I’m in trouble or you’re trying to swindle me out of a business deal.”

“Okay.  How often do you come to these things, Tim?” Connor corrects, testing the feel of it in his mouth.  Tim relaxes at the sound.

“Decently often, but I usually stick to Gotham,” he says.  “I’ll have to start coming to more now that I’m in charge of Drake Industries, but I grew up going to galas.  Is this your first one since Luthor found you?”

“Is it that obvious?” Connor asks.  Tim smirks, but shakes his head.

“I think I’d remember if I’d seen you at one of these before.”

Connor flashes him a charming smile.

“I bet you say that to all the boys.”  Tim’s cheeks turn pink, his blush noticeable against his pale skin even with the limited light out here.  Kon takes a sip of his sparkling cider, satisfaction making it taste sweeter on his tongue.

“I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re probably the only people under thirty in the whole building besides some of the catering staff,” Tim says. 

“You missed the toddler earlier,” Connor hums.  “She was throwing a tantrum.  I very much sympathized.”

“Did I really?” Tim asks dryly.  “What a pity.  Oh no.  How unfortunate that Bruce likes being fashionably late to everything.”

Connor snorts.

“Bruce Wayne, huh?” he says.  “How’d you two meet?”

Tim shifts so he’s leaning back against the railing like Kon.  Kon takes a moment to drink in his profile, tracing the sharp jut of his nose, the hair shielding his eyes from him at this angle.

“He’s my neighbor,” Tim says.  “I’ve kind of always known him, but our families weren’t really close until a few years ago.  When my dad was in a coma, Bruce took me in.  My uncle was supposed to get custody of me now, but…”

Tim trails off, searching for words.  Eventually, he shrugs.

“He’s fostering me right now.  We’ll see where it goes from there.”

“Do you want to stay with him?” Kon asks.  Tim considers his words carefully.  Connor’s mouth is always running away with him, but Tim seems to have the opposite approach.  Everything is measured and careful, cold and tactical.  It reminds Kon of Robin in the middle of missions, keeping his reactions even and methodical to counteract the impulsiveness of the rest of the team.  Kon wonders if Tim is the type of person to let himself be stupid and emotional around friends like Robin is, or if he always keeps everything bottled up.

“Yeah, I do,” Tim breathes eventually.  “But it’s complicated.”

“What do you mean?”

Another pause.  Kon does Robin’s breathing exercise, staying patient.  Some people need time to talk, and Kon can’t help if he doesn’t know what’s wrong.

“I guess I don’t want him to adopt me because he feels obligated,” Tim says.  “He has a family.  There’s–It’s a long story, too long to explain now.  Sorry, this is a weird first impression, huh? But enough about me!  What about you?  Where were you before Luthor found you?”

“Uh,” Connor says, still recovering from the whiplash of topics and searching for Luthor’s cover story.  “Kansas.”

“Kansas?” Tim prompts.

“Yeah, Kansas. I was in the foster system for a while, then I got adopted by this nice old couple who live on a farm in Smallville, which is just as small as it sounds.  I didn’t know anything about my birth parents until Lex showed up.”

“Wow,” Tim says.  “This has to be a big adjustment, then.”

Connor scratches the back of his neck.

“Yeah, kinda.”

Kon’s whole life feels like a big adjustment, from adjusting to existing and Clark’s negative feelings towards him, to adjusting to working for Camdus and living in Hawaii, to adjusting to Young Justice and Teen Titans, to finally trying to adjust to Smallville, only to be ripped away from that and forced into Metropolis high society.

“Do you miss them?” Tim asks.  “The old couple who adopted you?”

Kon swallows against the unexpected pang that rolls through him.  He can almost taste Martha’s pancakes on his tongue and hear the crinkle of the newspaper as Jonathan hands him the cartoons.

“I wasn’t with them very long.  Only a few months.”

Tim tilts his head.

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

Connor shrugs.  He doesn’t know what the right answer is here.  Martha and Jonathan are the closest thing he’s ever had to parents, but part of him never expected to stay with them.  When Luthor ripped him away from them, there was a part of Kon that wasn’t surprised at all, even if a bigger part was in agony.

Martha kissed his forehead when he left the farm and gave him a sad smile.

“You can always come back here, okay?  This is your home, no matter what Lex Luthor has to say about it.”

“If they formally adopted you, Lex Luthor’s claim as your biological father isn’t enough to force cut contact,” Tim says, pushing off the railing and taking a few steps closer.  “Trust me.  I researched this stuff when my dad came out of his coma.”

Kon frowns.

“He didn’t like Bruce?”

Tim wavers.

“It’s complicated,” he offers.  Kon snorts.

“Yeah, I get that.”

Tim’s mouth quirks up, giving Connor the shadow of a smile again.

“It’s not really a first meeting story.”

“Guess we need a second meeting, then,” Connor says.

“Yeah?” Tim asks.  “My weird family dynamic really captivated you, huh?”

“It was your eyes first, actually,” Connor says.  Tim opens his mouth, then closes it again, eyes wide.  Kon holds his breath.  He says flirty things all the time, both to his friends and to people he rescues who seem like they need a pick-me-up, but it’s been a while since he sincerely flirted with someone he plans to see again.  He almost never does it with someone who only knows him as Connor rather than Superboy, much less a boy.

If this goes badly and Tim tells the entire Metropolis elite that Lex’s son is a homosexual, maybe the scandal will be enough for Luthor to send him back to Smallville.  If it goes well…

“You have… very nice eyes, too,” Tim says eventually.  Connor beams, then beams even more at the sharp inhale Tim draws in response.  Tim shifts.

“Hey, do you want to get out of here?” he asks.  “There’s a decent ice cream place open late a few blocks away.  We can be there and back before anyone misses us.”

Connor glances towards Luthor in the ballroom.  He’s still talking to Bruce Wayne, and they’ve amassed a small crowd around them.

“Bruce will keep Lex busy for a while.  He likes to talk.  Besides, you can always tell him that you were networking,” Tim offers.

Luthor said that Tim should be his focus for the rest of the night.  He never said that they had to stay at the gala.

“Lead the way,” he says, gesturing grandly towards the French doors.  Tim blinks once, then again, then smiles.  His eyes light up with it, and Kon suddenly understands why Tim had to inhale before.

“Come on,” Tim says, leading the way.  Kon follows just as closely as he did before, trailing him until they spill out into the Metropolis night and he can stand next to him, almost close enough for their arms to brush.

Maybe living with Lex Luthor won’t be so bad if comes with seeing Tim Drake, too.

[theceaselessidiot]

underrated friendship duo, that would have been so cool to explore in the show but alas: Cressida and Simon. They actually have a lot in common:

1. They both had shitty, cold childhoods with a father who made them feel like they're disappointments. Simon had Lady Danbury and that is why he's warmer than Cressida, who only had her mother who is also toxic like her father, but they both know what parental neglect feels like

2. They both kept people at a distance, Simon by being a rake and also aloof, Cressida by being mean and cruel.

3. They both become obsessed with someone challenges them, but is also warm, Eloise and Daphne (ignoring the rapey stuff with Daphne)

4. edit bc @saintdollyparton made an excellent point: They're also both hot and tall and in love with a Bridgerton sister.

I would have loved to see them interact and actually be like 'oh we're similar, lets be friends" and Daphne and Eloise are both like "wtf??" but then they're like "ah you got adopted by this cat proceed"