#performance as a kind of honesty

[weatherfey]

I think a lot about the way Dorian used to see Cyrus as the perfect older brother, the perfect prince; the way Dorian felt free to go and find himself because Cyrus was capable and dependable and ready to be a leader. That isn’t the Cyrus we see! But I think it’s a lot more interesting, for both Cyrus and Dorian, to take that seriously. They’re princes, and we don’t know what that means because we haven’t seen their home, but socially a court is an elaborately constructed farce. And of course it can be easier to be competent in any familiar environment, but I also think it’s easier to know how you fit within a court environment specifically because there is an overwhelming number of factors to define yourself against and they all have expectations of you, and if they aren’t suffocating you like some kind of spider’s web then it might be perfect, like being a star in a constellation, or just the right puzzle piece. I think it’s reasonable to think that Cyrus was something like who Dorian thought he was, at home; except that Cyrus, like Dorian, wanted to choose the things he’s defining himself against. And I think it’s meaningful that he got swindled in the immediate aftermath of discarding that constellation of puzzle pieces. He was a fool (beloved), but it happened in the first blush of freedom, when he was just starting to figure out who he was or wanted to be without all that defined expectation, which is also - not coincidentally - the state Dorian was in when the spider queen sunk her fingers into his heart and twisted his alignment. The ‘hello world! uh oh’ of it all is something they had in common.

(Something they both had in common with Opal, too.)

I do think it’s interesting to look at Dorian’s sense of responsibility in light of this. I almost think Orym was a kind of north star for Dorian through parts of EXU prime, and I ship them, but it really felt like one of the things that made him able to reject the spider queen is that Orym needed him to. I think he wanted to be someone Orym could rely on, but I think Orym’s regard mattered to him because they genuinely had that protective urge in common - the pathway the spider queen used to skitter in was Dorian’s desire to protect his friends. And that drive to protect added a lot of poignancy to the in-universe reason that Dorian couldn’t return to bell’s hells after Cyrus’s debts were repaid, not just because Cyrus was still getting his legs under him but also because Opal needed help. That’s responsibility, again - he’s finishing what they started. Duty, obligation, but this time he’s chosen who and what he’s beholden to. Like maybe he’s chosen a new version of a puzzle piece that he might have thought he was throwing out entirely when he chose freedom and walked away from home.

I loved that Fearne’s vision also haunted Dorian; he misses her, and it also feels like a solid way to illustrate the spider queen’s effect on Dorian, that the danger of his own corruption has rarely been something he had the luxury to think about. His friends have always needed him. I don’t know if he had time to process his aborted fall during his time in Zephrah, or if there’s still something underneath, but I think it’s telling that this fear doesn’t look like Opal, the one literally bleeding ichor from her forehead; it predates that, it started before Opal was the one to worry about.

And I think he knows he didn’t fail them - Cyrus, Opal, Fy’ra - accidental thunder damage notwithstanding - but, with the way he felt through that suggestion spell and its aftermath, I don’t really know what to make of his abandoning Dariax. It’s a little hard to look at that and not see a drive to isolate. Determined to leave him with a good memory, but most of all, to leave. He started that one-shot interlude having just admitted to himself that he was longing to be Somewhere Else, but I almost wonder if he still would have gone back to bell’s hells if Orym hadn’t asked.

(God, the suggestion spell. The way they processed it was hurtful to me personally. Dariax immediately shifting from ‘won’t leave Opal!’ to ‘let’s go! Opal has a plan’ kind of broke my heart, and I actually think that the spell could have worked on Dorian by just making what was really happening feel reasonable - the last shred of your friend is trying to save you, and you can’t save her from anything except becoming your murderer, so you should do that. But the spell can’t make sense out of abandoning Cyrus’s body, so Dorian just goes numb with grief and rage. Mass suggestion is 24 hours. That is 24 hours of numbness, and rage, and walking, and walking, and walking, and every once in awhile Dariax’s voice, friendly and steady and sure, ‘Opal has a plan.’ And at the end of it the ability to feel returns, but he’s so tired, and he hurts, and everything hurts too much to think about, and poor Dariax probably stops in his tracks, just ‘Dorian? What was Opal’s plan?’)

And he really was so angry. It’s interesting to wonder if that’s still under the surface. He immediately turned to levity - for their sake, and his own - but that moment where the group tells him who killed Will and Derrig, and Robbie instantly wrote down Otohan’s name, didn’t just read like a player taking notes, to me, it read like Dorian putting a name in a ledger. I think it’s easy to let that go because he learns that she’s dead in the very next moment, but I think Dorian felt a weird kind of relief for that half-second, because so much of his anger at what happened to Cyrus and Opal was from being forced to acknowledge that there wasn’t anyone easy to blame, except perhaps a god; and blaming a god is like blaming the universe. What a relief, however short lived, to be faced with a problem you can solve.

[ceramicbeetle]

actually it's kind of funny how people will say Alex's fatal flaw is that he 'doesn't ask for help' and that it's his determination to handle things on his own that leads to his deterioration and eventual death when his whole introduction to the present-day timeline was a very literal cry for help that simply went ignored

[psychopomp-namine]

I am about to start a neji route (because I feel that I need at least three playthroughs to fully understand neji and his plays, so I can't leave him for last). so my thoughts on this may change, but for the moment, my thesis is that neji and kisa are the same kind of thespian, just in different fonts.

(I am slightly exaggerating kisa'a character here. there are hints and I do think pushing the envelope of what her character could be is part of what makes kisa... kisa. as I'll explain later, for better and worse, kisa is constrained by the conventions of being an otome heroine.)

anyway. in essence. neji turns Other Persons into stories,

and kisa turns Other Persons into performances,

while they both simultaneously run away from, avoid, or sacrifice Becoming Persons themselves, for the sake of theater

or maybe it's the other way around. something something discovery if not recognition of the self through the other... except they're both unreliable narrators so who's to say if the recognition actually takes hold, really. kisa at least is a little bit self aware. neji, on the other hand, deals with realizations of the self through writing, without actually processing them (e.g. ms robin, domina, etc).

I keep thinking about (novel) kisa closing her eyes and feeling like her sense of self would melt away until tsuki centers her and gives her theater as a way to heal from the grief of losing her mother. it happens again during tsuki's univeil performance: kisa curling in on herself and tsuki pulling her back to theater as way to help kisa move forward with her dreams. pretending to be others is more fun than being herself.

and then there is neji (insert spiderman pointing at spiderman meme). but in his case, he would rather play eccentric roles, caricatures, comic relief, than be a Person With Depth on stage. neji is always either a seer of some kind (a fortune teller, a ghost who sees 10 seconds into the future) or a bit character (employee A), or... whatever he initially planned for domina. he is the mechanic behind the stage, but never the lead actor. his vulnerabilities do not need to "stolen" for the story, though others' are fair game.

kisa does not think about gender as it applies to herself in her daily life (mostly) and only sees it through the lens of acting and theater. how does she act mukai vs maiden, charles vs chicchi? the same way that neji does not think about the motifs and characters he writes as a window to himself, but rather as objects to be put on stage. rukiora is based on a younger neji, mary jane is I Am Death: Revisited (mary jane is to takihime as gashadokuro is to jacob), sissia is always meant to be the foil to I Am Death. but neji doeen't really understand that just like how he didn't understand oh rama havenna. sissia (kisa route, jack jeanne ver) is to kisa as domina is to neji.

literally kisa at her most extreme is just theater thoughts 24/7

kisa "I don't like being me; I'd rather be other people" tachibana 🤝 kokuto "I need to experiment and witness visions I can't create or I'll die" neji: this is a totally sane and Normal way to cope with abandonment and grief 👍

(it is not implied in the game, but since kisa turned to theater to cope with grief as a child, I wonder if the reason she never looks too deeply into tsuki's disappearance is because she's once again using theater as an excuse to conveniently Not Think About It. out of sight, out of mind. tsuki must be doing well, wherever he is, whatever it is he's doing.)

there is also the meta perspective of how kisa in-game inhabits a role where the player can (and is expected to) self-insert. otome dictates that protagonist kisa must be malleable to the player (who can choose to focus on a variety of relationships in her stead), and the plot dictates that actor kisa must be malleable to her stage roles (jack or jeanne, maiden or hero, flower or vessel), and novel kisa dictates that kisa must malleable to pretending to be other people because it's more preferable to being herself.

every thought she has about herself must be tied to acting, somehow. kisa's personhood is defined through stagecraft. she is the maiden, and mukai, and charles, and chicchi, and sissia. she can romance anyone in the school, of the player's choosing. she can be jack, and jeanne, and jack jeanne. don't get me wrong; kisa is her own character and has a strongly defined personality, but the story also demands for her to be malleable. a painting and a blank canvass at the same time.

neji externalizes where kisa internalizes. where kisa Must Perform™ to function and to avoid herself, neji Must Create™ to function and to avoid himself. scriptwriter neji dictates that neji must use everything at his disposal — his memories, his classmates, his obscure knowledge — as inspiration for stories. director neji dictates that he must use everything he knows about his actors — their complexes, their relationships, their weaknesses and strengths — as inspiration for stories. from the cook (mitsuki) needing apricots for a recipe and wanting to harvest honey from a beehive, to mary jane (fumi) being good at sewing and wanting an equal in jacob. suzu and sou fighting and developing a rivalry leads to jire and fugio fighting over chicchi. kai limits himself as a vessel in hasekura, and kai learns to embrace his desires as the priest. from the water/ocean/drowning themes, to rukiora being based on neji's younger self, and her family life and relationship with domina.

every thought neji has must be tied to stories, somehow. neji's personhood is scattered through stagecraft. the more you read his plays and lyrics, the more you get a glimpse of who he is. it is to the point that neji himself doesn't... really see how his stories reflect himself. ms robin being a "random" song the jazz lounge singer sings that hasekura and ando can dance to, oh rama havenna being a so-so throwaway play that neji doesn't understand why it's entertaining. lmao. neji, please.

and this is why when problems arise, neji becomes a demanding director and kisa becomes a chameleon actor with a shaky sense of self (we don't really see this a lot because jack jeanne is not that dark of a story and kisa is still an otome heroine of an uplifting game, but it's a reasonable conclusion if you push hard on the kisa from neji's "good morning" exercise, or kisa going ham on method acting as charles. kinda wish the game explored more of that. I think a very stressed kisa can get lost in method acting, just as a very stressed neji is almost paralyzed by the fear of the death of talent).

idk where I was going with this. just. them. they have the same issues, just in different fonts. and I think that's actually what first attracts neji to kisa. kisa "steals" (to borrow neji's own words) just like him. kisa is a fountain of inspiration, an ever changing muse. and neji provides kisa with an endless amount of prompts and characters for her to inhabit. kisa does like to play pretend a lot. that's why she's in theater!

kisa and neji: Art Imitates Life people stuck in a Life Imitates Art video game

ANYWAY usual disclaimer that I'm jotting down liveblogging thoughts and I know some spoilers to neji's route but I'm only just about to actually start his playthrough so. yeah. this was drafted all the way back in may lol, opinions may change and all that

[theothernads]

• ── ❛❛ 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝟎𝟎𝟕 ❞ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆

─────────────────────────────────

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ִֶָ࣪☾. 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: In a world where vampires exist, the city of Seoul is not safe. With the most notorious in the Facility 007, everyone thought that the city would be kept at bay with murders being stopped and for terror to stop haunting everyone in the night. That's what you thought when they were captured and stopped the vampirism from spreading by biting normal humans. However, you made a mistake in assuming that these seven would give up, and you underestimated their desire for power and control when you were invited for an internship to said Facility 007. It should have been easy enough. But one myth and night changed everything, and now, you have to figure out how to play your cards right if you want to take them down.

── ִֶָ࣪☾. 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: vampire!Enha×f!reader. ❀ .⭒ֶָ֢⋆.

── ִֶָ࣪☾. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: biting, violence, chainsaws, blood, fighting, lots of death, Enha are MEAN ASFAWK, handcuffs, vampires (duh), needles, and violence <3

╰┈➤ don't proceed if you don't like that.

ִֶָ࣪☾. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 20.6k ☰ ִֶָ࣪☾. 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐘: ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

— ִֶָ࣪☾. [𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒]: okay. So. I have returned with the fic!! It took a while to edit and I'm not even that satisfied with the outcome BUT, I know people are waiting so, I decided to just put it out and let yall judge! I... um. Yeah. I did enjoy writing this one actually. I have a new idea for a Hoon fic but MAFIA. BUT NOT THE CRINGEY KIND 😭. Anyway, hope you enjoy. And yes, the word count did go up somehow💀. Anyway, pls let me know how you like it/dont like it.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ REBLOGS, LIKES+ COMMENTS are appreciated<3

━━━━━━━━━━━━━˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱‧₊˚━━━━━━━━━━━━━

FACILITY 007.

The most highly guarded prison to accommodate the most notorious vampires to ever roam the streets. Each prison was made with soundproof walls, ropes at the ready, and a seat built into the plain walls, reminding prisoners of their inevitable sentence.

These vampires made the news within hours; their trademark were black masks that covered the cheeks and nose with narrow gaps where the teeth would be of a horrid creature. 

Each of their kills were brutal and malicious, with people drowning in their own blood, limbs left at awkward angles, and sometimes, the bodies were too unrecognisable to even have an autopsy performed. And for any of it to go on the news. 

The hunt for them was hasty—they were picked up on the CCTV in town when it all happened, and the police were already staged there. In all honesty, you expected more precision and flair in their crooked plans, but you had been proven wrong when leather cuffs were latched onto their wrists as Seoul's personal mark of retaliation.

They scared you, of course. But, for your mother, it was a light at the end of the tunnel for her research. Instead of killing those vampires (which you strongly insisted on), the authorities handed them over to this research facility, all locked up, studied, and examined down to the T. They were homed in the West Wing, whilst you and your mother stayed at the East Wing, where the labs were situated.

Now, where do you come in?

You hated those no-good vampires, and there was absolutely nothing to persuade you to ever go near one…

Except.

Except your mother offering  an insightful internship at her facility to gain experience since you were in the final year of your biomedical course. There were perks that came with having a crazy scientist as your mother. And, you accepted it with a single breath.

It was a little hypocritical when you agreed to it, but experience was a dream that barely came by commonly.

What you didn't accept is the part where you had to go to the West Wing and administer drugs directly to said vampires. The drugs, as much as you know, suppressed their strength or any traces of vampirism that lived in their bodies. It made it easier to handle their abilities where the Facility only had humans working.

Your mother already had an excuse precisely stitched.

"If you ever want to study something, you cannot be standing away from the microscope,” she had said to you over a bland tomato sandwich. 

“You can if you have other colleagues,” you had argued back to her, making her narrow her gaze with that authoritative, motherly fire.

“Then you will never understand your specimen. Nor become a real scientist.”

Which leads to now.

It was a gloomy day in Seoul, the temperature enough to induce a shiver up your spine, but not enough to convince you to wear a coat. The West Wing was a maze—a cream and monotone maze that only had emergency buttons every few metres. Your footsteps echoed and broke through the icy air lingering in the air. But, the loudest thing was your heartbeat. It beat the silence.

The thick drum of each beat sent you breathless; you wouldn't be surprised if the vampires saw you coming from the way your heart was practically singing to them. 

You clutched the thick, brown file to your chest as you entered the elevator, swallowing down the apprehension that came with your first official job without your mother.

Another ding, and the elevator soared up, adding to your nausea.

It's fine. You were fine and you would ace this task even if you weren't being graded. Just go in, administer the drugs, get out, and then repeat about seven times. Then, you could sprint out of there.

Easy.

The grey doors opened revealing the long hallway and the double doors at the end, two guards stood with thick, black guns and a face of certain security. Violence wasn't your thing, but seeing guns in the arms of (hopefully) capable guards eased the anxiety stinging up your spine.

When you walked up to them, you fished out the lanyard beneath your white lab coat and beamed a polite smile at them. “Intern Song Y/n here.”

The one on the right glanced and the one on the left pressed a secret button at his waist. The buzz of the doors rang through your ears, and you pushed through with another tide of silence. It was even creepier here.

It wasn't dark—no—it was even brighter here, cream walls lined with the normal emergency buttons, and there were only two single doors opposite each other, locked and with keypads. The silence waited and lingered over you, but was knotted with something tense and anticipating.

Okay, right or left? It didn't really matter when each door had a monster strapped behind them and could easily strip you of your blood. You opened the file and saw the first name. 

Lee Heeseung—the oldest of the lot, observant and critical, but insanely quiet. He was restrained with a single rope around his torso, leather cuffs around his arms, and a single chain around his ankle. 

Great, you were practically meeting the ghost of the group. You always thought to yourself that having chains was better for the arms, but apparently they could use those as weapons. You had to agree. They were monsters but it didn't mean said creatures couldn't be resourceful.

To the left you went. After showing the guard your ID, you popped in the code and entered the lab. The chill breathed down your body, the hum of the equipment thrumming steadily over the metal table and counters. The door slammed shut behind and you flinched.

“Fuck these stupid doors,” you said to no one but yourself. Hastily putting the file down on the middle table, you caught sight of the blinds over a large plane of glass where light peeked in from behind it. Without hesitation, you sauntred to the blinds and pulled, the secrecy lifting to reveal what was behind.

You almost jumped once more when you spotted the lone figure sitting with a hung head, black locks falling over his eyes, totally still as if time didn't affect him. The ropes around his torso and the metal chain around his ankle told you that you had met the older vampire.

Lee Heeseung. 

You don't know what you were expecting but this creature was much more depressed than you anticipated. Of course, no one likes being trapped in a windowless room, but you thought he would have his red eyes on you already. Or maybe he's asleep? You can't blame him.

Your thoughts were broken when a door slammed behind you and another heartbeat joined yours with careful footsteps.

You whipped your head around, prepared to hit the intruder with your fists, but relaxed when you saw a familiar male.

“Taehyun, gosh, you scared me,” you said in exasperation. The male walked over with his brown, floppy hair, white lab coat and a small smile of satisfaction.

“Mission successful.” he nudged you in the arm once close enough. In return, you nudged him back and breathed, glad that it was your fellow friend rather than a stranger with fangs.

“What you doing here?” you asked, walking away from the window. Taehyun glanced over his shoulder before joining you with a playful smirk.

“Supervising. It's your first time administering the suppressants, right?” He grinned.

“Yeah. And your smile is not helping,” you said, observing him and his smile. As if he knew something you didn't, and he probably did since he has always been in the West Wing ever since you started your work here. You want to be like him, to fearlessly exit the elevator without a speck of apprehension. To be confident, really.

Taehyun leaned on the table in front with his elbows before noticing the anxiety soiling all the fun that came with being a scientist. “You're nervous.”

“Great observation, Terry.” you muttered before he laughed again.

“Look, it is simple. Heeseung, from what I know, doesn't really speak to me, and he is tied up the most among them,” he said, looking at the table as if was going through a mental walk-through of it. 

Simple. That's what you told yourself all of last night, but you underestimated the anchor of your anxiety. It was much heavier and it completely left your skills stranded in the middle of what felt like a vast ocean. And you didn't know how to lift it with your bare hands. You sighed and cleared the sweat on your palms by wiping it on the sides of your coat. Taehyun chuckled under his breath, and you glared daggers into him.

“Shut up, will you? Not everyone is experienced.”

“Just go in,” Taehyun said as he straightened himself before you. Then, his eyes drifted over your shoulder and tensed somewhat. “Hey, he's expecting you anyway.”

When he said that, your heartbeat spiked so hard, but not as hard as your head snapping to the glass behind you. 

Heeseung was awake, and those dark eyes behind his locks still managed to cut right into your gaze and chop it into ten pieces. There was a permanent frown on his lips, skin glittering under the fluorescent lights, fists curled between his lap. But even as you dared to stare, you couldn't miss the intrigue bleeding into his gaze, then consuming him fully as he lifted his chin with a slow precision. 

You swallowed hard, feeling as if your whole body had clicked into a safety lock just by simply being visible through the glass. And still, he stared.

“See, I told you he is expecting you!” Taehyun patted your back, jolting you out of that tense state and making you huff.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

“Okay, so, go in and administer the drug first. Then, the blood drink should be fed to him through the straw. He is not like the others, since he keeps his fangs to himself.”

“Keeps his fangs to himself?!” you exclaimed incredulously as Taehyun led you to the door with a steady hand on your back. You currently held a blood bag with a plastic opening that could pass as a straw, and a syringe with a safety cap over the needle.

Taehyun nodded as if it was a normal breakfast routine, grinning down at you. That didn't help in the slightest but it was too late because you were in front of the sliding door already.

“Do the others bite?” you inquired once more, trying very hard to stall. He caught on and sighed as he crossed his arms with mirth. The genuine worry sparkled in your gaze. To keep your confidence up, he gripped your shoulders firmly. 

“Don't think about it. I'll tell you the answer after you do this.”

Damn, a stupid bargain. With a huff, you faced the door, breathed once for the anxiety to dissipate as if it was as light as dust being carried away by the breeze.

The door slid open and you entered, closing it behind you before registering the utter silence in here. There was no equipment in here, so no hum, and it sounded as if Heeseung didn't breathe. So, it was just you.

The room was a plain grey and you faced Heeseung with the most tense shoulders known in mankind, all the advice that was given flying out your body. 

His eyes never left you, head slightly turned with attention. Your files were right: he was insanely observant. He's probably judging how fast your heart was skipping its scheduled beats.

Whatever, you don't have all day. You have six more vampires to take care of after him. 

With an inhale, you stepped forward a few steps until you stood before him, the syringe at the ready. You didn't know if you should introduce yourself. 

Did Taehyun introduce himself? Does he know you're different?

All those questions flooded your brain as you screwed the cap off, facing the criminal before you. This time, his chin was lifted more, staring shamelessly. You swallowed again before digging for a small plastic packet with a wipe.

“You're different.” his voice made your shoulders jump again, but you nodded once, stoic.

“Thanks?”

“Not Technician Kang,” he reiterated again. You nodded again once, gesturing for him to tilt his head. Heeseung blinked once, the attention sharpening and slicing your skin, but he did as you asked, exposing the right side of his neck.

“I am not Technician Kang, you're right.” you wiped the side of his cold neck before bringing the needle to his skin and letting the sharpness sink deep in.

Heeseung didn't react much, but his jaw clenched, as if this routine was nonsensical—annoyed. When the drug flowed into him, his veins splayed out like a map, black, winding up his neck and disappearing under his black shirt, and he shifted, rolling his neck.

You took the syringe and tossed it into the green waste bag tied to your lab coat. Next, the blood bag in the large pocket of yours. This was going perfectly. Minimal speaking and you were nearly done.

What a success.

“But you know who I am, right?”

Damn it, you thought too soon. 

“Who doesn't?” you replied, trying to ignore the slight tremble as you opened the small straw to the blood bag. Heeseung narrowed his gaze but the smell of blood hit him, and he scowled when you brought it closer. Confused, you held it away slightly.

“Something wrong?” you asked. Heeseung's gaze pinned right into the blood bag, as if that was the next annoying thing.

“You still insist on feeding us those… animal leftovers,” he muttered with disgust. You looked to the label and saw it was cow blood that he was straying away from. Gosh, he was picky about blood? You hid the awkwardness down below and sighed.

“Well, if you don't want to drink it, you won't get anything else,” you explained, but you were so sure he knew that already. Heesseung sighed deeply through his nose, the frown deepening before he lifted his chin in defeated acceptance. With that, you led straw to his chapped lips.

The blood rushed through the straws, the bag emptying with alarming speed to satiate his hunger. 

You could guess the facility kept them on the cliff of starvation. Not enough to send them insane out of hunger. It was a little cruel but in your head, it was compensation for all those crime scenes decorated with blood and organs that should never see the light of day.

You put the empty bag in the green disposal bag once done and stepped back with your anxiety shifting away a little. It wasn't as bad as it seemed.

Heeseung stared again, licking his bottom lip, savouring whatever would last him until next time. You just gave a tight smile, then regretted it, and quickly walked away, out the sliding doors with the burn of his gaze etched into your back.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The next Vampire afterwards was Nishimura Riki, who existed just opposite Heeseung. 

Taehyun let you in, already having the blood bag and suppressant drug at the ready on the table. This was kind of the last thing on your mind, and you swiftly turned to him.

“So, do the others bite?” You asked again, remembering the bargain he made. Taehyun huffed but there was no sign of avoidance either. 

“Well, from what I know, Jake seems to have inhibition problems. Sunoo, too. Jay, Jungwon, and Sunghoon seem a bit more… controlled, but you never know,” he explained with a shrug. 

You don't understand how he is so chill about it. Just the thought of one of them biting you was enough to send a storm to stir in the very cavern that was your mind and thoughts. All conflicting thoughts flashed past each other until it felt as if they were on the verge of striking your brain with lightning. 

You shook your head slightly to jostle your head right before snagging the blood bag and syringe into your pocket. “Doesn't really help, Terry.”

A humoured laugh escaped him as he walked over to the similar blinds from the other room and pulled it with one, firm tug.

The curtain lifted to reveal another figure with jet black hair falling over his eyes, sharp eyes already finding yours to make you breathless, and elaborate knots tied around both hands. The additional ankle chain was easy to spot, too. The bindings shouldn't have given you so much composure, but how could you stop yourself when the anxiety sunk a hole in your chest.

“So, you ready?” He asked from behind you. Instead of giving an answer, your mind clutched at any information regarding Riki. 

You know he was the youngest of the lot, but he easily could go from zero to a hundred. It was go big or go home for the youngest vampire, exceeding all boundaries of peace to pursue any shadow of violence and make it his own. Sarcastic and mischievous, too.

“I think so. He's not a biter so…”

“I don't know. Riki is a little unpredictable,” Taehyun added with contemplation. You sighed and waited for Taehyun to lead the way to the sliding door. Once before it, you forced the composure to calm the storm. They could probably sense your emotions, the little jumps in your fear, and if they could wield that, you wouldn't be helping yourself.

Determined, you slipped into the room and welcomed the ultra silence this time before shutting the door.

Riki's feline gaze followed you with every step you took closer, scanning, and then a cruel smirk graced his lips. You don't know what's so funny—you preferred it if he was depressed and acted like a normal, contained prisoner.

“New heartbeat, I knew it,” he purred quietly as you got another sanitising wipe, ignoring the fact you knew he could probably pick it up.

“Congrats. You guessed right,” you said with a tight tone of no-nonsense. Riki slumped his shoulders, smirking as if it was a funny situation he found himself in.

“Could hear it for a while. Let me guess,” he said with a bored tone as you got the wipe out. “You visited Heeseung hyung.”

Strange. He knew who else was on the floor with him. You thought that your mother never told them of their locations, keeping only two on each floor. The thoughts sparked and stung your nerves, making you stiffen slightly in caution.

Riki smiled again, empty and sinister.

“I'm guessing yes.”

Not answering his correct assumption, you went to wipe the left side of his neck when he blanched back, making you halt, annoyance igniting your chest. Riki simply turned his face to the left, exposing his right side.

“This side please,” he demanded quietly but you could tell he was amused. 

You didn't sigh nor huff, and you swiped the wipe in the correct area before doing the same as before, and sinking the needle into his flesh to release the drug.

Riki grunted softly as black veins appeared out of the blue, revealing its path over his neck, travelling underneath his skin. He released a breath, leaning back.

Next part—feeding him through the straw, to which he obliged much quicker than his elder brother. He didn't even take a break and departed with a sigh, collecting the last of it with a lick of his lips.

“I see you're not picky with blood,” you mumbled, disposing of the used bag. Riki scowled.

“Well, I don't want to die, do I? It still tastes cheap and flavourless,” he grumbled, meeting your gaze from where he sat, that same intrigue consuming his dark eyes, and forcing you to move away.

“Fair point.” You nodded before heading to the sliding door that was the exit. Before you fully left, Riki straightened himself, that same interest curling around his sharp gaze and cutting into your thoughts.

“You might want to control that heartbeat. The others might want to take it right out that pretty body of yours.”

You left much quicker that time, and even slammed the door shut before even thinking to release a breath.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

“See, that wasn't so bad.”

“Taehyun, he said the others would rip my heart out,” you reiterated with a slightly pitchy tone, brows furrowed in worry. 

Taehyun chuckled again for the hundredth time in your distress. Currently, you and him were on your way to the second floor, where the next two vampires were situated and locked away. The files were stuck to your chest, holding them as if you were being watched.

“I told you he's unpredictable. I also wouldn't believe a word he says,” he replied as he stepped out the elevator, greeting the similar sight of two guards arming the double doors leading deeper into the facility. With no choice, you tagged along behind him.

You don't want to believe anything these vampires say, but they're cunning and deceitful. Telling a lie and truth was probably as easy as breathing, their perception of it blurry in the lines. 

They probably don't care about the differences if it means gaining something out of it. Like blood, you think. Which meant being confident and rigid with your instructions was the most important thing right now. You weren't the one locked away in a box of a room with your thoughts being the only other companion. Control was something you had if you knew how to use your own strengths.

Once identified, you and Taehyun sauntered deeper in until having to make the same decision of left or right.

“So, which one first?” He asked, turning back to you. 

Well, you flipped open the file to the table marked ‘2nd’ and scanned down the page. If you go right, you would meet with Park Jongseong—another silent creature, but well-spoken with a tipping temper that could go one-eighty within a second.

If you go left, Kim Sunoo would be waiting for you—his bloodlust knew no end, usually impulsive and seemed proud of his tendencies. Danger at every corner, really.

“Let's go right."

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Just like normal, the lab was chilled, silent with the hum of machines in the background and the grey blinds pulled at where the huge, glass window was. Taehyun went to the fridge whilst you pulled the blinds.

With a tug, you lifted the barrier to reveal a sitting figure, again with jet black hair, a leg crossed over one another with a single ankle chain, and his hands were bound on his lap. He leaned back against the wall, head slightly tilted as if time had started to remind him of his long isolation here.

Even then, you saw the sharp gaze through the strands of his hair, and the curiosity simmering with a careful heat, as if waiting for the right moment.

You forced your eyes away and Taehyun came with the blood bag, syringe, and a comforting smile.

“You ready?”

“As ever.”

Once again, you slipped into the quiet room, everything still except your steady heartbeat. You purposely kept the beats under a limit, not wanting these vampires to dig their mockery into anything you may not be able control.

Jay was like Heeseung: his head was slightly turned and stayed fixated as you walked closer. You dug out the sanitary wipe as he dragged his eyes over your features.

“Another round of drugs,” he stated, something hard weighing his tone. You didn't feel bad, and just nodded. Jay rolled his eyes underneath his bangs and let you clean the side of his neck curtly before sinking in the syringe.

As before, black veins travelled up underneath his skin, the black liquid illuminating his veins to you. He hissed and snapped his gaze to you.

“When will you stop giving those… drugs?” He muttered, fighting through the discomfort. You paused, not really having an answer because you're simply an intern.

“I'm just an intern helping out,” you finally said, and a twinkle of realisation swept over his gaze. Okay, maybe you shouldn't have revealed that. But what would he do with said information? It's not like he can spread his epiphany to anyone beyond the prison.

“So, you're new?” Jay said with a slight scoff. 

“I am.” You agreed, getting the blood bag and nearing the open straw near his lips, but within a second, his bound hands snapped to your wrist, and you nearly jumped.

The storm in your head struck your heart, the beats now unstable and harsh, knocking the wind out of you as you attempted to tug your arm back. Jay curled his fingers tighter.

He smiled ever so slightly, letting his nose dip to the pulse beneath your wrist, as if he was listening to the apprehension crawling back up your nerves and screaming out to him.

“Jongseong—”

“Smells better than that… bag of disappointment,” he cut you off, dragging his nose further up your wrist. You swallowed hard, nearly squeezing the blood bag and spilling the contents. The voice in your head tried to ice the anxiety and panic, settling it back down.

“Too… bad,” you mumbled before snapping your hand away and he faltered for a second, something hardening in his eyes. Without waiting, you held the straw to his closed lips.

Jay contemplated, eyes stuck to your fingers, but he relented, shoulders slumping as he parted his lips. It was as if he stalled enough for you to glimpse the sharp fangs glinting under the light before he took the straw in, a silent threat clear enough to warn you of what he truly was. Staying motionless, you let him finish the bag and he departed with a click in his jaw. 

Though, he didn't speak again. He only analysed over the relief cooling your features, the way your anxiety didn't quite sink away with your blood. It remained in the edges of your heartbeat, enough to speak to him.

When you disposed of the bag, you left without a word and with his gaze clawed in your back.

You need to wear gloves.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Kim Sunoo was awake. Too awake for your liking. There was no clock within the rooms, but he didn't need one. It was as if every tick of a second was taken account of all in his head.

You bit your bottom lip, chewing it in contemplation as you stared through the glass where Sunoo sat, this time with hands bound behind him, a single chain coiled around his ankle. His black hair rained over his eyes, and he smiled when he saw you scan him over.

It wasn't the friendly smile, of course, but knowing, insane. As if he had you all figured out, but he was building up a wall of his own defenses in place.

Taehyun returned with a blood bag and syringe, placing it in your pocket without asking. “You good?”

You hummed in agreement, nodding. “All of these guys love to stare.”

“They're not normal, remember? And you're new, so its natural,” he explained, guiding you to the sliding door and putting in the code. Made sense, but it didn't do anything to ease the bewilderment clouding your lungs with thick clouds.

Your breath came out with a small quiver.

With a slide of the door, you were in, and was consumed by his hum. Brief hum. The first of the lot. You glanced over and brushed the hair away from your eyes before approaching like before. 

“Gosh, not that blood bag again? I would love for something richer,” Sunoo began as you stood before him. When you gave no reply, his jaw tightened, but his smile widened as you ripped the sanitary wipe open. As long as you willed things to go your way, then it will be okay.

Except, the universe hated you and wanted to shit on your smooth-ish day.

Just as you were to make contact with the side of his neck, Sunoo stood with an audible sigh of relief. You jumped back, faltering in disbelief.

He shook each leg as if they were cramped and bolted with tension, and then rolled his shoulders within limit. 

The exasperation crawled back into your heart and swelled there, and Sunoo noticed it with the perk of his head. 

“I'm sorry, but being bound makes one… squirm,” he said cheekily. You certainly didn't appreciate it, but you honestly were too busy remembering if Sunoo was a biter or the restrained one. You stood awkwardly with the wipe, eager to get it over and done with.

“Fair enough,” you muttered, sending Sunoo to grin and his pupils to dilate ever so slightly.

“I am glad you understand. But alas, you are here to drug me again, no?” 

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes and nodded with a tiny, tight smile, keeping up with the courtesy. Sunoo's smile remained as he heard the pulse of your heart skip again. To your dismay, he simply leaned down, exposing his neck with the tilt of his head, expecting you to be jolly with it.

You weren't. Obviously. He was taller but you had to make due with what he had, even if you wanted to protest.

Swiftly doing the same job of cleaning, injecting, and disposing, you retrieved the blood bag, popping open the straw as Sunoo sat down with resignation, something hardening to stone beneath his mischief.

There were no complaints as he drank the blood, and your muscles grew antsy, hands faltering a little making the straw jostle. Sunoo bit into the straw before licking his lips of whatever was left, examining the way your eyes strayed to the sliding door. He grinned.

“You can leave now,” he taunted under his breath, but you heard it and disposed of the bag with teeth grit.

“Yes. Thanks for the cooperation,” you curtly replied. 

“Enjoy it whilst it lasts,” he whispered as you left through the doors, the buzz indicating the lock jolting into place.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

“How many more, Terry?” You groaned, bumping your head with the file repeatedly. The elevator moved up steadily as Taehyun pressed the third floor with familiarity. But at your sulky tone, he laughed.

“Three more. I'm surprised you started complaining this late.” He mused.

“I've been complaining the whole time.”

“Well, you better hold it because the last dude is on the fourth floor, completely alone,” he explained. The elevator doors opened with a ding and you followed with questions breaking past the dam that was supposed to be your calm. You rushed to his pace.

“Alone? Why is he the only one up there?” You inquired, already flipping through your file.

“The higher we go, the more caution we need. The last dude is probably written in your notes somewhere. Forgot his name,” Taehyun said as he flashed his ID to the guards. You did the same before entering the deeper hallway, the cream corridor decorated with two main doors. Taehyun sighed and stretched his arms upwards.

“Left or right?”

Good question. You flipped your file to the ‘3rd’ tab, and then read down the page hastily.

On your right was Sim Jaeyun—quiet and calculating, someone who was like the dark horse. Only existing in the shadows but a plan crafted by him meant perfect execution and skill.

On your right was Park Sunghoon—a no-bullshit vampire, even more calculating and a violence that he hid all too well, knowing he craved dominion over his actions.

Again, no good way.

“Left it is.” You sighed.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The blinds were pulled as if on instinct and there he was sat, leather cuffs bound around his wrists and the standard chain around his ankle. Of course, he didn't stare immediately, but you thought you saw his head slightly itch, as if he heard something new. Something new to prey on.

“Okay, you know the drill. I should just leave you alone.” Taehyun placed the bag and syringe into your large lab coat pocket. 

“Don't you dare,” you shot back at him before guiding yourself over to the sliding door.

Taehyun did a fake salute before you went in, and the door slid shut behind you as always. The silence didn't shock you as much, but you still expected to hear at least one of them breathing a little loudly.

But no. Their breaths were all timed, in sync, and connected. 

The stranger thing with Sunghoon was that he didn't speak. Not as you wiped his neck, not when you injected the drug, not when you let him feed off the animal blood. It was incredibly unnerving, and the lack of words or comments sent your stomach tightening in discomfort. It ate at your nerves.

When you were done, his gaze ran over your figure once before he looked down again, but you knew his ears were alert, keeping note of your heartbeat.

Even Taehyun was surprised as you and him left Sunghoon's suite. He blinked rapidly.

“Man, he was easy.”

“I would rather he talked. The whole time, I felt like he was going to rip my arteries out,” you countered. Taehyun smiled nervously as he punched in the code to Jake's lab suite.

“That would be interesting for me, you know?”

“Shut up, Terry!”

As routine, Taehyun went to retrieve the blood bag and syringe whilst you lifted the blinds to reveal a dejected Jake. 

With his fringe containing his gaze, he kept a neutral expression with his hands also bound by the same leather cuffs, and a single chain to his ankle. Though, his body was ridden with tension and expectation despite the stillness sweeping over him. 

“Okay, nearly done. You're doing great,” Taehyun said. Agreeing with a hum, you went in without a word, and you walked up to him with no hesitation this time. Jake glanced. You froze.

Cold and dead. That is what came to your mind first when Jake's gaze flickered to you, and it had the same ability to dissect your skin and trigger every goosebump.

With a second to gather yourself, you got the syringe and twisted the cap off. Jake shifted.

“What a pretty heartbeat,” he murmured as if he was in a trance. Oh gosh, maybe vampire Riki was right about one of them just seizing your heart. You just gave a look before wiping his neck, burying your tremble.

“Fresh. So fresh,” he whispered again, and you prepared the syringe, wishing you could just pause your heartbeat so they would stop pointing it out.

With no reply, Jake let the corner of his lips tilt up. “And you know it.”

Your hand nearly shuddered but you forced yourself to sink in the needle a little more harshly than intended. Jake grunted loudly, almost recoiling, but with your hasty actions, the drug emptied out into his system, the black veins appearing in a simultaneous flow up his neck.

You would apologise, but your throat was sewn shut, and you grasped the blood bag wordlessly, holding it to his lips. Disbelief and repulsion became stone in his eyes, but he drank, fangs flashing as he closed his lips around the straw.

His words, admittedly, did bother you. They were so targeted, well-thought, and now you knew that Jake constructed his words just as well in the deeper shadows of his mind. Not too slow, not too fast. Just enough to rattle whatever foundation your confidence was set on. He was made to break those pillars holding you together.

The blood was finished and Jake sat back, fists resting on his thighs. He smirked again as you stood straight, maintaining distance.

“Gosh, I would prefer your pulse on my lips instead,” he said as if it was a confession meant to please you.

It did the opposite and you had no strength to even reply because you headed for the door with another gaze marking your back.

And you left.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Taehyun led you to the fourth floor, this one being brighter and guarded with three men instead of the usual two. You mentally counted this vampire to be the last.

“More guards?” You stated as the men let you into the bright corridor. Taehyun hummed in agreement, hands in pockets.

“We had to. According to what I heard, this dude's bloodlust is on another level. But… he's weirdly talkative,” he replied as he took you to the door, punched in a code and entered with you close behind.

This time, you flipped the file open to the last page and read through with urgency.

Finally, Yang Jungwon. The last vampire and supposedly the leader, the one seen always at the crime scene with a cunning smile and a skill built for hunting blood. He was intelligent, twisting, but it seemed that he didn't work well enough now that he was caught and locked away..

As Taehyun did the normal, you went to the blinds and pulled them up. As soon as you did, a figure stood right at the glass, tall, arms crossed over slightly as leather bounds coiled his wrists, the chain at his ankle, and his blonde hair barely concealing the dark eyes simmering with something intense. You yelped when you were forced to face him, and he smirked as he swept his eyes over the alarm tightening every muscle. Your pulse raced.

So much so for keeping control over it.

Taehyun, on hearing your startled sound, came and sighed when he observed how Jungwon was standing, waiting. He was ready to scare you, and you let him.

Embarrassed, you gulped hard and took the blood bag and syringe from Taehyun. Wordlessly, he led you to the sliding door. Before you went in, he held your arm gently.

“Careful. Keep calm,” he whispered. It was oddly strange to hear his seriousness, but you nodded and slipped into the prison room, exhaling.

Silence didn't greet you this time. It was broken by Jungwon making a hum sound, feet padding along the floor.

“Your heart practically jumped out your chest,” he mused, grinning only slightly to no one but himself. You swallowed hard, trying to keep all corners of your composure together. If you didn't get a hold of yourself, he would just hold it over your head.

Taking a few steps in, you observed him circling once, and then back before he stopped and stared more intensely than the moment at the glass.

Your features burned and tingled as he took in each inch of you.

“You're… new. Familiar, but new,” he muttered, mentally noting it as he stepped closer. You didn't move.

You're doing your own analysing.

“I'm an intern,” you replied quietly. Jungwon parted his lips in realisation, an epiphany that dawned on him like moonlight. He tilted his head in fascination.

“Right, right. Your impatience resembles another scientist here. Hm, and the same eyes, same type of scent,” he muttered again, walking himself through some thoughts that you unfortunately couldn't pinpoint.

Then, he turned again. “Your mother is the senior scientist here. Oh, I mean… researcher.”

You didn't expect him to guess so quickly or to even pay so much attention to your mother, or you. At your silence, he clapped once, mocking.

“I'm right. Yes, of course. Your mother decided to drug and feed us like experiments. Makes me wonder what she will do next…” he walked closer to you, and you didn't move back despite his brooding height.

“Maybe, she will keep us, take our blood, keep our blood, and well… research our DNA, maybe try to locate the exact origin of our… monstrosity.” He smiled again with something slow and precise. As if he was about to pounce. “But, let me tell you something, Intern Song.”

Jungwon strode to you so quickly that you almost jumped back, but the tension locked you in place. He leaned down slightly, tilting his head as excitement sparked alive in his gaze. It easily melted whatever assurance you scraped together. How annoying.

“We don't… just own this monstrosity. It is not… simply carried in our genes. No…” 

He let his face close in around your neck, and you turned away slightly, clenching your fists.

“We embody this, we own this monstrosity. We are it.” He breathed, and then closed his eyes when he inhaled your scent and senses the pulse jumping in your neck.

“So, tell your mother… to quit her prying.”

Finally, you broke away and stepped back and relaxed only a fraction since his chain limited him. Then, you glared.

“We are only taking your blood and keeping you here because we need to reverse your effects on those you have bitten.” You gripped the sides of your lab coat.

He didn't look surprised, but more pleased. As if he found what he was looking for and he was spot on. And now, you were humiliated that you let him get to you.

“I see.” He simply shrugged and walked back to the bench built into the wall. That was your sign to get this over and done with. Determined, you stepped towards him and retrieved the syringe hastily, and he watched with a callous gaze, analysing again as if he was building some mental profile of you. You wished so deeply to punch him, but you simply wiped the area on his neck and injected him with the suppressant drug. 

Like the others, black lines travelled through his veins, decorating his skin, and Jungwon silently endured it, shutting his eyes briefly before they fluttered open again, silence gripping his muscles suffocating them.

Wordlessly, you got the blood bag's straw open and nudged it towards his lips, but he took his time to glance down, stare at your fingers and wrist, before taking the blood.

He drank slowly, you noted. Much slower than the others, as if he enjoyed this type of blood. He didn't exude the same disgust like the others. You could tell he was thinking, though. Scheming away and it was all locked away in the dark place of his mind.

When he finished and you were busy disposing of it, Jungwon straightened his back, letting his eyes strayed to your neck, your collarbone slightly hidden beneath the lab coat, and then to where your heart resided. Slightly hasty, but soft. You were annoyed.

“You know, Intern Song, you can't cage monsters for long,” he began saying, letting his head tilt. That same anchor of unease hit you in the middle of the chest as your gaze returned to him.

He smiled, leaning forward but his chin flitted up to you with something hidden and proud. “Because we all have to face them at some point. They always manage to… sneak past every type of defense at the most unexpected times.”

You ripped your attention away from him and walked to the sliding door to hear his voice suddenly right behind you. Whipping your head around, Jungwon already loomed over you, ropes straining against his wrists, the chain to his ankle taut as his gaze hardened.

When did he even move? Even the chains were silent in his presence. A shudder consumed your heartbeat.

“Goodbye… until next time, of course,” he murmured, muscles almost twitching to get closer and break the restraints’ boundaries.

Each breath got caught in your chest, and you rushed out his cell, locking him in behind you. Even then, another gaze was burned into your back, adding to the six others that had already marked you.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The next day was busy as always. With autumn nigh and here, more and more younger students were chosen to tour the facility, specifically the East Wing for the laboratory research held there.

The West was undoubtedly too risky to explore, especially with criminals residing within them. You wouldn't wish the experience on anyone; the vampires’ silent schemes were hidden yet their aura echoed and sunk into your bones, making it hard to forget.

With the clouds latched onto the city of Seoul, you walked with Soobin, another gentleman like Taehyun, to where the reception would be. Before the small tour, you read some facts and data on the place, preparing yourself for any questions related to your own experience here.

“How many students?” You asked him as he pushed up the bridge of his glasses. 

“Well, five of them were chosen. Smaller means more containment,” he said with a small smile. Which was true. It kept your own sanity strung in place if anything happened. God forbid, it did.

When arriving at the main area, you and Soobin introduced yourselves before setting off with the students. Three girls and two boys with pens and notebooks in hand, and with a visitor ID hanging around their necks.

First, it was showing them the labs, without going inside. Soobin took the lead, explaining how they tested and repeated the routine all in order to figure out how certain cells would react with chemicals.

Then, you took the lead of explaining how the facility was strict with their routines, keeping the environment locked away from contamination and such.

It was pretty simple until a student raised his hand nervously. Soobin, delighted, smiled and let him speak.

“Um… can't you show us something different? It's also where the vampires are kept, too, right?” He said, spreading his hope to the other students who also straightened their postures in expectation. 

You gave Soobin a panicked side-eye, and he returned it with equal measure before blinking back at the students. He clamped his hands together, smiling sheepishly.

“Um… well, I can show you one room, but don't touch anything.”

The students nodded obediently and Soobin began to lead the way with you by his side. As much as your questions threatened to break out, you followed along until he reached a room and punched in the code, taking the students in.

It was a clean room, grey walls but what shocked you was the weapons encased in glass, sparkling under individual spotlights within the case, and the iconic black masks caged in another glass row.

There was a range of weapons—a metal hacksaw with sharp edges protruding on the frame, glittering with violence; a mace where the ball at the end of the chain had metal thorns jutting out the surface, almost making your skin crawl from the promised murder it could commit; a metal bat with barbed wire wrapped around the weapon itself, metal edges hanging off the frame.

It wasn't even the worst part because your eyes finally laid on the chainsaw, the metal shining under the spotlight, the stories and previous blood of victims almost ingrained under the surface.

You swallowed hard, but the students seemed to enjoy it, mumbling amongst themselves of how ‘insightful' it was. 

As much as you were also curious to know why these were here, you couldn't contain the unease clamped around your chest, weighing it down.

It didn't matter now because Soobin clapped his hands together and smiled at the students to bring their attention back.

“These weapons were used to commit the heinous murders by the vampires,” he began, walking along with you to the hacksaw. Underneath, the metal label had the number ‘07' engraved in it, like a knell that you mentally heard when you stared for too long.

“I heard of a myth,” a boy said behind you. “That there's a blood moon that they ready themselves for.”

That was new for you. Despite working here, you never bothered to dig deeper into the vampire and their lore, their past. Well, you never bothered because killers weren't worth your time and you didn't care. So, you found yourself glancing at the student with equal interest as the others.

When everyone turned to him, he smiled sheepishly.

“It's just some reading I did before coming here. I read that every two hundred years, these vampires get stronger in their abilities than last time.” He glanced around the group. You tensed.

“So, they were weak to begin with?” A girl asked with a slight scoff, as if she didn't believe that murderers could possess any type of weakness. 

“Well, I don't know exactly. It's all just theory. Well, it's believed their bloodlust grows stronger as well as their abilities.” He answered thoughtfully.

You tried to recall any type of information—one thing these vampires could do was release venom to turn normal people into a more unstable version of them. Not quite the same, but their sanity would loosen until it was hard to find the ends of it and tighten it all over again.

So, if their abilities included bloodlust, venom, and any other personal powers, it basically meant these creatures would be unstoppable if they reached a certain threshold.

And for these vampires, you have no idea how much strength they have preserved underneath their psychotic surfaces, but you honestly didn't want to dig past and see.

And for the patients in the private part of the East Wing, from what you know, they haven't completely turned. They were teetering on the edge, but the lab scientists were all trying to pull them back before they fall into vampirism. That was the whole goal for your mother. To find their fraying sanity and sew it together again.

Soobin, intrigued, hummed along and nodded. “I think I reason about it but honestly, I don't know if these vampires actually have that… ritual.”

“It would be useful to study,” another student said, and quite honestly, you had to somewhat agree and disagree.

Having them under the facility's roof was already dangerous enough—you didn't want to wait for an opportunity for them to power up and supposedly find a new path to wreak irreversible havoc.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The whole week went by and gladly, you weren't asked to administer the drugs again. Your mother still thought it was a valuable lesson, but you kept some details to yourself. She seemed so chill about it, and you didn't want to reveal how easy it was for you to drown in the anxiety of it all.

Right now, though, you glanced outside to the chilling night, the moon concealed behind the murky clouds. The light was prominent, almost glowing behind the blanket of misty water. 

She was still out there. As if the moon was holding her breath, concealed for a reason, waiting to bestow her moonlight on the world below. 

Shuddering to yourself, you entered the lab with those annoying plastic glasses and your hair tied back. The lab was bustling, as usual, with your mother at the centre of it.

She was standing before this rack of small vials, the dark blue liquid still, waiting to be given, and she wrote fervently in her notebook. When she saw you, she smiled and ushered you over.

“You look oddly excited,” you noted. She waved you off with her hand.

“Just my life's work,” she replied in equal retaliation, reminding you her stubborn genes definitely passed to you. She noticed you scanning her notes and moved it closer.

She pointed to the patients’ names. “They were all bitten so, are being turned as we know it. But, with our drugs, we managed to delay it.”

You nodded because you knew this. “Okay? So, what's the news?”

Her turmoil returned with the crease of her brow.

“Whatever cells were infected with the venom, we managed to stop its process, but today, I was overlooking their conditions and it seems that the cells are being turned again. As if… the venom just overrode the drugs given.” She glanced at you with worry. That didn't sound good.

“It could be a mutation?” You suggested but she shook her head.

“Venom doesn't behave like a virus or bacteria. It can't… change itself, but it can interact with patients' DNA and induce change. But how likely is that to happen to all the patients there?” She explained with confusion laced in her tone. “And besides, my drug should work in finding the infected cells and stop the venom changing them. But, it's like the venom is immune to it.”

Definitely not good. If the constricted drug didn't work anymore, it meant having to make a new one. Not only that, but when you tried to connect the dots, it either meant someone wasn't administering the correct dosage or someone put more venom into their bodies to shatter all use of the current drugs. 

But how likely was it that all the patients had the same exact change? Not likely at all. And now, your suspicions clutched at your nerves, chewing on them.

She shut the file with a slam and gazed at the blue vials before her in little circular tubes, pointing at them.

“I made a stronger dose. Taehyun is testing it on some blood samples,” she said with a pensive sigh. You nodded along and, at that moment, Taehyun returned with a sealed box and a file underneath it. With a desperate gesture to him, he came to where you and your mother were and probably with news.

She beamed at him with expectancy, but he simply sighed with a sheepish smile. That was the code for an unsuccessful finding.

“I gave the stronger dose as asked, but…” he opened the file with an easy flick. “The drug was killing normal, healthy cells as well. So.”

She touched her temples again, stress seeping through her and catching you and Taehyun in its grasp.

“Great. So, we can't even use this one either.” She muttered, moving the multiple blue vials aside. Taehyun nodded solemnly whilst your gaze wandered to the window, to the moon that peeked out in the corner, a pink tint blushing across the surface. You squinted, but the sound of your mother mumbling brought you back.

Something bubbled in the back of your mind.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

6 PM. 

You were engrossed in your notes, scribbling away in your book as your gaze flickered from the computer to your words.

The thought of those patients suffering from possible vampirism and the strong venom brought you back to one moment: the students you and Soobin toured last week, and the conversation of the blood moon.

Sure, it was a myth, but myths were usually born with a small seed of truth. You just needed to get an actual sense of it.

Hence, you were hunched over the computer, finding any type of useful Internet search.

As said before, the blood moon happened every two hundred years where the vampires usually gained strength until becoming unstoppable. Natural abilities would develop vastly, their desire for blood would consume and bury their sanity, and their venom… would work quicker and harder to turn a person.

Bingo.

Hastily staring out the window, you glimpsed the deeper blush of the moon, light bleeding through the clouds and making your hunch even more believable. You have no idea if your mother will believe you with this… shaky basis, but an explanation was an explanation.

And you had to deliver.

Packing up your things, you recalled your mother leaving with Taehyun, but you don't know where. Taking your little notepad, you set off to find the pair. 

The halls were scarce, but you still waved as people passed you to do their business. After asking a few people, you ended up in the West Wing, the familiar cream halls hushed and eerie, your shoes rhythmically tapping along. Apparently, he came here to do the normal drug rounds about thirty minutes ago. You wished he didn't because it meant having to retrace your footsteps to the vampires. They all gave you the creeps. Evidently.

Whatever. Get in, and then get out. Simple mantra to follow.

After going through the first three floors, you ended up at the fourth, punching in the code and entering the chilled and thrumming lab.

Taehyun stood with his back to you, sorting through some papers and turned when he heard you come through the door. 

You were glad the blinds to Jungwon's window were closed. If you had him staring, you're sure he would be able to read your lips.

“Hey? You look eager,” he said with a smile, returning to the documents. Rushing over, you held out your notepad and flipped to the scribble of notes you had enthusiastically collected.

“I might know why those patients are turning to vampirism more rapidly,” you began saying, and then looked around the lab to notice your mother wasn't even here. Your shoulders deflated. Taehyun noticed.

“She went to a meeting. But, go on with the theory,” he said, leaning on the counter with his elbows. It would have been helpful to explain it once, but her responsibilities must have been stretching your mother four ways. You straightened yourself.

Enthusiastic about sharing your ideas, you went to read out your notes when the lights knocked out and darkness flashed through the room in a blink.

You gasped, glancing up to look for Taehyun who also made a few footsteps, worried and cautious. Your muscles tightened, as if there was a physical knot within.

“Tae?” You uttered, squinting as the dim safety lights peeked from the ceilings. It was barely helpful because Taehyun was a mere silhouette rather than a being with colours and facial features. He stepped towards you.

“This is weird. We should get out of here,” he said with a sharp edge of caution. 

“Agreed,” you mumbled, glancing up from your notepad only to jump slightly.

That's when you saw it, or… him.

Another dark figure standing dangerously close to Taehyun's back, head tilted, but the sparkle of his fangs instantly shot you with panic. You reached for Taehyun.

“Terry—”

Upon the looming figure behind him, he turned and the figure lunged, tackling Taehyun until his back collided with the table.

A startled scream escaped you as the familiar blonde attempted to claw Taehyun in the neck, but your friend kneed the vampire in the thigh, sending him with a stumble. Taehyun breathed hard but he wasn't done as he charged at the vampire with limbs ready for fight. Adrenaline flooded his system as he landed another punch at the creature, a low growl escaping him.

You realised you couldn't stand there and do nothing, not when the adrenaline hitched up your chest like spikes digging into soil. The refrigerator was in the corner and that's where you went.

With your heart slamming in your ribs, you hauled it open and the bright light stared back at you, stacks of syringes in packets ready to be used. There was no time.

Snagging a syringe, you peeled it open and took it out, swiftly unscrewing the cap over the thin needle.

Just one of these should do the trick. When you kicked the fridge shut, a loud crash shot through the room as Taehyun was thrown over the table and to the hard floor, and the vampire easily hovered over him, fist drawn back with a promise of malice. Taehyun yelled out in pain, hands fumbling to shield himself in a panic.

That was it. 

Wasting no time, you dug the syringe into the vampire's neck, pushing the drug all the way in.

A snarl escaped him as he rolled his neck, black veins fading in and travelling up his skin. It was enough for Taehyun to crawl away with sharp, ragged breaths, towards the door.

The syringe remained in his skin, as if it didn't bother him. What faltered your very thoughts was how he simply stood, anger rolling off him like you threw a stone into a still lake, forcing ripples to drift outwards.

The fear froze up your legs, and you tried to force yourself to move, but you could only take a simple step back.

Then, he turned and Jungwon's frown dug into his face, his hand plucking out the syringe, and within a single breath, he crushed it into pieces.

Shit.

Why wasn't he weakening? Since when did he escape? How was he so strong? 

And you remembered the blood moon, the pink tint that swallowed it and your breath shook as well as your heartbeat.

His gaze twitched, as if he heard it, too. Jungwon took a step forward. You took one back.

That's when the lab door shut with Taehyun rushing out in a panic, leaving you alone with… him.

Great. Alone. Defenseless.

“You think that will hurt me anymore?” He said lowly, stalking you with a practiced slowness, as if he knew there were no cuffs to restrict him, as if he tasted liberation. Breath hitching, you turned to run, but he was quicker.

He swiped your arm and yanked you close to him, and you yelped, bumping into his chest with trembling breaths. Tipping your chin up with a bruising grip to your jaw, he leaned down, enough for you to spot the crimson blood in his eyes.

“Here's what's going to happen,” he murmured darkly, drinking in the fearful whimper that fell from your lips. “Since your… friend left you, you're stuck with me. Meaning…”

His nose just about grazed your neck to hear the marathon your pulse was running at. “You're going to help me get my brothers out. And… well, you're great leverage.”

Your hands fumbled, clawing at his wrist, but he flexed his grip, and you let out a cry when his strength grew inhumane. You felt like your jaw would break. He scoffed.

“How did you—”

“I think we both know the answer to that. And, no more questions. We have much to do,” he interjected, letting go of your jaw only to drag you along with him to the door.

As he did, an alarm blared, red lights circling the room, and a robotic voice yelling “lockdown”.

Metal shutters fell down the door, sealing it shut, but Jungwon rolled his eyes at the hindrance.

“What are the procedures in the lockdown?” He asked with a slight shake to your arm. When you didn't reply, he snapped his eyes to your stunned form, and glared.

“What. Are. They?” 

You snapped out of the terror gripping your lungs, a shaky breath leaving you. Besides, there was no choice with the way he was burying his nails into your arm.

“All doors… and windows are sealed shut, lights stay like this. And there are cameras in here and outside to oversee anyone. Guards will be at their stations,” you replied quietly as he contemplated silently. After a few seconds, he straightened himself and dragged you along with him to the door.

With a harsh shove of the shoulder, the hinges flew and the door broke open into the hallway, hitting the opposite wall. You flinched, but Jungwon paid no mind, acting as if it was paper.

The hallway was the same, the red light circling in the dark corridor, the ends of the hallway shadowed with darkness as if there were things hiding in there. Shutters were closed at the next door as well, but his care ceased to exist. 

When approaching the next door, he put a strict finger to his lips directed at you. You didn't need to be told twice and you clenched your jaw obediently. 

Leaning his ear to the door, he closed his eyes briefly, stayed, and then opened them once more. Crimson. A much darker shade and you had to stop yourself from tugging your arm away from his grip. You're afraid he might rip your veins out if you do.

He obviously must have heard something because he gripped you out in front of him, now holding your shoulder, and with one hand, he clenched his fists and crushed the metal as if it was cardboard, and tore it away, flinging it to the side

The terror flooded your chest, forcing your breaths to come out ragged, your heart thundering in panic.

“You better stop panicking. It's too tempting,” he mumbled behind you. With one last shred to the shutter, it was enough for the normal door to show

Again, he shoved the door off the hinges, silence chilling the other side where the elevator stood not too far. The guards should be here, the three that guard him. You kept that to yourself.

An eerie stillness hummed in anticipation, the very sound wrapping around you like metal, chilling your nerves. Jungwon walked you forward a few steps with slow caution.

Within a second, a bullet rang out behind you with a shrill shriek, hitting somewhere on the far side when Jungwon swiftly dodged it, annoyance flooding him.

Jungwon wasted no time and shoved you to the floor, rolling you away from the danger as you grunted from the pain rippling up your hip. You sat up, the ringing making a home in your ears.

Another bullet.

Jungwon rolled his shoulders, craning his gaze to the two guards on his left, and the other on his right.

He took the right first, lunging with an insane speed that you barely knew when he flew. He clutched the young man's collar, ignoring the  scream, and threw the guard at the others.

In response, one guard caught him with a stagger, but the dude who wasn't burdened with a person clicked his gun and aimed like a mental routine. It wasn't enough. 

Jungwon pounced, snatching the gun only to smash it into the head of the dude with a sickening thud that hurt your own head.

Dude number one dropped. The other two scrambled away, but Jungwon scoffed, anger crawling up his shoulders and fists.

You shakily breathed, getting to your feet with haste, hating how the trembles anchored your legs. It wasn't the time to be choked with fear. The exit was right there for you to seize.

 You headed for the stairs at the side. The elevators didn't work in a lockdown annoyingly enough, but the grudges could wait until later. You would love to have a talk with the head of security. All these useless thoughts were grounding you to whatever hope was left in the dirt of it all. Of making it out alive.

Another sickening crack rang out, a scream, and then the sound of a man gurgling, as if choking for air.

The sounds alone made you sick, but you coaxed yourself to reach the stairwell. As you pushed it open, a sudden hand grasped your nape and whirled you around with a cruel hand. You cried out, meeting with the same malicious gaze, his blonde hair messy but his stare was sharp all the same. Only now, the restraint was running thinner, close to snapping.

“You're not running. Unless you want to end up like those three,” he threatened as the anxiety bled into your nerves. With no reply, he pushed open the stairwell that was bathed in a fading red light and darkness. You followed the grip on your upper arm, swiftly stepping down and trying not to trip like your heartbeat.

Arriving on the third floor, he slowed again and closed his eyes as if trying to distinguish something that you couldn't hear. When he opened them, he pushed you through the doors first.

You stumbled into the hallway, meeting the two guards standing before a shuttered door with shaky breaths. They glanced at you, and when you tried to tell them about Jungwon, a person blurred past before you could comprehend.

The guard barely knew what hit him and a fist knocked his jaw out of place. He fell back.

The second guard stood no chance when he raised his gun only to be pummelled in the stomach with a forceful kick. You flinched as his back collided with the wall, a thunderous echo making it clear his spine was rearranged. Jungwon didn't spare a blink as he took the guns from each writhing guard sprawled on the floor for his own. He beckoned you with a sharp look and you reluctantly approached him. 

Jungwon brushed his knuckles before ruining the doors like paper once more. The metal flew as he swung it to the side, and he dragged you with him.

Upon the next dark hallway, you saw two figures, tall with scarlet eyes that glowed stronger than the red warning lights. In other words—more trouble.

Sunghoon and Jake stood whilst you shuddered as their gazes spotted and scrutinised your figure with recognition that felt like thorns to your skin.

“You're here.” Jake glanced to an approaching Jungwon. He hummed in response as if obvious.

“Yeah. Was a little late because someone here tried to drug me again,” he sneered and all their gazes pointed to you again. 

Gosh, it was simply a procedure. Considering the drug didn't even work, he was being awfully salty right now. He had a lot of it despite the lack of blood he would have normally consumed.

You didn't need their judgement right now, not when they could so easily kill you. You lowered your gaze slightly and Jungwon let go of you, but this time, you stayed in your spot.

You had to stay smarter than sorry.

“Do you think Sunoo and Jay are out?” Sunghoon spoke for the first time, and the coldness in them sent chills to freeze your spine. Jake made a sound of possible agreement.

“They could. But we said we would meet them there.” Jake sighed, his fangs glinting at you in a threat. 

“Even if they're not out, she knows the codes anyway. Or we can break past the doors,” Jungwon murmured, running a hand through his hair. 

Through all this, one thing that you caught was the fact that they planned this. About meeting each other, breaking out the prisons—it was all initially planned and webbed together in a way that was unpredictable. You felt stupid for thinking this myth wouldn't exist when it was the only plausible explanation for their dramatic strength. Ripping through metal shutters, escaping the coded prisons; no drug could have foretold that.

A new question simmered in your head: did they plan to get into this prison then? But why? What would they achieve with that?

You were clutching at straws, loose ends, and it made your heart skip a beat. All three of them glanced and you felt like crawling into the ground. Jake licked his lips.

“One bite?”

“No, hyung.” Jungwon scanned over the fear fluttering over your eyes with intrigue and restraint. “I doubt she would survive even a small cut. She wouldn't be so useful then, would she?”

Jake rolled his eyes and grumbled: “fine.”

Whether that gave you relief or more anxiety, you had no idea. You tried to calm your heart with a deep inhale and exhale.

“No point of loitering here. Let's go.”

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Like before, when you and the other three arrived on the second floor, the guards were taken out so swiftly that you couldn't even react, nor warn them of it. They forced the security doors open, metal decorating the floor and forcing you into the hallway with two doors that would have Sunoo and Jay locked in.

Sunghoon barged into the left with no problem, and Jake to the right. And in the midst of all this, you wondered if your mother was okay, whether Taehyung (despite him abandoning you) was surrounded by safety. No more deaths, you told yourself. Both of them were smart. Much more than you, a simple intern. It was the only thing keeping you from sinking into a hole of panic. But the edges were fraying, your feet were slipping.

Jungwon remained standing behind you when his head perked up curtly.

Footsteps. Hurried and heavy, filled with metal and hostility.

The sound reached you as well, and you turned to the doorway with broken metal edges and failed security. 

“For Hell's sake,” he muttered before zeroing in on the multiple armoured guards with guns, helmets and radios buzzing to life, all approaching strategically.

They only flooded the doors and when they saw you, one of them put a hand up to the others behind him. Jungwon easily shielded himself with you and, despite your struggles, he kept you in one place, a malicious sparkle glinting past his eyes like a tide.

“Release her. Now.” One dude yelled, pointing his gun in your direction. Your heart jumped. Jungwon tilted his head, not moving you an inch. 

Oh, man, you were about to die today. Tugging away again, Jungwon gripped your nape with his free hand, and your breath hitched, pain tingling in your skin. The grip was a display of power, control, that he would make the decisions.

You froze again.

“Release her, otherwise we will be forced to shoot,” the man shouted again as a threat. A chuckle slipped past Jungwon.

“Feel free. I mean, I could bite her for a quicker death, if that's what you guys want?” He mused, challenging them even more by lowering his lips to your neck. You recoiled hard but didn't get anywhere with your nape caught in his grip.

The man and the guards all froze, obviously caught in a dilemma. Jungwon smiled again, lifting his chin with pride. “There we go. Now, if you don't mind, we will keep her safe as long as you keep away.”

“We?” The main guard repeated in a low voice. As he said that, two figures emerged from each side, silent, predatory. You watched as the vampires, none other than Jay and Sunoo, joined the group, a hunger visible in their stares and straight lips.

You had the slight hint that you were inevitably screwed. Possibly more than you thought.

A wave of apprehension crossed over the guards drowning them entirely, and you were afraid these vampires could sense it.

Sunoo hummed in approval. “Gosh, Jungwon, let me get a bite from one of them. Their heartbeats are too enticing past that poor excuse of an armour.”

Jungwon chuckled, gripping your nape harder, forcing a whimper to catch in your throat, tension locking all your muscles.

“Sunoo, let's control ourselves. We have much more to do.” Jungwon glanced at his brother, who smiled only a little but it was full of that same insanity you had witnessed a week prior. That he was picking apart these soldiers just to play with them.

Jay cracked his knuckles, eyeing them silently. “Let's get it over with.”

That was when Jungwon swung you behind him, and you stumbled to the floor. You grunted, landing on your knees, and when bullets rang out like a cry of oncoming violence that whistled in your ears, you abruptly shielded your face.

The guards lunged, guns aimed at the ready. But the vampires dodged easily, and they practically flew to the men, eyes glowing red with morbid intent.

The first guard was crushed into the ground, a hand pinning his throat to the floor as he gasped out in terror. Sunghoon grinned.

Jay clicked his neck and dove head first, fist flying for a man's shoulder, and the other colliding past the visor and into his face. Screams ripped from his throat and others, but it was simply a sound of succes to him. If he had a heartbeat, it would have been thriving from how alive he felt.

Sunoo strode in, then progressed into a run as he leapt to the wall at his right, catching the men off guard when he pounced, and swung his claws at them; fabric ripped and the men backed away, tripping over each other, but Sunoo grabbed the opportunity and jumped atop some of them before punching through the helmet, denting the metal itself. The man screamed in half terror and pain, limbs flailing aimlessly, but soon fell limp to the ground. Sunoo hummed.

Jake easily went into the heat of the storm and swiped a gun, power surging through him as he turned the metal, clicked it and let the bullets fly.

With the mean wearing vests, Jake snarled and aimed for the neck instead. As time slowed down for him, he briefly froze, aimed, and fired.

The bullet ripped through the uniform and the smell of blood flooding out skin tickled his nose. But there was no time to dwell.

Jungwon's speed advantaged him greatly, moving in a coloured blur and testing his knuckle's ability to endure each cracking punch. When bullets grazed him, his eyes snapped to the perpetrator, and he lunged, clutching their throats and tightening the grip until the squirming body turned limp and void of light.

The smell of death pervaded the air, and you couldn't handle it. You knew they were criminals, but seeing it first hand was embedding a new type of trauma into your heart. 

They were distracted, though.

Shakily looking to your right, the emergency exit was lit green, but with a shuttered door over it. The keypad next to it glowed like an opportunity and you saw your chance.

Pushing yourself up, you buried the trembles and anxiety down where it was hard to remember, as if it was a fleeting emotion that didn't exist.

You got to your feet, jaw clenched so tightly that you thought your teeth would turn to dust.

As soon as you reached the keypad, you flipped the plastic cover up and began to search your brain for the codes.

All fire exit codes were the same as the codes for the normal doors. The ones that now had ripped metal defending them.

This was the second floor. And if you remembered the pattern of Taehyun's fingers…

“0203..?” You whispered and began to put the numbers in despite the sounds…

Sounds. 

There were none. None of struggling, screaming, or bullets. Your whole body locked into place, unable to move for a moment.

You turned slowly and a hand seized your throat, ripped you away from the fire exit, and you shrieked. The next thing you knew, your body met the ground, your throat still contracting with panic, blood rushing with nerves. 

When you opened your eyes, you saw the five of them standing over you in a circle, knuckles tinted with fresh red, barely a scratch on the surface of their skins. 

Jungwon looked pissed.

“You don't fucking listen, do you?” He sneered ruthlessly, fists clenched. His voice alone sent another wave to rock your heart. Your breath hitched, holding back tears of pure anxiety.

“Hey, relax. It's not like she can outrun us anyway,” Sunoo said with a permanent smirk of mischief. 

Jay tilted his head in consideration. “One bite—?”

“Oh for Hell's sake, no!” Jungwon snapped at the older one, who simply shrugged, used to his temper.

“Gosh, let's just go. Riki and Heeseung are waiting,” Jake said, rolling his eyes with impatience. With a huff, Jungwon hauled you up by the arm and looked to one of the opened doors leading into the prison labs. Within two seconds, he blurred in like the wind, then out but returned with something slender and long. Trembling, you glanced to see him circling rope, the same type that was used to restrain them, around his palm, his gaze unmoving, merciless when it returned to the apprehension thrumming in yours.

You recoiled in refusal but a few hands gripped your shoulders whilst Sunghoon and Jake held out your arms. The panic spiked in you.

“S-stop, wait—”

Jungwon didn't listen and when he came closer, Jake and Sunghoon quite literally crushed your wrists together as you struggled. It was a losing battle from the start.

The rope came around your wrists a few times until he made something intricate and caged you within it. Tears lined your eyes, heartbeat spiking that you didn't care if they heard it anymore. They let go of your shoulders but Jungwon kept a hold of the end of the rope by looping it around his palm once or twice.

“Now, you won't run.”

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Going down to the first floor, the guards were practically useless because they were knocked out when Jay and Sunghoon dislocated their jaws and probably their internal organs as well.

Sunoo crushed the metal shutters, revealing the normal door and shoved it off its hinges to the dark hallway with two doors still closed.

“We'll take care of it,” Jake said before nodding to Sunghoon. They both disappeared into a separate doorway, and you looked around discreetly.

You can't run with Jungwon keeping your hands on a leash, the guards were knocked out, there were now seven vampires free. If you even attempted another escape plan, you would be asking for a death wish.

Another spike of panic hit your heart, and Sunoo glanced. Jungwon raised an eyebrow at the older one before glaring. “Don't even ask.”

Disbelief swept over Sunoo, a petulant pout appearing briefly. He crossed his arms.

“Oh come on, what are you keeping her for anyway if not for a snack? Do you know how long we had to snack on that animal shit?” Sunoo glanced at your lowered head and trapped hands. Jungwon scowled. 

“As much as I also had to have the same blood.” He sighed, head flickering back and forth to hear for any intruders.

“Then, one bite. Just a scratch—”

“Hyung. She is the daughter of that crazy scientist that keeps testing us,” he said. Jungwon tugged once on the rope and you winced, pain tingling in your skin. “So, she could be helpful as leverage, and she probably knows the in and outs of the building.”

“And, after that?” Sunoo prompted, causing Jay to snort behind you. It wasn't the least bit amusing to you, but Jungwon gave a cold smile.

“We'll see.”

That alone sent prickling anxiety to sting your spine and you shifted uncomfortably. Now, you had a deadline—one before they bit you and God knows what.

The doors slammed open again, causing you to flinch and snap your gaze up to spot the last two vampires: Riki and Heeseung.

The oldest one lifted his gaze again in recognition when he saw you, but you honestly didn't have the guts to meet anyone's gaze. Riki smiled and sauntered over, rolling his wrists and neck.

“Finally free. And fresh food—”

“I got first dibs,” Sunoo interrupted and disgust rolled over Riki's face.

“No way, that's not even fair. I wasn't here to even call—”

“That's enough, both of you.” Jungwon snapped his gaze to his fellow brothers. They shut up, but the war of their petty fight continued with their sharp gazes. Slowly, Jungwon's gaze panned to your avoidant eyes.

“Now that all of us are in one place, our plan can continue,” he continued. Heeseung shifted, rolling his arm about to loosen the rigidity sleeping in his skin.

“Yeah, well. We need to get rid of those pesky guards. No doubt they're waiting below with the guns at the ready,” Heeseung mumbled and the others murmured in dejected agreement.

“If they're going to fight with their weapons, we need ours,” Riki scoffed, crossing his arms. Jungwon tugged on the rope to catch your attention. You glanced reluctantly.

“Where are our weapons?” Jungwon asked with an unyielding tone. 

You could lie. They know you're a simple intern so, maybe if you just weave a white lie, you wouldn't be aiding them in any more violence. The idea alone sent your heartbeat to race in readiness. Heeseung caught it; swift and drumming in anticipation and he frowned more.

“Don't you dare lie.” He said darkly, causing all of them to loom over you like threatening clouds that were about to drown you in blood or something. With that idea out the window, you swallowed hard to gather your voice.

“... E-East Wing. Ground floor.” You dropped your gaze to the ground.

“And, the cameras,” Jungwon said, flickering his gaze to the black lens focusing on them silently. The others looked as well, faces thundering with disdain for the over-technical facility. 

Gradually, he lifted his chin again to the others.

“As long as those cameras are looked at and work, they will send more of their men,” Jungwon said, curtly tightening his palm around the rope. Jay smirked.

“So, we need to get rid of whoever is in the control room.” He glanced at you again, and the scrutiny ran down your head, past your lowered eyes and then your lips. With a tug, Jungwon lifted your gaze.

“You wouldn't happen to know where that is, would you?” He purred, making your skin crawl, but managing to shake your head.

“I'm o-only an intern. I don't know.” You clenched your fists harder in the bounds.

“Great,” Sunghoon muttered before picking up a piece of scrap metal and hurling it at the camera with a whoosh. It hit the target with a swift slice, and the camera jostled and broke until it sparked, hanging by the wires.

“And we need to get those… those humans to turn completely,” Jungwon muttered, contemplating his control and the exact route to reach that destination. 

“They're still here? Then, we can just bite them again. Our venom will work completely,” Sunoo suggested, licking over his fangs at the thought of biting into fresh flesh again. Heeseung nodded.

“It will. Especially tonight.”

You grit your teeth.

You knew these vampires were strong. Stronger than ever. The blood moon would make sure they carved their power and control into everything. But, how do you even go about defeating them? 

You rewinded everything these past few weeks and days, down to the hours before the facility broke into chaos. Then, it hit you like a fleeting arrow.

The trial drug your mother was working on. The one where Taehyun claimed it killed normal body cells as well. One would have to assume these vampires still had healthy and normal body cells to that of humans, but it was worth a shot. The only hard part was baiting them to go into the East Wing labs on the second floor without them deciphering your plan and making their threats real.

“I doubt they kept those humans,” Riki snorted, crossing his arms. You perked your head up slightly.

“You mean the patients in the East ward?” 

They all snapped their gazes to you, intrigued but some were cautious, building up their own defenses.

“Patients?” Heeseung repeated slowly, almost as if the idea of these people being healed was a ludicrous idea.

“Yes. It's… one of the main reasons that people work at the facility,” you replied quietly, fighting through the hope that considered sparking away and setting your mind on edge. They didn't believe you. You knew it, but your stare remained before Jungwon sighed.

“We need to split, so more ground is covered.” 

The split ended up being so that Jungwon, Sunoo, Sunghoon, and Jake went to get the weapons and take out the man in the control room; Heeseung, Riki and Jay would go with you to the East ward.

Despite all this, you hoped your mother would still be hiding in the lab, thinking of ways to shut down these vampires once and for all.

Or incapacitate them if death wasn't a door discovered meant for these vampires.

Concern ached and clutched at your nerves when you thought about Soobin, Taehyun, and your mother in the path of safety.

You grit your teeth as Heeseung held the end of the rope, Jay behind you, and Riki leading everyone. The hallways were still basked on emergency red light circling the area, and you wondered if the moon out there was the same furious colour.

As all three cautiously stalked through the corridors, you began to speak.

“You guys knew the Blood Moon would happen tonight…” it wasn't a question but a statement, something accusatory. Heeseung tightened his grip on the rope, not sparing a single glance.

“Why wouldn't we?” He kept following Riki, who turned back once.

“I thought it was a myth.” You mumbled again and Jay scoffed behind you, walking closer to your back.

“Myths always have some kind of truth behind it, an event that makes it real,” he said with something certain. Of course. They have probably never told anyone that they keep track of the moon, waiting to bloom with strength. Smart because no one saw it coming. Not even the Facility.

“Why? What story?” You pressed again and Heeseung tugged you abruptly, and you stumbled to him and his eyes simmered with annoyance.

“You ask too many questions.”

“Nah, let me explain,” Riki took, sounding pleased, over as he continued walking. Heeseung scanned your blinking eyes over once more before following.

“Since your institution probably won't take this seriously, I'll say it.” Riki threw a glance at you. “It starts with our parents. They made a deal with the devil. God knows what, but we were born.”

Jay made a sound of slight disagreement. “You know that the deal was made so we would survive in that… village. It was small, but sickness always hit them.”

“Yeah, yeah. Plagues and stuff. But, our parents made sure they would keep us alive. Hence, the deal,” Riki turned the corner, eyeing the dark corridor that led to the East Wing. Still abandoned and circling with red lights. Heeseung spotted the camera, and walked, tugging you along.

“Clear. The cameras aren't making that fuckass sound,” he muttered to the others and you were led along.

Jay continued behind you. “We were kept in one, large cottage. Cosy, but they didn't let us go out even once.” 

“Like your mother,” Riki snickered in sarcasm, and you ignored the jab.

“We were kids, we didn't know why. We thought they were protecting us,” Jay said again, something hardening into betrayal underneath. 

“But, you guys were turning?” You finished off and Riki shrugged.

“Not exactly. We didn't feel anything of the sort. Not until Jungwon hyung went out into the forest one day,” he explained, piquing your interest as you and the others disappeared into the darkening halls.

“Jungwon went out without permission, but when he came back, he was covered in blood, mouth to toe. But he wasn't crying,” Jay picked up.

At the thought of a young Jungwon basically drowning in blood made your stomach curl a little, all appetite fleeing your body. Riki chuckled slightly.

“Don't forget how he dragged a human back to the house,” he replied, deepening the horror into your skin.

Your steps slightly faltered but Heeseung tugged harder on your chafed wrists, and you winced. Jay gave you a nudge forward.

“Right. The first of many.” But Jay wasn't speaking out of revulsion—it sounded like reverence, as if it was a blessing in disguise. “And from there, it was like a domino effect. Jungwon first, Sunghoon and Jake, then Sunoo and I. Then, Heeseung hyung and Riki. Each one of us turned and so, our bloodlust grew. It's pathetic how our parents didn't protect us, but protected the village from us.”

Their parents knew but didn't even bother to tell them. Did they know before or after? Did they ever try to stop them? What happened to that village? 

All those questions returned to the surface, wanting to be picked and answered, but your voice had shrunk upon hearing the origin of all their violence.

“Hey, our parents made us like this, and I'm grateful.” Riki shot an impish look at Jay, who rolled his eyes.

“Well, I can't lie and say it wasn't liberating. It was. It felt like we had no walls to keep us in. And each of us have different abilities. We only learned that later.” Jay glanced at the curiosity fluttering in your eyes.

“So, you didn't have those to begin with?” You looked over your shoulder briefly, but kept walking. In response, he shook his head.

“Why do you think we have the Blood Moon?” He replied slyly.

“To kill as many people as you can?” You remarked with a jab that made Heeseung huff, tugging you more in a sharp warning. You silenced yourself, but Jay chuckled.

“One can say that. But what's the point of killing when we can share the curse? It's liberating, Intern Song, and I feel upset that you can't see it,” he murmured, his voice suddenly hovering too close, eyes burning over the curve of your shoulder and neck.

Your heartbeat spiked and he grinned in silence. Whatever Soobin and the students had said about them achieving high strength wasn't fake after all. Clearly. And the urge to get the trial drug and stop these vampires grew beneath your anxiety like a scar never fading. Not only that—they wanted more people to turn and embrace the horrific fate that was immortal bloodlust.

“You're lucky, Intern, you get to witness one of the most important Blood Moons,” Riki said as he began to tear apart the metal shutters shielding the door. He tossed it aside whilst you pondered over your plan. 

As soon as he did, the plan to take out the guards was swift, each one taking less than ten seconds to make them drop to the floor, breathing or not. Seeing so many of them still and limp brought something heavy to tug on your throat and cry. But, there was no time to breathe.

Heeseung was already dragging you along with the rope, not bothering to stop when you had to sidestep the dropped guards with baited breath.

The walk up to the second floor was hasty but you followed anyway, your own plan growing beneath the dirt. More metal shutters were put in place on the next floor but Jay kicked it down until the dark lab hallway was present. The familiar doors were still barricaded, but your focus was on the door at the end, the one that held the research lab.

“Take us to the humans,” Heeseung said beside you. Without argument, you led them towards the end and then slowed with shaky breaths.

If you were correct, there are probably guards behind the doors and it meant an opportunity to buy time and unlock the cupboard. You glanced between the two doors and all three of them narrowed their gaze in suspicion. The way they stilled at your contemplation, trying to pick the edges apart for the truth behind it.

Heeseung tugged you back harshly until you bumped into his side and a hiss escaped your lips. There was no care in his scarlet eyes as he lowered his face, exhaling with an unstable composure on the verge of snapping.

“You're hesitating,” he sneered darkly. Your gaze flickered, to him, to the wall, and then to the ground before he yanked on your hands again. You winced, glancing again.

“Which damn door?” He snapped now, impatient and with warning. Taking a shaky breath, you turned your head to the ward door. If you took them in there, you know you could easily step away from the action and into the lab room, carrying out your own plan.

“There.” 

Riki was already ripping down the door, and opened it. Heeseung pushed you inside and darkness shrouded the room. The hum of ventilator machines remained, a slight blue hue from the emergency lights keeping the room from complete pitch black.

Your breath caught in your throat as the three vampires saw the curtains pulled around the patients, their gazes scanning, but hungry. It was as if they had reached a point of achievement.

Jay took the first step towards the first curtain before him and began to tear the fabric away. As soon as he did, a man in armour stepped out, gun aimed and ready to shoot. Jay recoiled with visible annoyance.

Heeseung snarled and tried to keep his grip on you, but you pushed him towards Jay, causing them to stumble into the wall.

Rage flashed past Riki's face and he lunged for you only for another guard to step out the curtain and catch him in motion. They crashed to the floor, and the ward room became a tornado of instant chaos. 

A guard fell when Jay swiped his leg beneath the dude, forcing him to fall onto his back with an aggravated yell. The gun was swiped and Heeseung caught it, opening fire at the other few guards popping out the curtains in defense. Even Riki was warring with violence, using only his hands to claw at the dude that tackled him, digging his nails into the neck of him. A scream ripped his throat, but he didn't care. It all passed him like the wind. Blood coated his fingers and the floor, but his attention was needed where more guards were charging at him. He rose with a newfound darkness storming his eyes.

That was your chance. 

You stumbled back, and broke into a run to get to the adjoining door leading to the labs. Like before, you flipped open the plastic covering to the keypad, punched in the code like muscle memory and watched as the metal shutters lifted and the sliding doors came into view. Your heart was thundering.

You tried your best to open the door with your bound hands, and you instantly slipped in and shut it behind you, putting in the same code so that the shutters swallowed the door again.

A grunt left you as you bumped into a counter, breathless, hopeful, but also overwhelmed. You had the chance to actually take a breath after being suffocated by those vampires’ demands and internal hunger. Not only that, but the fact they could have sunk their fangs in and drained you of life was also another reminder that hammered into your brain with no aim. There was no guarantee that the others haven't gotten their teeth messy. More persuasion to hit these vampires where they won't see it.

 You clutched your shirt at your chest from the pure adrenaline coursing through and weighing each breath down more than normal.

“Y/n?”

That motherly voice came from the side in the darkness followed by more footsteps, hushed whispers and some metal clinking together. Stunned, you straightened yourself to squint into the darkness. From the other room approached your mother, Taehyun and Soobin, worry stitched into their eyes, and then relief as they hurried to you. Some guards came, but retreated once they saw it was you.

Instantly, you ran to her, the tears you locked away returning as you dug your face into her shoulder. Her grip was strong when she hugged back, distress locked into every muscle. You were just glad she was alive and breathing.

“Oh gosh, your hands,” she exclaimed, lifting your bound wrists. Soobin gasped slightly whilst, Taehyun instantly grabbed scissors, the huge ones, before returning to you. Time ticked on but he deftly worked through them. The knots were annoying to work through, but when your hands fell free of the restraints, you hugged Taehyun as well.

He stiffened, a slight warmth rushing up his cheeks but he smiled softly, hands patting your back in reassurance. That you were back in the grounds of safety. He pulled you back by the shoulders.

“Where were you? I'm so sorry for abandoning you. I was going to go back but—”

“No need.” You wiped your eyes and looked at your bewildered mother. “I know how to defeat them. Well, it's a possibility.”

All three swiftly followed you deeper into the lab, to the adjacent room where the fridges remained shut and locked, science equipment sterilised and on display, and the dim emergency lights still blue and thrumming.

“You said that the trial suppressant was killing healthy cells as well. Normal ones.” You gestured to your mother. Realisation struck her just as hastily and then, concern. Her steps were careful when she approached, as if she wanted to disagree. You didn't understand in the slightest.

“We can't just kill them. The Facility built this on the basis we research them,” she countered eagerly, making you shake your head in vehement refusal, wanting to shake the sense into her.

“They bound me! And, they're going to keep getting stronger if we don't stop them. Those guards can only hold off so much,” you explained with equal desperation. When she still floated in silence, you glanced at Soobin who fiddled with a pen, but he wasn't exactly shocked. Just unsure.

“Soobin told me that these vampires get stronger with every Blood Moon.”

She grimaced. “That's all a myth, honey.”

“No, it isn't. Those monsters admitted it. And it's the only reason that the patients are converting back to vampirism after steady weeks of testing. I was going to tell you but…” you sighed, holding onto the counter at the landslide of thoughts suffocating your head. All three went silent, distant guns and movements making your nerves jump. Time was slipping away from you no matter how much you wanted to capture it.

“Please. Listen to me. We need to kill these vampires before they even think of turning anyone else,” you said again, and even held her arm as her gaze flickered and jumped between the conflict raging furiously within her. “I know their plan.”

With a defeated exhale, she nodded and your shoulder slumped with relief. But even then, uou wouldn't allow yourself rest if the mission wasn't done.

Soobin and Taehyun said they would guard outside; your mother was preparing the syringes, making sure to quickly line them up; and you were in the fridge, checking for the trial drugs’ blue liquid.

You were conscious of the time again, the lack of it anchoring deeply in your chest. What worried you more was the fact that there were probably more dead bodies out there. Their personal cemetery.

“Have you found them?” She asked from behind you. A distant scrape, bullet and tear echoed in the distance, but you swallowed down your anxiety.

“No.” You shoved boxes out the way as you looked down the icy box. Another scrape.

“It should be at the bottom. I left it there,” she said, shuffling behind you with plastic and glass, hastily tinkering.

Following her instructions with your chest curled in knots, you stacked all irrelevant boxes until you found the glass one with blue vials down below. 

Bingo.

You hauled it to the counter before frantically stacking everything back, and shut the fridge. 

“You found it?” She breathed, coming beside you. You nodded, taking one into your hands and feeling the weight of it all within your palm. As if you held the world by just your fingertips, too. Maybe it was knowing you had the capability to end the spread of bloodlust and corrupted immortality. All by your human hands.

She picked up the remaining in the rack and returned to her station, wearing gloves eagerly and opening the screw of one. 

“I'll help,” you declared calmly. Rushing to the gloves on the other side of the room, you failed to notice the shriek of metal, a hungry growl of a machine, something menacing on your path. It was stupid how easily your composure dampened. The only thing in your head was getting those vials into those vampires and stopping them.

Another nefarious growl roared in the lab, running through the surfaces and up your bones. It was so close, your silicone gloves forgotten mid-pull.

And then, the ravenous metal sliced, a blood-curling scream echoing out after and capturing your muscles in ice. 

Your breaths felt heavy, every part of you screaming to not look, but you did anyway.

Your knees weakened, hands fueled with tremors as you held yourself by the counter to see your mother trembling in place, her hands cupping her bloodied side. There was so much of it. You couldn't even tell what was her skin, what was fabric, heart thundering in panic, as if trying to weave something out of pure denial.

You had to look away because it was fake. Clearly. And only then you saw the four figures looming behind her, still, calm as if this was normal. None of this was normal.

She parted her lips, trying to say something, but you saw the exact moment the light escaped her eyes and her body dropped, her bloody hand sliding off the counter and nudging the remaining vials. The thud was a single knell in your ears.

The denial hit you hard. 

She wasn't dead. She wasn't. She was your strong mother that had a head of steel and tackled every problem with her own constructed weapon. She wasn't one to just accept death. You waited for her to speak, maybe stand and stumble over to you.

But when her body slumped on the floor, standing in her place was a chainsaw, the metal still but coated with copper and red torment. 

And Jungwon holding it, blonde hair a mess, his black mask returned to the lower half of his place, but his scarlet eyes pinned you to a place.

You couldn't breathe. Your legs weakened and you whimpered, dropping to your knees in denial, harsh, ragged breaths falling past your lips in large gulps, hot tears blurring your vision like a constant tide you were drowning under.

It wasn't real. You were dreaming. And your mother wasn't dead. She was just there. 

The heavy tug on your sternum pinned your breaths, your lungs, until it felt like your own body would collapse in on itself. You were doubled over, tears drenching your cheeks before you knew it.

Footsteps.

You couldn't hear them. You saw them before your blurry gaze, and when you looked up, you sobbed, unrestrained.

All seven of them looming over you like a miserable promise. Sunoo held the hacksaw, head tilted in sick curiosity and you swore a smirk flickered behind the narrow gaps of the black mask; Riki held the metal bat with barbed wire and thorns, a bloodied smile worn; Jay held the spiky bludgeon, the ball attached to a chain, emotionless; and Jungwon in the middle of it all, holding that metal monster with ease, familiarity. 

Recognition.

When he reached out to you, something in you snapped, and a shriek tore past your lips as you scrambled back, hitting the cupboards behind you. Your skin flared. As if them getting near brought thorns to prickle your skin and render you in pain.

A flash of annoyance rekindled, but he simply took a step forward, making your heartbeat rage terribly. You knew they heard it.

“Get up,” He demanded just as darkly as before, as if he hadn't ripped your mother away from the world. You shook your head, your sobs growing hastily. 

Jungwon's gaze narrowed and Heeseung's hand snapped to your arm, hauling you up forcefully and keeping you near. 

Breathing was hard for you now, and you continued to cry, all thoughts weighing down like stones planted into the planes of your skull.

“Shut her up,” Sunghoon said with distaste behind that monstrous mask. A hand clamped over your mouth, effortlessly silencing your sobs to hiccups and whimpers. You couldn't even find any of your strength to resist, exhaustion sinking into your bones. 

Her screams haunted you, the look in her tearful eyes. More tears arose, knocking at the walls of your eyes, and you couldn't deny the truth of it anymore. That denial dissolved into solid grief, the type that binded deep in your lungs, making each breath sting and seize your chest.

They all walked closer and your whines grew loud and panicked. Heeseung tightened the grip on your mouth, pressing your head back into his chest, refusing to free you.

Your pulse drummed desperately, as if urging yourself to struggle, but you couldn't. The vials were still on the counter where your mother was slaughtered, taunting you. It irritated you to no ends that your solution was right there, silently mocking you for being caged and surrounded.

The mere thought crushed all your composure again, and again until it was just dust.

“Intern Song,” Jungwon said calmly as he stood right before you with dark, crimson eyes, the colour almost a display of your mother's innocent blood staining his sanity. 

Apprehensive whines left your body, and you couldn't hold it together. Everything felt wobbly, loose. They managed to destroy everything holding you together. Heeseung pressed his palm to your lips even more.

“I need you to listen, and listen well,” he continued, ignoring you. His gaze flickered over your hazy and teary eyes, the sight fueling a darkness within, making him smirk.

“You need to do a job for us,” he said with another pur. You shook your head with muffled sobs and Heeseung sneered, stilling your head. Jungwon smiled coldly and it sent something heavy to curl in your stomach. Sunoo smiled, tilting his head. It only looked worse with those black masks.

“There's a reason why we haven't killed you, lovely,” he said with a false sweetness. The others shifted, but it was Sunghoon that appeared at your side within a swift second. A shudder seized your spine.

Sunghoon leaned down with that air of control. “You're going to help us make a serum… a venom.”

This time, your breaths halted, eyes creasing in confusion. It didn't make any remote sense. Even in your state of grievance. They could just bite people and get it over with. Why do they need you?

They saw the mental questions arising and Jake scanned you over with mirth.

“You see, only us seven can turn vampires in one go. Anyone we turned cannot do it to the same ability,” Jake explained as he flexed his knuckles, his dead eyes boring into yours. You glanced away.

“And we need it done quickly. With the Blood Moon, we have become stronger and need to spread… our curse. The serum can be quicker if the humans do some of the jobs for us,” Jay continued, and all of them held that expectation in their straightened postures and cold gazes.

Riki finally stepped forward, the bat resting on his shoulder as if he was carrying an old friend. You whimpered.

“And you're going to help us do that,” he finally said before they all pinned you with their gazes.

The tears remained but your sobs had been buried by the pure striking shock of what they wanted you to do. Obviously you can't do that. To even go against why you accepted the internship at the facility in the first place would unravel all your sanity, your reasoning. The only things you had left to keep. Deciding to do good wasn't just a personal thing—you were confident when you knew what the destination was, when knowing that your aid contributed to something positive. Even if a fraction. 

Not to mention that your mother worked so hard, putting all her time and sleep into helping those patients regain their old life. For you to break that legacy would be ending her work, betraying her. And now, with her body lying a few feet away, the refusal caged the offer from ever reaching you. You didn't even blink in contemplation.

Jungwon ground his teeth, dropping the chainsaw with a heavy clunk. A flinch broke through you, but he didn't care. Heeseung released you wordlessly only for Jungwon to slide his hands through your locks and yank your head back. You cried out abruptly, hands clawing at him in a weak attempt to unfurl his violent grasp.

It didn't work.

“I don't think you heard us clearly,” he muttered dangerously, tugging your strands back further as you whimpered, more tears slipping down your cheeks. “You will make the serum, and you will do so without me asking once more.”

“A-and… if I don't?” You managed to croak out, fighting the storm of emotions. Jungwon tilted his head until his nose grazed your trembling neck again, holding you there.

“Then I will bite you. Right here.” Jungwon physically prodded his fangs in warning at the side of your neck, and you tried to push his chest. He remained, and chuckled with that same control he rediscovered and kept in his grasp. “And I will turn you into what you hate the most. A monster.”

He pulled away only a little but it was still so close. You couldn't process it. Everything was frozen, woven in a deep web of problems. And the solution? You couldn't even figure it out. It was all loose, tangled.

Silence gripped your throat, eyes searching his but it was just stone hard and unyielding. And exuded power that he wouldn't be denied. 

Pain tingled up your scalp as he tightened his hand, and you winced again, then shook your head.

“Don't m-make me—”

“You don't tell us what to do,” Jungwon snapped, yanking on your hair again, sending another crack of pain through your head. A hoarse cry left your throat.

Riki rolled his eyes, his bat swinging down with slight force and striking the back of your knees. Another burst of pain sprung up your buckling legs, and Jungwon wrapped his free arm about your waist as you struggled to deal with the dilemma and pain. Your hands braced with no choice on his chest and another wave of indecision submerged you.

It was clear he didn't care. Those cruel, crimson eyes were waiting, but the patience was quickly dissolving, and so was your time.

“Will you do it or do you need another reminder?” Heeseung remarked darkly behind you. 

Looking at your choices from every angle, there was barely a route where you escaped safely. If you run, you would get bit; if you go along with it, you would be aiding these notorious criminals into turning the city into their own personal army; if you don't do anything at all…

“Well?” Jungwon pressed on, causing you to snap back to reality. You had to keep yourself alive. The small spark melted your hopelessness, but it was something.

You won't stop fighting for yourself, nor your mother. But if you had to fight, you couldn't get yourself killed before the battle even started.

With a defeated slump of the shoulders, your gaze lowered and he smiled, loosening the grip on your hair, but not completely.

“Smart girl,” he purred before he let go and Sunoo approached, lowering his mask deftly. Defensive, you stepped back.

“What are you—?”

Sunoo dismissed your words easily, like dust. He grinned in anticipation. “Don't you remember? I got first dibs.”

The initial panic climbed up your chest, and you stumbled back again. Jake grumbled as well as Riki.

“I wanted a taste,” Riki muttered. You weren't listening to them anymore because you glanced at Jungwon.

“You said if I agreed, I wouldn't be bitten!” You exclaimed with ragged breaths, backing up until you bumped into Sunghoon. His hands latched onto yours like cuffs and you abruptly yelled.

Jungwon shrugged, picking up his chainsaw again, but a smirk curled ever so slightly at the corner. “I said I wouldn't bite you. I never said anything about the others.”

Why did you ever trust his word? 

Sunoo strolled over with a skip in his step, the anticipation thrumming through him like waves that did nothing to calm your frantic struggles. You shook your head with trembling breaths, begging.

They all watched like it was the most normal thing ever, as if this was a sick routine.

“Sunoo, please—”

“Oh, it'll only sting a little,” he teased, cupping your face and forcefully exposing your neck. In a desperate attempt, you kicked at him, but his hand gripped your thigh and eased it down harshly. 

“Tsk, tsk, I'm not turning you. Just want a little… snack,” he whispered, removing your hair and the lab coat that seemed useless now, and he inhaled deeply.

This can't be happening. None of this was real. But no matter how many times you denied the situation, the more your body felt crushed under it all. 

Especially when Sunoo prodded his fangs, humming like he inhaled a sweet song, and you shrieked. Sunghoon held you too easily by the arms, and Sunoo kept you in place by the jaw.

There was no preparation that could make you endure the pain.

Nothing at all.

The moment Sunoo's fangs broke through your skin, a sudden explosion of pain struck through your neck and shoulder, an agonised cry leaving your tight lungs. All your muscles flexed, tightened and a thousand painful knots curled into your flesh.

That was only the surface, the mere opening of your flesh, not even enough to draw blood. But it was enough for tears to coat your eyes again, your head to thrash, nails digging crescents into your palm.

“Stop—!”

Sunoo boldly sunk his teeth all the way in and an immediate dizziness consumed you, your head losing strength, pain sweeping over you like the heaviest tide in a hurricane. At this point, voices blurred and your knees buckled. You couldn't think past the barrier of your vessels cracking, and allowing his intruding fangs to disrupt like a visitor you never asked for. A thief for your blood.

Pain ignited and struck you once more, hitting you with one, hot bolt of pulsing pain through your neck and shoulder.

You couldn't comprehend thoughts, words. Everything twisted and kept you oblivious except the fact that Sunoo greedily took your blood, each motion sparking more agony to tighten and bolt your muscles. You think he hummed, and then delved in deeper.

Keeping your eyes open was a strain you were falling under.Your body fell into the arms of someone. You forgot who. But it didn't matter. Sleep and rest felt more embracing, warm, and away from the roots of reality.

The darkness, for once, was something you gladly fell into.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The first thing you registered was the heavy ache crushing down on your neck, rippling from the bite spot and then reaching up your head and shoulder.

Everything was muffled. Silent, even. Too silent.

Peeling open your eyes, clean, grey walls shone in your surroundings, the stillness corrupting your thoughts despite the pain.

The ground was cold, and not far ahead, there was a window with a grey barrier drawn down, and the striking realisation flashed through you.

The prison cell.

With a burst of energy born out of panic, you shifted your body only to hear and feel leather and metal near your hands. Horror weighed deep in your chest at the leather cuffs around your wrists, and when you peered down at yourself, the chain coiled around your single ankle.

This was worse than you thought. Everything was going down hill, and breaking. Your sanity was unravelling from all the stress sinking into your bones, and your throat felt dry.

Shakily breathing, you fought through the web of pain gripping at every nerve and stumbled to your feet; the agony straining your neck worsened, and you weakly groaned.

The window was cold as you stumbled to it, hands landing with a thud, a futile display of fight, determination. If there was anyone listening, you didn't care. Your forehead landed there, exhausted.

“Let me g-go,” you whispered, weakly banging the glass once more, the movement sending another shot of pain to ripple from your neck and everywhere.

It wasn't just the bite spot. No. Everything was drowning. Your mother was dead as you know it, and her body was probably going to be swept away like litter; you don't know where Soobin or Taehyun were.

They were probably as good as dead.

And the other scientists? Their fates were undecided. How did it even come to this?

Tears welled in your eyes at the thought of trying to take down these vampires after everything that happened.

A rustle sounded, and the blinds went up to reveal Jungwon holding the strings with a controlled stare, as if he knew he held power over you.

Heaviness weighted in your chest, forcing your hands to weakly tap the glass again.

“Y-you monster,” you whispered but you were sure his hearing caught it. The words didn't go missed by him. He tilted his head, pinning your gaze with pleasure or amusement.

“I know. I don't need a reminder, Intern Song,” he spoke through the glass mockingly. The spark of anger twinkled in your eyes, the way your brows creased.

His gaze snapped to your neck, the dry blood staining the agonising wound, and his pupils dilated slightly before meeting your teary gaze again. 

“Now you know,” he began saying, leaning closer to the glass to display those blood crimson eyes of his. Your fists clenched as you steadied yourself on the glass, teeth grit, not being able to help the frustration twisting your face and chest. “How to be kept like a mouse in a facility, to be controlled and experimented upon.”

“We're not the s-same,” you remarked in a contempted murmur, breathless. Jungwon smirked at that, leaning his shoulder on the window after crossing his arms. The controlled demeanour, the time spent to taunt you—it all infuriated you. You wanted to strangle him.

“Exactly. We're not the same, Intern Song. Isn't that why we were kept here? I'm simply returning the favour so you can help us with something,” he explained so easily. Another spark of pleasure lit up his face when he glanced at you. “And that's helping with the venom. Like you agreed to.”

“Before your stupid b-brother bit me,” you retorted again, making him snap his cutting gaze to you.

“It's only natural, you know? It's what happens when you deprive us of what we are truly meant to consume,” he countered sharply, leaving no room to argue. Speaking of his brothers, you failed to see any of them in the lab room, and your worry returned to the surface. He sensed the sudden spike in heartbeat.

“Don't worry. They're just… having a snack here and there.” 

Tremors ran up your back, gripping your chest and making each breath ragged, shaky, and filled with anger. You grit your teeth, banging your cuffed hands on the window even more.

“You won't get away with this!” You yelled but it lacked the anger you wanted to give. It sounded desperate, as if you had lost the fight already. Jungwon didn't even blink and shrugged.

“You're not convincing anyone. Even yourself,” he said before walking to the side door, opening it and the room suddenly shifted to become unsettling and suffocating. 

His steps were easy, silent as he stalked you, and you stumbled back a bit. The chain pulled taut when you tried to distance yourself too quickly, and you fell back onto the ground, wincing when your spine tingled with pain.

The shadow of his loomed over you like a reminder of your entrapment, taunting you even more. Jungwon knelt down as you curled away but he gripped your cuffed ankle, yanking until you held yourself up by the forearms. You groaned in agony, the sensation radiating from your wound and up your skull.

“And, Intern Song, I only have so much patience with your words and actions. Quite frankly, you have exhausted me with all your escape attempts,” he said with a dangerously low voice that cut into you to prove the point. When you glanced at the ground, he pulled on your hand with a silent threat, making you meet his gaze.

“Anymore of that, and I will let each of them drain your blood until you can barely speak. Do you understand?” He warned, expecting an answer. A nod was all you could manage, but he violently shook your hand, and you cried out weakly. “I said. Do. You. Understand?”

“Y-yes,” you uttered hastily. Jungwon tilted his head, as if satisfied, let go of your hands and began to walk towards the door that led to your freedom. Before he exited completely, he turned to you over his shoulder. You tensed.

“Enjoy your time in Facility 007.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱‧₊˚━━━━━━━━━━━━━

— ִֶָ࣪☾. [𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒]: so, do yall want a part 2(?). Hope you enjoyed!!

REBLOGS, LIKES+ COMMENTS are appreciated<3

.𖥔 ݁ ˖[Taglist]: @sourkiki @codyl-angdon @luvksnn @aoivanilla @immelissaaa @chovero @kettyperdi @ch4c0nnenh4 @tojiworshipper @strxwbloody @fancypeacepersona @yuyxann @riribelle @cakeforwonu @heeshlove @pjselee @yollohblbl

[himasgod]

Hiiii could I request a Rapunzel type reader with Vil? Nothing too specific just maybe the long hair and a Rapunzel-ish personality! Do whatever you please with it really <3

VIL X READER

Where you look like Rapunzel

Where you transfer as a new student from RSA, and Vil can't take his eyes off you after you join Pomefiore and make a mess of things.

probably one of my favorite vil things i have <3

“Who is that?”

The words left Epel’s mouth with the kind of innocent wonder that usually earned him a glare. And sure enough—

“Do not gawk like a bumpkin,” Vil drawled, casting an icy look at the first-year. “It’s unattractive.”

Epel winced. “Sorry, Vil. It’s just—look!”

Pomefiore courtyard was usually serene—prim apple trees, elegant hedges... Which made the sight of you even more surreal. You were standing near the bushes, humming softly to a group of birds perched on the gate, and your hair—

Saints, your hair.

It cascaded down your back in endless waves, golden and glossy, trailing nearly to your ankles. It swayed behind you like a living creature, each strand almost impossibly perfect.

“Is that enchanted?” Rook asked from nowhere, eyes gleaming. “C’est magnifique.”

“She’s a transfer student from Royal Sword Academy,” Rook explained, leaning in. “I heard her magic channels through her hair. Something about magic saturation from birth.”

Vil blinked. “That’s absurd.”

“Still pretty,” Epel mumbled.

And Vil Schoenheit scoffed.

You looked untouched. Like someone who hadn’t been bent to fit any mold. Like you didn’t even realize the attention you drew.

Naive. Unrefined. And absolutely radiant.

Vil frowned. That could be a problem.

You were, by every measurable social metric, a disaster.

You got lost three times your first week. You called Professor Crewel “sir puppy-coat” by accident and then tried to braid Jack's tail because you thought it was “pretty.” You asked if alchemy classes included painting.

And when you walked into Alchemy with a loose braid, Vil nearly had a coronary.

“Darling, what is that?” he hissed, grabbing your arm.

“What’s what?”

“Your hair. It looks like you rolled out of bed, tangled yourself in curtains, and then got caught in a wind tunnel.”

“Oh,” you said thoughtfully. “That’s kind of poetic.”

“It’s horrifying,” he corrected.

You didn’t seem offended, just tilted your head.

“I like when it’s free. It gets sad when it’s pulled too tight.”

“Your hair gets sad?”

“Yes. Don’t yours?”

Vil stared at you. You stared back.

Then, completely seriously, you said,

“You’re very shiny. Are you royalty?”

“…Close enough,” he muttered, rubbing his temples.

Vil tried to ignore you.

He tried.

But then you joined the Pomefiore dorm (“A perfect match for your magic affinity,” said Crowley, likely after throwing a dart at a wall) and began leaving strands of hair everywhere—on the banister, the staircase, the library chairs, even once trailing behind a moving tea cart like a golden ribbon.

And yet—despite the chaos—you were impossible to stay annoyed at.

You complimented everyone with alarming honesty. You greeted Rook’s dramatic entrances with claps and sparkling eyes like he was performing just for you. You offered to brush Epel’s hair “to make it extra floofy,” which he weirdly didn’t hate.

You braided flowers into your own braid and left extra ones for anyone who looked like they needed one.

And every morning, you smiled like the world was a gift.

Vil caught you one evening humming as you combed your fingers through your hair under the moonlight.

He sighed and stepped closer.

“You missed alchemy today.”

You turned to him, eyes wide.

“I didn’t mean to! I was helping a dust bunny out of a bookshelf and then I got distracted—”

“Enough,” Vil waved a hand. “I’m not here to scold you. Much.”

“You’re always very… sleek.”

“Thank you?”

“You remind me of a mirror, very shiny. And kind of cold.”

“That’s not a compliment most would take kindly.”

“I meant it nicely.”

And damn him, he almost believed you.

You’d float into the lounge while Vil was doing skincare, and he’d pretend not to look when you sat nearby, trying to braid your hair with too many ribbons.

He’d tut when you forgot conditioner, roll his eyes when you used flower water as toner, and scold you endlessly when you tried to trim your hair with hedge clippers.

But Vil realized something.

You took his advice to heart, asked thoughtful questions, even showed up at his mirror one morning with a shy,

“I tried the thing with the satin pillowcase. My hair didn’t cry today.”

He’d never wanted to scream and laugh at the same time before.

“You are…” he said one day, fingers brushing through your golden strands as you sat between his knees, “a complete mess.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

You twisted to look at him, eyes bright. “But I like the way you say it.”

Vil rolled his eyes and refocused on your braid.

“Why do you let me do this?”

“Because it’s preferable to watching you destroy your own scalp.”

“But you don’t have to,” you pressed. “You’re Vil Schoenheit. You’re busy and glamorous and probably have a million better things to do.”

He looked at your reflection in the mirror. The way you watched him— something softer.

“I do it, because you listen. Because you make this place…” he paused, searching for a word. “…brighter.”

You beamed. Vil groaned.

“Don’t look so pleased. I’m trying to be serious.”

“You’re being sweet.”

“I’m never sweet.”

You turned around on the stool, facing him. “Maybe just with me.”

And Saints help him, he didn’t deny it.

And you kissed him first.

Not dramatically, not in a burst of emotion.

He’d just finished pinning the final flower into your braid. You looked up at him and whispered, “You’re my favorite part of NRC.”

And then, without waiting, you leaned up and kissed him.

It was gentle. Like the way sunbeams feel through a window after rain.

Vil didn’t speak for a full minute.

“You are a menace.”

You smiled.

“…Yes,” he sighed finally, brushing your hair from your face. “My radiant menace.”

[soliyawnn]

֗ ✩彡 . | 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

. . 𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡: you accidentally stay the night with them — and wake up somewhere between comfort and something more.

. . 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: kuroo tetsurou x reader, kageyama tobio x reader, oikawa tooru x reader, tsukishima kei x reader, atsumu miya x reader

. . 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff, comfort, slow burn, soft moments, friends to lovers (ish?)

. . 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none— just sleepy intimacy, light teasing, and lingering feelings

. . 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 874

. . 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: this and that other todoroki fic has been marinating in my drafts for so long 😓✊

𝐤𝐮𝐫𝐨𝐨 𝐭𝐞𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐨𝐮

you’re curled up in his hoodie, watching steam rise from the mug he placed in your hands. the apartment is still dim, light barely creeping in through the curtains, and kuroo’s leaning against the counter with that sleepy smirk of his, hair a disaster, arms crossed like he’s trying not to say something dumb.

“you snore,” he says eventually. you raise a brow, sipping carefully. “do not.”

“you absolutely do,” he says, a little too quickly. “it’s kind of adorable. like a tiny engine.”

you glare at him over the rim of your mug. “you’re lucky you make decent coffee.” he shrugs. “you’re lucky i let you steal my blanket. again.”

he walks over, plucks the mug from your hands, sets it on the table. he doesn’t step back. instead, he leans in close, voice lower now. “seriously, though. you can stay as many nights as you want.”

your breath catches, heart stuttering in your chest. his eyes are soft, not teasing. you nod. “…okay,” you say quietly.

he smiles, this time, is real. warm. grounding.

𝐤𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐲𝐚𝐦𝐚 𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐨

you wake up to the soft hum of the city outside and the faint sound of a volleyball bouncing. kageyama is sitting at the edge of the bed, stretching out his hands, eyes focused but calm.

he glances over when you shift awake. “you’re up.”

“yeah,” you say, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “didn’t expect you to be awake this early.” he shrugs, expression unreadable for a moment before softening. “you stayed last night. i wanted to make sure you were okay.”

you blink. “okay?”

“yeah. you seemed tired. and i… liked that you were here. you smile, warmth spreading through your chest. he’s never great with words, but the honesty is unmistakable.

he stands and offers a hand. “breakfast?”

𝐨𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐰𝐚 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐮

last night was chaos — card games, snacks everywhere, an old rom-com you both made fun of until you accidentally fell asleep on his chest. now you’re waking up tangled together on his couch, your face buried against his shoulder, his heartbeat calm under your ear.

he shifts a little, blinking down at you, and for once, he’s not performing. not grinning. not posing.

“hi,” he whispers, like anything louder might ruin it.

you lift your head slowly. “…hi.”

he lets out a breath. “was i… comfortable?”

you blink, still half-asleep. “you’re shaped like a space heater.”

he laughs, light and real, pressing a hand over his heart like you’ve wounded him. “i’ll take that as a yes.”

you sit up slowly, brushing hair from your face. he watches you, expression unreadable now.

“you could’ve moved me,” you murmur.

“i didn’t want to.”

you glance at him.

he shrugs. “you looked peaceful. and i—”

he pauses. swallows.

“i liked it.”

your heart does something funny in your chest. “me too.”

he grins again, this time a little softer. “then maybe we should make it a habit.”

𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐚 𝐤𝐞𝐢

it’s quiet. soft golden light filters into the living room, hitting the shelves where he keeps his records. you’re wrapped in a blanket, tucked into one end of the couch. tsukishima is at the other, a book in his lap, glasses slightly crooked. his hair’s a mess. he looks like he didn’t sleep well, but he doesn’t seem bothered.

you stretch. “sorry for crashing.”

he flips a page. “no one asked you to apologize.”

you glance at him. “you didn’t have to let me stay.”

he finally looks up, brow raised. “you think i let just anyone sleep on my couch?”

you blink. “…no?”

he sets the book down, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. he reaches over without a word and pulls the blanket over your toes, like you’re not watching his every move.

“you were tired,” he says simply. “and i didn’t want you going home alone. it made sense.”

you nod slowly. “right. logical.”

but then, he hesitates. and when he speaks again, it’s almost too quiet.

“…i sleep better when you’re here.” your breath catches.

he doesn’t meet your eyes — just picks up the book again.

𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐮 𝐦𝐢𝐲𝐚

you wake up to the sound of humming. atsumu’s in the kitchen, hair somehow even wilder than usual, wearing one of your hoodies — he must’ve grabbed it by mistake, but he’s absolutely owning it.

“morning sunshine” he beams when he sees you peek around the corner. “i made pancakes”

“you can cook?” you mused.

“okay. made is a strong word. but they’re pancake-shaped. mostly.”

you laugh, walking into the kitchen, and he practically bounces over to pull out a chair for you.

last night, you were supposed to leave around midnight. he convinced you to stay for one more episode, and somehow that turned into staying over. now it’s morning, and the apartment smells like maple syrup and comfort.

he plops down across from you, propping his chin in his hands. “this was nice,” he says, softer now. “i like waking up with you here.”

your cheeks heat up. “yeah?” he pauses. “yeah. it felt… happy.”

you look at him — golden in the morning light, eyes bright even without his usual volume. and you realize: he means it.“i’d stay again,” you say.

he grins like you just told him he won the lottery.

[natsaffection]

hello, i have a like fic request for you. i’ve written something similar myself but i wanted to see how you’d write it 🥹

my idea is that Nat has touch-trauma from her time in the Red Room, she has no problem with faking it for missions and such, but when it comes to people she cares about, she can’t do it. reader’s love language is physical touch but tries her best to be respectful towards Nat’s trauma and lets her take the time she needs to want to be physically affectionate with reader.

you don’t have to write it if you don’t want to, just a little idea for you 🫶🏼

- 🤍

Quiet Hands. | N.R

Warnings: Redroom, mention of SA and violence

Word count: 1,7k

A/n: I love delving deeper into her character. And I also believe that she would act that way, so thank you for the request. <3

The Red Room never truly let its ghosts rest.

Even years later, when the sharp sting of the widow’s bite no longer buzzed at her wrists and the tightness of a chokehold wasn’t a constant memory pressing into her skin, Natasha still carried it with her, the ache, the stiffness in her shoulders, the quiet dread in the back of her mind.

It wasn’t the physical pain that lingered. That had faded, eventually. Scars healed. Bruises faded. Skin mended. But the things that no one could see, the hollow of her chest, the phantom echoes of commands spoken in cold Russian, the way her own hands sometimes felt foreign, those were the things that didn’t fade.

In the Red Room, affection was a weapon. A calculated tilt of the head. A gentle smile designed to lure someone in before striking. Touch was a means to an end, never something that could be given freely. They trained it into her: You are a tool, not a person. Your body is a weapon, not a home.

And so, when she left, escaped, the thought of anyone touching her, really touching her, felt unbearable. Not on missions. She could pretend there. Slip into a role. Smile. Wink. Let hands graze over her skin, because it was an act, a performance, and performances had endings.

But with people who mattered? People she cared about? That was different. That was terrifying.

And then you came around the corner. She met you by accident, it was a rainy afternoon in New York, the sky low and heavy, clouds rolling in like waves. Natasha had been trying to outrun her own thoughts, slipping through the crowded streets, a hood pulled low over her hair, just another face in the crowd.

You weren’t supposed to be there. You were balancing a cardboard tray of coffee cups, navigating the slick pavement, too focused on not spilling your order to notice the world around you. That’s when it happened, a shoulder bump, a stumble, the sound of a cup hitting the ground, liquid splashing onto the street.

“Sorry-” Natasha turned, an apology on her lips, but the words caught in her throat. Because you were looking at her with wide eyes, lips parted, a laugh bubbling up even as coffee dripped down your fingers. There was no fear in your gaze, no calculated interest, just… warmth.

“It’s okay!” you said quickly, waving off Natasha’s murmured apology, “I wasn’t watching where I was going. Typical, honestly.”

There was something in your voice, a soft, unhurried kindness. Like you weren’t in a rush to be anywhere else. Like you weren’t measuring Natasha’s worth in tactical terms or waiting for her to make the next move.

Natasha found herself saying, “Let me buy you a new coffee.”

You smiled, the corners of your eyes crinkling. “You don’t have to do that..”

“I want to.” Natasha replied, surprising even herself with the honesty of it.

So she did. The two of you walked to the café together, the rain easing into a gentle drizzle, Natasha holding the door open for you, your fingers brushing briefly, just for a moment. A jolt ran through Natasha’s chest, sharp, unexpected. You didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe you did, and you were just good at pretending.

You exchanged names while waiting for your drinks, your voice soft, easy, Natasha’s a little rough around the edges, guarded but curious. You told her you were a student, studying art history, working part-time at a gallery nearby. Natasha didn’t share much, couldn’t, really, but you didn’t push.

Instead, you talked about a painting you loved. How you could spend hours staring at brushstrokes, how art felt like a conversation with the past. Natasha listened, really listened, the weight in her chest easing just a little.

When you parted, you smiled, really smiled, not the polite kind you give to strangers, and said, “Maybe I’ll see you around?”

Natasha wasn’t sure why she wanted so badly for that to happen. It did happen, again and again.

Little things. Running into each other on the street. Bumping into one another at the same café. A quiet conversation here, a lingering glance there. Slowly, carefully, Natasha let herself be drawn into your orbit, never fully, always cautious, but there.

It took weeks, long, tentative weeks, before Natasha worked up the courage to ask you out for dinner. And it took two months for Natasha to call you her girlfriend.

Two months of trying. Of sitting on the couch with you and not leaning into your touch, even though every cell in her body screamed for it, wanted it, but couldn’t.

Because the truth was, Natasha could fake it with anyone else. She could play a role, slip into a part. But with you, she didn’t want to pretend. She wanted to be real.

And the real her couldn’t handle touch, not yet. You weren’t naïve. You knew who she was, the Black Widow. The ex-assassin. The spy. You had read the articles, the sanitized versions, the headlines that only hinted at the things Natasha had done, the things she had survived.

But none of that could have prepared you for the truth, the raw, unspoken reality that lived in the tight line of Natasha’s shoulders, the way she sometimes seemed to fold into herself when you so much as shifted too close on the couch.

The first time it happened, when you had, without thinking, brushed your hand across Natasha’s back, just a soft touch, barely a whisper, she had gone rigid. You had felt it, like a physical shock.

Natasha had frozen, her breath caught halfway in her throat, her body stiff as if she were bracing for a blow. You had pulled your hand back instantly, your own heart cracking just a little.

“I’m sorry..” you had whispered, voice barely audible.

Natasha’s lips had twitched into something like a smile, but her eyes didn’t quite match. “It’s not you.”

And you knew that. God, you knew. But it didn’t stop the ache in your chest, the quiet, desperate longing for closeness.

You were a touch person, always had been. Hugs that lingered. Hands that reached for others without thinking. Leaning into people when you laughed. It was how you loved, with your body as much as your words.

And you loved Natasha.

You loved her in the way you could only love someone when you saw all the cracks and scars and still thought they were beautiful. You loved the sharpness in Natasha’s eyes when she was focused, the quiet way she listened when you talked about art or the latest exhibition at the gallery. You loved the way her voice softened late at night, when the world was dark and quiet.

But God, you wanted her. Not even in a sexual way, not really, not yet. You just wanted to be close. To hold her hand without feeling her flinch. To pull her into a hug without watching her body go still, waiting for permission that never seemed to come.

It was hard. Hard not to reach out when you sat side by side on the couch, your thighs just barely brushing, and your fingers itched to lace through hers.

Hard not to lean in when Natasha laughed, that rare, genuine laugh that made your chest feel too small for your heart. Hard to fall asleep next to her and feel the warmth of her body but not the closeness. To lie there in the dark, eyes wide open, your body aching to touch, but not daring to.

You tried. You tried so hard to be patient. Because you saw it, the effort Natasha made. How sometimes, when she was brave, her fingers would hover, barely grazing your wrist, like she was testing the water. How, every now and then, she would let you brush your shoulders together, not pulling away, just breathing through it.

And you never wanted to make her feel trapped. Never wanted to take more than Natasha could give. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, it hurt.

It was late one night, the rain tapping softly against the window. You were in Natasha’s apartment, she was curled in a chair, reading, and you were on the couch, half-heartedly scrolling through your phone.

The distance felt heavy. You stared at Natasha’s profile, the way her hair fell loose around her face, the faint shadow of a bruise on her temple from a mission she wouldn’t talk about. She looked so alone, even in a room you shared.

Your chest ached with it. And before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out, soft, hesitant, but heavy with feeling:

“Can I..can I hold you?”

Natasha looked up sharply, eyes wide, the book slipping slightly in her hands.

You felt your breath catch. You tried to smile, to make it light, but your voice cracked when you added, “Just… just a hug. You don’t have to. I just… I miss you.”

It wasn’t fair, you knew that. It wasn’t fair to ask. Natasha stared at you for a long moment, her eyes dark and guarded, a storm behind them.

Then, slowly, so slowly, she set the book down. Her hands clenched into fists on her lap, and your heart twisted.

“I’m sorry..” you whispered, already regretting it, “You don’t have to-”

But Natasha moved. Carefully, stiffly, like she was walking across broken glass, she rose from the chair and sat beside you on the couch, leaving a careful inch between you. Her body was tense, like a wire pulled taut.

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. After a long moment, Natasha whispered, so soft you almost missed it, “I don’t know how to do this.”

Your heart broke, not in a shattering, painful way, but in the quiet, aching way that made you want to hold someone even tighter.

You turned, just slightly, your voice trembling as you said, “That’s okay. We can take it slow. I’m here.”

And you were. You sat there, still, your hands folded in your lap, letting Natasha choose. Letting her try.

And after a long, heavy pause, Natasha’s hand reached out, shaking, tentative, and hovered over yours. Not quite touching. Just close enough that you could feel the heat of her skin.

It wasn’t a hug. It wasn’t even really a touch. But it was something. And you would take it.

Because love wasn’t always soft and easy. Sometimes, it was patience. Sometimes, it was waiting. And for Natasha, you would wait as long as it took.

-

-

-

-

[foxtrology]

sweet dark haired man (6)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 13.8k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, angst, fluff, smut.

The Cape Cod light was brutal in its honesty—too bright, too clean, the kind of afternoon sun that made everything look sharper than it should. The ocean beyond the windows of the renovated beach house sparkled like glass, waves crashing against the shore in rhythmic indifference.

Lucy hated it.

She hated how picturesque it was. How calm. How settled. How every breath felt like a performance of peace.

John had gone into town to pick up oysters and a bottle of wine he couldn’t pronounce. He kissed her cheek before he left. He always did that. Like routine made up for the silence between them.

She was curled on the white couch in her favorite silk robe—cream, embroidered, delicate—as if softness could protect her. Her hair was tied up with a scrunchie she didn’t remember choosing. The mug of green tea beside her had long gone cold. She hadn’t touched it.

Her laptop was open on her knees. And the email was staring at her.

Subject: FYI — goes live tomorrow, late afternoon. Thought you’d want to see it first.

From: Carrie Roth

No greeting. No punctuation. Just a single link beneath the sentence. No context.

But Lucy didn’t need context.

She clicked. And the screen unfurled into a headline she already knew would hurt.

"The Billionaire and the Nobody: How Harry Castillo Fell for a Woman Without a Name."

Her breath hitched.

Below the headline, the byline—Carrie Roth. Of course. And below that?

The photo. That photo. The one Harry had supposedly made Carrie delete.

Lucy blinked hard.

There they were—in Harry’s lobby. She remembered the building. The hallway. The marble floors. The stupid orchid arrangement by the elevator that never died.

But that wasn’t what made her pause.

It was the way Harry was looking at the girl. She was in his clothes. Hair wet like she just took a bath. At his place. But Harry? Harry was looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

It was instinctive. Natural. The kind of look you didn’t even realize you gave unless someone froze the moment.

Lucy stared at the image. Her hands went cold. Her ring—thin gold, small diamond, a gift from John—pressed into her skin as she clenched her fingers.

She scrolled. The article wasn’t cruel. Not exactly.

It was careful. Surgical. The kind of carefully worded gossip Carrie was famous for—less fire, more poison. Phrases like “rare public moment,” and “sources say she doesn’t have a last name that anyone can find,” and “Castillo’s first serious appearance with someone new since his highly publicized breakup with his ex Lucy.”

Lucy flinched at the mention of her name. It was in bold.

Of course it was.

Carrie had buried the quote deeper in the piece, almost like a treat for the diligent reader.

“She doesn’t know what he’s like yet,” Lucy had said, when asked if she knew about the woman. “How intense. How obsessive. How cold he can be when he wants to.”

She hadn’t meant it to sound bitter. Or maybe she had.

Maybe some part of her had wanted Harry to read that line and feel something sharp in his chest. But now, looking at the photo—the girl in his clothes, the way his body was angled toward her, protective, intimate—Lucy felt something sharp in hers.

Because she recognized that version of him.

The quiet Harry. The gentle one. The one who made tea without asking and never needed to be told what you were thinking because he already knew.

She had killed that version of him. And someone had brought him back to life.

Lucy’s phone buzzed once. A message from John.

John: Need anything else from the store? 

She didn’t answer right away. She just stared out the window. The sea was bluer than usual. A boat skimmed across the horizon like punctuation.

She clicked the link again. Scrolled back to the photo. Studied the girl’s face—partially turned, but visible. Eyes cast down. Mouth soft. She didn’t look like a socialite. Or an actress. Or a woman who’d ever once tried to control a room.

She looked like someone who’d wandered into Harry’s life by accident. And stayed.

Lucy’s finger hovered over the keyboard. Her eyes flicked back to the headline. Then to the quote.

She’s not built for it.

She closed the laptop. Stood. The silence in the house was so loud it made her ears ring. And suddenly, Lucy wasn’t sure if she’d moved on at all.

Back in Italy, the sun was just beginning to dip behind the hills, casting everything in gold.

The villa glowed like a painting—stone walls kissed by twilight, lanterns strung along the balcony flickering to life one by one. The air was warm, threaded with rosemary, lemon, and the faintest trace of woodsmoke from somewhere nearby.

She stood in front of the mirror, still pinning one last piece of her hair into place.

Her dress was a soft rust color, silk again, but different from last night. This one moved like water when she walked, low in the back, delicate at the shoulders. Her earrings were borrowed from Francesca. Her lipstick was a shade she got from Maya. 

Harry watched her from the edge of the bed.

Shirt crisp. Pants pressed. One hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding a small glass of something he hadn’t sipped yet. He’d shaved, but left a trace of scruff. His chain caught the last bit of sunlight, gleaming like a secret.

“You keep staring,” she said, not looking at him.

“I can’t help it.”

She smiled at her reflection. “Is it the hair?”

“It’s the everything.”

He walked over slowly. Stood behind her. Met her eyes in the mirror.

“I thought I was in love with you before,” he said quietly, brushing a strand of hair off her shoulder. “But then you did that thing with the peach at lunch.”

She laughed, head tilting back slightly. “That wasn’t me. That was the wine.”

“You were licking your thumb.”

“I was cleaning my hand.”

“It was obscene.”

She turned. Faced him.

And for a moment, they just stood there. Quiet. Grounded.

“Well,” she said softly, “good thing I brought extra peaches.”

Harry groaned like a man in pain. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Liar.”

She kissed him once, quick and mischievous. Then grabbed her bag.

Chiara had texted the address hours ago. Danny was still sulking around the villa, probably pretending not to exist.

The car was waiting. The roads were winding. The evening had started.

And neither of them had any idea what tomorrow night's headline would bring.

But for now—

They were still in Florence. Still in the golden hour. Still theirs.

The driver didn’t speak much.

Harry gave the address once and the rest of the ride passed in a hush, the hum of the engine soft beneath the cobblestone rhythm. The roads curled like ribbon through the hills, olive trees flashing past the windows in soft blurs, golden light smearing the windshield.

In the backseat, she let her head rest against the window for a while, watching the landscape spill by like something dreamt.

Harry sat beside her, shirt deep navy, sleeves rolled up neatly. His trousers were black, fitted. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine—controlled, watchful, impossibly composed.

But his fingers found hers anyway. Laced them together. Rested their joined hands on the seat between them like a promise.

She smiled without turning her head. They didn’t speak the whole ride. They didn’t need to.

When the car finally turned off the main road and slowed onto a gravel path lined with wildflowers and pale stone, she sat up straighter. Adjusted her silk dress. Smoothed her hands down the front.

Harry reached over without a word and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb grazed her jaw.

“You ready?” he asked softly.

“Nope.”

“Too late.”

The car stopped. And there it was.

Chiara’s family home was nothing like the villa. It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t curated. It was warm. Chaotic. Built like a hug.

A long, low house with chipped shutters, ivy spilling down the side, and music floating faintly from the open windows. Children’s laughter rang out somewhere around back. The scent of tomato and garlic clung to the air like an old coat.

Lights were strung overhead—crooked, twinkling fairy lights bouncing between olive trees and the wooden beams of a pergola that shaded the long dinner table already half-filled with people.

They stepped out of the car. The gravel crunched under her sandals. Harry opened the door for her, of course. Offered his hand. She took it.

It was now 8:30. And the sun had just melted fully behind the hills, leaving everything bathed in the kind of purple-gold glow that only happened in Italy and movies.

Chiara spotted them first. She was barefoot again, curls pinned half-up, wearing a thin white dress with a red sweater tied around her waist like a ribbon. She bounded toward them with a glass of wine in one hand and a sprig of rosemary in the other.

“You came!” she beamed, flinging her arms around her in a hug. Then looked at Harry and added, “You too. Terrifying boyfriend.”

Harry’s brow ticked. “Thanks.”

Chiara only grinned. “Come meet everyone.”

She grabbed her hand, tugged her forward without giving her time to panic. Harry followed behind, towering, silent, one hand in his pocket, already receiving double-takes from some of the guests as they approached.

The table was long. Wood worn soft by weather and wine stains. Set with mismatched plates and linen napkins. There were pitchers of red wine and baskets of bread at each end. Someone had set out bowls of figs and mozzarella, tomatoes still warm from the vine, plates of roasted eggplant and olives soaked in garlic oil.

Chiara pointed as she rambled on. “That’s my mother—Rosalinda and that’s my father—Leo. Don’t let him pour your wine or you’ll never stop drinking. My brothers—Matteo and Gianni."

There were a bunch of other guests that she didn't introduce but still they still waved.

Everyone waved.

Rosalinda gave a warm smile. “Benvenuti. Welcome.”

Chiara tugged her to two empty chairs at the far end of the table, tucked beneath a blooming wisteria vine. “These are yours. I saved them.”

Harry held the chair out for her. She sat. He took the one beside her.

And just like that, they were in it. The wine was poured before either of them could decline. The bread basket was passed like gospel.

Someone slid over a small dish of anchovies and roasted peppers with a murmur, “Try this. It’ll change your life.”

She was dizzy already—in the best way. Everything smelled like salt and basil and firewood. The table was loud, people speaking over each other in fast Italian, gesturing wildly, laughter bubbling up in waves.

And Harry? Harry didn’t say a word. He didn’t smile. Didn’t reach for the wine. He just sat there—hands folded, watching everything like he was gathering intel.

No one said anything for a while. Until Gianni, Chiara’s younger brother—maybe twenty, maybe high—leaned over the table, squinting.

“So,” he said, accent thick but voice teasing, “you are the scary man, yes?”

Harry looked up. Raised a brow.

Gianni grinned. “Chiara said you looked like you kill people for fun.”

“She wasn’t wrong,” Harry replied, deadpan.

The table froze. Chiara choked on her wine. Then—Rosalinda burst into laughter. Loud. Unapologetic.

Everyone followed. Even Harry smiled, just barely. The kind of smile that curled at the corner of his mouth like a secret. And from that moment, the ice cracked. A little.

Rosalinda passed him the wine again. This time, he took it.

A cousin leaned forward and asked if he was a Gemini.

He said, “Worse.”

The table howled. Dinner unfolded in waves.

The food kept coming—handmade pasta with sage butter and lemon zest, grilled zucchini, risotto flecked with saffron. Someone brought out slices of porchetta carved from a roast, still warm, the scent making her stomach ache with joy.

She reached for a piece of bread and Harry slid the butter toward her without being asked.

Their knees touched under the table. At one point, she turned to him and whispered, “You okay?”

He nodded. “You?”

She smiled. “I’m good.”

He reached for her hand beneath the table. Held it loosely, fingers stroking hers as the night softened.

The stars came out slowly. Someone put on a record player—crackling, old jazz spinning from a speaker tucked beneath the table.

Rosalinda began reading tarot cards near the rosemary bush.

Chiara danced barefoot with her grandmother under the vines.

Leo refilled Harry’s glass without asking. He didn’t argue.

He was still quiet. Still him. But softer now. Warmer.

He leaned in close once, mouth brushing her temple, and murmured, “This is the best night I’ve had in years.”

She looked at him. Eyes lit.

“Me too.”

They didn’t talk about Lucy. They didn’t know that across the ocean, Lucy had just stared down the proof of their intimacy frozen in pixels. They didn’t know the article was going live tomorrow.

They didn’t know that Danny was trying—desperately, recklessly—to contain the fallout.

For now, they just drank the wine. Ate the figs. Held hands under a string of crooked lights.

And when Chiara brought out a lemon cake her aunt had baked that morning, they split a slice and fed each other bites like fools. Harry didn’t even flinch when someone took a photo.

“You’re different here,” she whispered, later, when the table had quieted and only the older guests remained, nursing espresso and arguing softly about soccer.

Harry looked at her.

“You’re softer,” she said.

“I think you make me that way.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. His fingers threaded through hers. The record spun to a close. And for now, the night held. Long and safe and theirs.

But even the gentlest nights had to end.

She was mid-laugh, swirling the last sip of wine in her glass as Chiara told some absurd story about falling into a canal in Venice when she was a child—elbows flying, hands gesturing, cheeks pink with wine and warmth—when it happened.

Harry saw it. The yawn.

Small. Half-hidden. She tried to stifle it behind her knuckles, the motion lazy and unbothered. But he caught it. Of course he did.

It wasn’t the kind of yawn that meant boredom. It was the kind that meant her bones were heavy and her body had officially stopped running on adrenaline and sugar and wine. The kind that meant she wouldn’t be able to keep her eyes open much longer.

He leaned down slightly, his voice brushing her ear like something private.

“You’re fading. Tired?”

She turned, blinking up at him with bleary affection. “No, I’m not.”

“You just yawned mid-sentence.”

“Did not.”

“You did.”

“That was a—dramatic breath,” she mumbled. “For storytelling.”

He smiled. Barely.

Then stood.

It was subtle—how quickly the table noticed. A hush, almost reverent, like the weather had shifted. Conversations paused. Heads tilted.

Harry Castillo had stood. And that meant something.

Chiara looked up. “Leaving?”

Harry gave a slight nod, hand resting at the back of her chair. “We should.”

She opened her mouth to protest. To insist she was fine. But another yawn betrayed her.

Harry quirked a brow.

She gave up. “Okay, fine.”

Chiara leaned over and hugged her, cheek warm against her own. “Thank you for coming. Truly.”

“She’s the one that made us come,” Harry muttered as he shook Leo’s hand.

“You’re a good boyfriend,” Chiara said. Then added, teasing, “Terrifying. But good.”

Harry didn’t answer.

He just placed a hand on the small of her back—warm, grounding—and guided her through the garden path, away from the laughter, the flickering lights, the music still curling into the air like a lullaby.

They walked slowly.

She leaned into him more with each step, her sandals forgotten in one hand, her body sagging with contented exhaustion. The rust silk of her dress shifted with each step, catching moonlight and memory like it was something alive.

The gravel crunched beneath them. The breeze had cooled now, brushing through the trees like whispered secrets. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called once. The sound echoed.

When they reached the car, Harry opened the door for her, of course. Helped her in without speaking. Tucked her sandals at her feet. Then slid into the seat beside her and gave the driver a short nod.

They didn’t speak much on the way back.

She leaned her head on his shoulder somewhere between the vineyard and the old church they’d passed earlier that afternoon. Her fingers drifted to his thigh out of habit. He let her stay like that, barely moving, afraid to shift and break the spell.

By the time the car pulled into the villa’s gravel courtyard, she was half-asleep.

The windows glowed with low golden light. The stone shimmered faintly in the moonlight. Everything felt soft. Suspended. Like they were the last people left in the world.

Until Harry saw movement. Someone was pacing near the stone fountain at the edge of the courtyard. Fast. Sharp. A phone pressed to his ear. Gesturing wildly.

Danny. He looked...frantic.

Harry’s brows furrowed.

She stirred, mumbling sleepily, “Are we back?”

He kissed her temple. “Yeah. Just a second.”

Before she could fully register it, Harry had stepped out of the car, door shutting softly behind him. She blinked herself upright, trying to process the sudden absence of his warmth.

Outside, Harry walked toward Danny with a slow, deliberate pace.

“Who the fuck are you talking to?” he asked, voice low and even.

Danny jumped. Spun.

“Oh—shit—Harry. It’s nothing.”

Harry stopped a few feet away. Arms crossed. Face unreadable. “Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Danny covered the receiver with one hand. “It’s personal.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “From your tone, it sounds like work.”

“It’s not,” Danny said quickly. Too quickly. “It’s one of my exes. She’s losing it. You know how it goes. Screaming about closure or whatever. I’m just trying to shut it down before she flies here with a bat.”

Harry didn’t blink. “You’re lying.”

Danny’s jaw clenched. “I’m not.”

Harry took one step closer.

And for a second—just one, tight, fragile second—Danny’s face cracked.

Not fully. Not visibly. But enough for Harry to see it. To catalog it. To file it under I’ll ask again later.

He looked over Danny once more, then pulled back.

“Figure it out,” Harry muttered, already walking away. “I don’t like being lied to.”

Danny exhaled. Said nothing.

Harry returned to the car without another glance. She was waiting, sandals back on, dress wrinkled from the ride.

“You okay?” she asked, groggy.

“Yeah,” he lied.

He offered his hand. She took it.

Their room was exactly how they’d left it. Soft lighting. The bed turned down. A carafe of water on the nightstand, fresh flowers in the bowl by the window.

She let out a sigh the moment she stepped inside. Toed off her sandals. Swayed slightly in place. Harry locked the door behind them.

She was already halfway to the bed when he said, “Shower first.”

She groaned like a child. “Noooo.”

“Yes.”

“I’m too tired.”

“You’ll feel better.”

“I’ll feel better horizontal.”

Harry arched a brow. “That can be arranged. After you shower.”

“Harry,” she whined, dragging out the syllables like syrup. “I have no bones.”

He moved toward her.

She backed away dramatically, flopping onto the bed like a fainting Victorian ghost. “I’m already dying. Leave me.”

He reached down, grabbed her ankle, and gently tugged her toward the edge of the mattress. She shrieked—quietly, theatrically—but didn’t resist.

“Come on,” he said, voice softer now. “Arms up.”

She blinked.

Then slowly raised her arms. Like surrender.

He knelt down, unzipped the back of her dress. The rust silk peeled away like petals. It fell in a pool at her feet.

She stood in her underwear, hair messy, cheeks flushed from wine and heat and fatigue. She looked like a painting. A little bruised by the night. A little radiant because of it.

Harry touched her waist.

“Shower,” he repeated.

She whined. “You go with me?”

He nodded.

“Fine,” she huffed. “But you better carry me after.”

“Done.”

The shower was warm. Quick.

She leaned into him the entire time, face pressed against his chest, arms around his neck while he washed her hair with the patience of a saint. She mumbled something incoherent about peaches and tarot cards. He just listened. 

He dried her gently afterward, wrapping her in a towel, then carrying her back to the bed like she’d demanded.

She giggled when he nearly dropped her onto the mattress. “You’re such a gentleman.”

“I’m reconsidering it.”

She didn’t respond.

She was already half-asleep.

He dressed her slowly—one of his t-shirts again, soft and oversized then a pair of his boxers. Kissed the crown of her head. Pulled the blanket up to her shoulders.

Her lashes fluttered. Then stilled.

And Harry…

Harry sat at the edge of the bed for a while. Just watched her. She looked safe now. Soft. Here. He wanted to believe the worst of it had passed.

But something in Danny’s face—something in that lie—coiled like wire under his ribs.

He reached over. Turned off the lamp. Slipped under the covers beside her.

She stirred only once—just enough to press her cheek to his shoulder, murmuring something like “mine.”

Harry closed his eyes. Wrapped an arm around her waist. And held on. Tighter than usual.

Just in case. But just in case wasn't enough. Not anymore.

Harry opened his eyes before the light did.

It was instinct—some built-in warning system that had always protected him from the worst of it. From too many hours asleep. From the risk of rest. Rest meant exposure. Rest meant you might miss something.

And something was off. He knew it the moment he registered how calm everything was. Too calm.

The room was still. The kind of stillness that only came before something terrible.

She was curled into him like always—head pressed into his chest, one leg tangled over his hip, lips slightly parted as she dreamed something soft.

He looked at her. Really looked.

Hair a little damp from the night before. Cheeks flushed with sleep. The collar of his shirt slipping off one shoulder, exposing the delicate slope of skin he’d kissed a dozen times the night before. Her arm was draped over his chest like she was afraid he’d vanish if she let go.

And he knew—

He would burn the whole fucking world down to keep this. To keep her.

To keep mornings like this where her skin smelled like lavender and sweat and him, where her body knew his even in sleep, where everything had finally felt like it was settling into something close to peace.

Which is why the dread crawling up his spine was unbearable.

He carefully, silently, shifted her arm. She murmured something incoherent. He stilled. Waited.

Then slowly slid out from beneath her. She didn’t wake. Just rolled over, curling into the spot he left behind, still warm.

He grabbed a hoodie off the chair. Pulled it on. Then left.

The hallway outside was dim, washed in soft amber light from the wall sconces. The villa was still asleep—except for Harry. Always Harry. Awake before anyone could disappoint him.

He didn’t make noise. Didn’t need to. He knew exactly where Danny’s room was. Didn’t bother knocking. Just twisted the handle. It wasn’t locked. Because Danny, for all his skills, never thought he needed to hide things from Harry for long.

The room was a mess. Clothes tossed over the back of a chair. Two empty water bottles on the desk. One of those tiny espresso cups half-filled and forgotten on the nightstand.

Danny was asleep on the couch. Fully dressed. Mouth slightly open. One arm flung across his chest like he’d passed out mid-heart attack.

But Harry wasn’t looking at Danny.

His eyes were on the laptop. Sitting open. Still glowing faintly on the coffee table.

He walked over slowly. Silent. Careful. Grabbed the laptop and sat down on a nearby chair. 

Danny didn’t stir.

The laptop screen was still unlocked. And there it was. The tab. His name. Her anonymity. His stomach dropped. He clicked it.

There was a draft open—scheduled for publishing at 5PM EST. 11PM Florence. A timestamp in the corner. Carrie Roth.

He felt something cold settle in his ribs.

The headline was more appalling than he expected.

"The Billionaire and the Nobody: How Harry Castillo Fell for a Woman Without a Name."

But it didn’t matter.

Because right below it—

The photo.

The one he’d tried to bury. The one she never even saw. The one Carrie took from the lobby of his penthouse—the day of the delivery, when she was in his clothes, her hair still wet from the bath they took together, no warning. 

And him?

He looked like he belonged to her. It wasn’t scandalous. But it was real. Too real.

It was a portrait of something not yet built. Something fragile.

And Carrie had caught it. Was going to publish it. Was going to make it permanent.

He read the first few lines of the article, his jaw tightening with every word...

"She doesn’t look like someone accustomed to being photographed. She doesn’t carry herself like a model, actress, heiress, or anyone remotely used to proximity to power. She looks like she just stepped out of his shower, borrowed his laundry, and followed him out without knowing where they were going next. There’s no stylist, no heels, no curated façade. There’s not even a purse in sight."

"Which, of course, begs the question...Who is she?"

His fingers clenched around the edge of the laptop.

Of course Carrie knew about them in Italy. Livia definitely was the one that informed her.

Of fucking course.  

The article was bait. Softly written, yes. But full of implication.

A mystery woman? No digital footprint? They made her sound like a ghost. Like a scandal. Like something waiting to be exposed.

And Harry knew what would come next.

The blogs. The forums. The Reddit threads. The obsessed Twitter girls. The old money pages on TikTok that would start stitching clips of her walking into restaurants and speculating about her outfit, her past, her worth.

They’d find photos. Someone would dig up something. And if there wasn’t anything to find? They’d make it up.

He sat there, breath slowing, vision narrowing. Not out of panic. But calculation.

She didn’t deserve this. She wasn’t ready. This wasn’t what she signed up for. And he should’ve protected her. Should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve buried it the moment Carrie Roth stepped into that lobby. Should’ve crushed it before it had the chance to exist.

But he hadn’t. And now? Now there was a countdown.

Nineteen hours. Until her face was everywhere. Until the silence around her wasn’t a sanctuary—it was an invitation for speculation.

He closed the laptop. Carefully. Stood. Walked over to Danny. And kicked the bottom of the couch. Hard.

Danny jolted awake with a sound that could’ve passed for a war cry. “Jesus fu—Harry?!”

Harry stared down at him. “You lied to me.”

Danny blinked. Rubbed his face. “What?”

“You lied. Last night. In the courtyard. You said it was one of your exes.”

Danny sat up slowly. “Look, I was trying to—”

“You think I give a fuck about your intentions?”

Danny sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t ready yet. The article. Carrie’s still fighting with her editor about the angle. Allegra said—”

“You should’ve told me.”

“Allegra made me swear not to.”

Harry’s voice dropped. “And you listened to her?”

Danny’s jaw twitched.

“I asked you one thing,” Harry said. “One fucking thing. Be honest with me.”

“Carrie was going to publish it no matter what,” Danny snapped. “You think she needed my permission? I was trying to delay it. Manage it. Spin it if I could.”

“You let me walk into that dinner. Laugh and drink and kiss her like everything was fine—”

“Because I knew if I told you, you’d ruin it before it hit the press. You’d blow up at Carrie, maybe even call her yourself, and then she’d publish it just to spite you. I was trying to protect her too.”

That stopped Harry.

A beat passed. He looked down. Then back at Danny.

And his voice was cold now. “You don’t get to say that.”

Danny stood. “Harry—”

“You don’t get to say you were protecting her. Because you don’t know her.”

“I know what she means to you.”

Harry turned. Started for the door.

Danny’s voice followed him. “What are you going to do?”

Harry didn’t answer. He just walked out. Back through the hallway.

Back into the room.

She was still asleep. Barely.

One arm stretched across his pillow now. Her mouth slightly open. Her face soft.

She looked peaceful.

And Harry knew—

He had about sixteen hours to keep it that way. To protect the only thing in his life that didn’t feel manufactured.

To preserve whatever fragile, fierce, ridiculous thing they’d built between cups of espresso and whispered fights and silk dresses and rain-soaked kisses.

And he would. He didn’t know how yet. But he would.

He slipped back into bed beside her. Careful not to wake her. Careful with everything now. More careful than he’d ever been.

He wrapped his arm around her again. Pulled her in.

Held her tighter than he did the night before. Just in case. Because the day was coming.

And with it?

Hell.

Harry didn’t go back to sleep. He couldn’t.

Instead, he laid there with her pressed to his chest and stared at the ceiling like it might give him an answer. Something, anything, to make nineteen hours feel less like a death sentence.

Because that’s what it was. A countdown.

Not just to the article—but to the before and after.

Before, quiet mornings and peach juice on her wrist, wine-stained linen and soft kisses behind alleyway walls, her foot in his lap at lunch, the sound of her laughing with Francesca, the way she tucked into his coat like it was always hers.

After, the world.

He already knew how it would go. He’d seen it a thousand times.

The internet would eat her alive.

They’d comb through every blurry photo, every scrap of background noise, and when they didn’t find anything, they’d start making things up.

“She’s too young for him.”

“She’s using him.”

“She’s boring.”

“She’s not boring enough.”

“She’s not even pretty.”

“She’s too pretty—it’s obvious she’s had work done.”

“She’s only with him for the money.”

“She’s not interesting.”

“She’s trying too hard to be interesting.”

“She’s just like Lucy.”

That one would be the worst.

The comparisons. The analysis. The recycled history he’d spent years burying.

And the photo—that fucking photo—would be the centerpiece. Used in every post, every headline, every whisper campaign. Frozen in time.

A moment that had belonged only to them.

Now handed over to the wolves.

He looked at her again. Still asleep. Still soft and safe and everything the world didn’t deserve.

And he made a decision. He would tell her.

Not all of it. Not yet. He couldn’t put that kind of fear in her eyes. But she needed to know what was coming. Before she saw her own face at a newsstand or on a feed. Before someone DM’d her a link.

She’d never forgive him if he let her find out like that.

So when she woke, he’d tell her. Gently. Slowly. He’d cushion it with espresso and pastries and the kind of touch that said, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, you’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe.

The light started to shift around 7:30. The room warmed. Birds stirred outside the balcony. A linen curtain fluttered against the open door.

She woke with a faint groan, face buried in his chest.

“Time is it?” she mumbled, her voice raspy.

“Too early,” Harry murmured. “Go back to sleep.”

But she stretched instead, her body arching against him like a cat.

“No, I’m up. Kind of. Sort of. Halfway.”

He kissed her hair. “Let me get you coffee.”

“No,” she groaned, grabbing his shirt. “You’re too warm. Stay here for five more minutes.”

He did. Of course he did.

She could’ve asked him for anything.

When she finally sat up, the shirt slipped off her shoulder again. She blinked slowly, hair wild, cheeks creased from the pillow. She looked like a dream.

Harry sat up behind her, running his hand down her spine.

“Breakfast?”

“Yeah.”

He helped her out of the shirt—slowly, carefully, like it was ritual. She kissed his jaw before heading into the bathroom, and he stood for a moment in the doorway just watching her.

He wasn’t ready to let her out of his sight.

Not today.

He got dressed while she did her skincare—charcoal slacks, black button-up, sleeves rolled once at the elbow. No tie. No blazer. Just sharp enough to look deliberate.

“Okay, I feel human again,” she declared, voice soft and bright. “Are we staying here for breakfast or leaving?”

He swallowed. “Staying.”

She smiled. “Perfect. I want something carby and sweet and bad for me.”

He watched her cross the room, picking through her things—eventually settling on a soft, tank top and a white cotton skirt. No makeup. Gold hoops. She didn’t even bother with shoes.

“You look…” he stopped, unable to find the right word. “You look beautiful. Truly.”

She blinked.

Then laughed, flushed. “Thank you.”

“You really are.”

They headed down the corridor together, slow and unhurried.

Every staff member they passed tried to look away discreetly. Some nodded. One stuttered out a buongiorno before tripping over his own cart.

She leaned into Harry’s side and whispered, “You know you’re terrifying, right?”

He didn’t respond. Just smirked faintly.

They reached the courtyard where breakfast was being served—small, shaded tables nestled beneath white umbrellas. The smell of espresso, fresh fruit, and butter drifted in the warm air.

She let out a soft sound of delight.

Harry pulled out her chair before she could. She blinked at him, amused.

“Well, thank you, Mr. Castillo.”

He sat beside her, not across. Always beside.

“Of course.”

They ordered coffee—hers with sugar, his black—and two plates of pastries. Then eggs. Then more fruit. He kept glancing at her like she might disappear if he blinked.

She noticed.

“What?” she asked, smiling around her spoon.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” she teased, nudging his thigh with her knee.

He chuckled softly. Then looked up.

Danny. Crossing the garden with his phone in hand, looking half-dead.

She spotted him too.

“Danny!” she called out, waving.

Harry tried not to flinch.

Danny turned. Paused.

Smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

She tilted her head, voice playful. “You’ve been ghosting me.”

Danny approached slowly. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. Where have you been? I haven’t seen you since dinner, and I was beginning to think you hated me.”

Danny gave her a sheepish shrug. “Just busy. Logistics. Emails. All that boring shit.”

“You should eat. Come sit.”

Danny looked between them. Then shook his head. “Nah. You two should have your moment. You lovebirds deserve it.”

She frowned slightly. “You sure?”

Harry stared at him. Flat. Cold.

Danny nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got to take a call anyway.”

Harry didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched him turn and leave like a man on fire.

She turned back to Harry. “He’s acting weird.”

“He’s always weird,” Harry muttered, sipping his espresso.

She leaned her chin into her hand and looked at him. “You okay?”

He nodded once. But she didn’t buy it.

“Tell me,” she said softly.

He set down his cup. Met her eyes. And suddenly, the timing felt like glass.

She was so calm. So soft. Wrapped in sunlight and kindness. And he was about to put a crack in that.

But she deserved to know.

So he took her hand. Held it across the table. And started to speak. Because the world was coming. And he wanted her to hear it from him.

Harry shifted his chair beside her, closer than before.

The courtyard buzzed around them in that golden, slow way—espresso cups clinking, forks scraping, someone laughing faintly in the distance—but at their table, time stopped.

She looked radiant in the morning light, unaware that the world was already bending its gaze toward her. That somewhere, in sleek offices and messy group chats, her name was being typed. That headlines were drafted. That judgment had been scheduled.

And Harry—Harry looked like a man about to ruin something precious.

He didn’t start with the photo. He started with her hand. He took it—quietly, deliberately, fingers wrapping around hers like he was grounding himself first.

Then he turned to her, jaw tense, voice low.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

She stilled. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

The air between them shifted, dipped.

“I found out early this morning,” he continued, “and it's something you should know.”

He glanced away for a moment—toward the far end of the garden where the waiter had just placed another cappuccino down. Then back to her.

“There’s going to be an article. New York Times. It goes live tonight at 11. 5PM back home.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But inside? Her heart cracked.

Just once. A fracture.

He kept going.

“It’s about us.”

That hit. Us.

She heard the weight in it—the implication, the inevitability. About us. Not about him. Not just a line in passing about a man seen with a woman. No, this was different. This was targeted. This was real.

Her stomach dropped. Her throat tightened.

“They’re using the photo,” he added. “The one from the lobby. The woman—Carrie—she didn’t delete it like I told her to.”

There it was.

She blinked once. Twice.

Then nodded.

But she didn’t speak.

And that terrified him more than anything.

“I’m sorry,” he said, almost under his breath. “I should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve gotten ahead of it. Should’ve—” he stopped himself, jaw tightening. “It’s my fault.”

She shook her head.

“No,” she said finally, her voice quiet but sharp. “It’s not your fault.”

But she didn’t look at him.

Just stared at the tablecloth.

A pale smear of fig jam stained the edge of her plate. A bird chirped somewhere above. It felt wrong that the world was still moving.

She had known—of course she had. Knew the risk the second she let herself be seen with him in public. Knew the reality the first time he brought her over to his place like she'd belonged to him.

But knowing something and facing it were not the same.

Now it was here. Now she had less than fifteen hours before the world knew her face.

Hopefully maybe more.

Her mind spiraled before she could stop it.

What if they dig?

What if they find the pieces I buried?

What if Harry finds them too?

She tried to breathe normally.

Tried to pretend she wasn’t unraveling inch by inch.

Harry’s voice was gentle now. Careful.

“We can stay here. We don’t have to go anywhere today. I’ll talk to the villa staff—have everything brought in. We’ll just… ride it out.”

She nodded again, but it was slow. Mechanical.

He wasn’t getting it. Not really.

He was trying to protect her, and that only made the shame worse. The guilt. The fear.

Because she hadn’t told him. Not all of it.

Not the history that lived behind her ribs, locked up in a box she’d buried at twenty-one and never opened again. Not the part of her life that wasn’t elegant or poetic or beautifully broken—but messy and raw and stained in ways that didn’t wash out.

He didn’t know.

And once the article hit—once her name spread—once someone, anyone, decided to pull a thread—

He would.

And then what?

Would he look at her differently?

Would the way he kissed her change?

Would she become another complication he had to manage?

She couldn’t bear that.

Not from him.

So she stayed quiet.

Let him think it was just nerves.

Let him reach for her coffee cup and slide it closer, let him kiss her knuckles like it meant something more than a sweet morning gesture.

He thought she was afraid of the article.

But she wasn’t.

She was afraid of the fallout. Of what he’d find in the ashes.

He could feel her slipping into herself, pulling back in that silent, practiced way she did when she was scared.

He moved closer. Touched her jaw, guiding her to look at him.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said. “Not yet. I just need you to know—none of this changes anything. Not for me. They can write what they want. Post what they want. You’re still mine.”

That broke her a little more.

She forced a smile—soft and small and almost real.

But inside? Panic.

He didn’t know.

And I can’t be the one to tell him.

Not today.

Maybe not ever.

So she leaned into his touch.

Let him kiss her cheek. Let him finish her coffee. Let him believe she was okay.

But part of her heart had already braced for impact. And the worst part?

She wasn’t afraid of the world finding out who she used to be.

She was afraid of Harry finding out.

Because if he looked at her differently—if he pulled away—if the softness in his voice ever twisted into something cold—

It wouldn’t just break her. It would wreck her.

So she smiled.

Held his hand tighter.

And whispered, “Okay.”

Even though it wasn’t. Even though it was anything but.

They finished their breakfast quietly. She picked at a pastry, peeled apart a fig. Harry didn’t push. Didn’t ask. Just let her move at her own pace, his hand never far from hers, his eyes lingering like he was memorizing her all over again.

And when they stood to leave, he didn’t let go of her hand.

Didn’t say a word.

He just walked her back through the sun-washed corridors of the villa, their footsteps soft against the cool stone floors, her cotton skirt swaying gently with each step.

The second the door closed behind them, it changed.

The quiet was heavier now. Not cold. But dense.

Loaded with things neither of them had fully said.

She crossed the room slowly, fingers brushing over the top of the dresser like she didn’t know what to do with her hands. The breeze from the open balcony door moved through the curtains like breath. Her hair fluttered across her shoulder.

Harry watched her for a long moment. Then moved.

He came up behind her—slow, deliberate—his presence folding over her like gravity. His hands slid around her waist. Firm. Certain.

She let out a breath. Leaned into him.

He pressed a kiss to her neck. Then another. Then one just behind her ear, hot and slow, and she shivered.

“You are quiet,” he said softly.

“I’m okay.”

He exhaled against her skin. “You don’t have to be.”

She turned slightly, eyes catching his. “I just need you.”

That did it. Something shifted behind his gaze. His jaw tightened. His grip on her waist flexed.

And before she could blink, she was being spun—back pressed against the dresser, his hands caging her in on either side, his eyes dark and hungry and full of everything he’d been trying to hold back since dawn.

“Say that again,” he said, voice low.

“I need you.”

He kissed her. Hard. Full-mouth, no space in between them, kissed her.

His hands gripped her face, holding her in place as he devoured her mouth—like he was angry at the air between them. She moaned, arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer like she couldn’t get enough.

His hands moved fast—down her sides, over her hips, sliding beneath the soft hem of her tank top. When he touched bare skin, he growled into her mouth.

“No bra?”

She shook her head, breathless.

He smirked—feral, gorgeous.

“Good.”

The shirt was gone in seconds—tugged up and over her head, tossed somewhere across the room without ceremony.

Then his mouth was on her chest.

Kissing. Biting.

Sucking marks into the tops of her breasts like he needed to brand her. His hands palmed her, thumbs rolling over her nipples until her knees buckled.

“Harry—”

He lifted her. Effortless.

Turned and walked her back toward the bed, kissing her the whole time like he couldn’t stop. He dropped her onto the mattress like he was done being soft. Like something inside him had snapped.

The cotton skirt was next—pushed up her thighs, bunched around her waist.

“Keep wearing this fucking skirt,” he murmured, voice rasping like gravel. “It's like you want me to lose my mind.”

“I do.”

He froze. Looked at her.

Then tugged her panties down in one rough motion, dragging them down her legs and off with a single pull.

He didn’t even kiss her again.

Just sank to his knees at the edge of the bed and dragged her hips toward him.

She gasped.

“Harry—”

“Shh.”

He hooked her knees over his shoulders and dove in. His mouth on her was feral. Starved.

He licked her like he was trying to silence every thought in her head—slow, messy drags of his tongue that made her cry out, one hand clutching the sheets, the other buried in his hair.

He held her open, fingers digging into her thighs like he wanted to leave bruises. Every time she tried to squirm, he growled and pulled her tighter against his face.

“You taste like a fucking dream,” he muttered against her, voice hoarse. “This pussy’s mine.”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, yours—Harry, please—”

He moaned into her, sending a jolt straight through her spine. When he added two fingers—thrusting them deep and curling just right—she nearly came right then. Her legs shook. Her head dropped back.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “So wet for me already.”

He worked her like he knew her body better than she did. Licked her until she was whimpering, fucked her with his fingers until her thighs trembled, until her hips bucked uncontrollably.

Then, without warning, he stopped. She whimpered in protest.

He stood.

And looked down at her—chest rising, cheeks flushed, mouth open.

“Turn over.”

She blinked. “What?”

“On your knees.”

The tone left no room for negotiation.

She obeyed—heart pounding, breath ragged.

He dragged her skirt up again. Gripped her ass. Slid two fingers back inside her, slow and deep, making her arch.

“Still so fucking wet,” he growled. “You were dripping at breakfast. Did you like knowing I could take you apart the second we got back here?”

She moaned, pushing back against his hand.

“Answer me.”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“Good girl.”

She heard the rustle of his clothes—his belt, his zipper, the soft hiss of fabric as he freed himself. Then the blunt heat of him at her entrance.

He didn’t ease in.

He slammed into her in one deep, punishing thrust.

She cried out, hands fisting the sheets.

“Fuck, Harry—”

“Shhh, baby,” he growled, leaning over her, one hand on her hip, the other wrapping around her throat. “You can take it. You always do.”

He pulled out slowly—almost all the way—then slammed back in, harder. Deeper. Again. Again. Relentless. Unyielding. Each thrust drove her forward on the mattress, her body a plaything in his hands.

And the sounds—

The slap of skin, her soft gasps, his low grunts—all of it filled the room like heat.

“Look at you,” he rasped, tightening his grip on her throat just slightly. “Letting me fuck you like this. Taking every inch like you were made for it.”

“I was,” she whimpered. “I am—Harry, please—”

He growled.

Dragged her up by the throat, back flush to his chest, his cock still deep inside her.

“Say it.”

She turned her face, breath catching. “Yours.”

He kissed her—deep and brutal—while fucking her harder from behind, one hand between her legs now, rubbing tight circles over her clit until her body started to break apart.

“I’m gonna—Harry—please—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered into her mouth. “Let go.”

She shattered.

Her orgasm hit like a wave—loud and long, her whole body convulsing as she moaned his name, clenching hard around him. He held her through it, fucked her through it, chasing his own release.

And when he came, he growled something filthy into her neck—buried so deep, so rough, it knocked the breath from both of them.

They collapsed together.

A tangle of limbs and sweat and silk. He stayed inside her. Just held her. Breathing heavy.

His hand moved to her chest—flat over her heart like he was anchoring her. Or himself.

For a long time, neither of them said anything.

Then—

“You’re mine,” he whispered again. Fierce. Quiet.

She nodded. Still trembling.

“I don’t care what they say,” he added. “You’re mine.”

And even though her heart was still racing, even though her mind was already spiraling toward what was coming—

She believed him.

She was his.

And he was hers.

They didn’t move for a while.

The sunlight crept across the bed, warming their bare skin, catching in the folds of the white sheets, highlighting the flushed pink across her chest where he’d kissed too hard, bitten too softly. Her leg was still slung over his hip. Her fingers rested on his stomach, rising and falling with each breath like they were syncing again, recalibrating after the heat of what they’d just done.

Harry couldn’t stop touching her.

His thumb traced idle patterns along the slope of her hip. Her skin was damp, glowing. She was too beautiful like this—undone and half-asleep, skin smelling like lavender, sex, and sweat, hair stuck to her temple.

She blinked up at him. He was already watching her.

“You’re staring again,” she murmured, voice hoarse from pleasure.

“I always stare.”

She smiled. Barely. Then tucked her face against his chest, breathing him in like she didn’t want to forget this. Like she was memorizing the shape of his body beneath her.

Harry looked up at the ceiling, his palm gliding up and down her spine.

Neither of them spoke for a long while. They didn’t need to.

Eventually, she sighed, voice sleepy. “Do we have to leave the room? Or talk to people?”

“No,” Harry said instantly. “We’re not leaving this room today.”

She lifted her head a little. “Really?”

He nodded. “I’m not in the mood to be charming. Or diplomatic. Or hear Lorenzo’s snarky little comments.”

She laughed against his chest. “God, he’s exhausting.”

“Everything out of his mouth is a TED Talk laced with disdain.”

“And Livia’s probably halfway through writing her own op-ed about us already.”

“Exactly,” Harry muttered. “Let them all speculate.”

She sat up slightly, still naked, still flushed, still glowing.

“You sure?” she asked, more serious now. “There’s probably some contract thing or meeting or…I don’t know…state secrets you’re supposed to be handling.”

Harry leaned up on one elbow. Brushed a strand of hair off her cheek.

“I want today to be just ours,” he said softly. “Before everything changes.”

That hit.

She looked at him—really looked at him. The shadows under his eyes. The way his voice dropped when he said “ours.” The crack in his armor that only she ever got to see.

She nodded.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s keep the world out. Just for today.”

He kissed her forehead.

Then wrapped her in the sheet, pulling her back down to his chest, tangling them together like he needed to anchor her to the bed.

They spent the next few hours like that. Not moving much.

Just limbs tangled, bodies lazy with heat and afterglow.

Harry ordered breakfast again—more fruit, more coffee, more bread—then had it delivered straight to the room. When the knock came, he pulled on his slacks and shirt but left the top buttons undone, his chest bare as he cracked the door open and took the tray.

She watched from the bed, head propped on her hand.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “You’re like a hot dad in a cologne ad.”

He smirked. “Tell me more.”

They ate in bed. She sat cross-legged in his t-shirt, drinking espresso from a delicate porcelain cup while he peeled figs and passed them to her, one by one. She stole a bite of his toast. He wiped butter off her lip with his thumb. They didn’t turn on the TV. Didn’t check their phones. The world felt far away.

At one point, she curled into his side again, her cheek pressed to his chest. His hand moved slowly through her hair, over and over, soothing. She drifted off like that—worn out and warm and full of carbs and comfort.

And Harry?

Harry laid there, watching her sleep. For hours. 

Until he realized it was past three already. His mind never stopped.

He wanted her to rest. Wanted her to stay soft and safe in their little bubble of stolen hours.

But there was the countdown.

And the closer the clock crept to eleven, the tighter his chest felt.

He waited until her breathing evened out, until her fingers went slack against his stomach. Then, slowly, he slid out from beneath her. Careful. Quiet. Placing a kiss at the crown of her head before easing out of bed.

He dressed quickly—charcoal trousers, navy sweater, no shoes. Ran a hand through his hair. Didn’t bother looking in the mirror.

Then he left the room. For the second time today.

Danny was in the corner of the villa he ran off to, holed up in what used to be a study but had become his makeshift office—a tangle of laptops, chargers, espresso cups, and half-buried Italian snack wrappers.

He barely looked up when Harry walked in.

“Close the door,” Danny muttered.

Harry did.

Then crossed the room in a few long strides.

Danny spoke before he could.

“I’ve been talking to Sadie back at the office all morning. She’s trying to get ahead of it. Our options are limited, but—”

“We’re doing a statement,” Harry said flatly.

Danny blinked. “What?”

“When the article goes live. We control the narrative.”

Danny leaned back in the chair, arms crossed. “You’re sure?”

Harry nodded. “She’s not going to become someone’s TikTok theory. I’m not letting people build a myth out of her silence. They’ll do it anyway—but I’m not giving them fuel.”

Danny ran a hand through his hair. “You realize this means press calls. Confirmations. You’ll have to say something. Actually say it.”

“I don’t care.”

Danny looked at him for a beat.

Then nodded.

“Okay. Then we do it your way.”

Harry exhaled.

The silence that followed was short-lived.

Because then Danny added, almost too casually, “There’s something else.”

Harry’s shoulders tensed. “What?”

Danny hesitated.

“Spit it out.”

Danny didn’t meet his eyes. Just opened his laptop again. Clicked once. Then turned the screen toward him.

It was the article. Still in preview form. But this time—there was a new paragraph at the bottom.

And Harry’s name wasn’t the only one in bold.

Lucy’s was.

He read the quote.

“She doesn’t know what he’s like yet. How intense. How obsessive. How cold he can be when he wants to.”

Harry stilled. Everything in his body went quiet.

Then—

He laughed. Once. Sharp. A sound with no humor in it.

Then he leaned back, ran a hand down his face, and muttered, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Danny didn’t answer.

Harry stood. Started pacing.

“She gave a quote,” he said flatly. “To Carrie Roth.”

Danny nodded.

Harry barked out another bitter laugh. “The same woman who fed a wedding invite to my team like it was an olive branch now wants to narrate my personal life for the New York fucking Times?”

“Harry—”

“She left,” he snapped. “She left me. She walked away. She broke something in me that no one has touched since, and now—what? She wants to throw rocks at the glass house she abandoned?”

“I don’t think she expected you to—”

“To move on?” Harry turned, eyes dark. “Yeah. That sounds like her.”

Danny watched him carefully.

Harry’s voice dropped, razor-sharp.

“She’s not protecting anyone. She’s not warning anyone. She just wants to stay relevant in my story.”

A long pause. Harry walked to the window. Stared out at the hills.

Then said, quietly—

“She can’t stand that I’m happy.”

Danny didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Harry turned back, calmer now. But there was something in his eyes. Something cold. Resolved.

“I want it noted in the statement,” he said. “No comment about Lucy. No clapback. Just silence. Her quote will scream louder against it.”

“You sure?”

“I want her words to hang in the air with nothing to land on.”

Danny nodded. “Okay.”

“And when the article drops—have the staff pull the villa Wi-Fi.”

Danny tilted his head. “You really think that’s necessary?”

Harry didn’t blink. “I want her to sleep through it.”

Danny exhaled. “Understood.”

Harry looked down. Then out the window again.

The sun was slipping low now. Dipping into late afternoon. Only a few hours left.

And somewhere upstairs, she was still asleep in his bed—barely covered, skin warm, lips parted, dreaming of nothing.

Still untouched by what was coming.

He clenched his jaw.

“I’m going back,” he said. “I want her to have as much of today as she can.”

Danny didn’t say another word.

Harry turned. Opened the door. And left.

The light was different when he returned. Softer. Golden. Filtering in through the gauzy curtains like a whispered promise.

She was still curled up in bed, just where he left her—one arm flung over his pillow, the other tucked beneath her cheek. Her hair was a mess. Her leg was kicked out from under the sheets. Her mouth twitched once, like she was smiling in her sleep.

He stood at the doorway for a long time. Just watched her. The most peaceful thing in his world.

And he knew—

He would burn it all down if they touched her. If they twisted her story. If they dug too deep.

But for now? She was just his.

He toed off his shoes. Pulled his sweater over his head. Slid back into bed beside her, gentle and quiet, wrapping an arm around her waist.

She stirred. Then melted into him like she’d never left.

And Harry?

Harry closed his eyes. Just for a minute.

Because something was coming.

And with it—hell. But not yet. Not now.

The world outside their villa room remained distant. Muffled. The kind of late afternoon lull that made everything feel dipped in honey. The sun was still warm but fading, and the breeze through the balcony door carried the scent of lemon trees and salt and something blooming.

She was still asleep.

Curled into his side again, her small hand wrapped gently around his thumb like she knew, even in dreams, that something was coming. Harry held her close with one arm, the other resting on the blanket. He hadn’t moved in nearly an hour.

But his mind wouldn’t rest.

He stared at the ceiling. Then at the golden curve of her cheek.

Then, slowly, reached for his phone from the nightstand. The screen glared to life—27 missed messages, 14 emails, 6 calendar alerts—and he ignored them all.

Instead, he opened something he hadn’t touched in weeks.

Messages.

He scrolled down until he found her name.

Lucy.

And clicked.

The thread opened like a wound. Not because he missed her.

But because he couldn’t remember how the hell he ever loved her.

He scrolled, slowly at first. Then faster.

Messages from a year ago. Six months ago.

Texts full of jabs that looked like jokes. Compliments edged with contempt. Whole stretches of time when she wouldn’t respond at all—just long silences punctuated by acid replies.

Harry: I moved the 3PM to 5 to make time for your meeting. Want to get dinner after?

Lucy: Not if you’re going to talk about your profits the whole time again.

He kept scrolling.

Harry: Missed you this morning. Hope your flight was okay.

Lucy: Did you leave the AC on again? My plants are dead. Again.

Another set.

Harry: Can we talk about what happened last night?

Lucy: There’s nothing to talk about. You overreacted. As usual.

He stared at that one for a long moment.

Then scrolled up again.

Harry: I’m not trying to fight with you. I just want to understand why you said that.

Lucy: I said it because it’s true. You’re exhausting, Harry. I’m not going to babysit your emotions every time you feel insecure.

He winced. He remembered that night.

Remembered how she’d looked in the restaurant, eyes glittering like a knife. How she’d laughed in front of the waiter when he tried to explain why a news leak had made him sad.

She’d called him fragile.

He kept scrolling. Closer to the end now.

The final texts before it all fell apart.

Harry: Why are you making me feel guilty for wanting to pay the bill?

Lucy: Because you always do it. Because it makes me feel like I owe you something. You don’t know how to exist in a relationship without treating it like a transaction.

Harry: That’s not fair.

Lucy: Life’s not fair. Grow up.

The last message was his.

One he never got a reply to.

Harry: I just want to take care of you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

Three days later, she posted a photo onto Instagram in Montauk with John. Smiling. Holding his hand.

The broke ass waiter she used to mock under her breath during charity dinners. The one she told Harry would never understand her. The one she ran to after burning every bridge in his chest.

Harry looked down at his screen. At the last words he ever typed to Lucy.

Then looked at the girl sleeping on his chest. Everything inside him softened.

Because this—what he had now—was not the same storm. It was something else entirely.

She breathed evenly. Her hand twitched once in her sleep, like she was dreaming of running. Or dancing. Or chasing something. Her leg was still tangled with his, bare skin on bare skin beneath the sheets, her body warm and real and here.

And she didn’t ask him to shrink.

She never mocked his care.

She let him hold her.

She leaned into his protection like it meant something. Like he wasn’t some cold, obsessive machine.

She smiled when he opened the door. Laughed when he kissed her shoulder. Praised him with a look alone.

She was everything Lucy never was.

And Harry felt it in his bones—that she wasn’t just a phase or a fix or a fever. She was real. She was joy and grief and survival and softness all tangled into one beautiful, infuriating, irresistible thing.

He wanted to protect her.

He wanted to keep her laughing in bed, lips sticky with figs and espresso, forever. He wanted her to have days where her past didn’t feel like an undertow and nights where she fell asleep safe in his arms, knowing that no one—not Carrie Roth, not Lucy, not the internet—would ever touch her without going through him first.

His phone buzzed. Once. Then again.

He glanced down, expecting another update from Danny. But it was from Luca.

Luca: Francesca got the film developed.

Luca: Thought you’d want these.

Luca: Don’t let her see them yet unless you’re ready to cry like a little bitch.

Harry opened the message.

Three photos. Film. Unedited. Grainy in the way that made things feel truer.

And the moment he saw the first one, his breath left his chest.

They were at lunch. The one with the crooked string lights and those marzipan. The one where they were wine-drunk and sunk into each other like vines.

The first photo was her on his shoulder. Eyes half-lidded. Flushed cheeks. Lips slightly parted. He was saying something into her ear—something private, something that made her laugh in the second photo. That laugh that cracked her whole face open like light through stained glass.

He looked down at her like she was the only thing that existed.

And in the third photo? She was feeding him a bite of cake. Her fingers near his mouth.

And he was smiling.

Not the tight-lipped, polite kind.

But the kind that looked like freedom. Like after.

Harry stared at the screen, heart hammering.

Francesca had been right. They looked like they’d been in love for a hundred years.

He gently tilted the phone away, not wanting to wake her with the brightness.

Instead, he tucked it under the pillow and looked back at her. Still sleeping.

Still unaware that somewhere, deep in the belly of the internet, her face was already loaded into a server, waiting to be released into the wild.

But not yet. He still had time.

And so, with the weight of Lucy’s cruelty still echoing in the back of his mind and the ghost of her last text sitting unanswered in his pocket, Harry wrapped both arms around the woman he hadn’t lost.

And whispered into her hair like a vow.

“I’ve got you.”

Because for the first time in years, he meant it.

And she believed him. Even in sleep. Especially then.

The late Florence light spilled across their bed like honey, warm and gold and cruel in how peaceful it made everything look. She was still tucked into him, limbs loose and trusting, face slack with sleep. Her cheek pressed to his chest, one hand resting over his heart like she needed to feel it beat to believe it was real.

Harry exhaled slowly.

He was still holding the memory of that photo—her laughing, head tilted, eyes closed, like she’d never known anything but love. It rattled something in his chest. A different kind of grief. The kind you only feel when you realize you almost lived your whole life without something that should’ve been this easy.

His hand moved through her hair.

He closed his eyes. And for the first time in days, he allowed himself to drift.

All the way.

Just enough. Just far enough to feel her breath against his ribs.

Six more hours until the world opened its mouth and swallowed them whole.

Across the other wing, Danny sat hunched over his laptop, AirPods shoved into his ears, a half-empty espresso growing cold beside a massive spreadsheet of crisis comms protocols. Allegra had finally—finally—gotten Carrie Roth on the phone, and now Danny was regretting every second of his life that had led him here.

The call connected with a click.

And then—

“Danny,” Carrie said. Her voice was syrupy and sharp, like honey poured over glass. “Didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“You know why I’m calling,” he said flatly.

She laughed. Not kindly.

“I’m flattered. You sound so serious. Are you practicing for a deposition already?”

“Cut the shit, Carrie,” Danny snapped, already red in the face. “We know what you’re planning. You’re sitting on an invasion of privacy and running it under the guise of journalism.”

“I’m reporting a public figure’s romantic life,” she replied breezily. “Not the Pentagon Papers.”

“She was followed into his home,” Danny snapped. “The lobby was private property—”

“It’s not private if there’s a camera and a doorman.”

“You know exactly what you’re doing. That headline is disgusting. You’re using an image that was never meant for public consumption.”

There was a pause on the line.

Then Carrie’s voice dropped, slow and smug.

“She’s in his clothes, Danny. Her hair’s wet. She looks like she just blew him in his penthouse shower. I’m reporting the moment.”

Danny’s jaw clenched.

“Harry’s going to sue you.”

Another pause.

And then Carrie laughed.

“Let him,” she said. “Honestly, it might boost traffic.”

“You’re playing with people’s lives—”

“Oh please,” she snapped. “Don’t act like he hasn’t played with other people’s lives before. This is how it works. You want to keep her private? Keep her off Fifth Avenue. Don’t parade her around Italy, you know Livia is a good conversationalist.”

Danny stood up from the desk.

Paced.

“You publish that article and I swear to God—”

“It’s done.”

Danny froze.

“What?”

Carrie’s voice was calm. Deliberate. Cold as marble.

“I got tired of the back-and-forth. My editor was stalling and frankly, I don’t care. The world should know. Everyone’s waiting. Might as well give them the headline, fuck those six hours.”

“Carrie—”

“Refresh your browser, Danny.”

He did.

Fingers shaking.

And there it was.

The New York Times

Culture & Style

The Billionaire and the Nobody: How Harry Castillo Fell for a Woman Without a Name

By Carrie Roth | Published 11:14 AM EST, March 5th, 2025

Danny’s stomach dropped.

He opened the article—only the top, only the first few lines before the paywall.

But the photo was there. The photo.

Her. Wet hair. In his sweats. His shirt draped over her frame. Standing beside Harry in his penthouse lobby, his hand hovering near her back like it belonged there.

And Harry—

Harry looked in love.

Frozen in a moment he thought no one would ever see. And now? Now the whole world could.

Danny sank back into his chair, chest tight.

Allegra’s voice buzzed through his phone screen as she called again.

Too late. It was already too late. He was fucking too late. The six hours were gone in an instant.

In the west wing of the villa, the silence still held.

She stirred in Harry’s arms, half-asleep, half-dreaming, lips parted against his skin. Her lashes fluttered. One leg kicked softly under the covers. She murmured something unintelligible—something safe, something soft.

Harry was still asleep.

His chest rose and fell evenly. His face relaxed. His hand loosely tangled in her hair like he couldn’t let go even while unconscious.

They were still untouched. Still dreaming in gold. Still pretending they had six more hours.

And outside their door—

The wolves were already circling.

Meanwhile, across the ocean, Cape Cod was overcast.

The clouds had rolled in sometime after breakfast, dragging a dull gray light over everything—the sand, the water, the white clapboard house Lucy still couldn’t believe she lived in. It was a borrowed kind of life, the kind where the floors creaked like someone else’s memories still lived in the walls.

The kind where she still sometimes reached for a card key instead of a brass doorknob. 

John was out back. Raking the garden. They’d promised her parents they’d try growing tomatoes this year. He looked ridiculous in the sweater she shrank in the wash, sleeves too short, collar stretched. He had one earbud in and was humming something off-key. 

Lucy watched him from the kitchen window.

There was a teabag steeping in a mug on the counter. She hadn’t touched it. 

The clock on the oven read 11:26 AM.

She had tried to write that morning. Opened her laptop. Closed it again. Her Substack hadn’t been updated in two weeks. She had a folder of half-finished drafts, all of them brittle and tired. None of them sounded like her.

She couldn’t figure out what she was trying to say anymore.

The house smelled like Windex and laundry detergent.

She hadn't worn makeup in three days. Her robe was slipping off her shoulder again. The dog—a small mutt they adopted from a local shelter last week—was asleep at her feet.

She didn’t hear her phone at first.

It buzzed once on the counter, face-down. Then again. Then a third time, longer.

She flipped it over with two fingers.

CARRIE ROTH

Lucy stared at the name. The screen. The blinking green light.

Then she answered.

“Carrie,” she said, voice flat. “It’s not a great time.”

“It dropped.”

Lucy’s breath caught. Carrie didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. There was only one thing it could mean.

Lucy turned away from the window. Walked slowly to the table. Sat down.

Her voice was quieter now. “Already?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

Lucy swallowed. Her mouth was suddenly dry.

“I thought—”

“Danny threatened to sue me,” Carrie said. “It annoyed me. So I pulled the trigger.”

Lucy didn’t respond.

“People are reading it already,” Carrie continued. “It’s trending.”

Lucy closed her eyes.

“And you used my quote?” she asked. Her voice didn’t shake. But it was cold now. A razor sheathed in velvet.

“You know I did.”

Another long silence.

Carrie didn’t fill it. Just waited.

Finally, Lucy asked, “Does she know yet?”

She could hear the smile in Carrie’s voice.

"She will soon."

Lucy’s stomach turned. She hung up without saying goodbye.

The phone stayed pressed to her palm, screen black, fingers tightening around it like it had betrayed her.

Outside, John waved at her through the glass.

She didn’t wave back. She sat there for a long time.

Long enough for the tea to go cold. Long enough for the dog to shift, whine softly, and curl closer to her feet like it could sense something wrong.

She didn’t cry. She wasn’t the crying type. But something inside her splintered. A small, sharp ache behind the ribs.

She told herself it wasn’t jealousy. She told herself it wasn’t regret. She had made a choice. She left New York. She left him.

And not just the high-rise penthouse and the assistant with the dry wit and the perfectly tailored suits. She left the man.

Harry Castillo. The one who loved quietly.

Who boiled her tea before bed even when they weren’t speaking. Who carried her keys in his coat pocket without asking. Who hated poetry but listened when she read it out loud like he was trying to understand anyway.

But also—

The man who never told her how he felt unless she dragged it out of him. Who made her feel like she was constantly trying to earn softness. Who made the walls of their penthouse feel colder every time he shut down instead of shouting.

They were never right for each other. But they had been something.

And now? He was in love again. And someone had captured it on film.

Lucy had already seen the photo. She didn’t want to have to see it again. She would feel it this time.

The way Carrie had broke it to her. That wasn’t journalism. That was a knife. That was salt in a wound no one was supposed to know she still had.

She looked down at her robe. At the ring on her finger. Thinner than the one Harry had once picked out and never got the chance to give her. The diamond smaller. The love less complicated.

She looked at the phone again. It didn’t buzz. Didn’t ring.

No one was calling to tell her how it felt to be quoted like that. No one was telling her how Harry had reacted.

She wouldn’t know unless she asked. And she wasn’t going to ask.

Because even if she still thought about him when the wind off the ocean sounded like Manhattan in the winter—

Even if she still had his number saved under Harry <3.

Even if she sometimes imagined what he’d say about the neighbors, or the farmer’s market, or the chipped tile in the bathroom—

She had left. And he had moved on.

So she sat there. In the silence. And for the first time since the article dropped—

She wondered if he’d finally fallen in love for real.

And if that woman—whoever she was—wasn’t a nobody after all. But someone who had given him something Lucy never could.

Peace. And the permission to be soft.

She got up slowly. Turned off her phone.And didn’t open the article. Not yet.

─────

The New York Times

Culture & Style

The Billionaire and the Nobody: How Harry Castillo Fell for a Woman Without a Name

By Carrie Roth | Published 11:14 AM EST, March 5th, 2025

When Harry Castillo, the notoriously private hedge fund billionaire and reluctant society darling, walked away from the limelight in late 2024 after a very public and very painful breakup with longtime partner Lucy, no one expected to see him surface again in any intimate context.

Yet here we are.

Castillo, 54, was photographed in the lobby of his Fifth Avenue penthouse earlier this month with a woman whose name, background, and entire existence appear to have baffled both the social elite and the media machine equally. In a world where a last name can function as currency, this woman has none—or at least, not one that anyone seems able to find.

The photo—captured by Carrie Roth and verified by multiple sources—features Castillo in a pair of dark joggers and a custom Valentino long sleeve, his expression unreadable. The woman beside him is dressed in what appear to be his clothes, oversized sweatpants, a faded navy shirt likely pulled from his top drawer, and socks patterned in chaotic, juvenile colors that make one wonder if she dressed herself in the dark or simply enjoys looking like a college freshman home for spring break.

Her hair is wet. So is his. Her face is bare. Her body language, reserved.

It would be forgettable if it weren’t so telling.

She doesn’t look like someone accustomed to being photographed. She doesn’t carry herself like a model, actress, heiress, or anyone remotely used to proximity to power. She looks like she just stepped out of his shower, borrowed his laundry, and followed him out without knowing where they were going next. There’s no stylist, no heels, no curated façade. There’s not even a purse in sight.

Which, of course, begs the question...Who is she?

At the time of publication, no verified identity has been confirmed. What we do know, she’s American. Likely in her twenties or early thirties. No public social media. No recognizable affiliations. No traceable digital footprint. A true anomaly in a city—and a culture—obsessed with documentation.

Some will say it’s romantic. That Castillo, long labeled cold and career-obsessed, has finally fallen for someone outside the machine. That love found him in a quiet corner of life and pulled him back into the light.

Others are less convinced.

The most damning quote comes from Lucy herself, the woman who knew him best—and left.

“She doesn’t know what he’s like yet. How intense. How obsessive. How cold he can be when he wants to. She’s not built for it. She’ll realize eventually. It’s a facade. All of it. He doesn’t do warm. Not really.”

Harsh words from a woman once fiercely loyal to the man she now paints as emotionally inaccessible. But they do echo a question many of Castillo's partners are quietly asking...What happens when the charm wears off?

Castillo’s pattern is well-documented. He disappears for months, reemerges without explanation, and surrounds himself with handlers more loyal than blood. He doesn’t date. He selects. Curates. And if this woman—this “nobody”—has truly captured his attention, she may have unknowingly stepped into a role with no script, no exit, and no idea of the performance required.

The optics are troubling.

The power imbalance is obvious.

He’s 54. She, allegedly is in her late twenties, early thirties. He is a billionaire. She, by all accounts, works in a field so mundane no one’s been able to confirm what it is. (Waitress? Gallerist? Nanny? The rumors span the alphabet.) She does not appear to be in fashion, finance, tech, or any industry tangential to his world.

She is not, in the traditional sense, someone.

And maybe that’s what he wants.

Someone who doesn’t challenge him. Someone who looks up to him. Someone who—like the rest of us—didn’t see it coming.

But let’s be clear, this isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a headline.

And for now, that headline reads like the beginning of a story that’s more about power than love. More about fantasy than future. More about the image of intimacy than the truth of it.

Whether or not the woman in the photo understands what she’s walked into remains to be seen.

But the internet has already decided.

She’s already a meme.

Already a conspiracy thread.

Already a canvas for everyone’s projections.

And Harry Castillo, once the ghost of Manhattan's most elite rooms, has reemerged—only to set the world ablaze with a single photo of a girl who, until now, had the gift of being unseen.

Now?

Now she belongs to the feed.

And the feed never forgets.

Comments (238):

louisa83 Isn’t she that girl from Charlotte? Her brother…you know. The one who killed himself after their dad went to prison?

sampaige OMG. YES. my cousin went to school with her at hillside academy. her family basically imploded. her dad was some finance guy who scammed half the town. people lost their homes. then the son took his own life and the mom vanished overseas. it was a whole thing. wild to see her resurface like this.

deannareads Yup. This was a huge story here in North Carolina. Her dad ran a fake investment firm and got busted in 2019. Ponzi-style. Churches lost money. Local businesses folded. I had a friend whose grandmother lost her retirement in that mess. The daughter (the one in the article) disappeared right after the brother’s funeral. Like poof. Gone.

moneymessNC THEY LIVED IN THAT BIG BRICK HOUSE ON CEDAR RIDGE LANE! Her mom used to throw those weird garden parties and acted like she was royalty. Then the FBI raided their house and it all went to hell. I heard the mom dipped to Europe with a new identity. And now the daughter’s dating a billionaire? Make it make sense.

brookee02 “she doesn’t have a digital footprint” ....or maybe she just scrubbed the hell out of it after the biggest scandal in north carolina since john edwards. this girl isn’t a mystery. she’s a cover up and fake!!!!

southernbella She used to go by a different last name, I swear. She changed it after the trial. Her dad was literally sentenced to life. People were protesting outside their house for weeks. The fact that she ended up with Castillo? Feels strategic. Sorry not sorry.

annahayes Not her climbing her way back up to billionaire status like nothing happened...I remember the story. That family imploded. We’re talking lawsuits, fraud, rehab, funerals, extradition rumors. The whole Netflix package.

jadedjuliet sooo let me get this straight. her dad ruins hundreds of lives, her brother dies, her mom runs away, and she gets to rebrand as mysterious and date a billionaire? cool. must be nice to fail upward.

stellamae Nothing like a tragic backstory to distract from the gold digging. Daddy’s in prison, mommy’s in hiding, brother’s six feet under and she’s wearing $900 sweats in a billionaire’s penthouse like it’s a redemption arc. Give me a break.

─────

TAGLIST @foxfollowedmehome @glitterspark @sukivenue @hhallefuckinglujahh @wholesomeloneliness @bebop36 @maryfanson @aysilee2018 @msjarvis @snoopyreadstoday @woodxtock @lasocia69 @jakecockley @just-a-harmless-patato @romancherry @southernbe @canyoufallinlove @aomi-recs @ivoryandflame @peelieblue @mstubbs21 @eleganthottubfun @justgonewild @awqwhat @xoprettiestkat @prose-before-hoes @indiegirlunited @catnip987 @thottiewinemom @rainbowsock4 @weareonlygettingolderbabe @hotforpedro @petertingless @lemon-world1 @jasminedragoon @algressman16 @la-120 @totallynotshine @joelmillerpascal

[himbosandhardwear]

Steddie I Soulmate AU I 2k I Rated Mature I idiot4idiot

The thing about linking with your soulmate, you never knew when it was going to happen. There were horror stories about it happening during weddings to someone else or while performing heart surgery or landing a plane, but linking was so rare, stories like that seemed more like fairy tales than cautionary ones.

If anyone had asked Eddie what he thought about it, he would've said the odds of there being some guy out there destined to be his mate, let alone that he'd have to worry about linking during some critical moment, were astronomically low.

He'd be wrong.

Because his ears are ringing, his vision has tunnelled, and there's an empty vacuum where his usual chaotic thoughts should be. All signs pointing toward-

Hello?

Jesus H. Christ, not now! Not right now, this cannot be happening now. Quick! Think of something else! Uhhh… Golems! Ice golems! Or maybe frost giants. Yeah! Not having hate sex with your arch nemesis. Shit! Stop thinking about it! Frost giants, frost giants, frost giants!

Hate sex? He hears echo around his noggin next. Arch nemesis?

Fuuuuuck. No, darlin’, don't even worry about that stray thought! Nothing to see here. I'm, uh, baking! Yeah. Brownies. For a charity bake sale

A long pause, empty space between them, before he says, I don't believe you. I think you are having sex

Sex?! He screeches. How dare you! I would never!

You would. Go balls deep into a guy you don't even like, sounds like to me. Class act.

Oh god, there’s gotta be a way to salvage this.

No, let me explain, please!

Knock yourself out

Right. So, this guy, I know him from school, right? And he was always kind of a jerk. The space between them pings with a sort of stung feeling but Eddie doesn't understand how any of this works yet so he ignores it. But we end up having a few mutual friends, and this one really weird event happens that forces us to, like, team up, I guess. After all that I'm spending more time around the guy and he's not so bad. Invited me over to smoke up with him, which was cool. I'm gonna be totally honest, I'm not sure how exactly we got here, the sex part, but it’s pretty hot and heavy, kinda aggressive, so… yeah. Hate sex I guess

Soulmate is quiet again. His feelings bleed through anyway, at least Eddie's pretty sure that's what he's getting. It feels like embarrassment and disappointment.

You okay? Did I scare you off?

You don't like the guy at all? You said arch nemesis

Oh. Uh. Well… How did he explain to his future partner, if he hadn't already ruined it, that he likes him plenty, he's just been holding him at arms length, metaphorically, because he assumed the guy was straight? Up until roughly twenty minutes ago. He should probably start with honesty.

No, I like him okay. He's not as bad as I'd always thought. We give each other shit but I'm pretty sure it's just left over bullshit stereotypes from high school. I bully him about his music taste, he bullies me about my shitty van. That type of thing

…Right

He waits to hear back from his soulmate but he's not very talkative. That's okay, Eddie can talk enough for both of them.

So, what were you up to when we linked? Not driving I hope

He can hear the guy sighing over the link, which is worrying.

You'll never believe it, but I'm also having sex at the moment

Seriously? That's hilarious

Yeah. A hoot

Not having fun?

I was. But I recently found out the guy doesn't like me that much. So, yeah, real mood killer

Oh man. That sucks

Oh my god. Yeah, it really does. Kinda wish he'd get off of me so we can get the awkward part over with but he's distracted at the moment

Doing what?! Eddie yells, offended on his behalf.

“He’s busy not realizing he linked to the guy he was hate fucking.”

Huh?

“Eddie, open your fucking eyes.”

That's Steve talking.

He blinks his eyes open to see Steve looking up at him. He's not pleased.

Wait

“Yeah.”

Oh my god

“As impressive as it is that you managed to stay hard through that whole thing, I'd appreciate it if you-” He hisses as Eddie, rudely he realizes, pulls out without warning.

He scrambles to the end of the bed, bunching up the comforter around his junk. “I'm so sorry, fuck, Steve, I'm so sorry. I don't… I didn't…”

He can't fix this, he starts to slowly comprehend. He's made Steve think he hates him.

“Nah, it's cool. I get it.”

I don't hate you, I swear. You have to believe me

“Sure, Eddie.” He's yanking his briefs back on, angry and trying not to show it. “You just don't like me much.” Can't believe I did this again. So fucking stupid

Eddie's certain he's not meant to hear any of that but he responds anyway.

You're not stupid. Please let me explain

“You already did. And I am fucking stupid,” he snaps. “Here I thought we were flirting this whole time and you thought we were bullying each other. That's real fuckin’ stupid of me. I'd convinced myself you actually-” He snaps his teeth shut but Eddie can still hear the unfinished -liked me. “I really wish you would control your feelings, dude. You're broadcasting your horror straight into my head.”

“I don't know how to stop,” he quietly admits.

“Well if you'd ever shown up to health class you'd know how to control it.”

I never thought I would get a soulmate

Steve's surprise at that pings around his brain before he does what Eddie can't and shuts it down.

“I did. I've been thinking about it for years.”

And you ended up with me… And I ruined it before we even got started. I ruined it. Steve Harrington is my soulmate and I ruined it. What the fuck

“You don't have to say it like I'm some kind of prize.” He steps into his jeans and tugs them back up to his hips, not even bothering to do them up. Which is- “I guess it's nice that you think I'm hot. That's something. Maybe we'll be the first casual hookup soulmates.”

He has to fix this. Somehow. Think, god damnit! Wait! That's it! He just has to show Steve what he's thinking!

“I wish you wouldn't.”

“Too bad!” He snaps back.

Okay, as embarrassing as this is about to be, he has to tell the truth.

Eddie was in the 8th grade, Steve in 7th, when they first met. Or, when Eddie first noticed Steve anyway, they never really spoke to each other, their cliques already established by then. But Eddie can remember it like it was yesterday. It was lunch, Eddie was walking by with his bagged PB&J, when he heard it. Steve laughing. It was so joyful, Eddie didn't even know what he was laughing about but it made him smile anyway. Of course one of Steve's shitty jock friends caught him staring and called him a queer freak but that wasn't unusual.

“What the fuck, Eddie? Why do you remember that? And how are you so good at visualizing?”

He ignores the questions to move on to the next memory. Eddie's sophomore year they somehow ended up in the same Shop class. Again, they never spoke but he got to watch Steve work, tongue poking out while he concentrated, the proud look on his face when he whittled some hunk of wood into a recognisable shape.

“I forgot about that. It was a dolphin. I was dating Chelsea Hosteller, they were her favorite animal.”

“Lucky her.”

“Hey, fuck you, man, you're the one showing me this shit! What am I supposed to assume from any of this? You thought I was cute? So what? You clearly don't like who I am as a person, so what difference does it make?”

He's not going to have the patience for every single moment, and they're a lot of them, Eddie realizes that now. So he speed runs through them, making sure to send every bit of feeling through their link.

Steve in his Scoops outfit, luring Eddie to the mall but never making him brave enough to go in. The horror of not knowing whether Steve was alive or dead when he heard about the mall burning down. The joy of finding him at Family Video, somewhere he had reason to visit.

You never even talked to me there

Listening to every word to every story Henderson told him about Steve and his bravery. Pretending to be annoyed so no one noticed he was eating it up. Getting to know the real Steve over Spring Break, the giddiness he couldn't quite tamp down, even as he was scared shitless. The pain of knowing Steve was still in love with Nancy Wheeler, even though it was the obvious narrative to Steve's fairytale life. Of course he gets the girl at the end.

What? Is that why you-

The way he stuck around afterward, even though their dynamic was more antagonistic than friendly, and the way Eddie thrived off of every snarky comment. How it felt like banter even though Eddie knew, by all logic and reason, Steve was merely tolerating his presence. They would always be antithetical to each other, circling but never meeting.

Eddie, no

Steve growling ‘Do you ever shut up!’ before pouncing on him downstairs. The heavy pounding of his heart as he wrestled Steve up the stairs. The way his brain never did catch up to what was happening or why, until it was too late, and he was ruining both the greatest sex he'd ever had and also the chance to prove, though he's still completely unworthy, that he has already been primed and ready to fall for Steve for years. The shame of ruining it. The heartbreak of ruining it. The teeny, tiny spark of hope as Steve stares him down. He has to close his eyes to avoid it, lest he say something stupid and fuck it up again.

You…do like me?

Yeah, Stevie. I like you a whole lot. I just didn't think I was allowed to like you. I didn't realize you liked me too. I'm sorry I said all that shit earlier. I didn't want to tell the guy I'd just linked with that I was thoroughly enjoying the chance to sleep with this guy I'd had a crush on for years. That seemed rude

The bed dips and so does Eddie's stomach. Steve's enormous hands slide up his neck, into his hair, and gently cradle his face as he leans in to kiss Eddie square on the mouth.

Oh. Hi

Hi

This is nice

I think so too. How do you feel about finishing what we started but this time we both know that we like each other?

That sounds awesome. But are you sure? I really, really fucked up the first time

I thought you were perfect up until you called me your arch nemesis

I have been told that sometimes I'm a little dramatic

You know what, that's fair. I really should've taken that as a compliment, if anything

See? Now you get it

What I'm getting is another condom. Hold my ankle so I don't slide off the bed

You got it, baby

Unbelievable. Salvaged the wreckage of his own stupidity and managed to bag the hottest guy in town! Score one for the nerds!

“I heard that.”

[burningcheese-merchant]

"You and I... We are meant to be together." okay everyone pack it up. go home. it doesn't get worse than this. I fear all other ancient x beast is #cancelled forever because how the utter fuck do you compete with that. My god. Dark Cacao would die on the spot, his old fucking heart would give out processing a sentence that romantic. Golden Cheese would choke and die from the physical manifestation of her own pride and ego before she could ever utter a sentence that open and honest. Hollyberry is choosing to laugh it all off and pray she can drink away and not think about it. White Lily would fall into another witch pot of bubbling goo before confronting said feelings. Only Pure Motherfucking Vanilla is that clincally batshit and unburdened to spout his feelings 1000% unfiltered to a guy who just killed his friends and got his rocks off psychologically torturing him.

Mystic Flour being utterly repulsed by such naïve, meaningless sentimentality, still clinging to the remains of the apathy she so cherishes and champions even as it slips through her fingers like flour through a sieve; hating herself to her very core because somewhere within it, she KNOWS her heart beats and aches for that ridiculous man, but she would end her own suffering before she allowed the truth to poke its head out from the shadows of her subconscious for even a single second

Burning Spice knowing how he feels for Golden Cheese, reveling in it, LIVING for the way his heart thunders in his chest and his breath hitches at the mere thought of his little bird. Never being afraid to tell her so, to pour out the contents of his dark heart without any filter (and Witches know he needs one at times...), either through his mouth or through the blade of his axe. But... still knowing that it isn't quite enough. Not for her. Because there's still something missing from his confessions. That soft, sugary sweetness that took away enough of the edge to his overwhelming spice that even he himself noticed it. That raw honesty - a different kind than he's used to, not quite what he employs. The kind that well and truly leaves him vulnerable and open to judgment; things he hates himself for fearing, even if it's only in relation to her and no one else. The kind he simply cannot have, that he cannot carry out. He tells Golden Cheese how he feels for her the way he WANTS to, not the way he NEEDS to. For that, he must change. And damn it, he can't handle any more change. It'll kill him, and he doesn't want to die anymore. Not while she's there to make his life fun again

Eternal Sugar sighing, rolling her eyes before letting them flutter shut again, because she knows this song and dance. She once helped countless others perform it; such was her lot as Happiness. And she chooses to ignore it, tuck herself back into bed and retreat into the world of dreams once more. Letting laziness govern her actions, like always. Running away from everything again - including her feelings for Hollyberry, and the fears and doubts that shroud them. Choosing to do nothing with the fact that Hollyberry is a runner and a quitter just like her, instead of taking initiative with her life and emotions for the first time in ages and telling Hollyberry point-blank that they could run away from the world together if she truly wanted

Silent Salt secretly lamenting his condition more than ever before, for now more than ever can he truly say that it is a hindrance, a curse, a stain on the tapestry of his life. Because no matter how well he's trained himself to express his thoughts and feelings through his actions, he knows that there are times where words really DO speak louder - and he can't speak them at all. He can never look White Lily in the eye and open his mouth and allow his praise and adoration to leap freely from his tongue. She will never feel the warmth of his tone as his words embraced her. She will never shiver and swoon at the joy and passion that dripped from every single letter - and there would've been many, there would've been more than could ever have been recorded, for he would've sung his feelings from every rooftop on earth until his lungs gave out. But he can't. He never will. Does he try to pretend it's better this way? Does he try and fail to cope with his lovesickness like his comrades do with theirs? Or does he accept the bitter reality for what it is, no ifs, ands, or buts, only hiding the gloom and doom he knows is written all over his face behind his helm just so he doesn't have to see it for himself?

And, above all of these things, bundling up the other 4 Beasts' feelings and tucking them away... Above all else, they are angry. They are angry at Shadow Milk. Because he achieved what none of them could. He got everything he wanted. His Ancient admitted his love for him, with all of the raw sincerity one could possibly afford another. The other Beasts would do ANYTHING to hear their Ancients speak to them in such a way. To acknowledge and embrace their connection, to confess to loving and longing for them; for their countenance, for their voice, for their touch, for their very souls. Shadow Milk got to reunite with his other half - who chose him willingly, wholeheartedly.

And Shadow Milk chose to throw it all away in the end. Let it all go to waste.

If any of them ever see him again, they're going to let him know EXACTLY how they feel about it all. Maybe it can count as practice towards crafting a proper heartfelt confession.

[untitlzd]

rich boys don't lose

top!park jongseong x btm!male reader smut

Y/n was still recovering from the blog post. Finals were closing in, and he could barely think. Then Jay started making out in the library like he owned the school—loud, shameless, acting like no one would dare call him out. So Y/n gathered what little courage he had left—and did.

a continuation of ''rich boys don't get dirty.'' continued in "rich boys call it love."

warnings: dubcon, elitism, power dynamics, degrading, spit kink, rough sex, unprotected sex, no prep, drugs use, jay is bi, lowkey inspired by gossip girl

Y/n had nearly forgotten about the blog post—the grainy photo, the caption laced with venom, the slow, cold panic that followed. Not because it didn’t matter, but because something else—someone else—had taken up all the space in his mind.

Park Sunghoon.

The encounters started subtly. A shared glance across the quad. A brush of shoulders in narrow corridors. Then, more frequent. More precise. Always in places Y/n knew by heart—places he visited often, with enough routine to become predictable. And Sunghoon, for all his aloofness, was many things—but never careless.

The south wing reading room. The back alcove of the music building. The third-floor hallway that caught afternoon light just right, turning marble into gold. And—most haunting of all—the bathroom down the south hallway.

The same one.

The same stall.

Nothing ever happened when he showed up. Sunghoon never touched him. Never spoke. Sometimes he didn’t even look. But his presence filled the space like a ghost Y/n couldn’t outrun. He’d catch a glimpse of that posture—impossibly composed, sleeves rolled just so—and every nerve in his body would light up, remembering things he had no business remembering. Things he wasn’t sure he’d survive forgetting.

It wasn’t coincidence. It was calculated choreography. The kind that made avoidance impossible. Which might’ve bothered Y/n—if it didn’t already fascinate him.

Not that he was angry. He couldn’t even bring himself to regret what had happened. There was nothing to regret, not really. Just moments. Heat. Pressure. Teeth. The kind of memory that haunted in the quiet between tasks. And still, with everything on his plate, Sunghoon’s presence was more than just a distraction—it was a complication. One Y/n wasn’t ready to name. Not when his hands were already full with everything else.

St. Augustine’s moved on like it always did—unbothered, untouched. The uniforms stayed crisp, the secrets stayed buried, and Jake Sim remained effortlessly magnetic. He still moved through spaces like he’d designed them himself. Still touched Y/n when no one was looking. Or worse—when everyone was.

A palm resting on his knee beneath the dining hall table. Fingers trailing the inside of his wrist while they waited for class to begin. A casual brush of thigh-to-thigh in the chapel pews, held just long enough to mean something—and just short enough to deny it.

Jake never said anything about it. He didn’t need to. His attention was a performance, and he knew his lines well. But sometimes... sometimes he did more than perform. Sometimes, with just a glance or a tilt of the head, he’d make Sunghoon disappear.

Not in a dramatic way. Not like drama was ever their style. But there were moments—quiet, calculated ones—where Jake would slip beside Y/n and Sunghoon would vanish, almost as if by design. And whether that was intentional or not, Y/n couldn’t say. He didn’t dare ask.

It wasn’t that there was history between them—Jake and Sunghoon. Not that he knew of. But the air always shifted when they were near each other. Not hostile. Just… sharp. Like the static before a storm.

Jake wore charm like a second skin, polished and pristine. Every smile rehearsed. Every movement measured. Meanwhile, Sunghoon didn’t bother. His honesty was brutal, but clean. Cruel, but clear.

And Y/n? He was somewhere in the middle. Still playing both sides of a game he hadn’t agreed to join.

Y/n needed to slow down. Just breathe. Just think. But even that felt like a luxury these days.

The blog had gone quiet—not deleted, not forgotten, just… paused. Like it was holding its breath. And that silence only made things worse. Y/n didn’t know if he was a target waiting for the next blow, or if he’d simply been a pawn in someone else’s mess. Maybe he was nothing but filler content, background noise for a bigger scandal. The not-knowing gnawed at him. He hated being left in the dark. It made him feel smaller than he was.

Everyone else, meanwhile, seemed to shift gears. Slowly. Quietly. Study groups started filling faster. Even the loudest people spoke softer in the afternoons. There was an unspoken urgency hanging in the air—exams looming just ahead, like a storm everyone pretended not to see. Some students buried themselves in textbooks, hoping to impress absentee fathers or cold mothers. Others didn’t bother—they were legacy kids, already set to inherit companies or empires, tests be damned. And then there were the ones who wandered, looking just as lost as they felt.

Y/n wasn’t failing, but he wasn’t exactly trying either. He hovered comfortably in the middle—never top of the class, but never low enough to raise concern. He was sharp, capable, but too emotionally occupied to care about test scores. Studying felt like something people did when they didn’t have heavier things sitting on their chests.

Everyone had their method. Sunghoon was disciplined—quiet, focused, precise. He studied like he did everything else: with clean lines and zero room for error. Jake, on the other hand, studied people. He slipped between conversations like silk, hands always moving, eyes always scanning. He collected names and favors the way others collected grades, and somehow, it worked. Y/n didn’t mind either of them. He made conversation when necessary, nodded in the right places, offered his usual dry one-liners. He existed. And that was enough.

But there was one type of person Y/n couldn’t stand.

The entitled. The performative. The ones who acted like being born rich gave them the right to waste everyone’s time—and then dared to be proud of it.

Jay Park was that person.

In Y/n’s mind, if you wanted to live like a mess, go ahead. Get drunk. Smoke on rooftops. Hook up behind dorms. He didn’t care. But don’t do it during class. Don’t roll your eyes at professors who spent years building their reputations. Don’t lean back in your chair like the room owes you something. Don’t make a mockery of the opportunity so many others would kill for.

Jay did all of that, and more.

Just thinking about him was enough to make Y/n’s jaw clench.

It wasn’t just the eye-rolls in class, or the way he strutted into the room like time bent for him. It was the smirk he wore like it meant something. The lazy posture, the undone tie, the way his blazer always hung off one shoulder like he couldn’t be bothered to dress himself properly. He acted like he was too important to care. Like the world would adjust itself to him eventually.

But it wasn’t just Jay. Not really.

It was the name.

Jay Park, son of that Park—the one who ran an inherited Manhattan firm like it was his birthright. A firm that had been passed down like silverware, polished and untouchable. And of course, rival to Y/n’s father—who had built his empire from nothing. No legacy, no family favors. Just grit, late nights, and deals no one else was brave enough to touch.

Y/n had grown up hearing about the Parks. Hearing his father’s voice harden at the mention of them. “Inherited power is just arrogance with better tailoring.” And he knew—knew—Jay had been fed the same kind of poison from the other side. Their last names were oil and water. Their fathers saw to that.

So no, it wasn’t a coincidence that Y/n hated him.

It wasn’t personal. It was inevitable.

But God, did Jay make it easy. The way he looked at people—like they bored him. Like everything was beneath him. Like Y/n was just another nothing in a long list of things he couldn’t be bothered to care about.

And maybe that’s what made Y/n angriest of all.

Because if Jay was going to be his enemy, the least he could do was try.

But the breaking point came on a Thursday afternoon.

Y/n had only wanted a moment of silence. The second floor of the library was usually reliable—quiet, cold, steady. But when he turned the corner of the philosophy section, what he saw made his stomach twist.

Jay Park. Bent over a table like he owned it. One hand gripping someone’s thigh, the other resting beside a half-read book no one was actually reading. Their mouths were too close. Clothes disheveled. And worse—far worse—was what sat openly beside them: a small, clear bag catching the light through the window. White powder.

Nothing was hidden. Not the act. Not the drugs. Not the laugh in Jay’s throat as he leaned in, utterly unbothered by the quiet chaos of it all. A few tables away, students were hunched over notebooks, trying to survive exam season. Meanwhile, Jay was throwing away the rules like they never applied.

Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they never had.

But seeing him there, smiling like the universe owed him something—it made Y/n burn.

His fingers moved before he could think. Flash off. Angle sharp. One glance to make sure no one was watching. Click. One photo. Enough to tell a story.

And it was perfect.

Y/n stared at the screen for a second too long. The lighting was clean, natural. Jay’s face smug, high on himself and whatever else he’d taken. The bag was in frame. Clear. The composition almost felt intentional.

It reminded him of those once-a-year shots of lightning striking Christ the Redeemer. Clean. Rare. Timed down to the millisecond. The kind of photo that made headlines—respected for being both lucky and ruthless.

This was that. And he’d nailed it.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t confront anyone. Just walked out, let the image burn into the back of his mind, and didn’t stop until he was home.

It wasn’t until later, alone in his room, that the weight of the day fully landed. The photo still open on his phone. His chest still tight. His jaw locked.

The question wasn’t if he’d send it. It was to who.

For Y/n, finding the number didn’t take long. His father’s old planner sat at the bottom of the home office drawer. Leather-bound. Tidy. Sharp. Full of names that made other people flinch.

Y/n flipped through pages until he found the one he needed. He attached the photo. No message. No context. Just the image.

There were two ways this could go.

Either Jay’s father would ignore it, like his son ignored everything else. Or he’d finally see what everyone else refused to—and fix it.

Y/n set the phone down and stared out the window. The sky didn’t offer clarity. It never did.

But for the first time in weeks, he felt like he’d done something right.

Petty, maybe.

But right.

Y/n decided to take a shower.

Not the quick, functional kind—but the kind that felt like a reset. Steam curling up the walls, the kind of heat that scalded just enough to sting. He stood there longer than usual, letting the water hit the back of his neck like it could knock the weight off his spine. It didn’t. But it helped.

Dinner was already being prepared downstairs. The smell had drifted in while he toweled his hair. Something rich. Subtle. Their personal chef always did that—never asked what anyone wanted, just made what he knew would calm the house down. Tonight, it was roasted duck. Fresh vegetables. A sauce Y/n couldn’t name but finished entirely.

He ate alone in the dining room. Quiet. Slow. He didn’t even look at his phone. For a moment, the world was still—no Sunghoon, no Jake, no blog, no noise. He allowed himself to pretend it would stay that way.

Then his phone buzzed.

Just once. Soft. Dull.

He almost ignored it. But his curiosity always knew how to bite harder than his indifference.

It was a message.

Brief. Polite. Distant.

A thank-you for what he’d sent.

And an address.

He stared at it for a while, blinking slowly, jaw tightening as the meaning landed. It wasn’t just an address. It was that address.

The Park family firm.

Sleek, corporate, laced with generational arrogance. The kind of building that made people walk straighter when they passed it. It wasn’t just a place—it was a statement.

Y/n didn’t reply.

He tossed the phone onto the bed and sat on the edge, elbows on his knees, still tasting the glaze from dinner. He thought about what the message meant. What kind of father responds with an invitation after seeing that?

It was the closest thing to gratitude he’d ever get from someone like that.

Part of him was tempted to ignore it. Pretend he never saw it. Let Jay implode on his own timeline. But the idea of walking into that firm... of sitting across from a man who might actually be willing to hold his son accountable?

That curiosity itched.

And maybe—just maybe—it was the end of something. Or the start of something else entirely.

Still, he wasn’t going with hope. He wasn’t stupid.

He wasn’t expecting peace. Or grace. Or apologies wrapped in ribbon.

But he was expecting to see Jay’s face. The tightness in his jaw. The forced humility in his voice. Y/n wanted to hear the words that had been carefully typed in the message actually spoken. Wanted to see what someone like Jay looked like when cornered.

There was just one problem.

His father could never know.

Setting foot in the Park firm would be a betrayal of the highest order. A sin. His father would rather hear that Y/n had committed a federal crime than hear he’d voluntarily walked into that building. Pride, in this house, ran deeper than blood. And the Park name? That was a red line.

But some sins were worth it.

Some betrayals were too satisfying to resist.

And if it meant watching Jay Park squirm in a chair that was never built for shame? Then Y/n would gladly commit it. Y/n put on something presentable. Neat. Sharp.

He didn’t overthink it—but there was something deliberate in the way he carried himself afterward. Like he was getting ready for something final. The weight of the moment hung on his shoulders, but it didn’t feel heavy. If anything, it felt earned.

By the time he looked in the mirror, a smile had already settled on his face.

Not polite. Not rehearsed.

Wide. Satisfied. Victorious.

Like he had already won, and all that was left was to enjoy the aftermath.

As the elevator carried him down, the silence around him only made it better. He leaned back against the wall, alone with the sound of his own quiet laughter. It bubbled up without warning—light, free, almost absurd. Gratitude, maybe. Or just the thrill of knowing something was finally tipping in his favor.

The city greeted him with its usual noise.

Manhattan didn’t pause for anyone. But tonight, it felt like it was humming just for him.

He stepped out of the building, flagged the first cab he saw, and got in without hesitation.

Gave the address.

Sat back.

Smiling.

He was going. And for the first time in a long time, he felt good about it.

After some minutes, Y/n stepped out of the cab, paid the fare, and left a generous tip. Nothing could ruin this night—not even the fact that he was willingly stepping into that miserable excuse of a firm. He walked through the glass doors like the floor wasn’t even worth touching his shoes. Every step was soaked in disdain. He wanted to yell, right there in the lobby, that they’d all be jobless soon enough—once the firm came crashing down under the weight of the owner's immature son who couldn’t even subtract properly. But he didn’t. Just thinking it was enough.

Life felt too perfect to waste time gloating. He gave his name to the receptionist with a politeness that barely masked his satisfaction. She looked up, nodded once, and motioned toward the elevator. He was cleared to go up.

Of course the office was on the top floor.

Y/n kept the smile on his face the entire way. That smug, unshakable smile that had been sitting comfortably on his lips since dinner. It hadn’t moved. He didn’t expect it to.

Outside the door, he paused. Took a deep breath. Let the calm settle again. Then, he pushed it open.

The office was minimalist. Sleek. Dimly lit by the city bleeding through the tall windows. The chair behind the desk was turned away—facing the skyline. A little dramatic, but whatever. Y/n didn’t think twice.

“Good night, Mr. Park,” he said, still carrying that thread of pride in his voice as he stepped further into the room.

The chair turned.

And Y/n’s stomach dropped.

Jay.

The smile disappeared from his face like a line of coke near Jay—gone before you even realized it was there.

Fuck.

Jay stood up slowly, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. His grin was all teeth and poison.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, voice sugary, mocking.

Then he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a cracked iPhone 6, and tossed it onto the floor between them. The impact echoed.

“God, Y/n… you’re so fucking dumb,” Jay laughed, shaking his head. “Seriously. Full-on airhead.”

He took a step closer, voice rising with amusement. “You sent it to my dad’s old number. You really thought he was gonna care?”

Another laugh. Cruel this time.

“Do you honestly believe he gives a shit if I’m eating pussy instead of a cafeteria sandwich? You think he gives a single fuck what I do? Come on.”

Y/n didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just stood there, realization crawling over his skin like frostbite.

And Jay?

Jay looked like he was enjoying every goddamn second of it.

Y/n didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just stared, jaw tight, the inside of his cheek aching from how hard he was biting down. His hands curled slowly into fists at his sides—not to swing, but to stay still. To stay collected. Jay wanted a reaction. He could feel it in the smugness laced through every word, every slow step closer.

Y/n wasn’t going to give it to him. Not that easily.

Jay tilted his head, watching him. Studying. Like Y/n was some strange, fragile thing on display—seconds away from cracking.

“You’re quiet now,” he murmured. “Where’s that smug little smile from earlier, huh? The one you wore in the elevator like you were walking into some kind of coronation.” He tilted his head, grin spreading slowly. ”You really thought I wasn’t watching? I saw you the second you stepped out of the elevator. Security cameras, Idiot. You walked in like you owned the place."

Y/n exhaled slowly, trying to keep the heat in his chest from spilling into his face. “You’re a piece of shit,” he said, voice low, controlled.

Jay’s lips curved, just slightly. “And yet… here you are.”

He took another step, slow and easy, the way someone does when they know you won’t stop them.

Y/n’s breath hitched—not because he was afraid. But because the space between them had thinned to something dangerous. Something charged. Something stupid.

“Tell me,” Jay said, voice dipping lower, “what exactly were you hoping to see tonight? Hm? My dad? A lecture? Maybe even some forced apology while I stood in the corner like a scolded prince?”

Y/n didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Jay was already closing the distance.

His tone dropped again—just enough to hum against Y/n’s skin. “Or maybe… you wanted to see me ruined. Humbled. Humiliated. Is that it?”

Y/n met his eyes, unblinking. “You deserve worse.”

Jay smiled again, but this one was different. Slower. Hungrier. “Yeah? And yet, I’m the one who has you standing here… red-faced… breath all shaky. Tell me, Y/n—are you mad?”

Y/n’s eyes narrowed, but his body betrayed him. That flicker of heat. That sharp, gut-punch pulse that came with proximity and resentment and something else he didn’t want to name.

Jay stepped even closer, close enough that Y/n could smell his cologne—something clean, expensive, and utterly infuriating.

“You wanna hate me so bad,” he whispered, leaning just slightly forward. “But you’re still here.”

Y/n opened his mouth—to say something, to insult him, to regain control—but the words never came.

Because in one sudden, precise motion—Jay spat in his face.

The air snapped between them.

Y/n flinched, barely—but it was enough.

The spit clung to his cheek, warm and humiliating. His breath caught. Every muscle in his body went still, buzzing with shock and fury and something far, far more dangerous underneath.

Jay didn’t flinch. Didn’t move back. Just tilted his head, gaze fixed on Y/n’s face like he was watching art unfold.

Then, calmly—almost softly, he asked:

“Does that turn you on?”

Y/n’s chest heaved with the inhale he tried to bury. His jaw clenched tighter, lips twitching with a dozen unsaid things.

He wanted to hit him. 

He wanted to walk out. 

He wanted to fucking stay.

Jay smirked.

“Bet it does.”

Y/n’s fists stayed clenched at his sides, but his body was doing something he couldn’t control—something traitorous.

He felt it too late. That slow, aching heat settling low in his stomach, crawling under his skin and down. It was the humiliation, the power play, the way Jay’s voice wrapped around his neck like a ribbon pulled tight. His mind screamed at him to move, to react, to do something—but his body had already responded.

Jay noticed. Of course he did.

His gaze dropped, deliberately slow. Lingering. And when his eyes found what he was looking for, his smile stretched wider—lazy and victorious. He dragged his teeth across his bottom lip, not even pretending to hide the thrill of it.

“Well, well,” Jay murmured, tone syrupy with mock affection. “Looks like you really are enjoying yourself.”

Y/n said nothing, but the flush in his cheeks deepened, throat burning as he tried to shift—subtle, defensive—but it was too late. The outline in his pants was obvious now. Clear. And Jay had already seen it.

“God,” Jay breathed, almost laughing. “Is that why you sent the picture?”

He stepped forward again, toe to toe now, voice dropping into a low, dangerous hum. “Was it jealousy?”

Y/n’s jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

“You saw me with her,” Jay continued, dragging out each word like it tasted sweet on his tongue. “Bent over the table. My mouth on her neck. My hands under her skirt. And what—suddenly you wanted to be the one moaning for me in the middle of the library?”

Y/n flinched, but he didn’t move away.

Jay leaned in, his breath ghosting over Y/n’s ear. “Did you imagine it was you?”

And then—his hand moved.

Smooth. Confident. Jay slid his palm over Y/n’s bulge, cupping him through the fabric with slow, deliberate pressure. His fingers curved slightly, like he was testing weight, testing control. Y/n’s entire body jolted—shoulders stiff, breath caught.

The contact was hot. Wrong. And it made Y/n burn.

Jay pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again—dark, gleaming, cruel. “Did you jerk off to the photo before you sent it?”

Y/n still didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His hands twitched at his sides. His chest rose sharply, but the heat in his pants pulsed harder beneath Jay’s grip—shameful and alive.

Jay smiled wider. “Yeah,” he whispered. “That’s what I thought.”

Jay’s hand didn’t move at first—still pressed firm against Y/n’s cock, like he was weighing it, owning it. Then his gaze dragged down, slow and hot, eyes burning a path over Y/n’s body.

“You know,” he muttered, voice low and thick, “for someone who pretends to be so fucking composed… you’ve got the filthiest body I’ve ever seen.”

Y/n flinched, breath catching in his throat.

Jay smiled. “Bet you don’t even know what you look like right now. All flushed and hard, like you’re seconds from begging. Like you want me to bend you over this desk and ruin you.”

His voice dropped further, curling dark around the edges. “Would you cry if I fucked you here, hm? Would that pretty little mouth still talk back if I had you moaning into the wood?”

Y/n’s fists clenched tighter—but he couldn’t deny the pulse between his legs. He hated how right Jay was. How everything in his body screamed to move, to fight, to stay.

Jay’s hand moved suddenly—down, lower, grabbing Y/n’s ass with both hands, squeezing hard. Fingers digging in like he owned it, thumbs pressing deep into muscle.

“Fuck,” he breathed, half to himself. “This ass? No wonder you walk around like a tease. You’ve probably got no idea how fuckable you are.”

Y/n gasped, hips jerking forward involuntarily. It wasn’t a moan, not really—but it wasn’t denial either.

Jay leaned forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You wanna be mad at me so bad, but your body keeps fucking whining for it.”

That was it. Y/n shoved him. Hard.

Jay stumbled back a step, laughing—low and breathless, eyes shining like he’d just won a game no one else knew they were playing.

Y/n’s chest lifted and fell, fists shaking, skin burning where Jay had touched him. His cock strained hard against his pants, leaking, aching.

“Stay the fuck away from me,” he snapped—finally, voice rough, cracked open.

Jay grinned. “Oh, now you’ve got a voice?”

He licked his lips, eyes dark and hungry. “Good. You’re gonna need it when I make you scream.”

Jay moved with the cold confidence of someone who already owned Y/n —each step slow, deliberate, like he was circling something he'd already caught.

Y/n barely had time to react before Jay’s hands were on him again, gripping the front of his shirt and slamming him back against the office wall. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, his head thudding against the sleek surface. Jay’s body pressed flush against his, all hard muscle and searing heat, pinning him in place.

“You don’t get to push me away,” Jay growled, voice rough with something feral. “Not after this.”

His knee slid between Y/n’s thighs, forcing them apart, and Y/n’s breath hitched as the pressure sent a jolt of pleasure straight to his cock. He bit down on his lip, refusing to give Jay the satisfaction of hearing him break.

But Jay wasn’t having it.

One hand fisted in Y/n’s hair, yanking his head back, exposing his throat. Jay’s mouth crashed against his skin—not a kiss, not even close. Teeth scraped over his pulse point before biting down, hard enough to bruise. Y/n gasped, hips jerking forward, his body betraying him all over again.

“Fuck—!”

Jay pulled back just enough to smirk at him, lips glistening. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice dripping with dark amusement. “Let me hear how much you hate it.”

His free hand slid down Y/n’s chest, fingers skimming over the outline of his cock through his pants, teasing. Y/n’s breath came in sharp bursts, his body trembling with the effort to stay still, to not fucking grind into Jay’s touch like some desperate slut.

But Jay knew. Of course he did.

“You’re so fucking pathetic,” Jay breathed against his ear, fingers finally undoing Y/n’s belt with practiced ease. “Sending that picture like you had some kind of power over me. Like you could ruin me.”

His hand slipped past fabric, wrapping around Y/n’s cock in one smooth motion.

Y/n choked on a moan, his hips bucking forward on instinct.

Jay’s grip tightened, thumb swiping over the leaking tip, spreading the wetness in slow, torturous circles. “Look at you,” he taunted. “Already dripping this much. You really thought you could hide how desperate you are?”

Y/n’s nails dug into his own palms, his entire body coiled tight, torn between shoving Jay off and begging for more.

Then his hand moved—fast, ruthless—stroking Y/n with a punishing grip, twisting just right on the upstroke, thumb pressing into the slit with every pass.

Y/n’s knees nearly gave out. A broken sound tore from his throat, his head falling back against the wall.

Jay watched him unravel with a smirk, his own breathing ragged, his own need obvious in the way his hips pressed forward, grinding against Y/n’s thigh. “That’s it,” Jay murmured, voice rough. “Dripping for someone you swore you’d never touch.”

Y/n’s vision blurred. His body burned. And then—Jay stopped. Just like that. His hand withdrew, leaving him throbbing, desperate, cock twitching in the cold air. His eyes flew open, meeting Jay’s darkened gaze. Jay licked his lips, slow, deliberate. “Beg,” he said. His chest heaved. The smirk turned vicious. “Or do I have to make you?”

Y/n swallowed hard, pride warring with the fire in his veins. In one brutal motion, Jay spun him around, shoving him face-first against the wall. A hand pressed between his shoulder blades, keeping him pinned as the other yanked his pants down just enough. His breath came in ragged bursts. Jay leaned in, lips grazing his ear.

“This,” he murmured, voice dripping with venom, “is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Then he spat into his palm.

Y/n barely had time to process before Jay’s fingers pressed against him—dry, rough, unforgiving. He tensed, a sharp gasp escaping him. Jay laughed, low and dark. “Too late to back out now.”

And then—

He pushed in.

Y/n’s entire body jerked, his fingers scrambling against the wall. It burned, it ached, it fucking tore—and yet, his cock throbbed, leaking against the cold glass behind him.

Jay didn’t give him time to adjust. His fingers curled, scissoring, stretching, relentless.

“Fuck—Jay—!”

Jay’s breath was hot against his neck. “Say it again.”

Y/n’s nails dug into the wall.

Jay’s free hand gripped his hip, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. “Say my fucking name.”

Y/n’s body shook.

Jay added a third finger.

A ragged moan ripped from Y/n’s throat.

Jay’s teeth grazed his shoulder. “Good boy.”

Then his fingers were gone. Y/n barely had time to breathe before Jay’s cock pressed against him—hot, heavy, relentless. Jay didn’t ask. He didn’t wait. He shoved in—hard. Y/n’s mind blanked, vision flickering with stars. A broken cry tore from his lips as Jay buried himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Jay groaned above him, his grip tightening on Y/n’s hips. “Fuck,” he hissed. “Tighter than I fucking thought.”

Y/n panted, his body stretched to the limit, every nerve alight with pain and pleasure and something dangerously close to need.

Jay didn’t give him mercy

He pulled back—only to slam in again.

And again.

And again.

Each thrust was punishing, each snap of his hips driving Y/n further into the wall, further into the haze of pleasure-pain.

“This—” Jay growled, fingers digging into Y/n’s skin, “—is what you get.”

Another thrust, harder.

“You don’t—”

Another.

“Fuck with me—”

Another.

“And walk away.”

Y/n’s body burned. His cock ached, untouched, leaking against the glass. Every drag of Jay inside him sent sparks up his spine, his toes curling, his breath coming in ragged, punched-out gasps. Jay’s pace was relentless, his grip bruising, his breath hot against Y/n’s neck. “You feel that?” he panted, voice wrecked. “That’s what you fucking did to me.” Y/n couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. All he could do was take it.

Jay’s hand slid around his waist, fingers wrapping around Y/n’s cock at last.

Y/n sobbed.

Jay stroked him in time with his thrusts, rough, perfect, maddening.

“Come for me,” Jay demanded, voice raw. “Come on my cock like the fucking slut you are.”

Y/n’s body obeyed with no denial.

His orgasm ripped through him like a live wire, his back arching, his vision going white as he spilled over Jay’s fingers with a broken cry.

Jay fucked him through it, his thrusts turning heavier and rougher., his grip bruising.

Then—with a low groan—he buried himself deep and came, his hips stuttering against Y/n’s ass.

For a moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing.

Then Jay pulled out.

Y/n’s legs gave out. He barely caught himself against the wall, his body trembling, his mind hazy.

Jay stepped back, adjusting his clothes with a smirk.

“Now we’re even.”

And with that, he turned and walked out—leaving Y/n wrecked, used, and utterly fucking ruined.

note: hey everyone! just sliding in here at the end to check on you — did we survive this chapter? barely? love that for us hehe. thank you so much for all the love, seriously. i wasn’t expecting any of it when i first started posting, and now here we are at the second-to-last chapter… kinda wild. you’ve made writing this such a fun ride, and i’m really excited (and a bit nervous) for you to see how it all ends. finale soon — rest up, hydrate, and maybe emotionally prepare a little. see you there :)

[zephyrchama]

Leviathan was absolutely giddy. Part of it was the celebratory demonus his brothers had pressured him into drinking for his birthday celebration. Nobody wanted to start drinking before the birthday boy, and just pushing a congratulatory glass in his hand was the quickest way to get the party started. The alcohol started flowing, the food kept coming, and then it was time for presents.

The second reason why Leviathan couldn’t stop chortling to himself: the latest and greatest limited edition Sucre Frenzy concert DVD, with bonus content. It even came with a companion book full of interviews, costume turnarounds, and choreography breakdowns. Only ten exist in the world. Lucifer wouldn’t divulge how he got it. When Leviathan pulled it from the gift pile, wedged between a pack of socks from Mammon and a fruity shampoo kit from Asmodeus, he screamed. Then he ran to the bathroom to wash his hands before touching it again, as the concert DVD was practically a legendary artifact.

Though he had been to the concert in person, seeing it again in HD with surround sound and a running commentary was an entirely new experience. The very first screening was to be a highly selective affair, reserved for the birthday boy himself and one VIP guest: you. That you were sober enough to actually set up the DVD player was a coincidental bonus.

The two of you had plenty of snacks and pen lights for Levi’s little after-party. The after-party that started while the main party was still winding down. At this point, it was practically expected that the guest of honor would sneak off with you while everyone else turned a blind eye.

Cushions and large plush toys were strewn about the floor for comfort. Some of them were freshly unwrapped presents. Others were your usual seat when you came to game with Leviathan. You dimmed the lights then rushed back over to the TV as he rapidly beckoned you. “Come on! It’s starting, you don’t want to miss- oh! That trumpet - that’s the opening cue!”

There was awed silence for around ten seconds. As soon as the idols descended to the stage, Leviathan jumped to his feet, stumbling a little in his inebriated state. He grabbed his trusty sticks. “Let’s goooo!”

You cheered him on with your wotagei knowledge, having accompanied Leviathan to enough karaoke sessions to know when to shake the lights in what manner. It was a workout. As the first song transitioned into a second, Leviathan pointed at the screen.

“This song was debuted at DeviFesta last year and instantly rose to the top of the charts!” he explained during the interlude. Light stick as his microphone, he belted out lyrics with flawless rhythm. On somewhat unsteady legs, he spun and waved at you, mimicking the fanservice the singers were performing on stage. This concert must have been seared into his memory. You clicked the pen lights to orange and egged him on.

“It makes my heart race - hey! When I look at your face - hey! 'cuz I really really love you~ Chu! Chu! Chu!”

Mid-chant, Leviathan’s focus wavered. He never put much thought into the lyrics before. It was typical idol fluff, the cheap kind that every song had to tug on your heart strings. It didn’t really mean much because idols love all of their fans equally. But to sing it to you, to your face, when you were so close and cheering him on, gave the words actual weight.

You were no stranger to drunk Leviathan’s honesty. It was far from the first time he’d had a few too many drinks and started confessing his true feelings to you. It’s really the only way he can directly say how he feels without stammering through an uphill battle of nerves. The way he suddenly dropped to his knees took you off guard, though. The concert hadn't even been on for ten minutes. You scrambled over with a cushion, asking above the performance, “woah! Are you alright?”

Leviathan averted his eyes. He held his flushed face so low that you couldn’t see how red it was, but during special moments like these, he at least felt the courage to speak his mind.

No more singing. He shuffled forward to softly pick up your hand and give it a squeeze.

“I really, really love you,” he repeated. “I don’t… say it enough… because I’m…” Leviathan’s voice trailed into a mumble as he pressed your hand against his forehead. It was too strenuous to try and hear what he was saying. You expected him to fall asleep. Maybe exhaustion finally caught up with him. The day was long, there was a lot of excitement, the DVD could wait until tomorrow.

Instead, he proved you wrong. He was always proving himself capable in the most unexpected of ways. Leviathan slowly tilted his head to look at you with wavering eyes reminiscent of a sunset. “C-can I hold you?”

You nodded, glad that he was alright. “It’s your birthday. You can do whatever you want.”

Leviathan softly tugged at your arm, dragging you into his lap with clumsy coordination. He handled you like his brand new DVD, with the utmost respect and reverence, but he couldn’t decide if he wanted to look at face or turn you away and hug you from the back. He settled you sideways, with an arm curled around your back and your knees bent above his thigh.

Sucre Frenzy performed in the background despite no one facing their way. Leviathan had a more important fave to pay attention to. One that was live, not something pre-recorded. When the final chorus hit and the idols sang their bit, he placed three kisses on your cheek. Each perfectly timed to a “chu!

“You’re my number one,” he professed into your ear.

Now was your turn to be giddy. With a laugh, you snuggled against Leviathan’s front. His anime t-shirt was one hundred percent cotton. Super soft and Leviathan-scented. “You know I love you too, right?”

He pushed his face into the top of your head with a “gyaaah!” and squeezed you tighter. Too much emotion could easily overwhelm an otaku. “Why do you have to be so… perfect!? You’re the whole package.”

“I should have put a bow on myself, then,” you told him. “Then you could have opened me as your present.”

Leviathan rubbed your back. You could smell the demonus on his breath, sweet and fragrant, as he half hummed a tune, half whined knowing he was going to die of embarrassment in the morning. In the moment, though, this sounded like a pretty suave thing to say: “Then, maybe next year, that’s not such a bad idea... You as my birthday present.”

It could get cold on the tiled floor of Leviathan's bedroom, yet the two of you together felt nice and toasty. He lifted his knees a speck, tilting your body towards his. It made it easier for you to rest your chin on his shoulder. He flinched at every little touch, an uncontrollable gut reaction that sent cold shivers up his veins like lightning, but soon found himself craving more.

“It’s still not too late this year," you suggested.

[power-handmaiden]

Chuck Tingle interview

OK, here is the FINAL 2024 Tingles My Butt post, which I've been pretty hyped for. I still kind of can't believe this. While I was figuring out how I'd move on from 2024, @drchucktingle generously offered to answer some questions of mine to commemorate the end of my tingler project! Here they are!

-Considering that your process for tinglers is just to write it out and not stress about proofreading and editing, was it weird for you to see someone decide to go back, examine, and contemplate every single tingler published in the past decade?

the whole dang project was really wonderful for me, for exactly the reason you have just said. tinglers are very STREAM OF CONSCIOUS and only edited with one quick pass so while i think this adds to their honesty and rawness it also means that my time with them is limited. really watching someone go back through them at this depth was like reading a diary that i have not opened for many years, and it jumps around through time in a very beautiful way. it was very moving

-I love tingler character names. I personally admire how many great ones you come up with. (I never know what to name my ttrpg characters.) You just come up with all these great names that seemingly spring from nowhere, how do you do it?

DANG great question cant believe i have not been asked this before but yes there is a type of name that shows up in the tingleverse that is unusual and has a certain feeling and cadence that is very specific. if i am trotting along with sweet barbara and there is a name of a product or a place or something that has this tone we will say ‘oh thats a tingleverse name.’ the reason i wanted to do this in the books was as a very subtle way of saying these stories exist on a timeline that is RIGHT next to ours, so in some ways it is exactly the same as our world but there are these little cultural differences with things like chocolate milk and spaghetti and then with the names. you will have buckaroos like justin and sarah trotting along next to buckaroos named corb torbins-quill or borto lart.

-So, as a reader, reading from 2014 to now, old tinglers and new tinglers feel different to me. I believe you when you say tinglers have always been sincere, but they feel MORE sincere than they used to be. Like, I feel like there was some self-consciousness and irony in some of the early tinglers that you've since let go of and embraced the Chuck Tingle voice more. I don't know, am I imagining this, or does this square with your tingler writing journey? If it does, what has that process been like for you?

i think you are absolutely correct. the intention with tinglers was always to be a place for me to express myself with complete sincerity, but the practical way of HOW to trot like this took a bit of an evolution to arrive at. in other words i knew the basics, but actually refining the best way to express yourself and perform your art takes time. maybe in the same way goin back and watching season one of a tv show can feel very different from season three, even though they are part of the same expression. 

similar thing happened with in my chuck PRESENTATION as well, where my main focus was to stay anonymous so the metaphors i used to talk about my life were still true but laid on much thicker. even my attire was a large gi so that you would not even be able to see my shape, which has obviously changed now because i wear suits these days. all of this was a process of starting in a place i knew was important to me and then peeling off the parts that were not helping the message or expression over time

-Is there anything you could tell us about the significance of Borson Reems? I feel like he's more than just another Buck Trungle/Chuck Tangle/etc but I'm not sure what exactly...

yes borson reems is god. not that i believe in GOD in the way that most buckaroos talk about god (i am agnostic) but within the tingleverse, borson reems is an avatar for the creator of that world. technically i am borson reems, because i am writing the books. the question is: are we all the gods of our own little worlds that we create? i do not know, but when i look around at my buds and the joy and love they bring to various timelines they sure seem like gods to me

-A lot of no-sex tinglers (especially ones that aren't romance-focused) vary in terms of plot and structure a lot more than erotic tinglers. Is your writing process for these stories any different?

same process actually, but the sex scenes in tinglers are about 1500 to 2000 words long, and total tingler length is 4000 words which means if you are not including that portion you are going to have to come up with some creative way to fill that space in the story and a new axis for story to turn on. so the variety comes from me getting creative and trying out different axis points

-In "Not Pounded By My Book "Pounded In The Butt By My Non-Fungible Tingler That Is Literally This NFT" Because Of The Current Catastrophic Environmental And Ethical Impact" there are references to an earlier draft of the story that was never released because you ended up disagreeing with the message. Are there any other tinglers that never got finished and/or published, if you'd be willing to talk about any of them?

oh this is a VERY good question. the story of the NFT tingler is that when buckaroos were first talkin on nfts online and nobody really knew what they were, my first thoughts were just ‘oh this is interesting what the heck is this?’ this is my way with most CURRENT EVENTS. and i thought ‘this would be an interesting tingler, i suppose maybe i should make the tingler an ACTUAL nft’. this was in VERY early days so i did not really even understand what an nft was (neither did 99 percent of buckaroos yet honestly). so i looked into it just enough to actually MAKE a nft tingler that was a real nft and put it out. lasted for about thirty seconds before buckaroos were messaging saying ‘oh this is bad chuck you should look into what this is’ and i DID look into it and thought’ oh yeah this is terrible nevermind’. i took down the original and thought ‘well THIS is what art is all about. this is where i thrive in a world of moving living art that is in communication with itself’. so i dove into the research and actually started to understand NFTS and then i repurposed the story into a strongly anti-nft tingler and put that on out instead.

as far as OTHER tinglers that kind of move and breathe and live like this, in communication with the audience, GAY T-REX LAW FIRM is another very good example. that one i wrote early on and i think it was kind of in the model of something like fifty shade of grey, where issues of kink and consent and communication are not really handled well. i think at the time it came out the story was okay, but as time went on it always kind of bothered me and finally i thought ‘i love art that exists in the REAL WORLD and changes and evolves, so lets rewrite that story and fix some of these mistakes.’ honestly it is something i wish more artists would be open to. its okay to let something hold strong against a changing timeline, but it is also okay to explore what its like to take the notes that time gives us

-This one is about Chuck Tingle that exists in deeper layers of the Tingleverse that operate on tingler logic: what does the location inside his/your butt look like?

probably a nice mid-century modern home up in laurel canyon neighborhood of los angeles. kind of quiet and small like a cabin but also very cozy, like the kind of place where you would put on a crosby stills nash and young record on vinyl and gaze out into the woods for a while then walk down the hill for dinner at a little cafe where you spot some actor from a 60s tv show also having dinner in the corner booth. this basically sounds like the start of a tingler and in that tingler i will say the actor would be a bigfoot.

-OK this one is very self-indulgent but if you could help settle this frequent point of discussion I have with my wife- where do the following fit in the Tingleverse bigfoot/dinosaur/unicorn/living object(/human/does not apply?) taxonomy?

-a ghost of a regular human

-a regular human vampire

-a human/fish mermaid

-a sentient winged horse

-a sentient centipede large enough to wrap around a mountain several times (she is handsome)

alright lets trot through these. a GHOST is not one of the four tingle types so you can have a ghost racecar or a ghost unicorn or a ghost bigfoot. ghosts are outside of the four types and do not have a classification

a VAMPIRE is also outside of the four types. so you can have a vampire bigfoot or, of course, a vampire night bus. does not strictly fall into any of the four main categories

MERMAIDS are technically a long lost species of unicorn I DONT MAKE THE RULES I JUST EXPLAIN THEM. this makes the MERMOPED tingler a little confusing but i had to pick a category and that one went into living object. now that i mention it possibly the only tingler that is technically a double category of unicorn/living object.

WINGED HORSE is easy, thats a pegasus which is a species of unicorn just like a mermaid

a SENTIENT CENTIPEDE LARGE ENOUGH TO WRAP AROUND A MOUNTAIN is an ancient creature, therefore dinosaur tingler

-My other self-indulgent question: do you have a favorite bug? (Or second-favorite if you count Mothman as a bug)

i love finding spiders in the house and giving them a pet because they are doing a good job livin their lives doin their thing. close second would be a pretty ladybug

-Any thoughts on what tinglers will be like in 2025? Do you expect to be writing a lot of political tinglers again, like post-2016?

honestly i really do not like writing specifically political tinglers anymore, and the amount that i write has gradually dropped over time (i think ALL tinglers are political but in a different way). so honestly i think i will write a few political tinglers but not many. my hypothesis on this is that my HORROR NOVELS are very very political and so maybe i get a lot of these ideas out of my system that way now. when it comes to tinglers i just wanna explore my OWN mind and heart and butt more

THANK YOU for these wonderful questions and thank you for your tingler-a-day project it was so moving and powerful. what a treat it was an honor to be a part of something so beautiful. THIS PROVES LOVE IS REAL

[angel06babysworld]

I Blame the 6 Year Old.

singledad!rafe x babysitter!reader

Chapter One

⋆｡°✩₊⭒𖥔⋆˚₊✩˚₊⋆𖥔⭒✩°｡⋆

The interview was supposed to be quick. Ten, fifteen minutes tops—just long enough to get a read on her, hand over the emergency contacts, and confirm she could handle a first grader without losing her mind. Rafe hadn’t planned on offering the job before she even sat down.

But then she smiled. Nervous, a little too wide, chewing on her bottom lip like she was trying to hold something back.

“Hi,” she said, breathless from climbing the porch steps. “Sorry I’m late. The bus broke down a mile out and I didn’t want to reschedule, so I just, um… jogged.”

She was sweating. Her oversized tote bag kept slipping off her shoulder. And she looked painfully young—baby-faced with hopeful eyes and a folder full of printed references clutched to her chest like a shield.

Rafe blinked. “You jogged here?”

“I’m not usually this sweaty when I meet new people,” she promised, trying to laugh it off. “It’s been a long week.”

She looked like a kid. But then again, thirty-two didn’t feel as old as it sounded—until moments like this reminded him how long it had been since he was twenty-one.

He held the door open and nodded her in. “Come on. I’ll grab you some water.”

The inside of the house was quiet. Clean in a way that wasn’t fussy—just lived-in. A pair of glittery sneakers sat by the front door, a pink backpack half-zipped and leaning against the wall. She clocked them instantly.

“You said your daughter’s six?”

“Ellie. She’s in the backyard. Wants to meet you, but she’s pretending not to care.” He handed her the glass of water. “She’ll come in when she’s ready.”

She nodded, took a sip, and offered another small smile—softer this time. “I’m really good with kids. I babysit for a few families already, and I just finished my early childhood development course this spring. Still in school, though. So I’m flexible, just… not rich in free time.”

Rafe leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “What are you studying?”

“Elementary education.”

He let that hang in the air a moment. It made sense. She spoke gently, but with purpose. Like someone who’d taught herself to hold space for little voices, to wait out messy feelings with patience instead of panic. He’d met a lot of babysitters. Not all of them came with that kind of calm.

“I work weekends at the diner on Main,” she added quickly. “But weekday evenings? I’m free. And mornings, if you need help getting her to school.”

“You don’t drive?”

She hesitated. “No. I mean—no, not yet. I’m saving up. Kinda buried in student debt right now.”

Something in Rafe’s chest tugged. He hadn’t expected honesty. Most applicants led with fluff. This girl just laid it bare. And weirdly, he respected it.

Ellie wandered in ten minutes later, dragging a coloring book behind her. She didn’t speak, just climbed into a kitchen chair and stared.

“Hi, Ellie,” the girl said softly. No baby voice. No big performance. Just a smile and a wave, like she’d been waiting. “I like your headband.”

It was shaped like cat ears. Sparkly and crooked. Ellie blinked, narrowed her eyes, and finally—finally—said, “It’s from Target.”

Rafe watched, amazed, as she slid the coloring book across the table toward the girl.

“Do you like dinosaurs?” Ellie asked.

“Love them,” she said without missing a beat. “My favorite’s the parasaurolophus. It’s a long one, but I like the noise it makes.”

Ellie’s whole face lit up. “That’s mine too!”

Rafe didn’t move. Just stood there, arms still crossed, wondering how the hell someone could go from total stranger to Ellie’s favorite person in under five minutes.

He cleared his throat. “So. When can you start?”

She looked up, surprised. “You want to hire me?”

“Ellie,” he said, without looking at her, “what do you think?”

Ellie didn’t even glance away from her coloring. “She’s nice. You should pay her a lot.”

The girl burst into a laugh so soft it made Rafe’s stomach twist. And then she nodded.

“I can start Monday,” she said, smiling again, this time with something steadier behind it. “Thank you. Really.”

He didn’t say what he was thinking. That he hadn’t expected her to be the one. That maybe this job was a bigger deal than she realized—for both of them.

Instead, he just said, “Don’t thank me yet.”

And when she knelt down beside Ellie and started coloring like it was the most natural thing in the world, Rafe realized he’d already made up his mind.

This wasn’t going to be simple. Not with someone like her in his house every day.

But it was already starting to feel right.

And for now, that was enough.

tags: @amelialovesrafe @alyisdead @illumoria @blissfulbutterfliess @sydneysslove @matthewswifeyy

[mya-valentine]

Hey! Nice to see you open again!

I wanted to request a Kinich, Ororon, Lyney and Xiao x fem!reader of who fell first, who fell harder? trope please

Headcanon: Who Fell First, Who Fell Harder

Kinich: He Fell First, You Fell Harder

Kinich doesn’t outwardly express emotions easily, but the moment he met you, there was an undeniable pull. It was subtle at first—a quiet admiration for your generosity, your determination, and the way you seemed to light up a room without trying.

His falling was slow and methodical, just like him. He’d start noticing the smallest things about you: the way you furrow your brows when you’re focused or how you always manage to make people feel at ease. But his stoic demeanor hid it all.

You, on the other hand, fell much harder once you realized the depths of his loyalty and quiet affection. The way he remembered the little details, like your favorite food or how he’d silently place his coat over you when it was cold, made your heart race.

By the time you fell, it hit you like a tidal wave. His rare smiles and the way he’d open up only to you felt like treasures, and you realized just how deeply you were in love.

Ororon: You Fell First, He Fell Harder

Ororon’s reserved yet mysterious personality had you intrigued from the start. He had a certain charm to him despite his detached demeanor, and the way he treated others with a mix of blunt honesty and quiet respect made you fall first.

It wasn’t easy to crack his shell, but once you started to get to know him better, your feelings for him deepened. You admired his resilience and the way he carried himself, even after everything he’d been through.

Ororon, however, didn’t realize his feelings for you until much later. When it hit him, it hit hard. Suddenly, he found himself thinking about you constantly—your laugh, your kindness, the way you always believed in him when others didn’t.

For someone who had spent so long questioning his worth, your love felt like a revelation. (I can totally see him trying to ask Citlali what to do without actually asking her) He fell harder than he ever thought possible, quietly vowing to protect and cherish you in his own unique way.

Lyney: He Fell First, You Fell Harder

As the charismatic magician, Lyney was used to charming crowds, but something about you caught him completely off guard. Maybe it was the way you saw through his theatrics or the genuine kindness you showed even when he wasn’t in the spotlight.

He fell first, fast, and hard. Every time he performed, his eyes would wander to you, hoping to catch your reaction. He found himself pulling out all the stops just to see you smile.

You took longer to realize your feelings, unsure if his affection was just part of his show. But once he started showing you his quieter, more vulnerable side—the Lyney behind the curtain—you couldn’t help but fall hard.

When you finally admitted to yourself how much you cared for him, it felt like magic itself. The way he looked at you, like you were the only person in the world, sealed the deal.

Xiao: You Fell First, He Fell Harder

Xiao’s quiet and brooding nature made it hard to get close to him, but something about his stoicism and sense of duty drew you in. You fell first, deeply captivated by his selflessness and the hidden softness you occasionally glimpsed.

At first, Xiao tried to keep you at a distance, not wanting to burden you with his karmic debt. But your unwavering patience and kindness slowly chipped away at his walls.

When Xiao finally fell, he fell hard. The realization that someone could care for him despite his flaws and pain was overwhelming, and he found himself fiercely protective of you.

His love was intense and all-encompassing, even if he struggled to express it. Every gesture, from shielding you in battle to simply watching over you silently, spoke volumes about how deeply he had fallen.

.

.

.

Masterlist

[gay-dorito-dust]

How’d they act if you called them pretty upon getting catch looking at them…

Dan Heng: blushes. Hard.

He’s not use to someone complimenting his looks as it’s not something he finds important.

‘Are you really that shameless to say such things aloud?’ He’d say while avoiding eye contact with you.

Dan Heng would act as though you just shouted this out loud in front a hoard of people, even though you didn’t.

He’s awkward when it comes to taking compliments aimed his way but his reaction is too fucking cute to ignore and will warrant another compliment his way, which will only serve in making his face brunt redder.

‘Shut up, please.’ He’d plead as he covers a hand over your eyes, feeling as though they’ve stared deeply into his soul and actually see him as a whole person and more. ‘You talk too much about things you don’t understand the first thing of.’

He’s probably going to get teased by March 7th after this and it’ll be used as blackmail, probably.

Give him a moment to breath and calm down before complimenting on how pretty he is because he will combust from how flustered he is.

Argenti: would probably start a compliment war in all honesty because how can you say he’s pretty without admitting that you are also quite a sight for sore eyes.

If you were to compliment his hair, he’d resort back with how even the stars put on their best performance within your presence.

He’s got such a way with words that can easily leave one flustered without even trying. He’d even wax poetry on the spot about how the light catches your eyes in a way similar to that of a kaleidoscope, bright, vibrant and above all breathtaking.

Argenti doesn’t hold back, will not hold back, and will not back down from letting you know just how ethereal you look to him.

He can do this all day, you however could not do this all day seeing how this man has unlimited ammunition when it came to complimenting the beauty of pretty much everything.

(I mean this is the same dude who complimented a plant. 🪴 I bet that plant blushed, we just didn’t see it bc who wouldn’t blush if a chivalrous red head complimented them?)

Welt: smiles softly as a light blush coated his cheeks.

He’s well kept for someone who’s in his 60/70/80’s And he deserves to be told as such!

(all I know is that he’s grandpa age from other ppl)

So when you do compliment him and call him pretty, this old man is going to thank you for such kind words and probably give you head pats as a reward.

He appreciates a kind compliment now and then.

‘Why thank you, I try my best to keep in good shape if I’m meant to keep up with all of you.’ He would say in response followed by a chuckle.

Welt is young at heart and knows that his body isn’t how it once was but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s a restless spirit within an old man’s body. So when you compliment him, it only makes him feel good and warm on the inside.

Blade: doesn’t know how to take compliments.

He’s not use to it and doesn’t know how to react to it other than saying something along the lines of;

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Flattery will get you nowhere.’

Or just straight up. ‘No.’

And all the while his face is like this: 😐 or this 😒

It’s never one or the other, blade just doesn’t view himself worth the compliment, when the only things about him that people see most is that he’s a bad dude in a bad group doing bad things.

He doesn’t see why you’re wasting a kind, genuine compliment on someone whose entire body is riddled in ugly scars.

Blade is the type of person where you’d have to prove that your compliment is genuine or else he just won’t believe it.

Sampo: his ego is boosted to the max.

Well done you’ve made him even more insufferable.

He will smile that Cheshire smile of his and ask to hear what else about him you find appealing besides his pretty face.

You: your exposed hips, you slut-

However behind his cocky persona, he’s a giggly bitch who’s mentally kicking his feet and writing this interaction in his bubblegum pink diary with a glitter pen.

Sampo is deeply invested in what you thought about the rest of him but won’t let it show as he would consider it ‘out of character’ for himself. So he’ll continue to act the cocky and confident fool like he always does.

He’ll be the type to tease you about potentially killing him while internally screaming himself and telling other people that you find him pretty, much to your embarrassment.

‘You see them over there? Yeah they called ol’ Sampo pretty!’ He’d say to a random person while pointing towards you as you try to hide yourself behind a trash can…only for the trash can to grow arms and legs and walk off elsewhere.

Why were the arms and legs buff as fuck? What was their workout routine? You must know. now.

Sunday: takes the compliment in kind.

He looks like the type to get called handsome or pretty on the daily, so it’s nothing new to him but he’ll take the compliment nonetheless.

He’s probably the most calm out of the bunch when being called pretty, besides from maybe Welt.

He’s not bashful, he’s not overtly arrogant and he’s not in denial about it either. He just takes the compliment as it is and goes on about his day like any other.

Though people would take note on how he’s smiling brighter than usual. Your compliment would stay with him the entire day, as it serves as a reminder of his place within your heart and he’s secretly scheming on ways on how to stay within your heart.

Permanently.