Treat Yourself With Kindness

But there was a melancholy pulse underneath, at least for him. He kept being struck over and over by imagery from that night, your head tipped back in bliss, your moans shuddering through him, you on your knees, the wet heat of your mouth turning him inside out. He got off to it once a few days later, picturing you spread out underneath him, dropping expletives and moaning his name. He spilled over his hand and stomach with your name on his lips and was immediately dipped in guilt. You’d asked him for a favor, and he was using it to create a version of you that didn’t exist, one that was as in love with him as he was with you. A version that couldn’t possibly live up to the real thing, which he’d had, and should appreciate. After that, whenever the urge to touch himself to the memory surfaced, he pictured that night under glass where he couldn’t touch it or ruin it with any alterations. It was his to keep, his to remember, but not his to use.

And when he saw you in person, he just had to bite the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood to keep the memory from surfacing. You had gone right back to normal, so he would too, even if it took all his willpower to make it happen. He smiled and laughed and tried to joke as usual. If you noticed any difference, you didn’t comment on it, and he was grateful even if it made him taste bile.

The bitter edge of it had begun to ebb by the time he ended up on your couch again a couple of weeks later. He could almost look at you without picturing the scene again, which he took as an improvement. You moved around him as normal, cleaning up the takeout trays as the credits to the movie you had watched together rolled up your television screen.

“Oh,” you said suddenly, snapping him to attention. Your voice carried from the kitchen to meet him in the living room. “Do you remember that guy at work I told you about? My deskmate?”

“The one who likes to leer at you?” he asked.

“That one,” you said, emerging and dropping back onto the couch. “The one who got engaged last month.”

“Good luck to her,” Hyunjin said wryly, taking a sip of his beer.

“Well, no, she must have wised up, because apparently she dumped him. And then when he was telling me about it, in the middle of the office, he was like, ‘Guess we’re both single now.’” You stuck your tongue out and pretended to retch, and then collapsed back over the arm of the couch. “Wiggled his eyebrows like I hadn’t already gotten the hint.”

“Ew, he came on to you?” Hyunjin scrunched his face. “Sounds like he was real broken up about his failed engagement.”

“More like he saw it as an opportunity to play the sympathy card and try to get in my pants,” you said, sipping from your own drink. “He must think I’m real desperate to get some if that’s the quality of bait he’s casting.”

“Good thing you can look out for yourself, then,” Hyunjin said without thinking.

You choked on your drink, spraying droplets of it over the couch, and Hyunjin immediately realized what he’d implied. “Not that—I mean—I meant you weren’t gonna fall for—I mean, that too, but—do you need some water?”

You kept coughing until you pounded on your chest and dislodged some liquid from your windpipe, at which point you were finally able to breathe somewhat normally again. You looked up at him, his face stricken and apologetic, and grimaced.

“I meant that it’s good that you could see through his bullshit,” Hyunjin said quietly. “That’s all.”

“Yeah,” you said, “that is good, because I still can’t get off by myself.”

Hyunjin gaped at you for a second before realizing how slack his jaw was and snapping it shut. “Oh?” he said, his voice coming out higher than he meant it to.

“Told you it wasn’t like jumping a car,” you said morosely, taking another sip.

His mind whirled. So his attempt at doing you a favor hadn’t even had the intended result. Did that mean you were disappointed in his performance? It had been something closer to a hunch or wish than an evidence-based approach, to be fair. He cast his gaze over you, your eyes downcast to stare into your cup, your body curling in on itself. A pang went through him, to see you so clearly frustrated.

He almost made you another offer, right then. He would take an eon of agonizing to himself if it meant giving you back something that had been taken from you that you missed. But he stopped, the words on the tip of his tongue, and bit it back. He knew he’d done too much out of something that now felt more like an ulterior motive, even if it had felt selfless at the time.

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” you said suddenly, reaching out to put your hand on his arm. He stiffened, and then realized that you might have misread the emotions that were surely playing across his face. “I’m just frustrated. Not at you. God, of course not at you. You were great. Really great.”

“Glad I could—well, not help, I guess. Perform? Perform. I guess.”

You didn’t seem to even notice his babbling. “Oh, it helped. A lot. It was—this is probably sappy, but it made me feel a lot less broken, even if it was temporary.”

He nodded. Temporary. But also a lot less broken. He was offended that the universe had ever supplied you with circumstances that made you feel broken at all, but the idea that he’d been able to help ameliorate that, even a little, warmed him.

You squeezed his arm and sat back, swirling the liquid left in your cup and staring into it like it could show you your fortune. Hyunjin ran a shaky hand through his hair and put his beer on the coffee table, so you wouldn’t hear it rattle as he held it.

Just as he was combing through his brain for a safe subject change, you said, “It was kind of fun, right?”

Kind of fun. He turned the phrase over and over in his mind. He would have to do some sort of forbidden alchemy to ever transmogrify the earth-shattering experience he’d had into something that he could only describe as kind of fun. But without a good response, he ended up just nodding.

“And like you said, friends hook up sometimes.”

Hyunjin could suddenly see the shape of the conversation, about to crash over him like a wave.

“And I’m not, like, desperate or anything. But I was thinking that maybe, if you wanted, we could try again? And maybe I’d actually get jump-started this time,” you added with a wry smile. “But only if you wanted. It’d be a big favor, and I don’t want you to do it if you don’t want to.”

He’d been braced to say no, because of how brittle his heart felt in his chest, but the way you’d phrased it, as a big favor, did him in. He couldn’t find it in him to say no to you, not when you were glancing at him hopefully and chewing on your lip and folded into yourself like you were embarrassed to even be asking. He was suddenly outraged that you felt like you even had to ask. Didn’t you know that he would fall at your feet? Couldn’t you tell?

He managed to filter all of that until what came out was, “I mean, sure. If you want.”

“No, no, no, don’t say yes just because I’m asking,” you said, folding your arms over your chest. “Like I said last time, I’m not a charity case.”

“Of course not,” he said quickly. “I just...” He needed to dance delicately between saying too much and not enough. “I enjoyed it too.”

You exhaled, a look of relief on your face. “Okay, good. That’s good.”

“And I would be fine with—sorry, more than happy to do it again.” Hyunjin studied your face for confirmation that he’d struck the correct balance, and he was rewarded with your radiant smile.

You scooted closer to him on the couch, smiling but tentative. He huffed a laugh at the look on your face, like you didn’t know where to start.

“Shut up,” you said, but there was no heat in it. “It’s awkward still.”

The smile on his face died.

“Not because of you!” you said hurriedly, reaching out to touch his arm. “Just, inherently. Hooking up is awkward. Even when it’s”—you motioned between the two of you—“you know, platonic.”

“Right,” he said, everything whirling inside of him.

“It’s honestly better,” you said, giving him a grin. “Right? Like, we don’t have to impress each other. It’s just for fun.”

He nodded. “Yeah. We already know each other.”

“And the chances that one of us is going to run away screaming are—”

“Unthinkable,” he finished, vehemently.

You grinned widely. “I was going to say very low, but I like yours better.”

He felt a dopey smile spread across his face.

You cleared your throat and looked up at him. “Sorry, I just don’t know how to start. You... you did a good job starting last time.”

The compliment hit him square in the chest and blossomed. He dropped his gaze to your lips, rested there to give you a chance to tell what he was doing, and then met your eyes when he asked quietly, “Can I kiss you?”

You nodded.

Despite everything that had happened last time, your lips had never touched, and the breathless anticipation that rushed through him set his heart racing. Gently, he covered your hand on his arm with his own, and then slid it up your arm to cup your face. No pauses, no meaningful glances, nothing that would betray his innermost thoughts, just what you wanted. He leaned in and captured your mouth with his.

With his eyes closed, Hyunjin could almost pretend he was dreaming. The first few careful presses gave way to something more heated almost immediately, and even though he yearned to take his time and carefully learn every one of your reactions, he let you press closer as soon as you wanted to. His lips opened when your tongue swiped against them, and he let himself start to drown in your taste. Your hands came up against his chest, clutching fistfuls of his shirt, and eventually he pulled you into his lap, settling you in a straddle, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, anchoring you to him. He wanted to sink into your skin, but settled for kissing you like his life depended on it.

Your lips trailed down his cheek and jaw to kiss down the column of his neck. He deliriously hoped that you’d leave marks in the exact shape of your lips, so that when he tried to figure out if it was all an elaborate dream, he’d have the proof right there on his body. When you reached down to fumble with the hem of his shirt, he helped you peel it off of him, and you latched back onto his neck.

He groaned a curse into your ear, and he felt you shiver against him.

“You like that?” he murmured as you panted, pausing momentarily at his collarbone.

“Yeah,” you breathed, your breath fanning hot against his skin. “Like it when you... make those noises. When you talk dirty.”

You trailed downward and licked his nipple, causing his hips to jolt up into you, nearly bucking you off him. He wrapped his hands around your waist tighter. “So fucking good with your mouth,” he said as you swirled your tongue around the nipple and sucked at it, making his body flood with heat. “Gonna get you on your knees again, keep your mouth full, watch those pretty lips suck me off. Or I’ll eat you out while your mouth is full of me, yeah? Would you like that?”

You just moaned against his skin, and he suddenly needed to feel your skin on his. Hyunjin reached out for your shirt, and you helped him rip it off, discarding it somewhere on the floor, immediately forgotten. He palmed both your breasts at once, rolling your nipples, already peaked, through the lace of your bra, and you threw your head back, face awash with pleasure. You ground your hips down onto him, and he moaned, already painfully hard. There were too many layers between you, but the idea of separating from you long enough to shed them made him want to cry. He just matched your movements, rolling up into you, watching as every moan he let out made your eyes flutter and every press of his bulge made your breath hitch.

You pressed close to him, kissing him messily, open-mouthed, still panting, and then, right against his lips, you said, “Hyun, I want you to fuck me.”

Hyunjin stilled. He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “You want that?”

You nodded.

Before he could think any better of it, he stood in one motion, lifting you under your thighs, kissing you hard as he carried you to the bedroom so he wouldn’t say any of the thoughts that were swirling inside of him, could filter them before they made their way out to you. You wrapped your legs around his waist and hooked your ankles behind his back, like you were trying to put down roots inside him. Like you hadn’t already, without knowing.

He laid you on the bed. A voice in the back of his head was screaming at him that there was no coming back from this, that this was a surefire way to break his own heart, but it was muffled under the desire coursing through him. He stared at something he hadn’t allowed himself to want until now, and you stared back, waiting for him.

He couldn’t allow himself to think, or he’d think his way out of it. He went for your waistband, divesting you of your pants and underwear in one motion, and rolled atop you, immediately stroking your cheekbone with one hand and kissing you, hard, while his other hand reached between your legs. He found you soaking and huffed against your skin. “So wet and ready for me, but let’s make sure first, okay?” He pinched your clit between his fingers, making you moan into his mouth.

He worked you up, up, cataloging every jolt of your body, every little motion that made you squirm. You came on his fingers, biting down on his bottom lip, making his eyes roll back in his head.

As you recovered, he discarded his pants and boxers, stroking himself a few times to the lovely sight of you spread out for him, open, ready. Your eyes fluttered open and watched him, hooded and hazy. “Condoms are in the nightstand,” you said, not taking your eyes off him.

He pulled one out and rolled it on, then positioned himself between your legs. He had locked all his logic away somewhere he couldn’t reach; the only judgment he allowed himself was the filter that would keep him from confessing something embarrassing. Every other inhibition was somewhere unreachable.

“Tell me you want it,” he said, breath short.

“Please, Hyun,” you said in a whine. “Please, God, I need your cock, I’m so empty, fuck me, please.”

He committed the sound of your pleading to memory and buried himself inside you.

You choked on a gasp as he thrust all the way in, barely giving you a second to adjust until he was all the way against you, forehead dropping to meet yours, sweat beading at his hairline. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, completely still. If he moved a millimeter more, he was going to come. “So tight... your pussy is so tight, my god... it’s perfect, feels perfect, Jesus Christ, gonna live in here, fuck.”

You rolled your hips against him and clenched deliberately around him. “Ha—don’t—just give me a second—” he babbled, his hand anchored in your hair.

“Need to feel you,” you whispered to him.

“You don’t—ha—feel me yet?” he said, and then thrust hard, punching the air out of your lungs. “How about now?”

You could only cry out weakly, clutching at his shoulders.

He gentled his pace just slightly, but when you gathered yourself to join his motions, you moved against him faster, and he matched you, punching sweet little sounds out of your throat. He dipped his head to kiss you again, swallowing a moan from between your lips. His whole body buzzed in disbelief that this was happening, that you were letting him do this, that you wanted to do this with him. Your cries and gasps were music to him, a lovely score that was bringing him close to the edge too quickly.

He kissed down your jawline to your neck, sucking a mark there, feverishly imagining you branded with his lips. Every moan that fell from your mouth dripped like liquid heat down his spine, and every time you dug your nails into the muscles of his back, he swore he could ascend then and there. Skin slapped skin, wet squelching noises echoed through the room, and the pleasure racing through him, coming to a boiling point, was making him lose his mind.

He was seized by the need to make you come first. The rhythm of his hips never slowed as he reached down between you, making tight, fast circles on your clit in time with his thrusts. You gasped, fingers clutching his arm to give you something to hold on to, your eyes meeting his in a silent, desperate plea.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he groaned, breathing too hard. He couldn’t look away from your face. “Come for me, baby, come on my cock, milk me dry.” He shuddered and moaned your name, and he felt you lock up, muscles tensing, nails digging into his bicep, cries pouring from your lips, your cunt clenching him so tightly he nearly passed out. Instead, he came hard, choking on a raspy groan, pressing his lips to your skin as you both quaked. Your twin orgasms felt endless, until he barely remembered when they had begun, and finally he collapsed against you, dizzy and euphoric.

It took everything in him to fight his instincts through the haze of absolute delight. He wanted to curl around you, envelop you in his arms, press kisses to your temple, your cheek, your forehead, whisper something sweet into your ear, say things he shouldn’t. Instead, he lay there for a minute, warring between floating and climbing back into his body. Finally, when you groaned and shifted beneath him, he pushed his weight onto his own limbs, pulling out of you carefully.

He heard the soft sound you made when his cock slipped out, like you missed its weight, and it made something in him ache in a single pulse, an echo of you.

“Be right back,” he mumbled, sliding off the bed and onto his feet.

Hyunjin removed the condom, tied it off, and floated to the bathroom, where he disposed of it and pulled out a washcloth from your linen closet before running water until it was warm to wet it. When he returned to the bedroom, you hadn’t moved and your eyes were closed, your chest still rising and falling a little harder than normal. He settled gently next to you on the bed and reached between your legs with the washcloth, cleaning you up as carefully as he could. Your eyes fluttered open and you smiled tiredly at him. “Thank you,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Anything for you. God, anything for you. “Seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do,” he said instead.

You huffed a weak laugh. “You’re a gentleman now?”

I’ll be anything you want me to be. “Thought I’d give it a try.”

“You’re doing a good job,” you sighed, sounding more sincere than teasing. When you grabbed at his hand, he let you pull him down next to you, even though he was confused. You curled into him and his heart swooped. “Lie with me a sec, I’m tired.”

“Me too,” he said, with a waver in his voice he hoped you didn’t catch.

Hyunjin entwined one arm around your waist, anchoring you to him. His thumb absently drew tiny shapes against your hip, and you melted against him, sleepy and relaxed.

He listened as your breathing evened out, slow and steady. Even though he felt wrung out, spent, he couldn’t join you in sleep, his mind racing with everything. He didn’t want to spoil a perfect evening by wanting more, but he knew that he was beginning to drown in whatever this was. Worse, he couldn’t bring himself to want to drag himself out. He knew he’d be irrevocably content to destroy himself while you watched.

He ached to say something in a whisper while you slept, but he couldn’t risk you hearing him. Instead, he mouthed I love you at the ceiling while his fingers tightened on your hipbone. He let you lie there against his side until well after his arm that cradled you had fallen asleep.

* * *

Once again, Hyunjin told himself that that was probably it. You hadn’t said anything about a recurrence, just asked him to hook up again, and maybe that was all you needed. He didn’t want to waste a drop of his energy being greedy. He wanted to deserve what he had already gotten. Even so, even though he tried not to anticipate any more luck, he was on the lookout for the possibility a little more hopefully than before.

A little less than a week later, he let himself in to your apartment for a regular hangout, only to find the fragments of a smashed bowl all over your kitchen floor. You were nowhere in sight.

“Don’t go in the kitchen!” you yelled from the bathroom. There was a mad edge to your voice that made his heart tense. Hyunjin skirted the pieces and found you sitting on the edge of your tub, hunched over as you ran water over a gash on your foot that was bleeding.

“What happened?” he said, dropping to his knees beside you.

“Smashed a stupid bowl,” you grumbled.

“Doesn’t the ramyeon come in bowls already?” he said.

“It was for the ice cream.”

“You got ice cream?”

“Yeah, I wanted to—it doesn’t matter,” you said, and he could see tears rimming your waterline. Then you faced him, and something in his face made you break further. “I’ve had the worst day.”

“Oh,” he said, and instinctively stretched out his arms. You folded into him, and while you didn’t sob, he did feel moisture start to gather on the front of his shirt.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he said.

“No,” you said, muffled.

“Okay,” he said, running his hand soothingly through your hair.

“I was going to ask you for a favor,” you said. “That was the... ice cream.”

“The ice cream was the favor?” he said blankly.

“No,” and you hiccuped a laugh as you pulled out of his hold. “The ice cream was the favor in exchange for the favor. I got you the coffee flavor with chocolate chunks that you like. Had to go around to four different stores to find it, everywhere was out.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said automatically.

“You like it,” you said simply, and his heart flipped over.

He cleared his throat, trying to maintain composure. “So what’s the favor for you, then?”

You didn’t look him in the eye. “This is the worst way to ask,” you said, swiping tears off your face. “I was just so frustrated, and tense, and I thought we could, like...” You gestured vaguely toward the bedroom.

The light finally clicked on in his brain. “Have sex?”

You nodded.

“Y/n,” he said slowly, “you do not need to buy me ice cream to get me into bed.”

“I know, but—”

“It’s been good for me too,” he said, only barely avoiding gritting his teeth to get through the understatement. “You can stop thinking of it as a favor. Please.”

“Yeah, but I was going to ask you if I could take control and ride you.”

His stomach swooped, and he was instantly lightheaded.

“You want to—huh.”

“Only if you want!” you rushed. “I just... today’s been so out of control, and once I thought about being in control of something—and then I thought of that—and I formulated this whole stupid plan to ask you and it’s probably not—”

He raised a hand to stop you, trying to compose himself internally. It was as if someone had offered him a piece of candy as a bribe to take some priceless treasure off their hands.

Sitting on the edge of the tub, he wordlessly reached for your injured foot. You raised it and let it settle in his lap. He washed it more gently than you had, and bandaged it with the bandages you had retrieved from your medicine cabinet. When it was fully patched up, he met your eyes and said, “You can use me however you need to.”

Hyunjin thought he saw you catch your breath, or maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see. He could tell that you were about to question him again, maybe make sure he was really okay with it, so he interrupted by dipping his head and looking up at you through his eyelashes, as though you were towering over him. Something to make you feel powerful. “How do you want me?”

Your jaw went a little slack, as if you were struggling to process how easily he’d given in. But you recovered quickly. “Strip, and wait for me on the bed,” you said, your voice dipping. It sent a shiver up his spine.

He stumbled out of the bathroom, tearing off his clothes, his heart pounding, mind fuzzing. Distantly, he felt a hot streak of embarrassment that no matter how rotten he felt afterward, he’d go running back to you the second you showed even a hint of interest. Everything he’d been wearing landed in a heap by the bed, and he fell back against the pillows, sinking into the mattress, letting himself go.

Hyunjin could hear you moving around in the kitchen, sweeping up the shards of broken ceramic. He closed his eyes and willed his breath to steady. He was so turned on, entirely hard already, and the delay was only increasing his anticipation. He fisted his hands in the sheets to keep from touching himself, even though his length ached.

He concentrated hard on slowing his breathing, so much so that he didn’t realize you were in the room with him until your voice, right beside his ear, said, “So patient.”

His eyes snapped open to find you leaning over him. You dropped a single, chaste kiss on his open lips but pulled back before he could chase them. Then you started to remove your own clothes, with no more ceremony than if you were just changing by yourself.

“You tell me if you want me to stop, or need anything,” you said, dropping your underwear around your ankles and stepping out of them casually. “Otherwise, I’m going to use you just like you said.”

He let out a little involuntary whimper at that. The dark look in your eyes was making his head spin. He saw you glance at his weeping cock, fully stiff and already an angry red, but your gaze slid right past it like it didn’t even faze you, which unfortunately for him made it twitch even more. You just climbed onto the bed over him, sliding your glorious thighs up his torso until they bracketed his head and your pussy hovered just inches away from his mouth. A drop of drool ran past his lips and down the side of his cheek.

“You gonna make me feel good, Jin?” you said, tone mockingly sweet.

He swallowed. “Y-yes,” he managed.

Without further preamble, you sank down onto his face.

Hyunjin moaned loudly directly into your cunt. If he died being smothered here, he’d die happy. And if heaven looked any different from this, he’d come straight back. He lapped into you, drinking you in, fucking his tongue into you as deeply as he could manage, suckling on your clit after brushing it hard with his nose. You let him work under you until your thighs shook, your moans spilling freely out around him, settling hot in his chest like stones. Your hips started to buck into his face, but based on how your thighs worked on either side of his head, he could sense that you were still holding back. So he reached around to clutch at your ass and pull you to sit fully on him.

You gasped as his tongue went that much deeper, spurring him on. Without warning, your muscles locked up around him, and you came with a cry.

He worked you through it, indulging in the nectar of your body, until you slumped over, boneless, chest heaving. You rolled off his face sideways and landed on the other pillow, your leg still slung across his broad chest. He let you catch your breath for a minute before he pulled your calf to his mouth, planting a series of soft kisses against your shin.

Hyunjin felt you giggle tiredly beside him. “You’re so sweet,” you mumbled, eyes only half-open.

He reached around to massage the muscle of your calf, bringing a tiny moan from your throat. He could feel how tense you were, like you’d been bracing all day. When he’d sufficiently worked out most of the tension in that leg, he carefully moved it off him and sat up to minister to the other calf. Your eyes had fluttered closed, and you groaned whenever he hit a sore spot, but soon he had you breathing contentedly into the air above you.

“Rub my feet too?” you asked, and he immediately slid down over your ankle to press his thumbs into one arch.

“Mmm,” you rumbled as he worked. “So good with your hands, Jinnie.”

He felt himself go red from the praise. He switched over to your other foot, watching as your eyebrows creased and then smoothed out as he kneaded a tough spot with his knuckle.

“Amazing hands... amazing mouth...” Your eyes slid open, and you glanced down.

He followed your gaze to see that he was still painfully hard. He’d been entirely focused on you for the last few minutes, but your attention there made him remember, and flush.

“And such a pretty cock,” you cooed, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Is it good for anything, do you think?”

He whimpered, his heart racing. Just a few lightly mean words from your lips and he was folding beyond control. Secretly, he wished you’d be even meaner.

You crawled to him and kissed him, guiding his pliant body back to lie against the pillow again. His cock slapped against his stomach, and you took it in your hand, stroking it carefully once, making him gasp.

“Too—too close—” he babbled.

You gave him a pitying little smile, kissing him softly at the corner of his mouth. “That’s okay, baby, you can come whenever you want. But I’m going to ride your pretty cock until I’m satisfied, okay?”

“Yes,” he panted, “yes, please—”

“You beg so pretty, Jinnie,” you said. You reached over to the nightstand to take out a condom and quickly rolled it on him, then moved to straddle him and lined yourself up.

A litany of curses and please and oh my god fell from his lips as you sank down on him. He had to dig his nails into his palms to keep himself from coming immediately, even if you’d given him permission (and the idea that you had the power to give him permission made his head swim). He wanted to be good for you, in any way you wanted him to be. But when you planted your hands on his chest and began to roll your hips hard, he whined high in his throat and looked up into your eyes, panting pitifully. The gaze you met him with was so intensely hungry that he felt pinned in place, delirious. Everything locked up, and he came with a shout, clutching your hands to his chest like he could help you reach inside his ribs.

You rode him through it and didn’t stop, even when the threads of pleasure turned to electricity. He could only pant ah-ah-ah, his eyes squeezed shut, an errant please slipping in occasionally.

“What do you want, baby?” you cooed, a little meanly.

“Use me, use me, please,” he groaned underneath you.

“Of course, baby,” you said, still in that drippingly sweet tone, but you laced your fingers through his and squeezed, as if you could tell that he needed something soft to ground himself. Through his haze, he squeezed back, letting the edges of his mouth tick up in a smile as you brought him to ruin.

Eventually, your rhythm stuttered, your eyes rolled to the back of your head, and your orgasm crashed through you, making you clamp down on him hard as you moaned through it. Hyunjin came again weakly at that, too wrung out to do much more than murmur your name and let you fold into him as you came down from your high. He rolled both of you to the side, laying your head on the pillow, and tucked his head against your collarbone.

Every inch of him felt like it had been turned to jelly, including his brain. Later he’d try to find words for what he felt in the moment, but for now he could only float inside his body, adrift on the high.

He felt you shift next to him, and he was too weary to hold on to you, so he let you slide off him with no resistance, even though it hollowed him out a little in his chest to let you go. Your hands moved to rub his arms, and he looked at you blearily.

“You okay?” you whispered.

He just nodded.

“Did I go too hard on you?”

He shook his head. “Felt really good,” he murmured.

You smirked at him, and he took a mental picture of your mouth in a half-smile, your hair a mess on the pillow underneath you. “You seemed to be into it.”

He nodded again, too foggy to pull any useful words to his tongue.

“We can do it like that again sometime, if you want.”

His gaze met yours, searching. “Can we?”

You sighed and propped your head up on one elbow, looking down at him, a fond smile pulling at your lips. “I guess if this is going to be a regular thing, we should set some ground rules.”

* * *

It turned out that what you had in mind was mostly some structure in the form of increased discussions around personal boundaries and the institution of safe words, so either of you could tap out with no questions asked. You didn’t mention any rules about any of your other behavior with each other, and Hyunjin was both glad for it and a little wounded; you didn’t need a rule that forbade sleepovers because you rarely stayed in bed with him afterward. If you fell asleep in his arms, it was temporary, and an hour later you’d stir and hop out of bed to make your way to the bathroom. He never let himself stay over at your place either, mostly because he figured if he did that you might just sleep on the couch and not think twice about it, which would shatter him beyond repair.

You seemed emboldened at the success of having taken control, and not long after you started bringing him additional suggestions of things you wanted to try but had never had the chance to.

“And turn me down, please, if you don’t want to,” you said. “It’s just that everything is easier with you, and it’d be fun to try.”

So he did try, not just to please you, but because every one of your suggestions made him just as excited. He discovered that you relished being tied up but didn’t enjoy being blindfolded, and he was okay not being able to see you but hated not being able to put his hands on you. You found out that he could not get through one minute of you riding his thigh without turning you over and railing you into the mattress. You panicked when he put some light pressure on your throat at your request and had to use your safe word, but he came almost immediately when you did the same to him.

He cataloged your particular delight when something that hadn’t worked on you worked on him. On one memorable evening, you showed up with a collar and a set of puppy ears and shyly asked if he’d mind if you wore them, but once they were on and you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, you burst out laughing and couldn’t stop until you’d removed them. You giggled and playfully placed the ears on Hyunjin’s head, but when he turned to laugh at himself in the mirror, he instead found himself making a rather pitiful whimper that reverberated in his chest. Behind him, your eyes widened in glee, and the next thing he knew he was kneeling at the foot of the bed, naked except for the ears and the collar, watching you leaning over him and whispering something about how good boys get treats and you can obey commands, can’t you, puppy? He didn’t have to school his tongue all night, instead letting himself sink into dumb obedience. It was heaven.

And sometimes you both let go of the need to experiment and just concentrated on making each other feel good, a simple pleasure that he came to rely on more and more. When there was nothing between you and all he could do was use his body to build you up and make you cry out, he got a high as potent as any drug could give him.

He lived for the moments afterward, when you would roll over to him and just look him in the eye as you caught your breath, a warm fondness overtaking your face. You would often reach out and touch his cheek, or his arm, or his chest, and rub a few soft circles on it with your thumb or a finger. More and more often, you let him pull you into his arms after, his heartbeat thudding under your ear where you could hear exactly how you made it race.

And even after you slid out of bed to get cleaned up, often leaving him alone in the sheets to take care of himself, Hyunjin would find you in the kitchen, pouring him a glass of water or fixing tea or laying out snacks for you both to recover with. He noticed that the flavors of tea he complimented always showed up in your pantry again, and the snacks that he finished the fastest reappeared in the fridge for next time. When he made an absolute mess of his boxers and he stuck his head out of your room to ask if he could use your washer and detergent, you went and pulled out a package of boxers from your dresser drawer. “I got these in case you needed them,” you said matter-of-factly, as if this was a normal thing to do for someone you were just hooking up with. He turned them over and saw that they were in the style and color he usually wore, and he had half a mind to drop onto his knees in front of you then and there. The next time he showed up to your place, you’d washed the original pair and had them waiting for him.

He couldn’t tell anymore if this was exactly as kind as you had ever been to him, or there was something more blossoming beneath. Every time you held his hand, or fed him, or pulled a blanket over the both of you on the couch during a movie, he tried to remember if this was normal, or if it could be a sign. He wanted to be able to tell if anything had changed, but he hadn’t been able to think straight around you long before any clothes had come off, so every little thing set him spiraling. A kiss on the temple made his heart lurch. A silent invitation for him to put his head in your lap so you could run your hands through his hair while you gossiped about your coworkers made his brain go fuzzy. A hug that lasted a second too long when he showed up at your apartment made his stomach clench, and when you pulled away as normal, giving him a bright smile, he had to look past you because he knew whatever his face was doing would give him away.

It was possible there was something there, something more than there had been before. But the possibility was so thin that he couldn’t justify ever pushing it, ever testing it, ever gently nudging to see if there was more. The risk was simply too great. So he tamped everything down and sealed it away inside himself, vowing never to let it out, especially not at his most vulnerable, while he was actively living out his fantasies. You’re everything I want became you’re taking me so well, your pussy feels fantastic. You don’t know what you do to me became just like that, just like that, keep going. And the constant refrain of I love you that echoed in his brain, fighting to make it to the tip of his tongue, became so good, so good, so good.

He was starting to rip apart at the seams. He dreaded and craved every time he would fall into your bed. Continuing it indefinitely felt unthinkable, but calling it off felt impossible. He would sit at home and resolve to tell you that he had to stop, and then he would show up at your place so desperate to touch you that he felt like he couldn’t stop until you were fused into one. He daydreamed that you gained the ability to read his mind, and you divined everything from him in one second; that dream ended with you either throwing him out forever or, in the happier version, pulling him into your arms with your own confession. And still he threaded the needle between the two scenarios, the one where the two of you were just friends who slept together.

One night, after both of your bodies were already spent, Hyunjin peeled out of bed first to use the bathroom and splash some water on his face. When he emerged, you were still in bed, your chest heaving like you’d run miles, your eyes closed, a hazy, satisfied smile on your lips.

His heart ached as always to see you like that, beautiful and sated and all his and a million miles away. He stooped to pick up his boxers off the floor and slid them on. “I should—”

He stopped as you reached your arm out to him. “What?” he said.

“It’s late,” you said, your eyes meeting his. He thought he detected a hint of nervousness in your voice, a slight tremble that you valiantly tried to quell. “Stay.”

He froze. Neither of you had ever stayed overnight. It was the unspoken boundary that hadn’t been crossed.

He waited for you to qualify like you always would, always letting him know he had no obligation to say yes to you, you don’t have to or only if you want, as if there were any universe in which he had the ability to deny you. But instead you just reached out farther, your hand hanging off the edge of the bed, and whispered, “Please?”

Everything in him melted. He dropped the clothes he had picked up and forgot them entirely, climbing back into bed with you. You immediately wrapped yourself around him, letting him fold his arms around your waist and drawing you into him. You lay your head on his chest as he turned onto his back, his thoughts static.

“I like having you here,” you whispered into the dark. You sounded half-asleep already.

“I like being here,” he whispered back. Tentatively, he let one hand stroke your hair, and he felt you sink further into him, your breath beginning to fully even out. “I like... being here with you.”

You gave a little murmur of approval, but didn’t speak anymore.

Maybe it was too small of a thing to hang all his hopes on, but for the first time in weeks, Hyunjin felt less like he was being torn apart and more like he was being stitched together. He fell asleep in your bed to the sound of your breathing, holding you just like he longed to, his heart blooming with something that felt terrifyingly like hope.

* * *

The pale sunlight of the early morning painted the room when Hyunjin awoke the next morning. He looked down to find you still nestled into him, an errant sunbeam making you glow where your cheek rested on his chest. He took you in for a moment, committing this picture to memory, relishing a moment that finally, finally didn’t tinge the sweetness with bitterness. Then he very carefully extricated himself, cushioning your head so you wouldn’t wake, and put on his clothes before slipping quietly out your front door.

His head was a mess, but in a good way. The brisk morning air woke him up as he walked down the block to the coffee shop on the corner, heart pounding with the possibility that maybe things were going somewhere. Maybe you looked at him as more than a friend. Maybe the current mess in his head had an echo in yours. He wasn’t sure how the day would go, but he wanted to see it, and perhaps make sure you were both caffeinated for it.

Hyunjin ordered at the counter, your usual coffee orders and probably four too many pastries, and sat down to wait. After a moment, he caught the sound of a familiar voice.

He turned about ten degrees to see the owner of the voice sitting behind him, on the phone, oblivious: your ex. He was chatting loudly, and the sound grated in Hyunjin’s ears. He’d vowed that he’d kill this asshole if he ever had the misfortune to run into him, but for a second, he was frozen, computing.

“Yeah, I didn’t want to run into her, but I’m not going to avoid the best cafe in town just because she lives around the corner, so, you know,” he was saying into the phone. “But god, it would be awkward.” He paused. “Yeah, no, she’s probably still going crazy over it. She was so emotional. Could barely get anything done with her around, you know? She was exhausting.” A pause, and then he laughed. “Well, yeah, that’s why I stayed with her as long as I did, right? Good in bed, but it couldn’t make up for her personality—”

The barista said, “Hyunjin?” and put his order on the counter, but Hyunjin barely heard. Trembling, he rose to his feet.

Behind him, your ex inhaled in recognition and said, “Oh, shit, I gotta go,” into the phone, and then he sent Hyunjin a tentative, placating smile. “Hey, buddy,” he said, reaching out a hand as if for a handshake, as if he wasn’t a sentient pile of pond scum, “long time no see! You—”

Hyunjin saw red, and the next thing he knew, his knuckles were stinging and your ex was holding his mouth, blood starting to gush where his lip had split.

“You piece of shit!” Hyunjin was screaming, as other patrons gasped. A few leapt to their feet to intervene, but he barely registered them. “You’re a fucking piece of shit, I hope you rot in hell, you bastard—”

He was screaming so vehemently that he didn’t have time to dodge the fist that came flying at him, connecting with his nose. Pain bloomed bright in his face, and he felt warm liquid gush over his lip, the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. He was still screaming, now incoherently, as someone hooked their arms around his shoulders and dragged him away, and someone else did the same to your ex, who was muttering and pointing at him indignantly, as if expecting someone else to do something.

Hyunjin thrashed in the arms of whoever was holding him back. “Get off—get off me—”

He managed to slip out of their hold, and before anyone could stop him, he grabbed his order off the counter and bolted out the door.

* * *

You opened the door to find Hyunjin, holding coffee and a bag of pastries, his nose gushing blood.

“Are you okay?” you practically shrieked, dragging him in by the arm. “What the hell happened?”

You dragged him into the bathroom and sat him on the toilet seat, inspecting his face carefully. He flinched when you gingerly touched his nose. The coffee and pastries sat forgotten on your bathroom counter.

“What happened?” you demanded again, mopping up his face with toilet paper, careful not to make contact with his nose again.

“At the coffee shop,” he managed, and then spluttered, making blood fling out onto you. You grimaced.

“I’m going to get you some paper towels and an ice pack. Keep talking,” you said, disappearing into the kitchen.

“I was getting coffee and I—I ran into you-know who,” he said, raising his volume so you could hear him.

“Who?” you called back.

“You know,” he said.

“I really don’t,” you replied, reappearing with the materials. “Here.” You handed him the ice pack, which he settled over his nose and one eye, where a shiner was already starting to bloom, and turned to the sink to wet the paper towel to help mop up more of the blood. “Your nose is bleeding really badly. Tip your head back.”

He obeyed, training his eyes on the ceiling. “Your ex,” he said finally.

You whirled around to face him. “What?”

“I ran into your ex,” he repeated.

“And he attacked you?” you said. You hurried back to him and wiped up his face, the water cold against his hot skin.

“I—no, not exactly. I mean, kind of.”

“What do you mean, kind of?”

“He—” Hyunjin closed his eyes and exhaled, furious all over again. “He was on the phone with someone. Talking shit.”

“Okay,” you said, cleaning him gently.

He looked down at you. “Talking shit about you.”

You froze, eyes wide. Then, slowly, you said, “Okay.”

“And I’ve wanted to kill that guy for ages and I just—”

“Hyunjin—”

“I punched him in the mouth.” He was grinning now, looking down his nose to catch your reaction. Everything was bubbling up inside him. God, it had felt good to see the shocked reaction on that motherfucker’s face, to show him an ounce of consequence for his actions. Hyunjin couldn’t stop smiling.

You’d stopped wiping his face. “You did what?”

“Hit him in his stupid face.”

You took Hyunjin’s face between your hands and tilted it back down to look at you straight on. “Hyunjin. Why?”

“He was talking shit about you,” he repeated, confused.

You took a step back from him, your hand on your forehead. You were looking at him like you had something to say, but it wouldn’t come out right, so you turned away from him, but he could see your expression in the mirror. If he was hoping for fond, or happy, or proud, he wasn’t getting it. “Y/n?”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you said quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“You shouldn’t have done that!” you snapped, whipping around. “You can’t just go around hauling off and hitting people in the face!”

“People?” he said. “It’s him!”

“I know.”

“He’s an asshole!”

“I know that!”

“He had it coming!”

“So what? You had to rain justice on him?” you said.

Hyunjin climbed to his feet. His nose gushed more. “I was defending you!”

You gaped at him. “I don’t want you to. You think I want you punching everyone who says mean things about me?”

“He cheated on you!”

“So were you punching him because he cheated, or because he was talking shit?”

“Both!”

You laughed hollowly. “That’s—that’s not—”

“You weren’t there! You didn’t hear him!”

Your eyes flashed. “And if I had been there I definitely wouldn’t have asked you to assault him on my behalf! I can handle my own shit, Hyunjin! He isn’t any of your business!”

“What are you talking about?” he spluttered. “Isn’t he? He hurt you!”

“And what,” you said sharply, “does that have to do with you?”

Something inside him sliced cleanly open.

“I—I thought—”

“You didn’t think,” you said bitterly.

He went cold. He wavered on his feet all of a sudden, whether from shock or blood loss, he didn’t know.

“Hyunjin, sit down,” you said, reaching for his arm, but he pulled out of your grasp.

“I have to—I have to go,” he stammered, then turned and stumbled toward the door.

“Hyunjin,” you said, following him closely.

“You’re right,” he said as he made his way unsteadily down the hallway, you at his heels. “I shouldn’t have punched him. Sorry.”

You grabbed his hand before he reached the front door, but he threw it open anyway.

“Hyunjin,” you said plaintively, “come back. I’m not done cleaning you up. I’m... I’m sorry I snapped at you. You’re hurt, come on.”

He met your eye. Something inside of him was screaming, raging, but a blank nothing looked out at you.

“What does that have to do with you?” he said.

Your eyes widened. He snatched his hand from your grasp and slammed the door behind him.

You’d been facing the ceiling for an hour and a half, sprawled on your bed, hair fanned out on the pillow underneath you, your hand buried between your thighs. Your laptop sat nearby, the muffled sounds of some porn video on loop, the speakers shoved into the sheets as you maneuvered your body, searching for the right position, the correct angle. Your eyes were screwed shut, not in pleasure, but in frustration. You had been at it for so long, and you still couldn’t seem to make yourself come.

It was four months since the breakup. The discovery. The horrible, sudden realization that your boyfriend, who you’d actually started to see a future with, had betrayed you. And it wasn’t even an interesting betrayal; cheating was the most cliche devastation you could think of. It would have been boring if it hadn’t thrown you into a downward spiral.

You’d spent the last three months rebuilding your sense of self, piece by piece, first because you had gotten tired of sobbing all the time, and then out of a burgeoning sense of spite. You were ready to reclaim this part of you too—or at least, you had thought you were, until you actually lay back to try.

Now all you felt was annoyance. Your fingers just wouldn’t do it, couldn’t find the correct angle. Maybe they were too short? Every time the pads of your fingers circled your clit, it just made you mad. You weren’t even horny anymore, just committed, like you weren’t going to let your own damn body betray you too. But nothing, nothing was working.

You were so focused on willing anything to work that you didn’t hear the front door of your apartment opening. Didn’t hear familiar footsteps approach your bedroom door. Didn’t hear anything until Hyunjin’s voice floated in ahead of him: “I’m starving, think we should order—Jesus Christ, y/n—”

You yelped and pulled the bedsheet over yourself. “What are you doing?” you shrieked at him.

“Me? What are you doing?” he replied, frozen in your bedroom doorway.

“I’m in my own apartment!”

“You gave me a key!”

“That was for when I was having an emotional crisis and couldn’t reliably get to the door!” you snapped. “Not for whenever you want to waltz in!”

“You knew I was coming over tonight!” he said. “Do I have to pretend you didn’t give me the key? I didn’t know I needed to make sure you were clothed before I entered your apartment at the appointed time of our hangout!”

“What time is it?” you said, glancing at your clock. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

“Yeah,” he said, “because you were... busy.”

Your face reddened. “Shut up. Don’t remind me.”

Now that you weren’t both yelling at each other, he gave a half-grin. “Having too good of a time? Lost track of time?”

You let out a frustrated breath. “I wish.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Haven’t fucking orgasmed in four months, and now I can’t even...” You trailed off, clearing your throat. “Anyway. Can you close the door so I can put some clothes on?”

He didn’t move from his position. “You can’t make yourself come?”

You glared at him. “If you turn this into a joke, I will implode.”

He considered you carefully, eyes sweeping over you, almost clinically. Then, with a tiny one-shoulder shrug, he said, “Want help?”

You gaped at him. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, leaning nonchalantly against your door frame with his lithe body like he hadn’t just said something insane. “Haha, very funny,” you muttered, pulling the sheet up higher.

“Not a joke,” he said. “Maybe you just need one to get yourself... restarted.”

“It’s not like jumping a car,” you said, the irritation bleeding through your tone.

He eyed you for a moment longer, then just shrugged, reaching for the doorknob. “Okay, forget I said anything.”

The door was mostly closed when you said sharply, “Wait.”

This was a bad idea. He knew it was a bad idea. But letting you lie there frustrated seemed like a worse idea at the moment than offering himself up. He knew he could make you feel good. He’d imagined it, fantasized about it, craved it so badly that the idea itself was enough to make him half-hard already. He’d been good, agonizingly good, tucking those feelings away where they couldn’t reach you, even when you were sobbing your eyes out over your rat bastard of an ex and he wanted to burn the whole world down for you. But right now, with the image of you sprawled out that had just been handed to him instead of conjured from his imagination, he couldn’t remember exactly why this offer would be a bad idea.

You fidgeted with the edge of the blanket. “What would that... mean.”

He willed the most calm he’d ever possessed into his voice. “Wouldn’t have to mean anything,” he said. “Just a friend helping another friend out.”

“You make it sound like you’re helping me move,” you said flatly. “Won’t it be weird? I don’t want to... ruin our friendship.”

“Friends hook up sometimes,” he said. “But we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I just thought I’d offer.”

You exhaled. He watched the sheet atop you sink over your skin, imagined it was him instead of the sheet, hoped against hope that you were seriously considering this.

“Okay, but...” You cleared your throat. “We’re not doing this only in one direction. I’m not a charity case. Orgasms for everybody.”

His knees nearly buckled. “You don’t have to—”

“Shut up,” you said, face flushing furiously red. “I will die of embarrassment if I’m the only one having fun here.”

There was no good way to tell you that if he was allowed to have his hands on you, it wasn’t going to be a problem, so he just nodded. “Okay. Deal.”

“And if you hate it then we can laugh about it and you can warn all my future boyfriends about my lack of sexual prowess.”

Luckily, you didn’t seem to want a response, because what was he supposed to say? That it was physically and spiritually impossible for him not to enjoy your touch? You jerked your head sideways to motion him into the room. He took a few cautious steps forward, mind spinning. Was he dreaming? He dug a single fingernail into his hip to check, the sting dragging him to the present moment.

He stood there awkwardly next to the bed above you. You still clutched the sheet to your naked chest.

“I feel underdressed,” you said, huffing a laugh. “Could you...”

He shed his shirt in one smooth motion, discarding it to the floor. Your eyes widened. “Fuck,” you breathed.

“What?” he said, suddenly alarmed.

You glanced back at his face, embarrassed. “No, you’re fine. Gym really makes a difference, huh?”

He watched your eyes roam his chest, his shoulders, his arms, his torso. Everywhere your gaze landed, warmth bloomed under his skin.

You scooted over on the bed toward the wall, leaving room for him to sit. He moved slowly, trying not to startle you, in case you might see him coming toward you too quickly and change your mind. But you were barely looking at him now, eyes trained downward, face red.

“If it’s too weird—” he began.

“No, no, we can do it. I’m just trying to figure out how to start,” you said.

“I could kiss you?” he suggested, trying to keep his tone light. “Doesn’t have to be on your mouth. Could be on your cheek?”

“Okay,” you said, voice barely audible.

His heart was pounding out of his chest. He leaned in very close and carefully, as softly as he could, pressed his lips to the curve of your cheek.

You inhaled just a little, sharp.

“That okay?” he said quietly.

You just nodded, still not looking at him.

“Okay. I’ll keep going,” he said. “Tell me if you want me to stop, or slow down, or speed up, or change anything, okay?”

You nodded again, more firmly this time.

“Use your words if you’re still with me.”

You huffed, shoulders sagging a little. “Yes. Just... keep going.”

You hadn’t realized how horrifically touch-starved you’d been until he kissed your cheek once, twice more, and then slowly trailed down to your jawline. One soft press of his lips just along your jawbone had your skin buzzing, and another press, this time to your neck, made you gasp. “That good?” he murmured against your skin.

“Yeah, it’s... it’s good,” you breathed. “Keep going.”

Encouraged, he reached forward and brushed your waist gently over the sheet with one hand. His mouth continued a soft, slow path down the column of your neck, and you tilted your head on instinct to allow him greater access. His pace was dreamlike, one brief point of contact melting into the next, making your eyes flutter closed so you could concentrate on each one. He paused at the curve where your neck met your shoulder and ran his tongue over the skin there, hot and wet, before continuing downward to your collarbone. He cataloged every soft breath you released, noting exactly how your muscles relaxed by increments, and when your next gasp sounded more like a whimper, he whispered, “Lie back for me.”

Gently, he guided you onto your back, laying your head carefully on the pillow. Your grip on the sheet had released, and he eased one hand around the edge. “Can I?” he said.

“Okay,” you said, sounding far away.

He peeled it down your body, exposing your chest to the air, and lowered his mouth to one nipple, sucking it gently. The gasp that spilled from your mouth was electric, making him tense against you.

“Sensitive?” he said, teasing, nearly panting from restraint.

“Fuck—Jin—”

He flattened his tongue against it, then lightly grazed it with his teeth. Your back arched, pushing your chest into him, as you huffed out something between a laugh and a moan.

The sound went straight through him. He was getting dizzy with arousal already, and he had to rein it in. One wrong word and he was going to ruin this for both of you.

He moved to your other breast, curling his lips around the nipple, bringing his hand up to roll and pinch the first one between his fingertips, trying not to let himself realize the gravity of what was happening. You were breathing heavy, every other breath coming out a whimper, your eyes shut like you were concentrating on every sensation.

“Don’t go quiet on me,” he murmured against your skin. “Let me hear you.”

You opened your eyes just as he grazed your second nipple with his teeth, making a quiet little ah-ah-ah fall from your lips.

“There we go,” he said, satisfied. “Gotta tell me what you like, hm?”

He swirled his tongue around it once more before trailing down to the underside of your breast, then slowly, very slowly down your torso, placing little kisses as he went, every so often grazing with his teeth to hear you gasp again. When he reached the top of the blanket, which covered you from the waist down, he put one hand on your hip and drew a soft, comforting circle with his thumb. “Doing okay?”

You nodded, your breath hitching. “Good. Really good.”

“I’m going to take this off now, okay?” he said, as steadily as he could manage.

You nodded again, and he very slowly slid the sheet away.

He managed not to look directly at your pussy at first, mostly because he wasn’t sure he could swallow the very embarrassing sound he was sure he’d make on instinct. Your legs were very slightly open, your body sinking into the mattress, but he rolled to the side and trailed a line of kisses over your hip and down the outside of your thigh, carefully, while he braced himself. When he reached your knee, he planted one kiss directly on your kneecap, and then he reached down and took one knee into each hand, spreading your legs wider so he could settle in between them.

The smell of your arousal hit him like a freight train. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and he let out a strained, “Fuck,” without meaning to.

You looked down at him. “What?”

He just shook his head, trying to recover. “You’re so wet,” he said, eyes glued to your soaked core. “It’s hot as fuck.”

You smiled and exhaled, half a laugh, before lying back on the pillow again. He kissed your inner thigh lightly, making your breath hitch again, and then he kissed it again, a little firmer this time. You sighed shakily above him. He ran his tongue all the way up your thigh, getting close to your core, and then pulled off and did the same on the other side. You laughed breathlessly, and he thought he heard you say, “Fucking tease,” under your breath, before he licked a stripe up your folds, making you gasp loudly. It sounded like heaven.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he murmured, feeling a little crazed, before taking your clit into his mouth. He turned all his concentration to this one point, alternating between flicking it with his tongue and sucking on it, until your breath was coming in ragged gasps and your hips started to roll against his face.

“Use me, come on, just like that,” he groaned as you reached down to grip his hair, anchoring yourself to some semblance of reality. Your thighs started to close around his head, and he thought for a second that if you smothered him, he would die happy. But instead of letting you, he reached up and pinned one leg to the mattress, holding you open so he could slide a finger through your folds and inside you.

You cried out, hips bucking hard, but he kept you in place, sucking on your clit and stroking you until he found a gummy spot inside that made you choke on a scream.

“Fuck, Hyun—”

“Right there, yeah?” he said, looking up at your face, his lips swollen and his chin glistening. He stroked it again and watched your eyes roll back, and he felt his cock jump at the sight. He wanted to keep you there, in that fog of pleasure, as long as he could, but he also remembered his purpose. Another finger joined the first, and you bit off a moan.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Pretty pussy like a vice, taste so good, fuck,” and then his mouth was back on you, working you in tandem with his fingers.

Your walls began to flutter erratically, and he committed to his pace, listening as your moans began to increase in volume and your hand tightened in his hair. The pull grounded him, tethered him to his goal.

“Hyun,” you whimpered, sounding near tears, “Hyun, I’m gonna—”

His answering groan reverberated through you and pushed you over the edge. You came hard, thighs closing around his ears as they shook, your cries echoing off the walls. He worked you through every wave. As you came down, he craved to keep going, to eat you out until you were overstimulated and crying, but he dug his nails into his own thigh to drag himself back to reality and instead sat back as your legs fell apart.

You lay on the bed, boneless and spent, as he crawled up next to you, leaving a few inches of space between you so you wouldn’t feel crowded or obligated to curl into him. Everything inside of him was screaming to touch you, to grab you and mark you and take you again, but he wouldn’t survive ruining this and scaring you away with every filthy thought in his head. So he lay there, studying your face, as you both caught your breath.

“Fuck,” you breathed finally, turning your head to look at him.

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Good?”

“Yeah,” you laughed. “Good. Really good.”

He felt an insane swell of pride in his chest, and he had to swallow again. He wasn’t in his body anymore; all he could feel was a floaty euphoria, severed from any physical sensation. He’d done good, he’d made you feel good, he’d done what he’d promised, and you’d—

You sat up suddenly, and dragged him up with you. “Okay, your turn. Sit up.”

“What—”

You pulled him to the edge of the bed and dropped to your knees in front of him, and he was violently pulled back into his body, the sudden sensation of being hot, sweaty, and rock-hard in his pants. He wasn’t sure how he had managed not to come. “Hang on—”

“This was the deal,” you said, eying his bulge. He was going to die of mortification any second now. Then you looked up at him. “Unless you don’t want to.”

His mouth went slack as he tried to form any sort of response to that. Unfortunately, the only thing that his brain would supply was a steady pounding of I-love-you-I-love-you along with his heartbeat, and he couldn’t let it slip through his lips, so he just made a vague sound and nodded, hoping you’d take the hint.

You rested your hands on his knees, and he had to brace to keep from whining. “Jinnie? Do you want me to stop?”

This he could answer honestly. “No.”

You nodded, looking more determined than anything, and hooked your fingers into the waistband of his pants. The blood rushed in his ears as he lifted his hips to help you.

You wasted no time once his pants were off, and he felt a pang of vague gratitude that you weren’t going to tease him or work him up, as painfully hard as he already was. His hands gripped the sheets behind him as you sat back on your heels to look at him, flushed and dripping. A faint bloom of mortification unfurled in his chest—could you tell that he was more turned on than he could ever remember being in his life? Were you going to read into it? Carefully, you leaned forward and took him in the palm of your hand.

Electricity shot up his spine as you stroked him, spreading his pre-cum all up his length to smooth your motions. His head lolled, the muscles in his neck no longer responding to him. “Feels good,” he mumbled, concentrating on not coming immediately.

“Yeah?” you said, and the teasing in your voice made his eyes flutter.

“Yeah,” he breathed.

You leaned even closer and pressed a soft kiss to his tip, making his jaw drop. “Fuck, fuck,” he said as you took the tip into your mouth and swirled your tongue around it, mapping its ridges slowly. “So good—so good—your mouth—ah, just like that, ah—”

You took him deeper, inch by inch, bobbing your head gently, pulling back every so often to pace yourself. Hyunjin mumbled through it, trying to stay present. “Fuck, your mouth is so hot—stay here forever—god, you look so hot with your mouth full of me—I’m not gonna last—”

Your hands slid up to his thighs as your nose met his hipbone and his tip hit the back of your throat. You gagged lightly, sucking in a breath through your nose, and Hyunjin whined high in the back of his throat. Then you swallowed around him, and he saw stars.

“Oh, fuck,” he said, his head thrown back, “that’s it, choke on me—”

You bobbed your head around him in earnest, and he choked on his next breath. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna come, let me—”

He scrabbled blindly toward your nightstand, hoping there would be a handful of tissues he could grab to contain his mess, but you clamped his thighs to the mattress. He looked down at you, hazy and confused, and at the look you gave him through your eyelashes, heavy and burning and pinning him in place, he came immediately.

Curses spilled from his lips as you swallowed him down, his thighs quaking in your hold. His arms gave out and he collapsed backward onto the bed, moaning, as he spilled into your mouth. You stayed through the aftershocks, lapping up everything he gave you, until he eventually stilled, his chest still rising and falling like he’d sprinted a mile. He felt you slide off him with a pop, and he heard you lick your lips clean of his cum. Obscene. He grinned helplessly, an arm thrown over his face.

You crawled onto the bed behind him and curled up on the far side. He looked at you upside down from his position and laughed, exhausted.

“Give me a second,” he said, words a little slurred.

“Take your time,” you said, a grin in your voice. “You good?”

It took him a moment to sort through answers he felt he could give to that question. “Very,” he said finally.

“You sure have a mouth on you,” you said as he pulled himself all the way back onto the bed, eventually managing to situate his head on the other pillow, facing you. “You always talk like that in bed?”

His face heated. “Sorry, I—”

“No, don’t apologize,” you said. “It was good. Very hot. Sounded like you were into it. It helped.”

He opened his mouth, found he had nothing he could possibly say to that, and closed it again.

You grinned, satisfied, and your eyes closed. He studied your face, his heart racing. He’d just done that, and now it was ingrained in his mind forever. He had to hold on to every second of it. He wanted to memorize it, paint it, live in it. The worry that he’d let you both take it too far buzzed around the edges, but it couldn’t touch the fireworks in his chest. Not yet.

Eventually, your eyes opened, and you reached out to grab his hand. He offered you the clean one. “Thank you,” you whispered.

He just nodded, unable to speak.

You sat up then, running a hand through your hair. “Okay, I’ll shower, then you can, and then we have to order food. I’m starving after all that.”

He nodded again wordlessly as you hopped out of bed, casual and naked, like nothing had changed. And nothing had changed, he reminded himself. This was a friend doing another friend a favor, and that’s all it was. When the door to the bathroom shut behind you, he rolled over onto his back, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Shit,” he whispered to himself. “What did I just do.”

a/n: I'm currently working on part 3 so the wait for the rest shouldn't be too long. Thanks for reading!

Your mom’s were best friends, you grew up in the same house practically, spent holidays together. He was less a boy and more a permanent fixture in your home. You had done most of the looking out for him when you were younger, fending off anyone who dared to look at him the wrong way. And when he went off to college, you following him, two years later, it was his turn to look after you. He introduced you to his friends, a group of boys from the frat he joined, skipped class to hang around your dorm when you weren’t feeling well. He was your best friend. He was your Han Jisung.

Your Han Jisung, who is currently trying to convince his friends that he has never kissed you and has never thought to.

It annoys you a little. You’ve run through your fair share of men, and some women, since you’ve started college last year. You know you're attractive, that certainly isn’t the problem. So why was Jisung so adamant in proving to his friends that he’s never thought of you in that way? You were starting to feel a bit wounded.

“I’m calling bullshit,” Felix says, leaning against the beer pong table. Smoke drifts upward from the shared joint hanging between his fingers, a fuzzy halo above his blonde head. “Never? Not even once? Come on.”

You don’t even know how this conversation started. One minute you're all lounging around at this house party on a random Friday night, and the next the discussion had shifted to this.

“No,” Jisung’s thigh bounces up and down, which isn’t unusual. He always gets jittery when he smokes. “No. I haven’t, she’s like a–”

“For the love of a fat ass, don’t say she’s like a sister to you,” Hyunjin says, wrinkling his nose.

“Why not?”

Hyunjin gestures wildly at the position you two are sitting in right now. You’re practically in his lap. Your legs are tangled with his on the beat-up couch, and your head is resting on his shoulder.

“That’s how we always sit,” Jisung says, eyebrows pinched in confusion. 

“Okay, well, my sister doesn’t have a lap full of me right now, so there’s that,” Felix says, a lazy grin spreading across his face.

Jisung just grumbles something and snatches the joint from Felix. He leans his head back into the couch, breathing it in deeply, passing it to you without even lifting his head from the pillows. You catch it with your teeth, brows furrowing in disappointment when you're hit with nothing. It’s dead. You pluck it from your lips and lean forward to crush it in the ashtray on the coffee table. When you settle back against the cushions, you shift, just slightly.

Your knee brushes against the crotch of his jeans. The resulting twitch from him is immediate, a little jump of muscle that tells you everything you need to know. He has thought about it. He’s lying through his teeth and it’s hurting your fucking ego.

Hyunjin stretches out his leg to nudge your leg with his foot. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You ever thought about it?”

You and Hyunjin have a weird sort of relationship. You hooked up once at a party, back when you were a freshman. Jisung had found out and gotten upset, telling you that his friends were all assholes and man-whores and were therefore off-limits. You pointed out that Jisung had slept with some of your friends and you hadn’t said anything but he wouldn’t be swayed, refusing to talk to you until you promised to never do it again. You decided then that Hyunjin, though he was beautiful and a pretty decent fuck, was not worth it. The two of you never spoke of it again, but a certain level of playful flirtation has remained. 

“Sure,” you say breezily, picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion.

Jisung sits up so fast you nearly topple over. “You have?” The look on his face is nothing short of comical.

“Yeah. Have you not?”

“No,” he says, and the lie is so obvious it hangs heavy in the air, “We’re best friends.”

“So?” Hyunjin’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, dark eyes dancing with mischief. “Best friends can have fun.”

You’re starting to think he might be right. And you’re starting to think you’d like to have some fun with Jisung, especially if it meant wiping that stupid look off his face. It was a dangerous thought, one that you’d entertained briefly before, always shoving it down because it felt wrong, like crossing some sort of sacred line.

But right now, watching him squirm, it feels more like a starting line.

You shift again, slower this time, and rest your hand on his thigh. His leg stops bouncing. He freezes, all motion ceasing except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He’s looking straight ahead, at the wall, but you can feel the heat of his gaze on your profile.

“What’s so wrong with me that you don’t want to kiss me?” You pout, looking at him through your lashes.

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and his eyes are wide and dark and full of something you can’t quite name. “Nothing,” he breathes. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

You shrug one shoulder, making a show of sighing and rolling your eyes towards the ceiling. “Clearly there’s something wrong with you, then. I know for a fact almost all of your friends have thought about kissing me.” You’re bluffing, mostly. You only know for a fact about Hyunjin. And maybe Seungmin. But that was more of a vibe.

Thankfully, Felix gets the hint. He leans forward on the couch, balancing his elbows on his knees. “I have.”

Jisung turns sharply towards him, parting his lips but before he can speak, Hyunjin chimes in, raising his hand. “I did.” Then, when Jisung throws him a look so dirty, he recoils. “Once. And I never did it again.”

“I wouldn’t be so against it,” Changbin chimes in from where he's playing beer pong. He giggles and turns back to the game ignoring the death glare from Jisung.

You flash him a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Then you turn back to Jisung. You can feel the beat of his heart through the denim of his jeans, a frantic little drum solo against your palm. “See? I’m very kissable.”

He doesn't move, doesn't back away. He just swallows, the sound loud in the suddenly quiet corner of the party. His gaze drops from your eyes to your lips and back again.

You sigh loudly, untangling your legs from his and getting up from the couch. "Whatever," You step past him. "I'm gonna go get more–"

A hand wraps around your wrist, yanking you back so suddenly that you can’t help but yelp, landing in a heap onto Jisung’s lap. Before you can react—or even adjust yourself properly—his lips find yours.

It’s not a soft, tentative kiss. It's a crash. It’s messy and a little desperate, the way a teenager kisses for the first time. There’s an edge of frustration to it, of months, maybe years, of unspoken tension finally boiling over. His tongue slides against yours, and you can taste the cheap beer and the lingering smoke. His hand moves from your wrist to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place. He’s kissing you like he’s trying to prove a point. Someone wolf-whistles, Felix maybe, but it fades into a distant hum, and all that’s left is the frantic beat of his heart against your palm and the dizzying taste of Han Jisung.

When he finally pulls away, you’re both breathless. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the brown of his irises. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, a smug little smirk playing on your lips.

"Shit," Jisung breaths. "You're good at that."

"You were there too, you know," You tease bumping your forehead into his. Maybe you should feel a little weird about kissing this boy you've known since you were children when you've never crossed this line before. But, strangely, or maybe not so strangely, there's nothing weird about it. It feels as natural as breathing, kissing Jisung.

Instead of replying, he's tilting his head up to catch your lips again, palms sliding down from your neck over the expanse of your back and smoothing over your ass, pulling you into him. He deepens the kiss with a soft groan that vibrates in your chest. It's a better kiss this time, slower, more certain. He explores your mouth with a newfound confidence. This is fun. So much fun. You're not sure why you never tried this before.

His thumb finds that little strip of skin between your top and your jeans, stroking it gently. And a shiver goes through you that has nothing to do with the buzz of the party. It’s a jolt, a current that runs straight down to your core, and your hips roll against his of their own accord. A low moan escapes your lips and into his mouth. 

“Booooo,” Hyunjin says from somewhere behind you. “Get a fucking room.”

Neither of you are fazed in the slightest. You feel a great chasm opening between the two of you. It’s only been about  thirty seconds of kissing Jisung and you already know you’ll never be the same without it. You mourn all the years you’ve gone without his lips on yours and you mourn for all the years that will come after this phase of kissing Jisung, because it will someday end. All your life you’ve never known anyone to keep a relationship. 

You pull back from him and he pouts, a pretty little thing that you want to bite. You hold back for now.

“Why haven’t we done this sooner?” He asks, dazed. He leans in to kiss you again, but you put a finger to his lips.

“Because you were too busy denying how much you wanted to,” you say, grinning. The power you feel is intoxicating, headier than the cheap beer, sweeter than the cherry cola on his tongue.

He just grumbles something unintelligible, nipping at the pad of your finger before leaning back into the couch, pulling you with him. His grip on your waist is firm in a way that sends another thrill through you. He’s not letting you go.

You end up making out for the rest of the party, tucked into your little corner of the couch. The weed and the alcohol fade into a distant hum, replaced by the overwhelming sensation of him. When the party eventually thins out and he walks you home, he kisses you some more at the door and you have to physically pull yourself away from him.

“Okay, okay,” you laugh as he tries to follow you inside. “Go home, Ji.”

“When can I see you again?” he asks, a desperate edge to his voice. His hair is a mess from where your hands have been tangled in it, and his lips are swollen and red.

“You see me practically every day.” You shrug, trying to play it cool, even as your heart hammers against your ribs. “And we have that paper to finish for psych.”

“Forget the paper,” he says, shaking his head. “I want to kiss you again.” He takes a step closer, his hands finding your hips. “I don't think I can stop.”

He’s looking at you with a raw, open honesty that makes your breath catch in your throat. This is not the Jisung you know. Your Jisung is goofy and sarcastic, prone to hiding behind jokes and deflecting with humor. This Jisung is… intense.

“Tomorrow,” you say, your voice a little too soft. “You can see me tomorrow.”

He seems to accept this, nodding slowly. He leans in and gives you one last, lingering kiss, a soft, gentle press of lips that feels more intimate than all the frantic kissing from before. “Okay,” he whispers against your mouth. “Tomorrow.”

He takes a few steps down the path, then he stops and turns back. The porch light casts him in a soft, golden glow, but you can see the uncertainty in the set of his shoulders. He’s a silhouette against the dark night, and for a second, he looks like the little boy you used to build pillow forts with.

“Hey,” he calls out, shoving his hands in his pockets. “This… this doesn’t change anything, right?”

You pause with your hand on the doorknob. Change anything? The idea is almost laughable. You and Jisung have been a constant in each other's lives since before you could even remember. What could a few kisses possibly change?

“Of course not,” you say, a genuine, easy smile spreading across your face. “We’re just having fun. Right?”

“Right,” he nods. “Fun. Right.”

He turns and jogs away, a spring in his step that wasn't there before. You watch him go, a warm, fuzzy feeling spreading through your chest. It’s just fun. You’ve always been good at having fun.

And fun it is. Your relationship hasn't changed much, at least not on the surface. You still hang out nearly every day, still bicker over what to eat for dinner, still fall asleep watching movies in his bed. The only difference is that now, you kiss. You kiss in the morning, before you’ve even brushed your teeth, a sleepy, soft press of lips. You kiss in the afternoon, between classes, a quick, hard peck against the brick wall of the humanities building. You kiss at night, tangled in his sheets, long, deep, and searching, until you’re both breathless and aching for more.

The line between friendship and… whatever this is… has become a blurry, beautiful mess.

You’re in his room, a month into this new arrangement. You’re supposed to be studying for a midterm, but your textbook lies forgotten on the floor, its pages crumpled. Jisung is on top of you, his weight a pleasant, grounding pressure. He's kissing a trail down your neck, his lips hot and insistent against your skin.

“You taste so good,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. His hand slips under your shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on the soft skin of your stomach.

You arch into him, a soft gasp escaping your lips. Your fingers tighten in his hair. This is the part that’s always been a little blurry. You've never crossed this line, never went beyond just making out and heavy petting. It feels like the next logical step in this "fun" you're having, but there’s a tiny, hesitant part of you that’s still a little afraid of what that step might mean.

“Jisung,” you breathe, your voice a little shaky.

He pulls back, his face hovering just above yours. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head. “Nothing’s wrong.” You reach up and cup his face, your thumb stroking his cheek. “I just… I'm on my period."

It's a lie. You don't know why you're lying. Maybe you're scared. Maybe you know that having sex with your best friend is a line you can't uncross. But he doesn't need to know that.

He blinks, processing this, then a slow, lazy smile spreads across his face. "So?"

"So?" you echo, a little thrown. "So, it's gross. Don't tell me you've done it before."

"I mean, yeah," he shrugs, "a couple of times. It's not a big deal." He leans down and kisses you, a quick, soft peck on the lips. "I don't care. Did you know it helps a lot with cramps?"

You roll your eyes, but you can't help but laugh. "Did you read that on a feminist blog or something?"

He scratches his eyebrow. "Actually, I was researching what helped with period cramps after you mentioned having really bad ones a few years ago." he says, his ears turning a shade of pink. He smiles sheepishly. "I ended up settling for some Advil."

The admission is so unexpected, so utterly Jisung, that it cuts through the haze of arousal. You let out a small, breathy laugh. "You're an idiot," you say, but there's no malice in it. You reach up and smooth the furrow in his brow. "A sweet, researched-my-cramps idiot."

He grins, relieved. "So... no on the period sex?"

You shake your head, a genuine smile on your face. "No. Nice try though."

"Damn," he says, though he doesn't sound too disappointed. He shifts, rolling off you to lie beside you. "Can I at least still touch you?"

You pretend to think about it, tapping a finger against your chin. "Hmm, I don't know. I'm a very fragile flower right now."

He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Right. A fragile flower who was just trying to rip my shirt off five seconds ago."

"Was not."

"Were too."

"Was not."

"Were too."

"If I wanted your shirt off, I would have it off by now," You point out. And you would have. You’re an expert at undressing men quickly.

"I'm not that easy," Jisung protests, propping his head on his elbow to look at you comfortably. "I don't take my shirt off for just anybody."

You roll onto your side to face him, propping your own head up. The sunlight catches in his hair, turning it into a fluffy, brown halo. "Yeah, well, I'm not just anybody. And I've seen you shirtless a bijillion times anyway."

"Yeah but not during sexy sexy time." He wiggles his eyebrows at you.

"Take off your shirt, Jisung." You say, sitting up now, poking his chest with your finger. He yelps, smacking your hand away.

"I just said I'm not that easy!" He whines.

You just stare at him, raising a single eyebrow.

He holds out for approximately three seconds before he sighs dramatically and sits up, crossing his arms and grabbing the hem of his shirt. He pulls it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the floor. "There. Are you happy?"

You gap at him. "You got a tattoo? Holy shit, it's big."

He grins, unable to help it. "That's not the only thing that's bi--"

You cut him off with a look. He clears his throat. "Uh, yeah. I had it done almost two months ago now."

You trace the elegant cursive script with your eyes. It starts just under his left armpit, a single, beautifully rendered word. Blessed. The letters flow down his side, over the sensitive skin of his ribs, disappearing tantalizingly beneath the waistband of his jeans. You have an overwhelming urge to see the rest of it.

"Blessed?" You trace the letters with your fingertip, from the top down as far as you can go. The skin under your touch is warm. He shivers. "Why 'Blessed'?"

He shrugs, looking away, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "I don't know. Just felt right."

A memory suddenly rises to your mind. ""Blessed is he who has learned the causes of things""

He grins sheepishly. "Am I really that predictable?" He asks.

"Yes, you pretentious shit, quoting Virgil." You say but there is no heat in it. "You are such a dork."

He laughs, a soft, breathy sound that rumbles through his chest. You shift, laying your head on his stomach so you can get a better view of the tattoo, your fingers continuing their slow, meandering path over the ink. His skin is soft here. You can feel the muscles of his abdomen tighten slightly under your touch.

"It's about…," he beings thoughtfully, his voice vibrating through your ear. His fingers start to play with your hair, gently combing through the strands. "It's about... understanding, you know? Not just letting shit happen to you, but actually trying to figure out the why. The cause and effect."

You hum in response, your finger tracing the curve of the 's' in 'Blessed'. You can feel the slight raised texture of the healed ink against your skin.

"When I was getting it done," he continues, his voice a low, intimate murmur, "it hurt like a bitch. But it was this weird, focused pain. I could feel the needle, and I knew exactly where it was coming from and why it hurt. And for some reason, that made it... easier. Made me feel in control." He pauses. "Most of life isn't like that. Things just happen. People get sick, relationships end, you fail a test... you don't always get to know the cause."

Your finger stills. You can feel the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek. He's not talking about Virgil anymore. He's talking about everything. About the anxiety that sometimes keeps him up all night, about the sheer, terrifying randomness of the world.

"I guess I just wanted a reminder," he says, and you can tell he's not really here with you, but somewhere deep inside of his head. "That even if I can't control the causes, I can at least try to learn them. To understand them. And maybe... maybe that's a kind of blessing in itself."

You press your lips against the skin of his ribs, right over the last visible letter of the word. It's a soft, gentle kiss, nothing like the frantic, demanding kisses from before. 

He lets out a shaky breath, his hand stilling in your hair. You feel his fingers tighten just a little bit, a reflexive grasp. For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner and the frantic, unsteady beating of your own heart.

You assume he must be getting sex from elsewhere, because it's been two months since you first kissed him, and you still haven't gone all the way. The make-out sessions have escalated, sure. Hands wander further, clothes come off more readily. There's a fine sheen of sweat on your skin almost every night after he leaves your dorm room. But you always pull back, and he always, always, lets you.

You're starting to feel like a fraud. You preach 'fun' and 'no feelings,' but you're the one who's scared. Scared that crossing that final line will shatter everything you've built with him.

The thought of him with someone else gnaws at you. You try to brush it off. He's a college guy. Of course he's hooking up with other people. You do too, or you would be, if you could muster up the energy to go on a date instead of spending all your free time with Jisung.

You don't like feeling this way. It's an icky, possessive feeling that has no place in a 'fun' arrangement.

The thought bubbles up out of your mouth one evening while you're sprawled on your floor, 'studying' for finals. "Are you sleeping with anyone else?"

Jisung, who is highlighting a paragraph in a textbook with an almost violent concentration, freezes. The bright yellow highlighter hovers over the page. He doesn't look up.

"No," he says, a beat too late. "Are you?"

The question hangs in the air between you, charged with an unspoken electricity. You're not. You haven't even thought about it. The idea of going on a date with some random guy from your stats class feels exhausting, and deeply unappealing.

"No," you admit, picking at a loose thread on the rug. "I just... I figured you would be. We're not... exclusive."

"So?" He finally looks up, and his eyes are dark, serious. "I don't want to."

"Why not?" You press, needing to know. "I'm not putting out. A guy has needs."

A muscle in his jaw jumps. "I'm getting my needs met," he says, his voice low and a little rough. He puts down the highlighter and closes the book with a soft thud.

You sit up, genuinely intrigued. "With who?"

"With no one."

"That makes no sense, Ji, how--"

He just stares at you, a long, intense look that makes your stomach do a little flip. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.

"Oh," you breathe, the realization hitting you like a physical blow. He's getting off on you. With the thought of you. The thought is so hot, so surprisingly intimate, that it makes you dizzy.

"Yeah, 'oh'," he mimics, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. He leans back on his hands, stretching his long legs out. "Is that a problem?"

"No," you say, a little too quickly. "No, it's not a problem."

"Good."

He goes back to his book, but the spell is broken. You can't focus. The image of him, alone in his room, thinking of you, is burned into the back of your eyelids.

"How come?"

He glances at you. "How come I jacked off to the thought of you riding my face in the library last week?" he asks, deadpan.

You choke on your own spit. "Jisung!"

"What? You asked," he shrugs, completely unfazed.

"That's not what I was asking, I–in the library?"

"Study room C," he clarifies, as if that's the detail you were stuck on. "The chairs are surprisingly sturdy–"

"Anyway," You interrupt. "I meant, how come you haven't been fucking anyone else?"

He sucks on his teeth. "Cuz I don't want to. Besides, it's not like there's any options anyway."

You snort. "That's a bold faced lie, Han Jisung, I know for a fact that that red head from lit has been trying to get in your pants for at least a month."

Jisung blinks. “I thought she was just interested in lizards.”

“No one is actually interested in lizards,” You point out.

“I am.”

“You’re a one in a million, Ji. Maybe even a billion. Are you really just going to keep her waiting?”

He shrugs. “I was never going to sleep with her.”

Now it’s your turn to blink in surprise. “Whoa. Okay, what up?”

“What?”

“Don’t what me, you’re the one with some sort of deadly illness. A  girl’s throwing herself at you and you don’t want to have sex with her?”

“Is that so bad?”

“No…it’s just weird. And a little out of character for you.”

“Is it?” He finally looks up, looking deep into your eyes. “Would you really be okay with me sleeping with her?”

“She’s not really my type, to be honest, so you can have–”

“No,” He cuts off, sounding frustrated now. It surprises you. “I’m not asking specifically about her. Are you really okay with me sleeping with anyone?”

That takes you off guard. “Yes? Why would I not be?”

He looks at you for a long moment, before turning back, huffing a little irritated laugh. “Right. Never mind, forget it.” 

He turns back to his book, highlighting aggressively and leaving you completely and utterly confused. You don't press it. The air is too thick with things you don't want to name.

The party is in full swing, a chaotic explosion of relief and cheap alcohol. The air in the frat house is thick with the smell of spilled beer and sweat, the bass from the speakers vibrating through the soles of your feet. Finals are over. Summer is a breath away. You should be celebrating.

Instead, you're leaning against a sticky wall in the kitchen, watching Jisung from across the room. He's holding court, of course, a circle of admirers hanging on his every word. Among them is the redhead from your lit class, the lizard enthusiast. She's laughing at something he said, her hand resting on his arm.

A hot, ugly feeling coils in your stomach. Possessiveness. Jealousy. You hate it. You hate it more as you watch her latch onto Jisung’s wrist and pull him away. He goes willingly.

You push off the wall and grab a solo cup of what smells like regret and fruit punch, downing half of it in one go. The alcohol burns a path down your throat.

You spot Hyunjin by the beer pong table, a triumphant grin on his face as he sinks the last cup. He catches your eye and raises his eyebrows in a silent question. You give him a tight-lipped smile and make your way over.

“Having fun?” he asks, handing you a fresh beer.

“Peachy,” you say, taking a long sip.

His gaze drifts over to where disappeared with the redhead. “Trouble in paradise?”

“There is no paradise,” you snap, a little too harshly. “There’s just… a sandbox. And someone’s trying to play in my sandbox.”

Hyunjin laughs, a low, knowing sound. “You’re so full of shit. You like him.”

“Of course I like him, he’s my best friend.”

“You know what I mean,” he says, leaning closer. “You’ve been different with him these last few months. Softer, but also… jumpier. Like a stray cat that’s finally decided to let someone pet it but is still ready to bolt at any second.” You open your mouth to deny it, but the words die on your tongue. Because he’s right. You are a stray cat, and you’re terrified.

Before you can formulate a response, a new voice joins the conversation. “Who’s a stray cat?”

It’s Felix, all sunshine and smiles, his arm slung around Changbin’s shoulders. He looks between you and Hyunjin, his curiosity piqued.

“Her,” Hyunjin says, jerking a thumb in your direction. “She’s finally realizing she’s in love with Jisung.”

The words land like a bomb. The kitchen seems to go silent, the thumping bass of the music fading into a dull roar. Your heart hammers against your ribs. In love. The phrase is so absolute, so terrifyingly final. It’s not ‘fun.’ It’s not ‘messing around.’ It’s love.

You’re about to laugh it off, to make some cutting remark that will shut Hyunjin down, but you don’t get the chance. Because you see it. Over Hyunjin’s shoulder, you see Jisung. He’s no longer with the redhead. He’s standing at the edge of the living room, and he’s looking right at you. And you know, with a sickening certainty, that he heard.

You shove past Hyunjin, ignoring his calls of your name. You need to get out of here. You need air. You push through the throng of bodies, the sticky floor gripping your shoes, the heat of the room pressing in on you. You burst through the front door into the cool night air, stumbling down the porch steps.

The front door opens and closes behind you. You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him.

“What was Hyunjin talking about?” His voice is tight, strained.

“Nothing,” you say, turning to face him. “He was just being an idiot.” You wrap your arms around yourself, a sudden chill making you shiver.

“He said you were in love with me,” he presses, taking a step closer. “Is that true?” His eyes are searching yours, desperate for an answer. And you can’t lie. Not to him. Not when he’s looking at you like that.

“No,” you say, the word coming out small and brittle. Because it’s not love. It can’t be. Love is messy and painful and ends with people crying on the bathroom floor. This is just… this is just a complication.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says, his voice cracking slightly. “Not about this.”

“I’m not lying!” you insist, your own voice rising with frustration. “Why do you even care? I saw you disappear with lizard girl."

He flinches as if you've slapped him. "Lizard girl? Her name is Sophie. And I didn't 'disappear' with her, I walked her to the door because she was too drunk to find it."

"Oh, I'm sure that's all it was," you scoff, the jealousy burning hot and irrational in your chest. "Poor, helpless Sophie."

"What the hell is your problem?" he says tightly, his usually calm demeanor shattering completely. "You say you don’t mind me sleeping with other people, but the second I so much as talk to another girl, you act like I've cheated on you!"

"Because you're supposed to be my friend!" you say harshly, your voice echoing in the quiet street. "You're not supposed to want them! You're supposed to want m—"

You cut yourself off, but it's too late. The words hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. You're supposed to want me.

Jisung stares at you, his expression a confusing mix of shock, hurt, and something that looks dangerously like hope. "Want you?" he repeats, his voice dangerously low. "Is that what this is about? Your ego? You need me to want you and only you, but you won't give me anything real in return?"

"That's not what I said!"

"It's what you meant!" he shoots back, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "God, you are so selfish. You want all of my attention, all of my...want. But you won't even admit what this is. You won't give me a label. What am I supposed to do, just wait around forever until you deign to let me in?"

His words are like shards of glass, each one finding a vulnerable spot. He's right. You have been selfish. You've been taking all the comfort and affection he offers without giving anything of substance back.

"Maybe you should just go fuck Sophie then," you spit out, the words laced with a venom you didn't know you possessed. "Maybe she's not as selfish as I am."

"Maybe I will," he retorts, his jaw set. "At least with her, I know where I stand."

The silence that follows is deafening. It’s heavier and colder than the night air. You can feel the chasm between you widening, a crack in the foundation of your entire friendship that you’re not sure can ever be repaired.

He looks at you one last time, and all the anger in his eyes has been replaced by a deep, profound sadness. "You know," he says, his voice quiet and hollow. "For someone who claims to be so good at reading people, you're really fucking clueless."

And with that, he turns and walks away. He doesn't look back. He just disappears into the night, leaving you standing alone on the sidewalk, the thumping bass from the party a distant, mocking heartbeat. The warmth from the alcohol has evaporated, leaving you cold and hollow. You wrap your arms tighter around yourself, but it doesn't help. You're not sure anything will ever help again.

The next few days are a special kind of hell. Silence. That's the worst part. The constant, buzzing silence where Jisung's laughter used to be. Your phone feels heavy and useless. You stare at your text thread with him, the last message being a stupid meme he sent you two days before the party. You can't bring yourself to type anything. What would you even say? Sorry I called you selfish and told you to go fuck someone else? It sounds hollow, even in your head.

You avoid the dorm lounge, the library, the coffee shop. Anywhere you might run into him or one of the guys. You exist in a bubble of your own making, attending your final classes and then retreating to the suffocating safety of your room. The unpacked boxes in the corner of your room seem to mock you, a reminder that summer is here and you have no idea what that means anymore. Summer has always meant Jisung. It has meant lazy days by the pool and late-night drives and the two of you against the world. Now, it just means a gaping, empty void.

A week later, the sky decides to open up and weep all over the city. You’re on your way to the storage unit to finally drop off the last of your boxes when your car, an ancient and temperamental sedan Jisung affectionately named ‘The Beast,’ sputters, coughs, and dies.

Of course it does.

You’re in the middle of nowhere, on a stretch of road lined with industrial parks and warehouses. The rain is coming down in sheets, so heavy you can barely see the hood of your car. The wipers are squeaking a pathetic, rhythmic protest. You try turning the key. Nothing. Just a series of sad, clicking sounds.

Panic, cold and sharp, starts to prickle at the edges of your calm. You pull out your phone, your fingers slippery with rain. You call Hyunjin. It goes straight to voicemail. You try Felix. He picks up on the fifth ring.

“Hello?” His voice is tinny and distant.

“Lix! Thank god, my car died and I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere and it’s pouring—”

“Oh, shit, that sucks,” he says, and you can hear the muffled sounds of a crowd. “I’m at this really lame family thing, I can’t really get away. Have you tried Changbin?”

“He doesn’t have a car,” you say, your frustration mounting.

“Jisung then,” Felix says, like it’s the simplest, most obvious solution in the world.

Your stomach clenches. “I’m not calling Jisung.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end. “Oh. Right. The fight.” He sighs. “Look, I’m sorry. I really can’t leave. Maybe try a tow truck?”

“Great idea, Felix,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm you immediately regret. “Sorry. Thanks anyway.”

You hang up and let your head fall against the steering wheel. The metal is cold against your forehead. You call a roadside assistance number. The automated voice tells you the estimated wait time is two hours. Two hours. In this. You stare out at the grey, water-logged world, a proper, miserable self-pity party for one.

You feel small and helpless. Hated. You’ve made a complete mess of everything. All because you were scared of a word. Love. What a stupid, four-letter word to ruin a decade-long friendship.

You don't know how long you sit there, wallowing in a slurry of anger, guilt, and misery. Time loses its meaning, marked only by the drumming of the rain on the roof and the occasional flash of headlights from a passing car that leaves you feeling even more isolated. You’re so wrapped up in your own head, replaying the fight on a loop, that you don't even notice the pair of headlights that pull up behind you, their beams cutting through the downpour.

You jump violently when a loud rap sounds on your driver's side window. Your heart leaps into your throat. You turn, ready to scream at a serial killer or a creepy trucker, and freeze.

It’s Jisung.

He’s standing in the pouring rain, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping down the bridge of his nose. He’s wearing a thin hoodie that’s soaked through, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He’s not smiling. He’s just looking at you, his expression unreadable through the glass and the streaks of rain.

For a second, you just stare at each other. He looks exhausted, there are dark circles under his eyes that match the ones you've seen in your own reflection all week. He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod towards the lock.

You fumble with the button, your fingers clumsy and cold. The door clicks open. He pulls it, the rush of cold, wet air immediately filling the car. He doesn't get in, just stands there, half-in, half-out, creating a small, temporary shelter from the storm.

“Felix called me,” he says by way of explanation. His voice is flat, devoid of any emotion. “Said you were being an idiot.”

You don't know what to say. Thank you feels too small. Go away feels too cruel. So you just sit there, clutching the steering wheel like a lifeline, unable to meet his gaze.

“The Beast’s dead?” he asks, nodding towards the sputtering engine.

You manage a weak nod.

“Figured.” He sighs, and it’s a weary, bone-deep sound. He shivers, a full-body tremor that he tries to suppress. “Pop the hood.”

You do as he says, fumbling for the latch. He leans out, expertly propping the hood open. He vanishes for a moment into the downpour, and you watch him through the windshield as he peers at the engine, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looks so out of place here, a boy of books and music and carefully chosen words, poking at the greasy guts of a dead machine. A wave of affection so strong it hurts.

He fiddles for a few minutes, yanking on a cable here, checking a connection there. He comes back to the window, shaking his head, water flying from his hair like a wet dog.

“Battery’s fried,” he says, his teeth chattering slightly. “And I think the alternator’s gone too. There’s nothing I can do out here.”

You just nod again, the lump in your throat making it impossible to speak. The silence stretches, punctuated only by the drumming rain.

“Come on,” he says, breaking it. “Get your stuff. I’ll take you back.”

You should refuse. You should tell him you’ve already called a tow, that you’ll be fine, that you don’t need him. But the lie dies on your lips. Because you do. You need him.

You grab your backpack and the box from the passenger seat, your movements stiff and awkward. He opens the back door of his car for you, placing your things carefully on the seat before closing it again. You slide into the passenger side, the warmth of the car’s heater a shocking, welcome sensation. The interior smells like him—faintly of laundry detergent and that specific, clean scent you’ve never been able to place.

He gets in, not a word spoken between you. The engine hums to life, a smooth, steady purr that is the complete opposite of your dead car. He pulls back onto the road, the wipers working overtime to clear the glass. The drive is suffocatingly quiet. You keep your eyes fixed on the passenger-side window, watching the blurry city lights streak by. Every muscle in your body is tense. You can feel the heat radiating from him, just a few inches away. The space between you feels both too vast and dangerously small.

You finally pull up outside your dorm building. The rain has eased to a miserable drizzle. He puts the car in park but leaves the engine running. The silence is back, heavier than ever. This is it. The moment where you have to say something.

“I can pay you for the gas,” you blurt out, hating how formal and stupid it sounds.

He doesn’t even look at you. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Jisung, I—”

“What are your plans for the summer?” he asks, cutting you off. His tone is casual, but you can hear the tension coiled beneath it.

The question catches you off guard. “Um, I don’t know. Work at the cafe, I guess. Take a couple of summer classes.” The words feel hollow, a list of empty activities to fill the gaping hole where he used to be.

He nods slowly, finally turning to look at you. The streetlights cast shadows across his face, making his expression impossible to read. “I’m going back home for a while. Help my parents with some stuff.”

Home. He’s going home. To another city. A three-hour drive away. It’s what he does every summer, but this year it feels like a final judgment. A sentence.

“Oh,” is all you can manage. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” he says, his gaze dropping to his hands on the steering wheel. “So.”

“So.”

You should go. You should thank him, get your stuff, and just go. But you can’t. You’re rooted to the spot, trapped by the weight of all the things you haven’t said. You look at him, really look at him. At the slope of his nose, the worried line of his lips, the way he’s rubbing at a spot on the steering well with his thumb—a nervous habit you’ve seen a thousand times. Your best friend. The boy you’ve known since you were both gangly, brace-faced seventh graders. The boy whose shoulder you cried on when your first dog died, the boy who helped you sneak out for your first high school party, the boy who knows all your secrets. Except the most important one. The one you were too scared to even admit to yourself.

"Ji," Water drips from your hair onto your lap. Without looking, you reach your hand across the vast space of the center console, palm up, fingers spread. "Will you hold my hand?"

He flinches, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. His eyes flick from your outstretched hand to your face and back again, a war of emotions playing out in their depths. Anger, hurt, exhaustion, longing. He hesitates for a beat that feels like an eternity.

Then, slowly, he lifts his hand from the steering wheel and places it in yours. His palm is warm and a little damp. He doesn't lace his fingers through yours, just lets them rest there, a tentative, fragile connection. The contact sends a jolt through you, a current of warmth that chases away the chill that’s been living in your bones for a week.

You stare at your joined hands. His hand is bigger than yours, the fingers long and calloused in places from playing guitar. There's a small scar on his knuckle from when he tripped and fell trying to climb a tree to rescue your frisbee in tenth grade. You trace it with your thumb.

You take a shaky breath, the words bubbling up from a place you didn't know existed. "Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit."

He sucks in a sharp breath. You feel it more than hear it. He knows. Of course, he knows. It's Virgil. He looks at you then, really looks at you, and the anger in his eyes has finally dissipated, replaced by a profound, aching sadness.

"Maybe it will be a pleasure one day to remember even this," he translates. "Who's a pretentious little shit now?

A weak, watery laugh escapes your lips, half-sob. "Still you."

He huffs a small, humorless laugh. You take the opening with both hands. "Please don't go home."

"I have to."

"Why?"

"Because I can't do this," he says, his voice cracking. "I can't be around you and pretend it doesn't hurt."

"What hurts?"

His gaze is piercing, direct. "You know what hurts." His fingers tighten around yours, a desperate, pleading gesture. "You stand there and you tell me it's all just fun, but you jealous of a girl I was just walking to the door. You quote our poet to try and fix things after you shatter me. You're so goddamn confusing."

"I'm not confused." You snap. "I know what will happen if we do this, Jisung, I'm surprised that you don't."

"What happens? We get a happy ending? God for-fucking-bid."

"This is not a fairytale, Ji." You press. "I haven't ever seen a monogamous relationship last longer than three months. My parents have been cheating on each other for 20 years, yours are divorced, none of our friends have ever had a stable partnership."

"So what? Our failure is pre-determined because everyone else sucks?" He scoffs. "You use your parents as an excuse to not let anyone in. To not try for anything real."

"I am not using them as an excuse!" You pull your hand away from his, crossing your arms over your chest. "Why are you pushing for this so hard? Do you want to get your heart broken? Do you want to lose your best friend? Because that's what's going to happen. We're going to be miserable and then we're never going to be able to look at each other again."

"So what's the alternative?" He yells, his frustration boiling over. "We go back to being 'just friends'? We pretend this never happened? We ignore the fact that I am completely, head over heels in love with you? That I have been for ten years?"

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. Ten years. Not months. Not since you started kissing. But ten years. Since you were awkward, brace-faced teenagers.

"I can't do that," he says, his voice dropping to a pained whisper. "I can't go back to pretending. So either we try, or we don't. And if we don't... then I do have to go home. Because I can't be your friend anymore."

The finality of it hits you like a physical blow. He's not threatening you. He's stating a fact. This is the ultimatum you never saw coming. It's not about sex or labels or even love, not really. It's about survival. He can't survive being near you like this. And you're not sure you can either.

"That's bullshit, Jisung, you can't make me choose, it's not fair." You say, your eyes are welling up with tears. This is the opposite of fun. This is messy and painful and it hurts.

"It's not fair to me to be in love with someone who will never love me back but won’t let me go."

You look at him, at the raw pain etched on his face. You think about all the times he's been there for you. All the times he's picked you up when you've fallen. All the times he's held your hand and told you it would be okay. You think about the tattoo on his ribs, Blessed. A blessing to understand the causes of things.

"I do love you." You say, the words feeling foreign and strange on your tongue.

He just stares at you, his expression unreadable. "No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"You don't even know what that word means."

"If you know that, then why do you want me to say it so bad?" You say, your voice raising again. "Why are you so determined to ruin this?"

"Ruin this?" He asks, incredulous. "This is already ruined! We've been ruining it for months! We've been tiptoeing around this thing, this massive, huge thing, and we've been slowly poisoning our friendship in the process. I'm not ruining it, I'm just the only one willing to admit that it's already on fucking fire!"

You can't take it anymore. The car feels too small, the air too thick. You fumble for the door handle, shoving it open and stumbling out into the drizzling rain. The water is cold on your skin, but it’s a welcome shock to your system.

You hear the click of his door opening and closing, and then his footsteps are splashing behind you. "Where are you going?" He calls out.

"Away from you!" You yell, not turning around.

You don't get far. He catches your arm, spinning you around to face him. You're both soaked now, your hair plastered to your faces, your clothes clinging to your skin. The rain is coming down harder again, but neither of you seems to notice.

"That's the problem!" He shouts, his face inches from yours. "You can't get away from me! And I can't get away from you! We're stuck!"

You're crying now, hot tears mingling with the cold rain on your cheeks. "Then what are we supposed to do?"

And then he's kissing you.

It's not like the other kisses. It's not fun or playful or tentative. It's desperate and angry and full of all the words you haven't been able to say. His lips are cold from the rain, but they're insistent, demanding. You kiss him back with just as much force, your hands tangling in his wet hair, pulling him closer. You're not thinking about the future or the past or the consequences. You're just thinking about him. About the feel of his body against yours, the taste of rain on his lips, the way he's holding you like he's afraid you're going to disappear.

Somehow, you make it back to your room. The keycard fumbles in your shaking hands, but you finally get the door open. You stumble inside, a trail of water and mud in your wake. The door slams shut behind you, cutting off the storm. You're a mess, dripping all over the floor, your clothes sopping.

He pushes you against the door, his body pinning yours, his lips finding yours again in the dim light of your room. His hands are everywhere, sliding under your wet shirt, his touch electric on your skin. You're both shaking, but it's not from the cold anymore.

"Jisung," you gasp against his mouth.

"Shut up," he murmurs, kissing you again. "Just shut up."

You don't argue. You let him silence you with his mouth, let the frantic energy of the argument transmute into a frantic, desperate need. This isn't about fun anymore. This is about claiming, about marking, about trying to bridge the chasm that has opened up between you with teeth and tongue and nails.

He rips your shirt over your head, the wet fabric catching briefly before it's discarded on the floor. His hands are on your skin, warm and firm, a stark contrast to the chill still clinging to you. He trails kisses down your neck, his teeth scraping against your pulse point, and you arch into him, a gasp tearing from your throat. Your hands fumble with the hem of his own soaked hoodie, pushing it up over his stomach, your fingers tracing the familiar, now-slick lines of his tattoo.

Blessed. The word screams in your mind. What a cruel, cosmic joke. This feels like a curse.

He shudders under your touch, lifting his arms so you can pull the hoodie and the t-shirt underneath off in one go. They land with a wet slap on the floor. He's beautiful. You've seen him shirtless a hundred times, at the pool, in your dorm, but it's never been like this. His chest is heaving, his skin glistening with rain and exertion. In the low light, the muscles in his arms and shoulders are starkly defined, a testament to the tension that's been riding him for weeks.

You want to devour him. You want to crawl inside his skin and stay there. The thought is terrifying.

He walks you backward, your bodies still pressed together, until your knees hit the edge of your bed. You fall back onto the mattress, pulling him down with you. He lands on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure. He pauses, propping himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is dripping onto your face, but you don't care. You just look at him, at the raw, open expression on his face. All the anger is gone, replaced by a desperate, aching need that mirrors your own.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice a low, rough rasp. "I need you to be sure."

You reach up, threading your fingers through the wet hair at the nape of his neck, and pull him down for another kiss. He lets you kiss him for a moment, a deep, slow kiss that feels like a surrender. Then he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

"Words," he whispers.

The fear comes back, a cold snake coiling in your gut. Words are what got you into this mess. Words are what will define whatever happens next. But looking into his eyes, seeing the vulnerability and the hope warring there, you know you can't deny him. 

"Please," you breathe, the word barely a puff of air between you. "Please fuck me, Jisung"

It's not a declaration of love. It's not a promise of forever. It's raw, it's present, and it's the truest thing you can say in this moment.

A groan rips from his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. He kisses you again, hard and deep, and this time there's no holding back. His hands make quick work of the button on your jeans, and you lift your hips to help him pull them off. The rest of your clothes follow in a frantic, desperate tangle of limbs, until you're both naked, skin to skin, the heat of your bodies chasing away the last of the chill.

He touches you with a reverence you didn't expect. His hands map every inch of your skin, his lips following in their wake. He pays attention to the places that make you gasp, the places that make you shiver. He's not in a hurry anymore. He's savoring. He's learning.

He kisses his way down your body, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of fire. He lingers at the hollow of your throat, the dip of your navel, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You're trembling, a fine, constant shudder running through you. You're so lost in the sensation that you almost cry out when he finally, finally puts his mouth on you.

His tongue is soft and wet and impossibly skilled. He licks and sucks and teases, building a tension in you that's almost unbearable. You bury your fingers in his hair, holding him to you, your hips arching off the bed. He's relentless, pushing you higher and higher, until you're a writhing, whimpering mess.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers. "My god, look at you."

You can't form words, can only make a desperate, pleading sound. He chuckles, a low, vibrating sound that sends a new wave of pleasure through you. He slips two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and that's it. The tension in you snaps, and you come with a cry, your body convulsing with the force of it.

He doesn't stop. He works you through your orgasm, his tongue and fingers never ceasing their movements, drawing out the pleasure until it's almost painful. Just when you think you can't take anymore, the building starts again, slower this time, deeper. It’s a different kind of tension, coiling low in your belly.

You feel a brief, sharp sting as he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. You gasp, not from pain, but from the primal, possessive thrill of it. He soothes the bite mark with his tongue, a soothing, apologetic gesture, before returning to his ministrations. He's everywhere now, his broad shoulders holding your thighs open, one hand splayed across your stomach to hold you down, the other pumping into you with a steady, insistent rhythm. He's completely focused, his entire being concentrated on this one task, on giving you this one thing. The sounds he makes are obscene, wet, hungry sounds that make your cheeks burn with a mixture of embarrassment and intense arousal.

You're lost in a haze of sensation, your mind gone blank, your body no longer your own. You're just a collection of nerve endings, all firing at once, all screaming for him. It starts in your toes, a tingling warmth that spreads up your legs, through your torso, until it engulfs you completely. You're no longer in your room, in your bed. You're adrift in a sea of pleasure, and he is your only anchor. The world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot light, and you're dimly aware of your own voice crying out his name, a broken, desperate prayer.

When you finally come back to yourself, he's kissing his way back up your body, his movements slow, deliberate. He licks the sweat from your skin, tasting the salt of your exertion. He hovers over you, his face inches from yours, his eyes dark and intense. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving. You can feel the hard, hot length of him pressed against your thigh.

"You with me?" he asks, his voice a raw, husky whisper.

You can only manage a weak nod, your body still humming with the aftershocks.

He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair away from your sweat-slicked forehead. "You look so good when you come."

The words, so blunt, so Jisung, send a fresh jolt of heat through you. He kisses you then, a slow, deep kiss that tastes of you and of him and of the desperate, unspoken things between you. You can feel the desperation in him, the barely contained need. He wants you. He's wanted you for ten years. The thought is staggering.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Jisung," you breathe, a plea and a permission all in one.

"Do you know how crazy you make me?" he murmurs against your lips. "How hard it's been to keep my hands to myself?"

"Then don't," you say, your voice surprisingly steady. "Don't keep your hands to yourself."

He laughs breathlessly. "I haven't been. Did you miss the part where I've been eating you out for the last half hour?"

You wriggle your hips, brushing against his and he bucks, a choked gasp escaping him. "Must've missed the part where you actually fucked me."

"Impatient," He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against you. He pauses, looking down at you, his expression a mixture of awe and terror. "Last chance to change your mind," he says, though you both know it's a lie. There's no going back now.

"Shut up, Jisung," you whisper, echoing his own words from earlier. And you pull him down for another kiss.

He enters you in one slow, steady thrust. You're so wet, so ready for him, that he slides in easily, but the stretch is still overwhelming. He fills you completely, a deep, satisfying ache that makes you feel whole in a way you haven't in a long, long time.

"Ohh, fuck," he moans, burying his face in your neck. "You feel… fuck."

You can't speak, can only hold on to him, your nails digging into the sweat-slick planes of his back. He starts to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that's designed to unravel you. Each thrust is a question, a plea, a declaration.

You meet him thrust for thrust, your bodies moving in a perfect, primal rhythm. The room is filled with the sounds of your lovemaking—the slap of skin against skin, the wet sounds of your bodies joining, the broken moans and whispered words that are barely coherent but mean everything.

He shifts slightly, changing the angle, and he hits a spot inside you that makes you see stars. You cry out, your back arching off the bed. He takes it as encouragement, setting a harder, faster pace. One of his hands slides down your body, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing it in tight, insistent circles. The dual sensation is almost too much, a sensory overload that threatens to send you over the edge.

You'd wondered, idly, in the back of your mind, what this would be like. You knew he was experienced, had heard the whispers and seen the aftermath. A part of you, the petty, jealous part, had steeled itself for mediocrity. But this... this is something else entirely. He's attuned to your every response, every gasp and shudder, adjusting his movements to push you higher, to pull you apart. This isn't the clumsy fumbling of a college hookup. This is a masterclass, a symphony of sensation, and you're the unwilling, adoring audience. You understand now, with a clarity that's both thrilling and terrifying, why they always looked at him afterward like they'd just seen God. You're starting to feel it yourself.

He seems to know you're close, and he slows down, a torturous, deliberate withdrawal that leaves you empty and aching. He pulls out almost completely, leaving only the head of his cock inside you, then pushes back in, inch by agonizing inch. He does it again, and again, a slow, maddening tease that makes you want to scream. His thumb is still on your clit, a slow, maddening circle that keeps you balanced on the knife's edge of orgasm, never quite letting you fall.

"Look at me," he says, shuddering. "Look at me and I'll give you anything you want.”

You force your eyes open, meeting his intense, burning gaze. He's watching you, his expression a mixture of awe, possession, and a desperate, raw need that steals your breath. He's not just looking at your body, he's looking into your soul.

"Tell me what you need," he whispers. He slows to a stop, still inside you, his entire body a tense wire, waiting. He's giving you the reins.

You want to tell him to move, to fuck you hard and fast until you can't remember your own name. But the words get stuck in your throat. What you need is too big, too terrifying to say out loud. So you show him instead. You tighten your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and you surge up to kiss him, pouring everything you can't say into the kiss.

He understands. He always understands.

He starts to move again, a slow, deep grind that sends shockwaves through you. He's hitting that spot again and again, a relentless, steady pressure that's building the tension in you to an unbearable peak. His thumb on your clit speeds up, circling faster, harder. You can feel your body tightening, coiling like a spring.

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice a low, encouraging rumble. "Let go for me. Come on."

The praise, the raw permission in his voice, is what finally breaks you. The spring snaps. Your orgasm crashes over you, a violent, all-consuming wave that rips a scream from your lungs. Your vision whites out, your body convulsing around him, clenching and releasing in a rhythm that's beyond your control. You're distantly aware of him groaning your name, a long, broken sound.

He rides you through it, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm as he follows you over the edge. But at the last second, he pulls out. You have a brief, confused moment of emptiness before you see him kneeling between your legs, one hand braced on the mattress beside your head, the other working his cock in quick, tight strokes.

You watch, mesmerized, as he comes with a choked gasp, spilling over your stomach and chest. The sight is primal, shockingly intimate, and it sends a final, lingering tremor through you. He collapses beside you, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat and rain and him 

You feel him shift, and then a warm, damp cloth is gently wiping the mess from your skin. Your t-shirt, you realize dimly, that you’ve been wearing not too long ago. You're too exhausted to even be embarrassed, you just hum your appreciation. He tosses the shirt aside, then pulls you into his arms, tucking you against his chest. His heartbeat is a steady, reassuring thump against your ear.

He kisses your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. He kisses your cheeks, tasting the salt of your tears. He kisses your lips, a soft, lingering kiss that's full of a terrifying, fragile hope.

"I love you," he whispers into the darkness of your room. The words are quiet, but they land in the silence with the force of a shout. "I have always loved you."

Sleep is pulling at you, a warm, heavy blanket. You can feel the edges of your consciousness starting to blur. His arms are around you and you can feel his lips on the tip of your nose, your lips, your jaw. He's warm. He smells like rain. He's not going to leave. It's all you've wanted for a week. It's all you've ever wanted, really.

"You won't leave, will you?" The words leave your lips in a mumble, your lashes fluttering. "You won't go back home?" You're too tired to be anything but honest.

There's a pause. "If you ask me to stay," he says, "I won't leave."

You open your eyes, heavy as they are, to look at him. You want to say it. The words are right there, a phantom weight on your tongue. Stay. Please stay. I'll love you. I'll love you the way you want me to. But your body betrays you. Your eyes drift shut, your breathing evens out. Sleep claims you, pulling you down into its warm, silent depths before you can give him the answer he's waiting for.

Jisung has watched you sleep for the last ten minutes. He has memorized the gentle slope of your nose, the way your eyelashes fan out against your cheeks, the soft, even puff of your breath against his chest. He has counted the faint freckles scattered across your shoulders. He has memorized all of it, and it feels like a goodbye.

He shouldn't have said it. Not like that. Not in the aftermath, when you were soft and pliant and half-asleep. He had promised himself he wouldn't. He had sworn he'd wait, that he'd be patient, that he wouldn't pressure you. But then you were underneath him, your eyes wide and trusting, your body opening for him, and the words had just… ripped out of him. An uncontrollable truth.

If you ask me to stay, I won't leave.

He waits.

He waits for you to stir, for your eyes to flutter open, for the words to come. Stay. He can almost hear it, your sleep-roughened voice. The thought is a physical ache in his chest. He imagines the relief, the pure, unadulterated joy that would flood him, the feeling of finally, finally coming home.

But you don't stir.

The minutes tick by, each one a small death. He can hear the sound of the rain outside your window, a soft, steady rhythm against the glass. He can hear the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner of your room. He can hear the frantic, desperate beating of his own heart. He thinks about the way your body shook around him, the way you whispered his name. He thinks about the taste of your skin, the feel of your hands in his hair. He thinks about all of it, and he knows he can't stay.

And that's an answer, too.

He has loved you like a dog his entire life, all he's ever wanted was to sit by your side, to eat your scraps, to just be near you. But being your dog, your constant companion is no longer enough. He can't sit at your feet and hope for a pat on the head while you look at someone else. Not anymore.

It was selfish of him to do this. To fuck you, to push you, to demand more than you were willing to give. He can see that now, in the quiet, grey light of the morning. He has just made everything a thousand times worse. He has taken your carefully constructed world, your "fun," and he has detonated it.

He can't stay and pretend that everything is okay. He can't stay and be your friend. He can't stay and watch you fall in love with someone else. He can't do any of it. He is a coward, he knows, but it's the truth. He has to leave.

Careful, so careful, he slides his arm out from under your head. You stir, a soft sigh, and your brow furrows, but you don't wake. He eases himself off the bed, his movements slow and deliberate, trying not to disturb the mattress, trying not to break the fragile spell of your sleep. His clothes are a damp, muddy pile on the floor. He gathers them up, pulling on his jeans with a wince. The denim is cold and stiff against his skin. He doesn't bother with the shirt, just balls it up in his hand.

He stands by the bed for a long moment, just looking at you. You look so peaceful, so unguarded. It's the most vulnerable he's ever seen you. He wants to crawl back into bed with you, to pull you into his arms and never let go. He wants to wake you up and demand that you choose him, that you choose this.

Instead, he leans down and presses a soft, gentle kiss to your forehead. He turns and walks out of your room, closing the door behind him.

He doesn't look back.

You push open the heavy glass double doors of your apartment complex’s main entrance, a hoodie up. It's tied so tight that you're peeking out of the tiny peephole you've created in order to see what's in front of you. It feels silly, it looks silly. A woman in the elevator watched you do it and looked at you like you were an idiot the entire time.

Chris is already leaning against his car in his usual parking spot, waiting for you to surrender the goods so he can make his rounds for the evening. He's on his phone sending a dm when the front doors click back into place. He looks up, then shuts his eyes with a smirk and deep breath.

“Mmm, you are so…” He clears his throat, masks a laugh. His eyes reopen and he's looking at you with equal parts judgement and admiration. “Should I be offended by this?”

“Mhm.” You nod from within your hooded safety helmet, or at least that's what it looks like. Any hairstyle that was previously done is disregarded, poking out awkwardly and creating a lovely abstract shadow on the ground.

“Well, I'm not.” He shakes his head, reaching for the strings to undo the ridiculously thick knot keeping the hood so taut.

“Stooop,” You complain through laughter, slapping his hand away but he doesn't care.

“You look fuckin’ scary like that.”

“How can I look scary if you can't even see my face?”

“That's why it's scary. Take the damn hood off–”

“I'm protecting my forehead–”

“Take the hood off, woman,” he's infiltrating the protective dome you've created. Your forehead is vulnerable.

“Intruder!” You swat him away, galloping backwards like a startled pony. Chris just watches you, saunters over and closes the distance.

“Shut up, someone might believe you. Your landlord’s scared of the fucking sunrise for fuck’s sake.”

“You right,” You stand still now, hands by your sides and casually pretending you didn't just cosplay a police siren a second ago. “You can't assault my forehead though.”

“Come here.”

“You can't assault my forehead.”

“I'm not gonna assault your forehead.” He comes to you instead, approaches you and finally unties the string of your hoodie.

Your face emerges from the self-inflicted fabric cage, eyes meeting him with a nonchalant grin.

“Hey.”

He scoffs, pulling the hood off your head. “Hi, got my hat?”

“What's the magic word?”

“What's that for?”

“Security.”

“It's my hat.”

“Then you should know the magic word.” You smile at your infallible logic. He lifts a brow at it.

“Gimme my hat.”

“What's the magic word?”

“Give me the hat.” There's a hand on your shoulder now, fingers squeezing like they're giving you a warning.

“What's the magic fucking word?” You laugh, pulling away from his grip in anticipation. His smile grows once he realizes that you're realizing.

“Aht, that's not how this works, love.” He takes another step, feet planted on the ground. You cringe expectantly.

“You better not,” You grit playfully, already knowing what's next. “I swear to god, Christopher.”

“I'm not doing anything.” He definitely is doing the thing he's pretending not to be doing, glancing between your face, his hand on your shoulder, and your forehead. If he could just manage a second to swoop in—

“I will hurt you with my bare hands.”

“And I'll say thank you afterwards.”

“I swear, dude–”

He leans in, or at least pretends like he will, and you take off with a shriek and a smile that might as well leave an indent in your cheeks for good.

“C'mere and take my forehead kiss!” He watches you take off, giving into the chase immediately.

The sound of his feet hitting the pavement behind you lights a fire under your ass that makes you take off with more urgency, looking behind you with your hair flowing in the wind like a train to a gown.

“No!”

“Gimme it–” His fingers graze your shoulder. You dodge like you've been training for this moment your whole life. “Damn, you're fast,” he mutters to himself.

⎯ 10:52 pm

“How is it?” Chris asks, sitting one of the brown bags of fast food in the center console of his car. There are two burgers wrapped up nicely now sitting in his lap, and he's waiting for your verdict on the “new” chicken sandwich that just dropped. The streetlights illuminate your view, that and the lights from the dashboard.

You bite into it generously, following up with a napkin for the corners of your mouth. You wait. Then decide.

“It's mid.”

“Damn.” He unwraps his burger, points it in your direction as a silent offer.

You raise a hand briefly in dismissal, “No thank you, gnabby.”

Chris bites into his burger, but not before pausing with a chuckle to repeat it to himself, “Tch, gnabby.”

“What, you don't like it? That's your name in my phone.”

“Is it really?”

“Yes, really. You don't have a fun nickname for me in your phone?”

“I have a nickname, I don't know if it's fun.”

“That means it's offensive.”

“It’s not,” He laughs, covers his mouth with a loose fist, “And you call me alpha all the time anyway, like that's not offensive.”

“It's not offensive, you just don't like it because it's true.” Your chicken sandwich has a pickle on it. You cringe, open the bun and take it off, then hand it to Chris. He accepts it without question, throwing it into his mouth without hesitation.

“Whatever, if you want a nickname go ahead and give yourself one.” He hands you his phone.

“I got you right now.” You take his phone and unlock it with your fingerprint, headed for his contacts to change your name. You have a few options, but decide on something that's the equivalent to a matching best friend t-shirt.

“Done.” You hand it back, watching his reaction. There's a car passing by with high beams blinding you both just as Chris looks up, but as soon as he's done squinting he takes the phone back. His brow raises reading it, glances at you.

“Luna?”

“And Alpha.”

That makes him smile. He thinks it's cute, which by default means it's gross.

“You're such a furry.” He resorts to teasing.

“You clearly never had a wattpad growing up.”

“I did not.”

“Well, that's my nickname. And I'm not changing it, so address me as such or be ignored.” You take another bite of your sandwich and sit tall, firm in your decision.

He watches you for a second, the clench in your jaw when you chew. His smile fades into concentration. “What's that?”

You pause, side eye. “Hm?”

He leans in, inspecting. It's all a lie, he rushes in and presses a kiss to your forehead before you can dodge.

“AAH, IT BURNS,” You pretend to be melting, to be actually on fire.

Chris dies with laughter, the wheezy kind that makes his eyes crease at the corners.

“Stop screaming–”

“I can't believe this. When I die, stay away from my funeral.”

“Shut up.” His elbow nudges your shoulder, eyes lingering on the spot he kissed, contemplating another sneak attack. “You know you missed me.”

You huff, exaggerating and rolling your eyes but ultimately giving in with a reluctant smile.

“I do,” you admit. Not did, do.

Chris softens for a split second, intrigued by the distinction. “Like, actually?”

“You idiot.” You scoff and nudge him back, distancing yourself from the vulnerability of your admission. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I mean, yeah, obviously you'd miss me. It's me.” He feigns cockiness, his own distance. You laugh along with him.

“You suck.”

“Indeed I do.”

“Freaky ass–”

ding—

Chris looks down at his phone as it chimes with a notification. His expression is unchanging, all but his eyes, which widen slightly with excitement like he's a vampire that's been invited into someone's home.

You narrow your eyes, curious and nosey, peeking over. “Who's that?”

He has no gripe with showing you his texts, so he flashes his screen in your direction. The first thing you see is the username, @/yumiiii_k.

“She replied.”

಄ part one

಄ more fake texts

಄ masterlist

TAGLIST; @ysljoon, @numberonesimpintheuniverse, @saranghaenunbitt, @viccyzsasz, @xotinytinaxo

Most laughed the stories off as little more than idle gossip or folklore spun to frighten badly behaved children, while others were perceptive enough to change the subject. Lord Kage was wealthy and well-connected enough that no officials ever questioned his unchanging appearance over the decades. He was powerful enough that no magistrate or imperial official dared investigate his affairs. Lord Kage paid his taxes, entertained the right nobles, and kept Ba Sing Se’s elite well supplied with pleasures they could never publicly admit to enjoying.

Despite Lord Kage’s vast wealth, everyone understood that neither riches nor influence could silence the whispers of high society or the common folk. Those whispers spoke of the grand crimson manor tucked between neighbouring pleasure houses at the far end of the Pleasure Mile, with its lantern-lit balconies and silk-draped rooms. They spoke of the flowers that inhabited its halls, none of which ever appeared to wilt. Much like a peach pear, one could savour its sweet flesh and get lost in the ghost stories murmured in the dark over campfires. However, if one wasn’t cautious enough and bit too deeply, they risked chipping a tooth on the pit at its centre, because in Ba Sing Se, everyone knew that wherever there were whispers, there was always a rotten truth at its core.

As a girl, like many others, you had been fascinated by those stories. After lessons, you and your friends would linger at the edge of the Pleasure District, peering down the streets you had been expressly forbidden from entering. You would stand on your tiptoes between the crowds, trying to catch a glimpse of the House of the Evening Bloom. From a distance, it had hardly looked sinister. Just another elegant manor of dark-polished wood and red-painted pillars, with curved, barrel-tiled roofs that glowed red beneath rows of lanterns when dusk settled over the city. You used to dare each other to sneak as closely as possible, to witness those fabled unwilting flowers. Were they truly as beautiful as society claimed, and did they only bloom at night? You had imagined rare orchids hidden behind the shoji, night-blooming jasmine unfurling beneath moonlight, exotic peonies brought from distant corners of the world.

But you’d never once imagined the flowers were girls.

Girls who had once been just as young and foolish as you, girls with painted lips and empty smiles, girls given the names of flowers in place of their own.

Girls who never grew old.

Girls who thirsted for blood.

And above all, you had never imagined that one day Lord Kage’s attention would settle upon you. Or, that over a century later, you would no longer remember the sound of your true name, only the one he had given you. Because what were you, if not just another unwilting flower in the garden of the House of the Evening Bloom?

There was a rumour, floating like a petal in the wind—a whisper passed from flower to flower, that the Blue Spirit had been sighted in Ba Sing Se.

Although none of you were permitted to step outside the confines of the House of the Evening Bloom, lest you be dragged back screaming, you were all keenly aware of the happenings beyond its walls. Men liked to talk in pleasure houses; they would boast over cups of sake or baijiu, eager to impress whichever flower they had chosen to entertain them for the evening. Merchants bragged of their adventures and riches, generals recounted tales of military victories, and government officials often spoke too candidly of politics after enough wine. It made the flowers, and likely every other courtesan lining the Pleasure Mile, remarkably well-informed despite never truly participating in the world they heard so much about.

You and the others received little compensation for your work—silks and jewels, a place to hide from the sun, a steady supply of blood to stave off the gnawing hunger. Gold was meaningless when every coin you earned ultimately found its way back into Lord Kage’s coffers. No, information held far greater value within the House. Over the decades, the flowers had begun trading whispers amongst themselves. A noble's scandal for details of a political appointment, rumours of war bartered for stories of a distant province she would never see again. It was a pathetic sort of currency when viewed from the outside, but one many of you clung to all the same. The gossip symbolised the world beyond the lacquered gates that still existed, a reminder to stay grounded as the time ticked by and the House remained unchanged year after year.

So, when one patron mentioned the Blue Spirit, the flowers listened. When another repeated a similar tale several nights later, you all remembered. When a third swore he had seen the masked hunter himself stalking the lower ring of the ring, the rumour spread through the House like wildfire.

Tales of the Blue Spirit varied depending on who recounted them. Some claimed the Blue Spirit was merely a man. Others insisted he was something far older, a spirit sent to punish creatures that had overstayed their welcome in the mortal realm—and that was why he wore the blue oni mask, to conceal a face beyond comprehension. Entire covens were reportedly wiped out beneath his blades—century-old demons and beasts, powerful enough to command cities and armies, reduced to little more than cautionary tales and ash. One merchant—though thoroughly drunk and petrified—swore that he had witnessed the fabled man emerge from the Foggy Swamp one evening, with the severed head of a Jorōgumo attached at his hip. Because when it came to the Blue Spirit, details changed, but the outcome never did. He brought death to those deemed monstrosities by the mortal world.

He was a Warden—a monster hunter.

Unsurprisingly, the House of the Evening Bloom had grown restless in response to the talk of his presence in Ba Sing Se. What had once been mere whispers suddenly felt tangible enough to taste. The thought of the masked Warden climbing the manor steps, twin blades in hand, should have frightened you.

It certainly frightened Madame Yoru.

The Mother of Blossoms maintained the same cold composure she always had, but you had noticed there was a strain beneath it these days. Courtesans were snapped at for the slightest mistake, servants hurried from room to room with their heads bowed in the hope of not incurring her wrath, and even the most favoured flowers appeared careful not to linger too long in her presence. If Madame Yoru was worried, then perhaps there was some truth to the rumours after all…thatthought had settled over you with a sick sort of clarity, and you had allowed yourself one dangerous thing: hope.

Though, unfortunately, it was difficult to entertain such thoughts with Madame Yoru’s nails currently digging into your jaw. The Mother of Blossoms stood before you in a haze of crimson silk and gold jewellery, her sharply painted lips stretched into a smile that had never quite reached her eyes. She was beautiful and elegant, yet monstrous. Just after you had readied yourself to enter the parlour to begin a night’s work, she had cornered you in the hallway with a particularly murderous look and forced your face up to meet her gaze. Her dark eyes swept over your face with open disapproval.

“You’re becoming a poor investment,” she tutted.

You remained silent—you had learnt there was little point in arguing.

“You were once one of Lord Kage’s favourites,” she continued. “Men crossed the Earth Kingdom itself to spend an evening in your company. Lately, however… you appear determined to waste his generosity.”

The word generosity almost made you laugh the moment it slipped from her tongue. As if sensing your wayward thoughts, Madame Yoru’s grip tightened.

“You mope, you sulk, you spend every free moment hiding away in your rooms as though sorrow were a particularly attractive accessory.” She paused with a sneer, assessing your reaction for any sign of defiance. “Men do not pay for melancholy, Spider Lily. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Madame,” you uttered in response.

“Good.” Her thumb brushed across your cheek with mock affection.

“You are wilting, my dear girl.” She murmured, and that callous, predatory smile of hers had returned. “And all of Ba Sing Se knows that the flowers here do not wilt.”

Your gaze lowered as Madame Yoru leaned in closer, breath cold against your ear. “If you fail to earn your keep tonight, then perhaps another few months in the box will remind you to be grateful.”

For a long moment, everything fell silent. The noise that had wafted down from the parlour—chatter, laughter, the shuffle of footsteps and the clink of cups—faded away, replaced by a sudden, piercing ringing that filled your ears as a sob clawed its way up your throat. Absolute, indescribable terror seized you so suddenly, so violently, that a wave of vertigo washed over you. It wasn’t a gentle lapping at your ankles, but a tidal wave—powerful and large enough that the impact knocked the breath from your lungs and caused you to lose your footing, your body being thrown and spun wildly in the imaginary current. If you were still human, you would’ve emptied the contents of your stomach onto the floor. But in that moment, you couldn’t even find the words. Could get a breath past the lump in your throat, not blink away the tears stringing at the corners of your eyes—

No.

No, no, no, no.

You couldn’t go back. You couldn’t go back there. You couldn’t do it, no, you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it again. They wouldn’t send you back, right? You wouldn’t go back there. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t do it—

Madame Yoru had always been frighteningly perceptive when it came to her flowers, and she caught your reaction at once. The widening of your glassy eyes, the visible tremor that rattled through your body as you gaped at her, still speechless, rooted in place and defenceless—

You couldn’t do it. They couldn’t send you back. You couldn’t do it again—

Madame Yoru hummed, satisfied, wearing the look of someone who had found the knife and knew exactly how to twist it. Only when she had satiated herself on watching you come apart into a thousand tiny pieces, did she finally release your jaw.

“Run along, Spider Lily.” She gave your cheek a little pat, though with the ferocity with which she executed it, it felt closer to a slap. “Best find a client before it’s too late.”

It was the sting across your cheek that finally pulled you from your spiralling thoughts. Your feet carried you down the corridor before your mind could catch up, silk whispering around your ankles as much as your own consciousness as you walked.

You couldn’t go back.

The thought repeated itself over and over, drowning out everything else, that tidal wave of panic returning every time you thought you’d wrenched yourself from the waters.

You couldn’t do it again. You couldn’t go back. You couldn’t go back again—

You would smile, let them touch you, and take whatever they desired. You would perform. You would endure every humiliating moment of it if it meant avoiding the alternative. Because all the flowers knew that the House would never dare beat them. A misplaced blow could split skin and damage a face, leaving a mark no amount of powder could fully conceal, and the Red Prince did not tolerate damage to his property. He had perfected other methods of breaking in his flowers and keeping them broken.

You couldn’t go back there, not again—

You forced the thought away before it could fully form and willed your hands to stop shaking. The world around you blurred into crimson silk, polished wood and the warm glow of lantern light as you stumbled forward. You only became fully aware of your surroundings again when the grand doors of the parlour stood open before you. With Madame Yoru’s threat still echoing through your skull, you stepped inside.

The House of the Evening Bloom was designed to impress. The parlour occupied the very heart of the manor, rising through two lavish storeys, with the high ceiling above hidden behind silk banners and hanging lanterns. Black-and-red-painted pillars rose to support balconies that encircled the upper levels, allowing wealthy patrons to observe the entertainment below from private vantage points. Performers played soft melodies from raised platforms while servants drifted through the crowds carrying trays. The air smelt of oudh incense—potent enough to disguise the scent of predators.

At the centre of the room, sat the flowers. The display platform rose in broad tiers, forming a pyramid of embroidered cushions and low-backed seats. From a distance, it resembled a carefully arranged bouquet, every flower positioned to best display her beauty for prospective buyers. To outsiders, the hierarchy likely appeared backwards. The women seated closest to the floor on the lowest tiers of the display belonged to the most sought-after courtesans. They were the favourites; they occupied the lowest rows because they were the easiest to reach. Patrons entering the parlour naturally gravitated towards them first, and those women had spent decades ensuring it remained that way. They laughed loudly, flirted shamelessly, and guarded their positions by tearing one another apart whenever an opportunity presented itself. Many had been in the House long enough that they scarcely remembered life beyond its walls. The higher tiers belonged to everyone else—the timid and overlooked, the freshly broken, the ones men admired from afar but rarely approached. In recent years, you had found yourself preferring the solitude of the top; it was far more peaceful than the dogfight down below, even if the Mother of Blossom’s threat hung around your throat like a noose.

You climbed the platform in silence.

You couldn’t go back.

Layers of crimson silk flowed around your legs, embroidered with golden spider lilies that shimmered in the lantern light. Golden and tortoiseshell ornaments adorned your carefully arranged hair, delicate chains and ivory-carved blossoms brushing your shoulders with every step. Settling onto your cushion, you scanned the room.

You wouldn’t go back.

Below, the evening had already begun. The men laughed over their cups of sake, baijiu and wine. Flowers smiled and entertained, weaving between servants and guards as they pulled clients into private rooms.

The performance was underway.

And as you folded your hands neatly in your lap, and fixed a pleasant smile upon your face, you allowed only one thought to echo through your mind.

You had to be chosen tonight.

After an hour of observing from atop the display, a disturbance near the entrance diverted your attention from the creeping dread that still lingered despite your best efforts. Ordinarily, you would not have cared. The House of the Evening Bloom was never truly quiet. Patrons drifted in and out throughout the evening, servants hurried along, and every so often, a drunken noble would become convinced that his wealth entitled him to more attention than he had paid for. Such disruptions were common enough that they rarely merited more than a fleeting glance from the flowers.

This disturbance, however, carried an alarming scent.

Your attention shifted immediately. The man standing near the entrance looked entirely unlike the usual clientele who frequented the House. There was no silk draped across his shoulders, no expensive rings embellishing his hands, nor the carefully cultivated confidence of a noble accustomed to buying whatever caught his eye. In fact, he looked as though he had spent the past month on the road. Dust stubbornly clung to his boots and the hem of his clothing. A worn pair of dao swords were strapped across his back, with a small saddlebag thrown over his shoulder. His dark hair had fallen loose from whatever effort was made to tie it back, framing a face marked by an old, marbled burn scar that extended across one eye and down his cheek.

Despite his scar, or perhaps because of it, he was handsome. Beautiful, even.

Not in the polished way of wealthy men, but in the manner of a blade that had seen years of use. There was something undeniably striking about him, from the broad set of his shoulders to the strong, calloused hands hanging at his sides. He possessed the lean, powerful build of someone accustomed to surviving by skill rather than privilege, a man who carried every possession he owned upon his back and trusted only his swords.

Most importantly, he smelt… dangerous.

It was faint beneath the oudh incense and lotus perfume that saturated the parlour, hidden beneath road dust, sweat, and woodsmoke, yet your senses recognised it immediately. Judging by the way heads began to turn throughout the room, you were not the only one. One by one, the flowers detected it, then the guards, then the servants. The mortal patrons remained blissfully unaware, continuing their conversations and laughter without interruption, oblivious to the silent ripple that had spread through the House of the Evening Bloom. Yet beneath the music and chortling, an unspoken understanding had settled over every undead creature present.

A Warden had entered the room.

Beneath the aroma of travel and humanity, something far more familiar lingered—the scent of death. Not the rich scent of fresh bloodshed, nor the stale odour of a battlefield long abandoned. It was something deeper than that. Something that seemed to soak itself into a person over the years, settling deep beneath the skin until it became impossible to wash away. You had encountered Wardens before; every flower in the House had. No matter how often they bathed, no matter how expensive the oils and balms they wore or how carefully they disguised themselves amongst ordinary travellers, they all carried that same scent eventually. It clung to them like a second shadow, marking them as surely as any uniform ever could. And this Waren was especially ripe with it.

“You’re not welcome here, friend.” Your gaze shifted towards the entrance, where two guards had stepped into his path before he could properly pass through the threshold into the parlour. “And Lord Kage isn’t receiving visitors tonight.”

A subtle tension settled across the room. The servants continued their work, carrying trays between tables. The musicians played on without interruption. Flowers laughed at jokes they had likely heard a hundred times before and poured sake for patrons eager to believe themselves charming. The performance continued, yet beneath it all, every eye remained fixed upon the stranger standing in the doorway.

It was never a good omen when a Warden appeared at the House of the Evening Bloom. Over the decades, dozens had attempted to destroy it—Lord Kage, being an impossibly old vampire, had naturally amassed some enemies along the way. Some foes came seeking glory; others sought coin. A handful simply believed themselves righteous and powerful enough to purge the Red Prince and his coven from the mortal realm. Most had perished before reaching the upper floors. But what unsettled you was not that this Warden had come—it was how causally he had done so. There was no attempt at stealth, no disguise beyond ordinary clothing, no effort to conceal the weapons strapped to his back or the purpose that seemed to radiate from him. He stood before the guards with calm patience, despite being a man willingly walking into a den of creatures powerful enough to reduce entire districts of the city to bloodless husks. His stoic expression never wavered. If he felt fear, he hid it remarkably well.

“I have business with him,” the stranger’s voice carried easily through the room, rough from disuse. His tone suggested he was accustomed to being obeyed, or perhaps even feared. Not because he demanded it, but because few people were foolish enough to argue with him once he had spoken.

“Business,” one of the guards scoffed. “What business?”

“Personal.”

The guards exchanged a look. “You’re not with the Crimson Ward.”

At that, the stranger’s eyes narrowed slightly, “No.”

Several flowers perked up immediately—you weren’t the only one listening. The Crimson Ward were the only Wardens authorised to enter the House and sample its goods without scrutiny. Lord Kage employed and paid them generously to deal with troublesome do-gooders and fellow, overzealous Wardens alike. Most of the Crimson Ward had long since discovered that guarding a wealthy vampire lord was significantly easier and more profitable than hunting one. You knew for certain that the scarred man was not among their number; you would have remembered him otherwise.

“Then Lord Kage won’t see you.”

“He will.” The certainty in his voice made the guards hesitate. There was no arrogance in his tone, no bluster. He sounded as if he were merely stating a fact—whatever this man had come here for, he was completely convinced he would get it.

You found yourself leaning forward slightly.

Eventually, one of the guards sighed. That alone released some of the pressure rising in the room. “Your name?”

The Warden hesitated for half a breath. “Lee.”

A lie. You had spent a century listening to people deceive one another. The falsehood was obvious. Apparently, the guards recognised it as well. Their expressions soured, but after a moment of consideration, they stepped aside.

“We’ll send word.” There was no kindness in their tone, rather something closer to a snarl. “Indulge a little in the goods, won’t you? It’ll be some hours before Lord Kage can see you.”

Unbothered, the stranger inclined his head and entered, posting himself near one of the pillars at the entrance, appearing entirely unmoved and uninterested by the dazzling display of women before him. The reaction from the lower tiers was immediate—Peony was first from her seat, moving with the effortless confidence that had made her one of the House’s most sought-after flowers. Her crimson robes swept across the floor as she approached him with a smile that had ruined countless men.

“You’re certainly causing a stir,” she purred, a hand stroking down his dusty outershirt. You could only find yourself surprised that she had lowered her dignity enough even to consider looking at dirt, let alone touching it. The Warden looked at her politely enough, clearing his throat as he stepped away from her touch.

Undeterred, Peony continued. “If Lord Kage is occupied, perhaps I could help pass the time?”

“I’ll wait.” The answer arrived so quickly and with such finality that a small crease appeared between Peony’s brows.

Nearby, Orchid stifled a laugh, and moments later, she tried her own approach, only to receive a similarly disinterested response. Camellia followed shortly after. Then Jasmine. You watched the rotating exchange unfold with growing fascination. None of them managed to hold his attention for long, and the rejection irritated the lower tiers considerably. The stranger answered their questions cordially, offered little in return, and continued to scan the room. That, more than anything else, confirmed your suspicions.

While the flowers vied for his attention—the looks they exchanged were nothing less than feral, like a street dog guarding its next meal—his gaze continued to drift across the room. He studied the exits, the balconies, the guards stationed throughout the parlour, and the patrons occupying the surrounding tables, cataloguing each detail unabashedly. A Warden without question, a dangerous one at that. Perhaps—if you dared to consider it—an opportunity. The thought arrived unexpectedly, carrying all the recklessness that hope often brought. You should have dismissed it; any rational person would have. Yet before you could reconsider, before you could remind yourself of all the reasons why such an idea was foolish, you found yourself rising from your seat.

The movement immediately drew attention. Conversations faltered, and several nearby flowers turned to stare. Regular visitors to the House of the Evening Bloom had long since learned that Spider Lily rarely descended from the upper tiers to hunt. In recent years, you had become something of a fixture there, content to remain beyond reach. Most men admired you from afar, too intimidated by your melancholy to ever approach. The fact that you were moving now was shocking enough to silence an entire section of the parlour. You ignored them—ignoring people had become a particular skill you’d developed, along with making a man finish before he even had a chance to stick his cock inside of you. Gathering your skirts, you descended the platform. Whispers rippled down the display in your wake, but none were bold enough to stop you.

The soft rustling of silk followed every step. Gold and tortoiseshell ornaments chimed softly amidst your hair. Around you, conversations resumed in hesitant murmurs, though more than a few eyes continued to track your progress down the tiers. Your gaze never left the stranger, and as he noticed the whispers, he looked upwards—towards the display, towards you.

The change was immediate.

You’d spent decades studying people, studying men, learning the subtle shifts in expression and posture that revealed what words often concealed. You recognised it the moment it happened, the instant his attention focused on you and the room simply… disappeared from his awareness. The guards, the flowers, the patrons, the exits he had been so carefully cataloguing—all of it vanished, and all his eyes could do was remain fixed upon you.

Even from across the parlour, you watched as he inhaled sharply, a breath that seemed to shudder in his chest as he took you in entirely. His shoulders stiffened imperceptibly before relaxing again, and for the first time since entering the House, he looked almost uncertain about what to do with himself. It was almost amusing. Peony had practically draped herself across him and earned little more than polite indifference, yet now he stared as though he had forgotten what he was saying… or thinking, or perhaps where he even was.

You continued your descent, neither of you looking away. By the time your feet touched the parlour floor, the whole room felt strangely distant. Peony gave you a miffed expression that implied she had every intention of exchanging words with you once dawn broke. But none of it mattered—by the time you reached the Warden, your course had already been set.

Lord Kage rarely granted audiences to unknown visitors, particularly Wardens. Any meeting required trust, and trust within the House was established through a simple test. A Warden intending to kill the Red Prince rarely spent an evening in the company of one of his flowers. Those willing to drink sake, share a bed and permit themselves to be fed upon were generally considered safe enough to entertain—at least long enough to determine whether they posed a genuine threat.

You circled the stranger in a slow, lazy loop, close enough to smell the road dust and steel, close enough to confirm that beneath the scent of death lingered something warmer.

Human. He was entirely human.

Your gaze flicked briefly to the burn scar before returning to his eyes, observing how, for the first time since he entered the House, a sliver of emotion leaked through his stoic expression, his brows twitching ever-so-slightly.

“You smell of death, Warden.” You hummed, not even offering him a smile. “You need a bath.”

It wasn’t a request; the words left your mouth before you could reconsider them. Turning, you began walking towards your private room without waiting to see if he followed.

You already knew he would.

And sure enough, moments later, the sound of footsteps echoed behind you as the House of the Evening Bloom watched in stunned silence.

You closed the shoji behind you, shutting out the noise of the parlour echoing down the corridor. Your private entertaining room was mostly quiet, with only faint sounds from neighbouring rooms and the servants' corridor seeping through the walls. Like everything in the House of the Evening Bloom, the space was crafted for beauty. Tatami covered the floor, and silk wall hangings featuring cranes and plum blossoms decorated the walls. Embroidered cushions surrounded a low, polished table near the entrance, while a raised sleeping platform at the back was draped with sheer red silk curtains. Twisted wood carved into flowering branches outlined the edges. It was less of a bed and more of a stage upon which Lord Kage’s prized flowers were expected to bloom.

It was a quiet, feminine gasp that drew your attention, your head twisting fast enough that the dangling accessories in your hair clinked together. Beside the Warden stood a servant girl, a tray clasped to her chest. She was cowering in place, clearly startled as she had just bolted upright from her previous position seated at the low table. The Warden did not appear particularly surprised or bothered by her presence. He dumped the worn saddlebag that had been slung over his shoulder haphazardly at her feet, along with his dao swords. They landed heavily enough that the girl jolted—the poor thing looked as though she had seen a ghost. You suppressed a smile.

She was probably no older than seventeen when she was turned, maybe nineteen at most. Like most servants working for the House, her role didn't tell the whole story. Any patron who took a moment to look at the servants would see that everyone in the manor was unusually beautiful. In truth, she was a fledgling, a flower in training. Just another one of the many unfortunate souls still undergoing the long and often brutal process required before Lord Kage deemed them suitable for receiving clients—there was more to being a flower than simply perfecting the arts of pleasure. Newly turned vampires were dangerous creatures. Their hunger ruled them completely, and few possessed the restraint necessary to feed without killing. Before they could be trusted with patrons, they were subjected to years of training, punishment and correction until they learned precisely how much blood to take and when to stop. Lord Kage liked to call the experience of laying with a vampire a little death—ecstasy from the orgasm, but also the adrenaline of sacrificing the body to be fed on, with the trust that the taker would stop before the afterlife came knocking.

When Lord Kage or Madame Yoru weren’t tormenting the fledglings, it was the other flower’s turn to sink their fangs in. Perhaps that was why you’d become soft over the years, offering the fledglings some reprieve by letting them hide in your rooms. You’d once been the golden girl of the House of the Evening Bloom, the type to lash out, the one who ruled the bottom of the display like Peony or Orchid. You’d allowed them to turn you into the monster they wanted you to be. You weren’t sure what had been the turning point in your attitude—maybe the day you realised none of it had ever mattered, that you’d lived a fuller and freer life in the few decades you’d spent as a mortal than in any of the centuries you’d spent as an immortal. As a result, you had rarely entertained guests in recent years. Most evenings, the fledglings could slip into your room under the pretence of cleaning or preparing you for the night, stealing a few precious moments of peace away from the endless demands of the House.

Judging by this one’s expression, however, she had not expected her moment of peace to end so abruptly—particularly not with a Warden. You simply inclined your head at the girl, and she was quick to rush to your side, practically quivering behind you. You squared your shoulders, and with a practised smile, you turned to face your guest.

“Are you a sake or a baijiu man?” You inquired.

The question caught him slightly off guard. You got the impression that, despite his self-assurance, he wasn’t the type to frequent brothels. Now, out of the parlour and fully under the weight of your attention, you wondered if he expected you to pounce on him then and there? Or maybe he simply didn’t appreciate the art of building tension.

“Tea is fine.”

You arched a brow. Most men requested alcohol before anything else; it gave them the sense that they were more witty and important than they actually were. It gave them the confidence to perform under the scrutiny of an experienced, beautiful woman—or maybe simply the guts to let you plunge your fangs deep into their neck.

“What type?”

“Jasmine.”

That surprised you more than it should have; the answer felt strangely domestic coming from a man who smelled so strongly of bloodshed. Nonetheless, you masked your disbelief with a perfectly composed smile, inclining your head. You waited for the servant girl to move, but quickly realised she was still cowering behind you. Your gaze slowly shifted towards her as you glanced over your shoulder expectantly.

“You heard him, Petal. Have the kitchens prepare tea, and ask the boys to bring up water for a bath and a change of clothing—these are filthy.” You gave the Warden a pointed look, and he huffed in response.

The girl blinked.

“Oh. Yes, Miss,” she replied, bowing so swiftly that she almost lost her balance.

The Warden chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he rubbed a hand along his sharp jaw, watching as she vanished through the shoji. “I thought the point of these places was to get your patrons undressed, not dress them up?”

You clasped your hands together, slinking forward with slow, graceful steps.

“It is,” you hummed, coming to a stop before him. “Doesn’t mean I can’t treat you a little, hm? Can’t have you wandering back onto the street in those, the Pleasure Mile will think we serve any ruffian who comes knocking at the door.”

“So, it’s all about appearances and money then?” He asked, his voice lowered now that you had drawn closer. His amber eyes surveyed your every move. “Eliteism… it runs rich with you vampires, doesn’t it?”

You grinned wide enough to show your fangs, testing him with your next words. “It isn’t always about money. You’re not only here because of the mercy of my master, but also on the account of your trade. You can pay in other ways if you have skills deemed useful enough—that is what the Crimson Ward does.”

He scoffed at that. It didn’t take a genius to understand he didn’t think favourably of his kin, likely taking issue with the fact that the Wardens had taken the easy route out by serving the Red Prince rather than killing him. His tongue darted out as he wet his bottom lip, his eyes trailing down the expanse of your silk robes, catching on each embroidered detail.

“I take it they call you Spider Lily?” He asked, the subtle irritation in his expression neutralising. “They’re embroidered on your robes.”

“Yes, very perceptive of you,” you dipped your head. “And what do they call you?”

“Lee.”

The lie arrived quickly this time, and you gave him a sly look. “Your real name, I mean.”

The Warden looked mildly inconvenienced—as if debating feeding you another lie was worth the gamble. A reluctant sort of resignation settled across his features as he must have decided you were far too perceptive to fool.

“It’s Zuko.”

“Zuko,” you drawled, testing the sound and taste of it on your tongue. “It suits you, it is handsome sounding.”

Stoic as ever, he didn’t so much as blink at your praise.

“What is yours?”

A laugh escaped you before you could control yourself, a palm flying to cover your mouth.

“My name?” You giggled. “Spirits—if you had asked me several decades ago, I might have had an answer.”

You twisted your wrist, your hand gesturing as if flicking the thought away. “In truth, I don’t even remember anymore.”

The lie slipped easily from your tongue, and if he didn’t believe you, he didn’t let it show. With a sigh, you felt the fleeting amusement drain from your body; instead, a quiet intensity settled as you met Zuko’s eyes.

“When they turned me into one of them, they remade me,” you uttered. “The girl I was before is dead. She has to be dead, because she never could have survived this place or these people. So I killed her, I tore her apart until she no longer existed. So understand when I say that even though I may smile like her, and speak in her voice, and wear her skin, inside I am something monstrous—”

You cut yourself off as the shoji slid open, servants flooding into the room. The serious look that had taken command of your features dissolved as you smiled in that artful way you had mastered, ushering in the two young men carrying a large, wooden bathing tub. More followed, emptying steaming buckets of water into the tub before retreating. When you glanced back at Zuko, he remained rooted to the spot. You could have sworn there was a crack in his stoic composure. Perhaps your eyes were simply fooled by the lantern light, but for a fleeting moment, as he watched your performance, a look of pity crossed his features.

By the time the servant girl re-entered, carrying a tray with jasmine tea carefully balanced in her hands, the bath was filled, and the other servants had excused themselves with quick bows. You watched as she placed the teapot and cups on the low table before stepping back with a bow of her own. However, unlike the others, she didn’t leave. She lingered, if only for a moment—just long enough to fully draw your attention. When you looked at her, meeting her gaze with the full weight of your eyes, she immediately lowered her eyes. Still, she remained in place, as though she had something she desperately wished to say.

“Run along now, Petal. You wouldn’t want the Madame to catch you gawking.”

The girl’s spine straightened, startled as though she had been caught stealing. Colour rushed to her cheeks, and she immediately dipped into a hurried bow. “Y-yes, Miss Spider Lily.”

She turned towards the door and made it all of about two steps before stopping in her tracks.

Your brow furrowed, “Petal?”

The servant girl hesitated, fingers twisting in the fabric of her sleeves. The inner struggle she faced was evident on her face—initially, fear reigned. She took a few more steps until concern clouded her features, and the guilt weighing on her conscience eventually triumphed. Spinning around, she blurted out the words, probably before she had a chance to think better of them.

“Miss Spider Lily, be warned! I overheard the guards and Madame Yoru, they’ll be watching through the hole in the wall—!”

The words died abruptly on her tongue, and her eyes darted towards Zuko. Only then did she seem to remember that the Warden was still present, and mortification flooded her expression.

Between the private rooms, there was a narrow, dark corridor. It was intended solely for servants to move discreetly through the House. It saved the fledglings from weaving around temperamental flowers and clientele who often reached a point of blind lust that they would fuck anything that breathed. But it was not only a safety measure to protect patrons from the fledglings and their uncontrollable thirst, as it also served as an observation point. Each private room was not as private as one might think, as each one had a concealed hole somewhere within. It wasn’t a large hole, just large enough for one to hold a single eye up to the gap and spy without being noticed. One of Madame Yoru’s favourite activities was slipping into the hidden corridor, sliding open the shutter and checking that the flower within was blossoming to expectations.

“Oh,” you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “Oh, dear.”

The poor girl looked ready to throw herself from the balcony. Crossing the room towards her, you reached out and gently cupped her cheek. “Thank you, sweet girl.”

You knew, deep down, she was only trying to do you a favour, out of whatever kindness was still left within her undead heart, even if she were simply stating the obvious. The tension left her shoulders immediately at your reassurance. Her gaze lifted to yours, and the look she gave you landed twisted and uncomfortable in your chest. You had seen it before, in Petal, in countless servants before her. An unspoken attachment formed between frightened young women trapped beneath the same roof. Perhaps it was because you listened when others didn’t. Perhaps it was because you remembered what it felt like to be new here and how easy it was to become cruel. Whatever the reason, Petal had attached herself to you years ago. You felt sorry for her, sorry for all of them—the girls who came before, the girls who would come after—each one believing themselves special enough to escape the fate waiting for them.

Your thumb brushed her cheek once. “Hush now, and go before you are missed.”

The girl nodded, and this time she obeyed. The shoji slid shut behind her, leaving you alone with the Warden. His interest seemed piqued by the unfolding events, and he watched expectantly as you let out a shuddering breath, silence settling over the room. For a breath, your thoughts drifted. You hoped, no, maybe you even prayed to the Spirits that no meddling ears had heard the girls' outburst. The House of the Evening Bloom was a dangerous place for those at the bottom of the pecking order. The slightest indication of betrayal or spilling House secrets in front of a client, a mysterious Warden no less… she would be doomed to the box.

A creeping sensation snaked over your skin—cold. So very cold, and dark… and quiet. It had been so quiet, so quiet that your own thoughts had sounded like the tolling of a bell against your skull. And your legs, oh your legs and your back, how they had ached and ached. The gnawing hunger had ached too, until the scent of iron and fear all blended into one, and you would press your lips against the tiny holes and scream and scream and beg—

The Warden cleared his throat.

“From what I have gathered, I won’t be able to meet your master until I lie with you and allow you to feed from me?”

His voice startled you enough that you realised that for a fleeting moment, you had allowed your mask to slip. Nevertheless, he was straight to the point, and you found yourself liking that. He certainly didn’t seem eager to dig into whatever haunted you. You shook off whatever strange, maternal feeling that had overtook you and spiralled into despair. You turned away, crossing the tatami towards the bathing tub, leaving those terrible thoughts far behind. Steam curled lazily from the water’s surface, filling the room with its warmth. You perched yourself lightly upon the wooden edge. While trailing your fingers through the water, you considered the question.

“You are correct,” the corners of your mouth faintly lifted. “All Wardens who pass through our doors must face this test.”

An empty reflection stared back at you as you disturbed the surface, ripples breaking up the shimmering surface.

“If it reassures you, being fed upon is not painful—most patrons become rather fond of it. It heightens the feelings of pleasure during sex; some say it’s the best way to experience orgasm.” You glanced up at him, catching the tail end of his eyes narrowing, as though he were attempting to determine whether you were mocking him. You held his gaze, expectant. He crept closer as he replied.

“What I have heard is that it is addictive. That all those merchants and noblemen out there are no better than those who frequent opium dens.”

His hand vaguely motioned back in the direction of the parlour, and your head tilted in thought.

“Well, yes. That has been said too. It’s a biological thing, I imagine, to make our prey relax. Some find themselves feeling a little lethargic afterwards, depending upon how much blood is taken. Is it not said that the calmer the animal at slaughter, the better the meat?”

The Warden didn’t appear to like that answer, a scowl hanging from his lips as you laughed airily. You pulled your fingers out of the water, then gave them a quick shake to get rid of the droplets.

“Part of our hunt is to become… irresistible,” you reminded him.

Then, apparent that he had nothing more to say, and having allowed the silence to linger just long enough, enough that it rattled you a little—silence bothered you now, much like the dark, it came with the taste of iron—you spoke a single word, regaining control of your own simmering sanity.

“Strip.”

Going off your prior assumptions that the Warden wasn’t one to frequent such places, you had anticipated resistance from him. A snarky remark, perhaps? He seemed fond of those. A challenge, even? At the very least, a flicker of hesitation? Rather, Zuko merely held your gaze before reaching for the ties of his outer shirt. There was a practical, matter-of-fact element to his movements, as though removing one’s clothes—in front of a probable enemy at that—was no different than sharpening a blade or cleaning mud from a pair of boots. Most men who entered your chambers either treated the act as a performance or approached it with nervous anticipation. Instead, he shrugged off the first layer, dumping it atop his saddle bag. Beneath it was a lighter layer, old, stubborn stains soaked into the fabric. Old blood, a mixture of his and others, dirt, sweat, rain… you caught it all in a single whiff. It certainly painted the picture of a man who lived one contract to the next. You watched silently as he grasped the collar, tugging it over his head in one fluid motion. And as you had expected, bare skin revealed all. There was obvious strength in his build, powerful arms and broad shoulders shaped by years of repetition—training, battle, survival. Your eyes drifted down his sculpted chest, lingering on the scars that marked portions of his skin. A rather large impact branded his midriff, similar in severity to the mark on his face, and joining it was a collection of scratches and gashes. Some were faded, nearly white with age, while others remained fresh. You wondered briefly how many creatures had left their mark upon him before he had buried a blade in their hearts.

You were so intrigued by the thought, in fact, that it took you a delayed second to realise that during your pondering, he had already loosened the tie of his pants. Before you had the mind to relish in the reveal, to coax or tease, to enjoy the drawn-out tension of it all, he was already standing completely naked before you. Your eyes drifted down, following the trail of coarse hair to where his cock hung between his muscular thighs. Larger than most, you would give him that—but—did he know how to use it? That was the real question. You found yourself studying him longer than necessary, long enough that he noticed. One dark eyebrow lifted as he watched you expectantly in return. The silent question amused you enough that your lips tugged into a smirk, and from your position perched on the edge of the tub, you motioned towards the steaming water.

“You’ll do.” You teased, which earned the smallest twitch of irritation from him—you considered that a victory. “Get in.”

Without protest, he stepped towards the bath. Steam curled around him as he lowered himself into the wooden tub, water sloshing softly against the sides. You grasped a washcloth, soaking it in the rising water as he settled himself. As he leaned back, sighing through his nose and resting his arms on either side of the tub, some of the tension left his posture. Though not all of it—even at rest, he carried the impression of a drawn bowstring. His amber eyes lifted through the steam to watch as you wrung out the rag. The scent of cypress soap mingled with his musk of death as you placed the cloth against his shoulder and began working away the grime accumulated from weeks on the road. Zuko seemed content to sit in the silence that had fallen between you, leaving only the occasional splash of water as you worked from one shoulder to the other, alternating between soaking and wringing out the cloth.

With a splayed hand, you leaned closer, the washcloth sweeping across his chest, past the line of the water to his sculpted abdomen. You were close now, close enough that your breath fanned across his cheek, close enough that the sleeves of your robes were soaked as your fingers paused just above his groin—

Zuko’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, and your eyes snapped to his neck.

His blood smelled delicious.

You could sense it now that you were inches away, the subtle thrum of his heartbeat, the blood pumping through his veins… how many days had it been since you had a full meal? You hadn’t thought you were that hungry, but now, faced with his neck right there, you were ravenous—

“You don’t seem to be afraid of me.”

His observation startled you out of whatever bloodlust-induced trance you had found yourself in, your hands immediately finding his thigh as you swept the washcloth down his leg. You glanced up at him, only to find he had been watching your every movement intently.

“Should I be?” You asked, innocently.

His expression remained unreadable.

“No, I’m here to kill the Red Prince, and anyone who stands in my way.” His husky voice made you go unnaturally still for a beat. “If you stand aside, I will show you mercy.”

If he had expected your reaction to be more instinctual or guttural to his reveal of intentions, something more reasonable to such a threat, he didn’t show it. His heart remained beating steadily, his breath even. You slowly straightened your spine and looked down at him. A smile pulled faintly at the corner of your mouth, which then surfaced into a giggle.

Mercy.

If only he understood what mercy looked like to someone in your position.

“You’re rather blunt, aren’t you?” You murmured, the giggle still on your breath. As if anyone within the House of the Evening Bloom was not aware of his intentions. A Warden simply didn’t just show up to enjoy the goods—no, there was one of two reasons: one, to join the Crimson Ward, or two, to kill you all. “I can’t tell if you’re brave, or simply a fool.”

“Hmf,” the sound he made might have been a sign of amusement or annoyance. With him, it was difficult to tell.

The conversation lapsed again as you worked the washcloth down his arm. Water glistened against his skin, tracing the old scars and faded marks. There were more of them than you had initially realised, smaller nicks that hadn’t been immediately obvious in the low light. Your eyes eventually drifted upward, towards the awful scar encircling his left eye. Without really thinking, you reached forward. A single, damp finger trailed a wet line down the warped flesh.

“How did you get this—”

His reaction was immediate, his whole body flinching as his hand shot up, water splashing as he closed his grip around your wrist. You grasped the edge of the tub harder with your other hand, steadying yourself as you teetered from the sudden motion.

“My father had…” His head turned to face you, his mouth opening as he ran his tongue over his teeth, and then slowly released his hold. “...interesting ideas around how to best punish his children.”

The answer caught you off guard—you had expected something far more heroic, some grand tale of his journeys as a Warden. But as you had come to understand, it appeared Zuko was not one for boasts. You twisted your hand where it was still loosely encircled in his grip, pulling his arm towards you as you placed his palm face up in your lap.

“He did that to you while you were a child in his care?” You asked, head dipping as you focused on his hand. You swept the soapy washcloth down his forearm to his wrist, then across his palm, lacing your fingers with his as you worked the suds between each digit.

The thought of a parent doing such a thing to their child felt deeply wrong. The memory of your own father had faded over time, but what remained was gentle. A hand resting atop your head, ruffling your hair. Laughter around the dinner table. The sensation of being carried to bed, the feeling of safety as you were tucked under the blanket. Those were from earlier on, but the older you had grown, the murkier those happy memories became. You supposed your father had hurt you once, too. Not in a physical manner but rather… expectations that had crushed parts of your soul. Expectations that had strained and bittered your relationship. As you massaged the mound of his thumb, pushing your soft digits against the calluses of his palm, he spoke up once more.

“Does that surprise you?” He asked quietly, though there was thickness to his voice, like he was on the edge of letting a groan slip out. “That some of the worst monsters out there are human?”

Your eyes flickered upward, your fingers continuing to massage down his forearm to the crease of his elbow. You realised how beautiful his eyes were in the low light, like molten honey. His pupils dilated as he awaited your reply, the weight of his full attention solely resting on you. You had been human once. So had Peony, Orchid and the other flowers, Madame Yoru, too, and even Lord Kage himself. You didn’t know at which point you had slipped between human and monster, or if the monster had been within you all along. Maybe that was why all those who remained in the House of the Evening Bloom became the way they did in the end—hungry, spiteful, depraved—because you had all always been that way.

“No,” you uttered. You dropped his arm back into the water to wash the soap off. Slowly, you stood, circling the tub. A trail of water dripped from your sleeves onto the tatami as you perched on the opposite side. Your attention turned to his other arm, and you repeated the same process of carefully working soap between each finger. The task gave you something to focus on besides his distant expression.

“My father was a cruel man. He tried to make me cruel, too, but I was always… resistant to his teachings. He said, I was disrespectful and weak for always questioning him, so he challenged me to an Agni Kai.” Zuko continued, and your brows rose. A firebender—you supposed you should not have been surprised. Many Wardens were benders of some kind; the elements often came in handy when hunting particular beasts. Firebending, especially, since so few creatures possessed an immunity to flame itself. You dimly recalled ancient stories of some of the first Warden clans originating in the Fire Nation, before their trade and message spread beyond borders. “After I was defeated, he banished me. Said I couldn’t return home until I became a real man, brought pride to my ancestors and regained my honour.”

His gaze drifted somewhere beyond the room, beyond the House of the Evening Bloom, likely beyond Ba Sing Se itself. “I became a Warden shortly after, like my Uncle, and have walked that path ever since.”

You considered his words, eyes cast down, as you pressed your thumb down his forearm, massaging the hard muscle just beneath the skin. “Well, most would say the path of a Warden is an honourable one.”

A scoff escaped him, though the sound held little amusement. His arm slipped away from your grip as he dipped it back under the water, washing the soap and grime away. “I wouldn’t say that for that Crimson Ward of yours.”

There was genuine disdain in his voice now, enough to make you glance up from the soapy water, a teasing lilt to your voice. “You really don’t like them, do you?”

“They’re an insult to our trade,” his jaw tightened. “Cowards are what they are.”

You found yourself curious despite everything; Wardens rarely spoke about one another—at least not in your experience. Yet something told you that if Lord Kage’s hired hunters and Zuko ever crossed paths, his blood would not be the one to follow shortly afterwards.

Your hand slid under the water once more, scrubbing the washcloth along his submerged thigh, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The lantern light danced across the water’s surface, casting shifting reflections over damp skin and wood alike. You found yourself studying him again as you swept your palm down past his knee, your chest dipping lower towards the water’s edge.

“Does your father know you are a Warden?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Zuko’s gaze lowered to the water, watching as you slowly rose, levelling your spine.

“Oh yes,” there was something dark settled behind his stoic, amber eyes. “Some years ago, I returned home. He was happy to receive me, saying I had become a true man during my banishment. That his judgement had been correct all those years ago.”

The bitterness in his voice was hard to miss. The water shifted quietly as he leaned back against the tub, elbows resting on the edge on either side of him. His broad chest expanded as he sighed. You placed the washcloth over the side of the tub with a quiet slap, water trickling down the wood into a puddle below. You found yourself reluctant to break the silence, yet curiosity won in the end.

“What did you do?” You asked softly, though the words were not accusatory.

The bathwater was beginning to grow lukewarm, the tendrils of steam that had drifted lazily between you now gone. It was the warmth of his body that made up the space between you, that and the weight of his gaze that had somehow grown more scathing than it had been previously.

“I did what any honourable Warden would do if they came across a monster,” he answered with absolute certainty and complete absence of regret or guilt. “I killed him.”

Absolute silence followed, and Zuko watched you from across the narrow gap separating you, waiting. Almost as if he was expecting something, though what exactly, you couldn’t say. Your expression remained carefully neutral, save for the slight crease between your brows as you studied him in return. His pupils were fully dilated now, swallowing almost all the amber in his eyes. Beneath the water, his heartbeat remained strong and steady, each pulse loud enough for your sharpened senses to detect. You could almost imagine seeing the faintest ripple spread across the surface with every thump of his heart against his ribs.

You were hungry, so very hungry, it had been days since your last feeding—

The distance between you suddenly felt even smaller, especially as Zuko leaned forward. Water sloshed against the sides of the tub as he shifted, one arm leaving the edge so his palm could brace against the rim. His gaze dipped briefly towards your mouth, lingering there for a moment that felt a little too long to be accidental before returning to your eyes. His hand snaked around your waist, damp fingers settling against the silk gathered at your side, and before you could fully process the gesture, he was drawing you closer.

One moment, you were watching him and the next, his mouth found yours.

Instinct took over, decades of training clicking into place as you half gasped, half moaned into his mouth, automatic and reactive. He swallowed your breath whole, groaning as your hands skimmed up his shoulders to the hair at the nape of his neck, threading through the damp strands with a tug. His head lulled back, a chuckle rumbling in his chest as your lips parted, then met again properly. His head slanted as he adjusted his grip on your waist, tugging you even closer. His tongue teased along your bottom lip before sweeping into your mouth, and for a fleeting moment, you met him halfway, allowing him to pull you under—

A thought struck you suddenly. You hadn’t heard the telltale sounds of Madame Yoru stalking down the hidden corridor, nor the quiet scrape of the shutter being slid open—

You pulled away abruptly, chest heaving from the effort. Your hand slipped from his hair, down his shoulders to his chest as you pushed back, putting a small but deliberate distance between the two of you as he tried to chase your lips.

“Patience, Warden,” You huffed, watching as he tried to calm his own breathing, one hand still gripping your waist. His expression was guarded, save for the faint narrowing of his eyes as he tried to determine why you had stopped. “You haven’t even had your tea yet.”

Gently, you removed his hand from your side, then rose from where you sat. He didn’t look the most pleased about it, but nevertheless, he relented to your authority. You motioned to the pile of clothes and towels the servants had left nearby before turning back to where the teapot sat on the low table. As you knelt upon one of the cushions, you heard the slosh of water behind you as he rose from the tub. The patter of water over the tatami followed as he stepped out, unhurriedly crossing the short distance to the pile. You kept your gaze averted, not out of bashfulness but rather not wanting to encourage any lingering lust that coursed through his veins before the right eyes were watching.

Your attention drifted to the clay teapot that had been quietly brewing all the while. Your fingers brushed against the warm surface, along the delicately painted cherry blossom petals that embellished its curve. As you gripped the handle and carefully poured the steaming liquid into the cup furthest from you, you could hear the rustle of fabric. By the time you lifted your gaze, placing the teapot back down, Zuko had half-heartedly dried himself off. The small towel hung low across his hips as he settled down onto one of the cushions across from you. He accepted his cup without thanks, eying you as he took an audible sip, the scent of jasmine merging with the cypress soap and the underlying aroma of death.

“How did you end up here?” he asked. For a brief moment, you couldn’t tell if he was asking because he was genuinely interested in an answer, or if he simply wished to distract himself from the fact that his cock was half-hard. A weighted silence settled over you both again.

You smiled at him over the rim of your cup, although it was empty. That was a trick the Madame had taught you years ago, to at least pretend to be mortal. The best way to please a client was to make them feel at ease, and the best way to do that was to make them forget entirely that they were face-to-face with an undead monster. You had learnt to pretend to drink alongside them, to hold your wrist and hand in the perfect position that implied weight, to act as though your cup was always overflowing even when it was bone dry.

“Lord Kage took a liking to me.” The answer came easily. Only because it was an answer that had been practised countless times over the decades, one that had been drilled into you since your arrival. But even if your answer was flawlessly spoken, with the perfect inflexion and sweet, empty smile to match, displeasure flickered across Zuko’s expression.

“When were you turned?” He asked.

You leaned back slightly. Normally, you wouldn’t have entertained such questions, rather you would have artfully steered the conversation away, but you already knew there was nothing normal about anything that had unfolded so far. The memories were distant, a faded quality to them, the edges fraying the more you tried to hold onto them. The harder you reached, the more they seemed to slip, until you began to wonder if you weren’t remembering the moments themselves at all, but rather the memory of memories. Details blurred and condensed until your mind filled in the gaps incorrectly, like they were events that happened to someone else entirely. Sometimes you felt like two beings were warring within you—Spider Lily and the girl you once were. Those fragments felt like they belonged to her, the girl, your true self. But you weren’t her anymore, you were Spider Lily. And no matter how much that girl tried to claw her way out, she was trapped, deep underground in that box. And you had learnt that the only way you could survive was to become the monster, to become Spider Lily, to become just as terrible as the rest of them.

“I couldn’t tell you,” you finally replied after a pregnant pause.

“You don’t remember?”

“I remember pieces.” Your fingers tightened around the cup. “After a while, the years all blur together. Seasons become decades, decades become centuries.”

A faint smile graced your lips. “Though, I remember it was spring.”

The Warden’s brow quirked.

“I was supposed to debut after the summer solstice—my mother had spent all winter preparing the last of my yomeiri-dogu, my father a dowry to ensure I would be secure.” As your eyes lifted to meet his, you could see the pieces clicking together as he realised exactly the type of wealth and status you had once been born into. “I was supposed to be the catch of the season… but I couldn’t help but feel terrified.”

At the time, you believed you had been afraid of marriage, of leaving your home, family, and friends, of marrying a man who would have been a stranger to you. But in recent decades, you began to wonder if, deep down, you had known all along. Perhaps you had a premonition of what was to come.

“Terrified of what?” Zuko’s rumbling voice asked.

“Of making a mistake—” you laughed softly. Your reply had layers to it. It hadn’t just been the idea of making a mistake during your debut, of tripping over your own feet or making a fool of yourself. It had been the fear of making a mistake by marrying, of committing yourself to a life of lies. “—Of marrying a stranger, only to become some trophy wife within a gilded cage.”

The answer seemed to surprise him, and you knew you could both see the irony within your words.

“I had seen my mother live that life, and I did not wish to repeat it. I wanted to… continue school, travel, fall in love. So I ran away.” Your brows knitted together. “I ran away, and made it all of what? A few blocks? Only to end up within another cage entirely, I—”

You reeled yourself back, smoothing over your expression with a pleasant smile.

“I think I was nineteen at the time, maybe twenty at most.”

A beat passed as Zuko studied you, and a wavering thought wondered if he was undergoing some horribly misguided attempt to try and discover a flicker of humanity left within you. Madame Yoru and the guard still weren’t at the spying hole; the most you could do was steel yourself.

“Do you remember who ruled at the time?”

You snorted. “No.”

“No?” He repeated, eyes narrowing.

Did he think you were lying?

“It’s funny, isn’t it? How a girl’s mind works?” Your thumb traced the rim of your cup. “I remember the colours of silk everyone wanted that year and the styles we wore our hair in. I remember the rose hip and hibiscus perfume my friend wore and how she always took her tea lukewarm with honey. I remember the boy I spent months pretending not to like.”

Your smile turned distant.

“But Kings? Wars? Politics? No, not a single recollection.” You shook your head. “It’s all so ridiculous now, thinking back on it.”

The Warden grunted in response, displeased. For a second, you thought that he would allow silence to fall over you both again, to allow himself some peace as he drank his tea, while you sat across from him pretending to do the same. In contrast to your expectations, he spoke up once again.

“I take it that you were turned against your will then?”

The question made you hesitate, and suddenly you had the uncomfortable realisation that this entire time he hadn’t been interested in your replies, but rather your reactions. You lowered the empty cup you had been nursing, properly lowered it until it connected with the table with a soft clunk. It wasn’t a graceful movement, not perfected and artful in the way Spider Lily would, but rather the actions of a girl caught entirely off guard. You looked up sharply, and he simply stared with a smug expression.

The mask slipped. A short, bitter laugh escaped you. “You think any of us are here willingly?”

Zuko’s arrogant expression didn’t change.

“Lord Kage likes to collect pretty faces. Girls, boys—anyone who catches his attention,” you spat. “He turns us and brings us here to be broken in and serve. There’s nothing more valuable than a whore that doesn’t age.”

“And if you refuse to serve?” Zuko questioned.

“Oh,” you hissed. “I think we both know there are plenty of ways to break a person, immortal or not.”

“They beat you?”

“No,” you muttered with a mocking little pout. “You really think Kage would damage his own merchandise?”

“What does he do then?” The Warden pried.

Your gaze drifted towards the floorboards, and for a fleeting second, you could feel it. That creeping darkness at the edges of your vision, shaking hands against rusted iron, and the stench, Spirits the stench—

Your eyes snapped up, and you found he was watching you intently as you teetered dangerously on the edge between reality and a dream. Eerily, you spoke.

“They put us in a box.”

“A box?” he repeated, confused.

Realising he was baiting you for more information, your expression twisted. You sucked in a deep breath, planting your hands hard enough on the low table that the teapot rattled. For a moment, you juggled between indifference and performance, before finally settling on one of your practised, pleasant smiles, even if there were a few cracks in it.

Zuko looked mildly vexed by your sudden withdrawal. It was entirely obvious to you now that he didn’t seem concerned anymore with covering up his true intentions with his line of questioning.

“Are you finished with your tea? I can pour you—”

“You want something from me, don’t you?”

Despite the abruptness of the Warden’s interruption, his tone and expression were entirely calm, perhaps too calm. Your smile fell while his only grew, your composure fully cracking. You pushed up until you were kneeling on the cushion, hands braced against the table as you stared across at him. Had your intentions truly been that obvious? A horrible thought dawned upon you, enough to make a cold chill run down your spine. If it had been that obvious, had the others noticed, had Madame Yoru? Is that why she was taking so long to take a peek? Were they all out there, secretly planning Spiritsknew what—

You couldn’t go back.

You couldn’t go back to that box—

“You willingly came to me. You walked down from the display and sought me out, not the other way around—”

“Careful, Warden.”

The warning came smoothly, so smoothly that the look in your eyes would’ve made any normal man quiver with fear. As you knelt, slightly towering over where he sat, still naked aside from the towel that clung around his hips, an unnatural stillness took over you. It was the kind of stillness only an apex predator on the hunt could hold. Zuko looked unimpressed.

“Is it revenge on your master?” He queried, leaning forward with an emboldened expression. “You want me to kill him, to create enough of a commotion for you to escape?”

Your eyebrows scrunched, head tilting as you examined him with a perplexed expression.

“Escape?” You laughed, though it was humourless. “There is no escape from this place.”

You cut your laugh off shot, expression abruptly steeling as you stared at him, speaking with complete and utter seriousness and sincerity. “The only escape from this place is death.”

That finally seemed to throw him, his face screwing up in confusion. The first genuine surprise you’d manage to get from him all evening. You leaned further over the table, until your faces were inches away, until you could feel his breath tickling your lips. Your next words would require his full attention.

“I want you to kill me.”

“What?” Zuko barked immediately, bewildered.

The words felt strangely easy once spoken aloud, like a weight had been lifted off your tired shoulders. You smiled steadily and unwaveringly, as though you were discussing the weather and not proposing your own execution. “I will help you get an audience with Lord Kage, as long as you promise to kill me before you leave this room.”

The silence that followed was palpable. All Zuko could do was stare, obviously struggling to contain whatever emotional leakage was slipping through the cracks of his usually stoic expression.

“After your master is dead, you will be free to leave this place—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you muttered. “Unless you are the Blue Spirit himself, I do not think you are capable of killing the monster that is Lord Kage. I appreciate the sentiment of your mercy, but the only true kindness you can show me at this point is ensuring I am dead regardless of whether you defeat him or not—”

“What if I am him?” Zuko cut over you, and you blinked.

“What?”

“What if I am the Blue Spirit?”

A scoff escaped you before you could stop yourself.

“If you were the Blue Spirit, we would not be having this conversation. I would already be dead,” you sneered. “So, I am asking you a favour. After I fuck you and feed from you, enough of a performance to get them to trust you, I need you to kill me.”

You watched his expression harden, yet he didn’t even flinch as you leaned in close, a sharp, seductive smile pulling at your lips. You couldn’t even hear his heart change from its steady beat as your breath ghosted his bottom lip. “Do you agree to this?”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed, the scar pulling tight as he leaned backwards sharply, establishing some distance. “Why would I agree to that?”

Anger flooded your face, your fangs peaking out over your bottom lip as you hissed at him.

“I need you to grant me that one mercy. It shouldn’t be hard for you, should it?” The low table groaned under your weight as you dug your palm harder into the surface, the wood nearly splintering under your inhuman grip. “You are a Warden, after all.”

“Hold on—”

His voice sharpened for the first time all evening, and you knew he was about to argue. But the words had scarcely left his mouth before both of you went deadly still in unison, hearing the warning sign you’d been waiting for since the moment you entered the room. It wasn’t anything immediately obvious, no raised voices or knocks at the door. Just footsteps, unhurried, circling the room in the inner, hidden servants' hallway tucked between the walls.

Your head turned instinctively towards the far wall of the room, near the raised bed platform. Anyone ordinary or unfamiliar with the House of the Evening Bloom would have heard nothing more than servants passing by, but you knew better. You had learned the rhythm of those footsteps years ago. Madame Yoru wasn’t one to hurry; she was the worst type of predator—the one that liked to torment and toy with her food long before the thought of ending its misery ever crossed her mind. She wanted you to hear her. The heavier tread alongside her steps was likely one of Lord Kage’s guards. The Madame to confirm you had performed and earned your keep, and the guard to confirm that the Warden had allowed himself to be defiled and filthied by his enemy.

Instinct took over just before the footsteps paused. You surged to your feet, sweeping the low table aside with far more strength than any mortal woman could possess. It skidded across the tatami, a sharp crack sounding as it struck the opposite wall. The clay teapot and cups rattled violently as lukewarm tea spilt across the floor.

Zuko didn’t bother questioning your actions or urgency as you closed the distance between you, just as the cover on the eye-sized hole on the far wall slid open.

You tumbled to the floor, him flat on his back, the towel twisted and barely covering his lower half as you straddled his hips, kissing him. There was nothing gentle or hesitant about it; it was intended to be heard as much as seen. Your fingers tangled into the loose strands of his damp hair as you pressed yourself close. He groaned into your mouth, tongue sweeping against yours as his hand settled on the small of your back. You arched into his touch, only the silk of your robes separating you as you teasingly ground your hips against his already rehardening cock. The movement earned an irritated little grunt from him, and he pushed himself up. You followed the flow of his movements, allowing him to manoeuvre you as you wrapped your legs tightly around his waist.

Zuko lifted you as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Blindly, he guided you both to the bed, your lips working desperately and needily against one another. Perching himself on the edge, he settled you onto his lap, the mattress dipping beneath your combined weight. When you finally drew back, the Warden eagerly chased your lips. You huffed out a breathless laugh, resting your forehead against his. The towel had been lost at some point, leaving him completely bare beneath you. You dragged your fingernails across his shoulders and chest, giggling as he kissed a wet trail of kisses along your jaw and neck.

Slipping gracefully from his lap, your bare feet met the floor without a sound. You slowly rose to your full height between his spread thighs. His cock stood flushed and heavy against his stomach, the head already glistening with precum that caught the lowlight. You met his gaze with a knowing smirk, taking two measured steps backwards, fingers finding the fastening of your robe.

Was he performing as well? All too aware of the unseen eyes that were watching from behind the wall? Or had genuine lust slipped through the cracks of his restraint? The question flickered once before you snuffed it out. Zuko had been caught in your web the moment you kissed him, and already the persona of Spider Lily had settled over you like a second skin, fangs digging in. Given the irregularities of the evening, it was startlingly easy to push every opposing thought aside. Decades of training had carved this routine into your bones—the slow reveal, the calculated arch of your back, the precise tilt of your chin. Your mind would quiet, it always did when you let the mask take over. There was no room for doubt when every movement had been rehearsed and executed a thousand times.

You were numb to it.

The embroidered silk loosened around your frame. You eased it from your shoulders, letting the crimson fabric slip down your arms in a slow, liquid cascade. The Warden’s brow lifted, the only outward sign of interest, but neither of you could deny how his eyes tracked the motion hungrily as the robe peeled away from your breasts. Your peaked nipples caught briefly on the silk before the garment continued its descent, sliding over the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, until it pooled in a shimmering circle at your feet.

You stood bare before him. Zuko remained seated on the edge of the raised bed, elbows braced behind him, amber eyes dragging over every inch of your exposed flesh with unapologetic focus. His gaze lingered on the swell of your breasts, the drip of your navel and the smooth line of your thighs. You stepped out of the robe at your feet with unhurried grace and closed the short distance between you. Your bare skin brushed the inside of his knees as you sank slowly to the floor. Your fingertips trailed down the hard lines of his abdomen, mapping each scar and ridge of muscle before your lips followed, pressing soft, lingering kisses along the same path. Zuko’s breath stuttered ever-so-slightly, his throat working as you settled between his thighs. His heartbeat thrummed beneath your mouth, quickening with every brush of your lips, the steady pulse of blood rushing just beneath the surface. The closer you drew his thigh, the stronger the scent became—rich, metallic, threaded with the faint sweetness of arousal. It filled your senses, and the barely restrained hunger that had been growing within you honed. You could smell the artery pulsing beneath his skin, the blood hot and eager, and the need to taste it clawed at the back of your throat. Your tongue flicked out, tasting the salt and the clean bite of remnants of cypress soap, but it was the iron-rich promise beneath that made your mouth water.

There was an ache in your belly, a deep, gnawing ache. You’d known aches in your time. The ache of slick heat between your thighs, never to be satisfied. The ache of sobs that rattled your chest and tears that stained your cheeks. But this ache had nothing to do with desire or agony, but rather everything to do with the veins pulsating so close to your teeth.

With no warning or even an indication of what was to come, you sank your fangs into the saddle-worn, meaty flesh of his inner thigh. The Warden hissed, the sound breaking into a low groan as your mouth sealed over the punctures. His blood flooded across your tongue, thick and warm, laced with the tang of adrenaline. It was far richer and cleaner than the thin, alcohol-tainted taste you were used to from clients. You swallowed greedily, each pull sending a fresh wave of heat through your own veins.

It took everything within you not to consume him entirely, to suck him dry until only a husk remained.

No.

No, you had to remind yourself.

Your hunger would settle, and soon it would not matter at all. You needed him alive for your meeting with Death to come to fruition.

The aphrodisiac in your bite hit him almost instantly, your eyes catching how his cock twitched hard against his stomach, another bead of precum sliding down the flushed head. His thighs trembled beneath your hands as pleasure rolled through him. You lingered a moment, savouring the taste with a muffled, wanton moan, then forced yourself to draw back enough to lap at the bite wound. Your tongue moved in slow strokes, sealing the punctures with saliva, while Zuko’s breath came ragged above you. One of his hands found your hair, fingers threading through the strands and dislodging a few of the gold and tortoiseshell pins that held it in place. The soft clink of metal against the tatami barely registered over the sound of his breathing.

You looked up at him through your lashes, lips still wet with his blood and smiled.

“You taste… delicious,” you murmured, voice low and velvet-smooth, every syllable curated for the audience you both knew were watching.

His molten honey gaze burned into yours as you braced your hands on his knees and rose from the floor. Blood still slicked your lips and chin, thin streams trailing down your throat, pooling along your collarbones. You leaned in again, pressing your mouth to the hard plane of his stomach, then higher, kissing and licking your way back upward in a glistening, sticky path of spit and blood. His muscles jumped beneath your lips.

Reaching his chest, you paused, breath ghosting over his nipple before your fangs sank into the firm swell of his pectoral. The flesh gave way with a soft, wet pop, and fresh blood welled up against your tongue. Zuko groaned roughly, his body convulsing beneath you as you drew another slow mouthful from the wound—

The moment did not last long.

With a low growl, his hands clamped around your waist and hauled you upward, dragging you onto his lap in one powerful motion. Your knees settled on either side of his hips, and the length of his cock was wedged between your bodies.

The aphrodisiac-like effect in your bite was taking hold fast. There was nothing left of the cool, calculating Warden who had walked through the door. His breathing had gone ragged, pupils blown wide and dark, the grip on your waist unconcerned with care. His fingers dug into your skin with bruising force, pulling you closer, rutting his cock against your belly in short, desperate rolls of his hips. His heart hammered against your chest, every exhale carrying an edge of a groan he couldn’t quite swallow.

“I can tell,” you cooed, voice syrupy-sweet, “that my bite is taking effect on your system now.”

Zuko’s only answer was a strained, half-irritated grunt, his jaw tight as he fought to keep some thread of control. His eyes were heavy-lidded, lashes fluttering, but the tension in his body told you he was losing the battle fast. Very much aware of the watching eyes from the wall, you continued teasing, hips grinding a slow circle that had his blunt nails biting deep enough to leave marks.

You smiled against his throat, listening to the rush of blood just below the surface.

“That’s it, Warden. Feels good, doesn’t it?” You hummed, taunting. “Understand why men get addicted now? Are you going to get addicted to me too?”

Zuko’s only answer was a strained, wordless sound caught somewhere between indignation and raw need—his sharp jaw set in a way that spoke of a man fighting to keep his composure.

“That’s alright,” you whispered, breath hot against the shell of his ear. “I like you better when you don’t talk, Warden.”

His cock remained trapped between your bodies, each lazy roll of your core smearing his warm, slick precum across your stomach. With the taste of his blood still in your mouth, a wicked thought crossed your mind. “Want to taste yourself?”

Pulling back enough to meet his eyes, you could see the internal battle that raged within him—pride, restraint, the knowledge that this was still a performance? You were unsure. And, as if relenting to some hidden urge, he finally mustered a nod, his eyes glazed over.

Your mouth hovered over his, close enough that the word brushed his lips. “Open.”

He obeyed without hesitation.

You gathered the mixture on your tongue—thick saliva laced with the copper tang of his blood—then let it drip slowly. A long, glistening strand stretched between your mouths before it broke, the warm, pink-tinged glob landing half on his waiting tongue and half across his lower lip and chin. Zuko flinched at the sensation, a low, involuntary sound catching in his throat, but he didn’t pull away.

You watched the slow motion of his throat as he swallowed, his eyes fluttering half-shut like the taste had hit him like a drug. With a soft giggle, you used your thumb to smear the remaining mess across his lower lip, pressing it onto his tongue so he could taste every drop.

To your surprise, he reciprocated the motion, tongue sweeping over the pad of your thumb. You watched intently as he savoured the taste, suckling and nibbling at the digit—

A flicker of arousal pooled warm and unwelcome between your thighs, surprising enough that you felt your cunt flutter in response as your composure faltered. Before he could catch his breath, you withdrew your finger and leaned in again, your mouth crashing against his in a messy, open kiss. Your tongues slid together, the taste of his blood shared between you. His lips parted wider as he chased the flavour, a groan rumbling from his chest. Your hands framed his face, holding him steady as you licked into his mouth, sucking his tongue.

While he was distracted, you rose smoothly onto your knees, guiding the flushed head of his cock between your thighs. The moment you began to sink onto him, Zuko’s hips jerked upward in a helpless thrust. The kiss broke on a rough, breathy moan that spilt from his throat into yours, and you took him in one slow motion, until your hips met his and he was buried to the hilt inside you. The stretch forced a shallow sound from your own throat, more for the watchers than from any real pleasure, but the heat of him was undeniable. You could feel every thick inch pulsing within your walls as they adjusted around him.

Once you were fully seated, you began to move, hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm that dragged him in and out of you. Each rise and fall was calculated, each squeeze of your inner muscles timed to wring the most reaction from him.

Zuko groaned. His hips bucked up to meet yours, driving himself deeper, and you felt the exact moment his control began to fracture. Your fangs found the strong column of his throat, and the skin gave easily beneath your bite, his hot, rich blood flooding your mouth in a sudden rush. Zuko’s cock jolted hard inside your cunt, pulsing in time with every swallow, his hips stuttering upward in short, desperate thrusts as the pleasure of your bite crashed through him. His head tipped back, a broken groan tearing from his chest, and you felt him throb and twitch as if the act of feeding was dragging him closer to the edge with every mouthful.

“You’re losing control, Warden,” you whispered against his throat. A thin line of blood escaped the corner of your mouth, rolling hot and sticky down your chin. “I can feel it.”

Your hand pressed flat on the centre of his chest and pushed. Zuko went willingly, letting you tip him onto his back until he lay flat against the sheets.

Still straddling his hips, you moved on him with the same poise you had perfected over decades, each rise and fall of your hips made to look desperate while remaining entirely controlled. Your inner walls squeezed him at carefully chosen intervals, timed to the rhythm of his breathing so he would feel every calculated flutter. Every moan pitched just right—soft at first, then louder, breathy, the kind of sound that made men feel powerful. Your hands rested lightly on his chest, fingertips tracing idle patterns across his skin, but your real focus stayed locked on his face. You watched the subtle twitch of his brow, the way his throat bobbed when you clenched just right, the faint flare of his nostrils when you sank to the hilt. You were looking for the smallest flicker of a reaction that told you whether to slow down or grind harder. The head of his cock was dragging against sensitive places you knew were better to ignore. You noted the way his breathing had quickened, the slight tremor in his thighs, and the way his eyes rolled back as he lost himself in the sensation. All good signs—you catalogued each one.

When his grip tightened, and his hips began to lift to meet yours in short, involuntary thrusts, you decided it was time. You let your performance build, your moans growing louder, more breathless, your body moving with just the right amount of desperation. Your head fell back, exposing the long line of your throat, and you let out a carefully crafted cry—high, broken, the sound of a woman coming undone. Your walls fluttered around him, your thighs trembling on cue as you rode out the fake climax, every detail flawless.

But when you looked down again, Zuko’s eyes were no longer half-lidded with pleasure—they were sharp, focused, and unmistakably irritated.

His jaw was set, mouth pressed into a thin line, and his hands had gone still on your hips—

He hadn’t finished.

The tension in his body wasn’t the kind that preceded release; instead, he was watching you with growing displeasure. You felt the shift immediately. The air between you changed, the heat of exasperation swelling. His gaze pinned you in place, and you could see the realisation dawning in his expression: he had seen through the act.

Fuck.

He hadn’t orgasmed.

He hadn’t even been close, like somehow within those last moments he had willed himself not to, just to prove a point, but worst of all—

He knew you had faked it.

For an uneasy moment, you wondered why he was so angry. After all, wasn’t this entire arrangement for the benefit of Madame Yoru and the guard? A performance meant to earn their trust so he could reach Lord Kage? Your pleasure had never come into the equation—only your ability to seduce and filthy what was supposedly an honourable Warden. When had he even noticed the moment your moans turned scripted, your body moving on muscle memory rather than genuine need? The entire evening, it seemed the Warden was determined to unearth something solid beneath the act, as if he were deeply offended by the idea of interacting with Spider Lily, but rather desired you, the girl hidden behind the mask.

“Finished with your fun, are you?” he growled.

Before you could answer, he flipped you over in one swift motion. Your stomach met the sheets, and his hands pressed down hard—one between your shoulder blades, the other pinning the small of your back—so you couldn’t even lift your hips or escape the weight of him. Using his knee, he spread your legs wide, every inch of you open and helpless beneath him.

“What are you—?”

“Does that act really work on other men?” He snarled low enough that only you could hear it. You squirmed under his weight, not entirely from discomfort or the desire to be free. An intense, unwelcome pulse of heat flared low in your belly at the sudden dominance in his tone. “Kind of pathetic, really.”

How had he managed to fight through the aphrodisiac so cleanly? You could only hazard a wild guess that he or Warden’s as a whole must have built up defences to such tricks. Zuko leaned down until his chest was flush against your back, his breath searing against your ear.

“You truly thought I wouldn’t notice that you didn’t finish?” His hand swept over the curve of your spine, fingers sliding between your thighs to stroke through your folds. The touch made both of you pause—his fingers came away slick.

The realisation that you were genuinely wet, genuinely aroused, startled you.

“Pathetic little courtesan act, moaning on cue like I’m some green client you can play. You feel that?” He dragged his fingers through the wetness again. “That’s real. You’re drenched.”

You were suddenly, painfully aware of Madame Yoru’s single watching eye behind the hole in the wall. You could imagine her straining, trying her best to hear the words being rasped into your ear.

“Why do you care?” you hissed back, voice tight. “I’m just trying to help you—”

He cut you off with a hard, deep thrust that punched the air from your lungs. You cried out, body jerking beneath him.

“If I noticed,” he growled against your ear, hips already snapping into you in a brutal rhythm, “then they certainly did. We’re going to have to make it more believable if I’m going to see your master.”

“Fuck—!” The word tore out of you raw as he drove into you again and again, the angle forcing every thick inch to drag against places you’d spent decades ignoring. You squirmed, trying to adjust, but his weight kept you pinned flat, unable to do anything but take it. Your hands fisted the sheets, knuckles white, and for the first time in years, the sounds spilling from your throat were desperate and involuntary.

You weren’t acting anymore.

The pleasure was building too fast, and Zuko seemed to have forgotten this was supposed to be a performance. His grip on you was possessive, his breathing uneven with something that felt dangerously close to real hunger. You were too far gone in the overwhelming sensation to stop it now.

“Fuck—Warden—”

His fingers slid into your hair and yanked, gathering a fistful at the roots and hauling your head back until your throat arched in a taut line. The sharp pull sent a bright sting across your scalp that only enhanced the pleasure already tearing through you. He drove into you again, the wet slap of skin loud, your mouth fell open, each thrust forcing another, a high, shameless moan to spill out of you before you could catch it. The shock of it hit like ice water. This wasn’t part of the act—

Your walls fluttered around him without permission, your thighs trembling, heat coiling and snapping low in your belly so abruptly that you couldn’t breathe. Every plunge of his cock was too much and not enough, and you couldn’t stop the noises pouring out of you, gasps, whimpers, broken little cries that pitched higher each time he bottomed out.

Zuko leaned over you, chest pressed to your back, and hissed words directly into your ear, breath harsh.

“Shut the fuck up,” he commanded. “I’m trying to work here.”

“Ah—fuck, I—I can’t—” The words tumbled out before you could stop them. Your hands clawed at the sheets, and you realised you were shaking—actually shaking—because the pleasure was cresting too fast, and you had no control over the way your body answered him.

His hand came up, palm clamping over your mouth, then two thick fingers pushed past your lips and pressed down on your tongue, trying to muffle the sounds. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes.

“Mmf—please, I’m—mmm—” Your voice cracked, the words muffled around his fingers, and the realisation that you were begging, truly begging, sent another helpless flutter through your cunt.

You couldn’t stop it, couldn’t fake it, couldn’t slow the way your hips tried to push back against him, even though he had you pinned flat. A choked sob left you, half-moan, half-cry, and you felt your walls clamp down around him. The pleasure kept building, surging higher, and you knew there was no stopping it now. You were lost to it, lost to him, and the only thing you could do was moan around his fingers as he fucked you through it. You couldn’t tell anymore if he was still playing his part or if the aphrodisiac and the heat of the moment had finally cracked his restraint. Every snap of his hips drove him deeper, the angle forcing the thick head of his cock to drag over the exact spot you needed him—

“I can feel you’re close,” he breathed into your ear. “Make it real this time.”

You quivered around him, the pressure inside you winding tighter and together until it burst. A raw, broken scream tore out of you, muffled against his palm, your body locking down hard, pulsing and clenching so violently that your vision spotted. You convulsed beneath him, thighs trembling, a flood of slick coating his cock as the orgasm ripped through you.

“Fuck, there you are,” he snarled, voice rough.

He didn’t stop.

He kept driving into you through the aftershocks, using the frantic, fluttering squeeze of your cunt to chase his own release. The wet, obscene sound of it filled the room, the slap of skin against skin loud enough that you knew Madame Yoru and the guard could hear every filthy detail. His fingers stayed buried in your mouth, pressing down on your tongue while his other hand kept you pinned flat. He used the tight grip of your body like a man starved, hips burrowing in short, brutal strokes that dragged your orgasm out until you were sobbing against his palm, over-sensitive and shaking.

You felt his rhythm falter for the first time, hips stuttering, and then he buried himself to the hilt with a guttural groan. Heat flooded you in thick pulses, his cock twitching hard as he emptied himself inside you, grinding through the last shuddering waves until he finally stilled, chest heaving against your back.

The room was thick with the sound of both of you panting. Zuko’s weight still pressed you into the mattress, his breath hot against the nape of your neck, each exhale shaking slightly as he came down. You lay beneath him, body limp, every muscle trembling in the aftermath. Your mind was reeling, struggling to catch up with what had just happened.

You had orgasmed.

Really orgasmed.

There had been no performance, no calculated moan, no careful scripting of your reactions. A strange mix of disbelief and fear curled in your chest.

Zuko shifted above you. With a low grunt, he pushed himself up onto his hands, his softening cock still nestled inside you. To your surprise, he didn’t pull out. Instead, one of his calloused hands left your shoulder and began to stroke down the length of your spine, palm warm and unexpectedly gentle. You stayed perfectly still beneath him, too stunned to move, the steady rhythm of his hand grounding you even as your thoughts spun wildly.

The hole in the wall slammed shut with a sharp crack. Madame Yoru and the guard were obviously satisfied with what they had seen. At the sound of their retreating footsteps echoing in the inner corridor, you shot upright so quickly that Zuko’s cock slipped free. Before you could even register the loss, you were on him.

Your lips crashed into his, hands fisting his hair and dragging him down into a kiss that was all teeth and desperation. He met you with equal force, one hand clamping around the back of your neck. The taste of his blood still lingered between you, and you poured every tangled, confused feeling into his mouth.

When you finally tore away, both your breathing was ragged, foreheads touching. You could feel his seed beginning to ooze out of you, and all you could do was swallow down the dread lodged in your throat.

Steeling yourself, you finally spoke, your voice scarcely more than a whisper—

“I need you to kill me now.”

For a long moment, Zuko simply looked at you.

He slowly leaned back, putting a few inches of space between you. The warmth that had temporarily blossomed vanished as his expression settled back into that familiar, unreadable mask. It was that stoic look you’d become accustomed to in your short time together, that hardness that swallowed every flicker of emotion before it could fully surface. You couldn’t help but wonder if he was angry with himself; he certainly gave off that impression. Perhaps, even if just for a moment, he had forgotten why he was here—forgotten Lord Kage, forgotten the House of the Evening Bloom and all its flowers. If only for a fleeting second, it was just your two souls meeting—like two stars colliding in the darkness—like the Spirits had willed that you meet on this one fateful day before you were both cast back out into the abyss. Regardless, it seemed your repeated request had shattered whatever illusion he’d allowed himself to entertain.

Without answering, he rose from the bed in one smooth motion. You dared to hope that his silence was a reluctant sort of acceptance. You remained seated, tracking him with your eyes as he crossed the room. His broad shoulder blades flexed beneath weathered skin as he bent to retrieve your discarded robe. For a second, you foolishly thought he meant to hand it back—

Instead, he tossed it at you.

You jolted as the embroidered silk struck your chest, sliding down your lap.

“You’re going to kill me, right?” you asked, voice tight.

He ignored the question entirely, as well as the pile of clean clothes the servants had left out. Returning to his discarded dirty pile, he dragged his blood and sweat stained undershirt over his head, followed by the heavier outer layers that carried the dust of half the Earth Kingdom upon them.

“Warden,” you tried again, rising to your feet as you gathered your robe around yourself. Humiliation curled hot up your spine. “We had a deal—”

He let out a slow breath through his nose as he adjusted his scabbard over his shoulders. “Just run away.”

You scowled, a bitter laugh escaping before you could stop it. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

You thrust your arms into the sleeves of your robes with more force than necessary, fingers fumbling against the silk as anger began to eclipse despair. “That the only escape from this place is death.”

Only then did he fully look at you, nostrils flaring and eyes narrowed in irritation. “Can you even hear yourself—”

A deafening crack echoed through the room as the shoji slid open so violently that it rattled in its frame. At the sound, Zuko had immediately assumed a fighter’s position, feet placed a shoulder-width apart, fists raised, while all you could do was gape in disbelief.

Peony stood in the doorway, chest rising and falling in quick, furious breaths, dark eyes fixed entirely upon you—

“You stupid, greedy bitch.” The words left Peony before either you or Zuko had the sense to react. All you could muster was to stare back at her in complete and utter bewilderment. You couldn’t believe she had the gall to march in, especially knowing the Zuko hadn’t left your side yet.

“Peony—” you started.

She crossed the room in three quick strides—entirely ignoring Zuko, who tracked her every movement with a Warden’s assessment—and slapped you hard enough that the force made your head turn. Pain blossomed across your cheek as your balance faltered, one hand flying instinctively to your face as you recoiled in shock. It took you a few baffled seconds, but you eventually lifted your head to look at Peony. She was trembling, not with fear, but with fury.

“I claimed him,” the words came through clenched teeth. “I was there first.”

You blinked at her, still dazed from the blow. Of course, the flowers often fought among themselves; the environment had always been built to pit you against one another, you were each other's competition after all. Though it was historically in the form of public humiliation or a not-so-subtle tongue-lashing, never anything this unbelievably reckless and blatant. But it seemed Peony had long passed the point of caring about consequences.

“The moment he walked through the doors, everyone saw it.” She took another step forward, eyes frantic. “He was mine.”

You couldn’t place her distress. You had expected her to be angry with you, yes, but this fury came from another origin entirely, like beyond the resentment was all-consuming fear. Deep down, you knew this had the stench of Madame Yoru’s meddling attached to it.

“Peony—”

“No,” she snarled. “Don’t you dare.”

The decades of polished smiles and practised elegance you had observed her hold over the years fractured all at once. The closer you stared, the more you noticed the details out of place. The slight smudge of her painted lips bleeding into her white face powder, the decorative pins in her hair slightly askew, eyes glistening with unshed tears—

“You’ve spent years sitting up on your little perch, pretending you were above the rest of us.” She jabbed a finger towards the direction of the display beyond the walls. “Too miserable to work, too miserable to smile, too miserable to earn your keep. Leaving the rest of us to deal with the disgusting, filthy scraps.”

She took another step forward, a manic laugh slipping past her sharp lips. “But the moment a handsome Warden walks through the front doors, suddenly Spider Lily remembers how to descend?”

Your jaw tightened, teeth grinding. “He chose me.”

“Oh, spare me.” Peony laughed with a gasp, clutching at her chest before her dark eyes narrowed with a hiss. “You challenged me. I wanted to drag you off him the moment you left the parlour.”

She pointed her finger at your chest. “I would have, if Madame Yoru hadn’t ordered me to wait until your little performance was over.”

Peony smiled wider, shoving your shoulder with a single, hard blow. “You’ve always been Lord Kage’s favourite, haven’t you? It has to be why Madame Yoru still keeps an embarrassment like you around.”

She shoved you hard again, hard enough that your calves struck the edge of the bed, her hands catching your robes as she made a fist around the embroidered silk. “I’ll make sure you pay for this. I’ll see you stripped of every scrap of favour you have left.”

“And when Lord Kage hears about this—” she yanked you forward, “—he’ll put you back in the box.”

Your hands instinctively flew to her wrists as dread washed over you, your breath hitching—

Her smile had turned vicious, knowing exactly what she was doing to you. “This time they’ll leave there until you forget your own n—”

Her hand drew back, intending to strike you once more. You braced yourself for the impact, frozen in place by just the mere mention of that box. But Peony faltered, her body jerking. You felt her grip loosen, her jaw going slack, a mixture of shock and horror flooding her features.

Confused, she slowly turned her head, and you followed her gaze.

Zuko was no longer half-dressed on the opposite side of the room. The Warden didn’t even seem to be present, replaced instead by a figure wearing a weathered, blue oni mask that obscured their face. But it was only when twin amber eyes met your gaze through the narrow eye slits that the scene before you clicked—

The Blue Spirit stood before you. Zuko, the man you’d spent all evening with—teasing him, sharing stories from a childhood you’d long since pushed to the recesses of your mind, drinking his blood and allowing him to fuck you senseless—was the Blue Spirit. You felt sick, yet almost laughed aloud at the same time. Was this what the Spirits had rewarded you with after a century of waiting and agony? Was this what fate had considered necessary? Two stars, burning fiercely in the night sky, only to explode on contact. Two stars destined to bring destruction to this place, like locusts to a garden. The petals would shrivel, and the flowers would wilt, and the House of the Evening Bloom, the greatest garden in the Earth Kingdom, would finally perish.

Peony’s eyes widened.

“No…” the word barely escaped her lips, and you followed her gaze down her robes. A wooden stake was punched cleanly through her chest, the pointed tip peaking out through a tear in her robes. For a moment, you both stared down at it, disbelief washing over both your faces.

Then the flesh around the wound blackened.

“Peony—” you gasped.

Lurching forward, your instincts overpowered reason, your hands catching her shoulders just as her knees threatened to buckle. For the briefest of moments, you thought you had caught her—until she began to fall apart. The flesh beneath your fingers cracked with a dry, splintering sound, fine fractures appearing across her throat and jaw. It spread over the rest of her body like frost across glass. You watched, horrified, as the colour drained from her skin. Flecks of ash lifted from her cheeks, drifting weightlessly between the two of you.

Her mouth opened as if to scream, but nothing came out.

Peony collapsed inward—not to the floor, but instead through your grasp—dissolving into a cloud of grey ash that slipped through your fingers and settled softly across the tatami. Her crimson robe crumpled a heartbeat later, folding neatly into the empty space where she had stood, as though the woman inside it had never existed at all. The room fell deathly silent, your gaze fixed on the pile of ash. Your empty arms were still outstretched where Peony had stood mere seconds before, your hands curved around nothing. Slowly, very slowly, you lifted your eyes. Zuko—the Blue Spirit—stood motionless, stake still clenched in one hand. The carved, wooden oni mask concealed every trace of expression, but something about the way he stood unnerved you all the same.

And to your disgust, and absolute horror… You couldn’t muster a shred of sadness or grief for Peony. Neither of you had been close, no, one did not make friends in the House of the Evening Bloom. But you had been trapped all the same, two gilded cages directly opposite each other so you could watch the other pace like a wild animal.

No, the only thing you felt was envy—envy that she had been taken, freed from this place, and you had not.

With wide, glassy eyes, you swallowed and slowly lowered yourself to your knees. The movement stirred the ashes scattered around Peony’s discarded robe, her essence swirling briefly across the tatami before it settled once more.

“Go on, do it,” you breathed. “I’m ready.”

The mask tilted, and you couldn’t help but feel there was something almost animalistic about his silent assessment. When he finally spoke, his voice was muffled behind the carved wood.

“No.”

You stared at him. “...No?”

A laugh bubbled in your chest, tight and high as your chest shook. Zuko remained still, towering above you, watching with what you could only imagine was disdain. It was only as tears began to blur your vision, thick, fat droplets pouring down your cheeks and under your chin, that you realised your laughter had morphed into ugly sobs. They rattled your entire body, rattled you so thoroughly that each wail went a wave of pain and nausea through you, your body folding in on itself as you braced your palms against the tatami.

The longer you sobbed, and the longer he silently watched, the hotter the flicker of resentment deep within you began to burn. Your head snapped up, your tearful expression pulled into a snarl as your voice rose despite yourself, finally unconcerned with anyone overhearing your demands.

“Why?” you shouted. “Why won’t you just kill me?”

Zuko scoffed—actually scoffed—and through the slits in the mask, you could see his eyes narrow. “You said only the Blue Spirit stood a chance of killing Lord Kage, that the only reason you wanted death first was because you believed no other man could achieve it. That you were afraid of the consequences of running if he didn’t fall—”

“Stop—”

“So I will kill him. I will kill him, and you will be free.”

“Zuko—”

“Run, run while you still can. You still have a few hours before the sun rises—”

“This wasn’t our deal!” You snarled, finally cutting over him loudly enough that he paused his spiel. “You agreed to kill me.”

He went quiet in a way that made you think he was making a face behind the mask, and his tone hardened as he finally replied. “I never agreed to anything.”

“You don’t seem to understand, do you?” You snapped, exasperated. Sniffling, you wiped at your face with ash-stained hands, anger finally forcing you back into your kneeling position to meet his eye fully. “Everyone and everything I have ever known is dead! They are all bones and dust in the earth now—where would I go, who could I even turn to? There is nowhere for me to run!”

“Then make a new life for yourself.” His voice was sharp enough to cut as he stared down at you, a hint of coldness in the way he held his shoulders. “You survived, what are you so afraid of?”

You laughed again, bitterly, looking at him as if he had lost his mind. Your next words came out in a snarl. “I haven’t seen the sun in years. I am a relic of a time that no longer exists! I don’t even remember my own name—how am I supposed to simply make a new life?”

“You remember enough, even if you pretend you don’t.” Zuko sneered. “That much is clear.”

“I thought you were supposed to be honourable,” you taunted. Maybe if you angered him enough, he would snap and kill you. Maybe if you provoked him, he would abandon the moral high ground, which he appeared determined to sit upon. “I thought as a Warden you were supposed to kill monsters, not fuck them."

The blue oni mask tilted again, his shoulders rising with a deep breath—the only sign that your words had affected him—before slowly settling. The fingers that had been curled into a fist at his side relaxed, the accusations you had hurled fizzling out as he denied you the reaction you desired.

“You’re not a monster,” he muttered, almost pitying. “I never thought you were.”

His softheartedness surprised you enough that you paused, chest heaving, voice trembling. You were a fool. A fucking fool. Kneeling before him, his seed still inside you, begging him to kill you when it was obvious he had never seen you as a threat. For all his callousness and coldness, you’d never expected the Warden to look beyond the act, to want to look beyond the mask.

“I am broken,” you confessed, head hanging low. “I am broken beyond repair. No matter what I do, I will never be free of this place.”

Whatever begninity had overtaken him waned; the familiar sound of a scoff reverbrating from behind the mask. “You are only broken if you allow yourself to remain that way. Pull yourself together.”

You swallowed hard, nails digging into your palms. “Do you know what they do if we disobey? If we try to run away? He will hunt us down, no matter where we run or where we hide. He will find us, and he will drag us down into that box—”

“What box? You all keep talking about this damned box—”

Your eyes flickered to the floor as his voice faded, shrinking in on yourself. Zuko shifted his weight, an uneasy mood sweeping over both of you as he realised your expression didn’t match the reaction he had anticipated.

Darkness flooded your mind, the weight of silence, walls pressing in…

You couldn’t go back.

“What is the box, Spider Lily?” Zuko repeated himself, his tone suddenly and eerily calm.

You couldn’t go back.

“The box…” You began, although your words sounded distant now, muffled and warped. It reminded you of the quiet mornings when all the clients left and the House fell into silence. You would bathe yourself in the lantern light, then slip under the surface, holding yourself there until your lungs burned. “It’s beneath the manor. They keep it past the cellars and wine stores in a room made of stone.”

A tremor passed through you as you instinctively wrapped your arms around yourself, unable to look up at the Warden.

“It isn’t large,” you continued after a long, shuddering pause. “Not much taller than a child. It’s wide enough to fit one person, but only just. You can’t stand or lie down. The best you can manage is crouching—knees tucked against your chest, your back bent, and your head lowered.”

“The cramps start after… I don’t know.” You frowned, frustrated, eyes locked onto the tatami, Zuko’s boots at the corner of your vision. “Hours, perhaps. Maybe days. It’s impossible to tell how quickly or slowly time passes. But eventually, your body knows time has passed, your muscles seize and give out. You slump over from exhaustion.”

Your eyes squeezed shut, the room around you disappearing—the darkness, the silence, the phantom iron walls—

“Eventually, you stop trying to find a comfortable position, because there isn’t one.”

Zuko was deathly silent and still across from you.

“It is completely dark, so dark you can’t even see your own hands in front of your face.” Your breath hitched. There was a reason why you and many of the other flowers always kept your rooms lit, even when morning broke. “And silent too, so very silent.”

“You’d be surprised how loud silence can become—at first, you listen for footsteps, voices, anything. Your own mind becomes so loud, so you try to distract your thoughts. You count, you recite songs, poems, recipes, anything your mind can grasp onto.” You laughed softly, a disturbed little sound. “Then you begin hearing things that aren’t there.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them, rushing out like a tidal wave—

“You hear conversations, laughter, people calling your name, scratching and knocking at the walls. I used to hear my mother singing—” You abruptly cut yourself off. You hadn’t meant to admit that.

You exhaled loudly. Loud enough that your shoulders shook as you finally dared to look up at the Warden. Only the blank oni mask greeted you.

“They never feed you at the same time, they’re careful at making sure you don’t recognise patterns. They don’t want you knowing whether it is morning or night… whether you’ve been there for three days or three weeks. They want you disoriented and afraid.”

Your eyes narrowed as you recalled it.

“But the hunger…” Your hands drifted to your stomach without thinking. “It becomes so terrible and all-consuming that you stop caring. You find yourself licking the inside of the box, because the iron tastes of blood. You convince yourself the rust tastes sweet.”

Another tight laugh bubbled to the surface, caught somewhere between your teeth.

“When they finally do feed you, they pour it through tiny holes in the lid.” Your voice was bitter as you recalled it. “And even if you’ve spent hours telling yourself that you’ll keep your dignity, that you won't give them the satisfaction of seeing you beg, you throw yourself under it. You scramble for every drop—it runs down your face, your clothes, the floor. And they laugh. They stand above the box and laugh while you lap it from the floor. They laugh while you beg for more.”

You held the oni mask’s stare, sullen as you recalled it, the sensation of sticky, half-congealed blood running over your head and face, of sucking the clots caught in your hair. “By the time they let you out, you’ve forgotten why they even put you in there in the first place. So you beg forgiveness for a crime you can’t even remember committing.”

“I’ve been in the box three times,” you admitted. “I don’t know how long for, but I am certain it was months, if not years. All I can remember is that when they opened that lid, I thanked them. I thanked them for their mercy and kindness. That I begged them to put me back to work instead of sending me back to that darkness—”

Zuko turned abruptly. He didn’t so much as spare you another glance before striding towards the shoji. His boots struck the tatami with enough force to make the floorboards underneath creak. You still couldn’t read his expression beneath the oni mask or fully discern the emotion behind his silence, but everything he refused to say was revealed in the stiff set of his shoulders and his precise, clipped movements. A predator, a hunter, a killer—whatever the label, he effortlessly adopted the persona within moments, just as casually as you changed into your robe each evening.

He reached the shoji in three long strikes, his hand shooting out. The wooden frame shuddered violently from his grip, his fingers punching through the paper before he realised the force he’d used. For a heartbeat, he remained locked in place, head bowed ever-so-slightly as though overcoming whatever storm threatened to surface beneath the mask. You had a sickening realisation. The longer you watched his mannerisms, the more obvious it became.

He was furious.

When he finally spoke, his voice was dangerous enough to send a chill through you.

“I am going to kill your master.” His fingers tightened around the frame until the splintering wood creaked. “And then I am going to burn this place to the ground. You’d be wise to run while you still can.”

He slid the shoji open, and the distant, faded sound of sanxian strings and the laughter of drunken patrons floated down the empty hallway. You lurched to your feet, so quickly your knees nearly buckled beneath you.

“No!” The word tore from your throat raw. Your foot caught in the discarded folds of your robe, pitching you forward. You stumbled blindly across the room, crashing hard against the abandoned bath. The heavy wooden tub lurched at the impact, long cold water sloshing over the rim and soaking the sleeves of your robes. You barely felt it, your attention locked onto his back as he began to walk away. The one person capable of ending your ongoing, century-long nightmare was disappearing into the hallway. “I need you to kill me!”

A sound escaped your chest, and you shoved yourself away from the path, palms skidding over the wet timber. Half crawling, half stumbling, you threw yourself after him. Your vision blurred so thoroughly by tears that the doorway became little more than a smear of light. But, by some miracle, you caught him just before he crossed the threshold, your knees striking the tatami with enough force that your teeth clattered as you clung to his ankles.

“Please…” The word came out as a sob. You clutched at the worn leather of his boot, as if your sheer desperation could anchor him in place.

“I need you to…” Your forehead dropped against his shin. “Please… please.”

Your shoulders shook uncontrollably. The tears came harder now, droplets pattering across the leather as your breath dissolved into ragged sobs.

“I need you to free me. I can’t…” You choked. “I can’t do this anymore.”

With a quiet exhale through his nose, Zuko looked down. The carved blue mask peered at you, molten honey eyes lost to the shadows. Ever stoic, he shifted his stance. Not to comfort you, but rather free him himself. Stepping back, he broke your grasp with a firm tug. Your hands closed around empty air.

Without another word, the Blue Spirit disappeared down the corridor.

As the shouting began, you remained collapsed in the doorway, hands still outstretched, sobbing so violently that you were sure your ribcage would cave in.

You did not know how long you had remained on the floor. Time had become meaningless again, dissolving into the same shapeless darkness that had swallowed entire decades of your existence. At some point, the tears had stopped falling quite so freely, though your cheeks remained damp and tight with salt. You stared blankly at the tatami beneath your face, following the woven igusa with unfocused eyes.

Beyond the room, there had been screams. The crash of splintering wood as furniture was thrown, the pounding of hurried footsteps through the corridors, and the shoji slamming open and shut. The carefully rehearsed illusion of the House of the Evening Bloom—the laughter, the music, the flirtation—had collapsed into naked panic. You had barely reacted to any of it. The sounds reached you, distant and distorted. Every cry blurred together until they became little more than white noise—like an earthquake, or the sound of blood rushing in a silent room.

At some point, others had tried to rouse you from your catatonic state. Patrons, fellow flowers, the servant girls you had tried and failed to protect. They had pleaded with you, begged you to move before the flames creeping through the manor swallowed you whole.

Unbeknownst to them, you welcomed the idea.

Each of them eventually gave up, leaving you where you lay. All too terrified by the fire—or maybe rather they were fearful of the Blue Spirit that still prowled the halls. The scent of smoke grew stronger as time passed. At first, it had been faint, an almost pleasant layer to the oudh incense that permanently clung to the walls. Then came the heat, creeping beneath the shoji, filling the room one slow breath at a time. You couldn’t quite find the will to care, to even react to the fact that the House of the Evening Bloom was quite literally burning before you. You simply watched as the smoke became thicker, listening as the walls and roof groaned and shuddered around you. If this was how it ended, then perhaps it was fitting.

You had resigned yourself to your fate, that was, until the shrill voice of Madame Yoru sounded over the chaos. It was as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown over you, waking you from your fugue state, suddenly aware of how hot and suffocating the room had become—

“You!” She hissed, and you slowly lifted your head. She no longer resembled the immaculate Mother of Blossoms. Half of her elaborate hairpins had come undone, black hair hanging loose around a face streaked with soot. One sleeve of her expensive, crimson robe had been burned away entirely, exposing blistered and blackened skin beneath, yet she seemed oblivious to the injury.

Her usually cruel expression had melted into something feral, for once her immaculate posture and composure were shattered. She stalked towards you with a snarl. Her nails buried themselves deep into your hair before you even managed to push yourself upright. Agony exploded across your scalp as she dragged you across the tatami.

“What have you done?” she shrieked. “Do you understand what you have done?”

She threw you, hard. You struck the edge of the low table, which was still pushed up against the wall—one of the ornate carved legs splintered on impact, collapsing onto your side.

“What did you tell him—?”

A kick caught you in the ribs.

“What deal did you make with him—?”

You curled instinctively around the blow, arms shielding your head as another strike glanced off your shoulder. Smoke was pouring through the open doorway now, the ceiling groaning above you. Madame Yoru seized your sleeve, hauling you upright, only to slap you hard enough that your vision flashed white.

“I never understood why you were his favourite,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “You were always weak and ungrateful. I should have let you starve in that box—”

Her hand shot towards your throat, and you stumbled backwards instead, managing to wrench yourself free as silk tore beneath her fingers. Instinct seized what little remained, and you tore out of the room. Stumbling down the hallway, you dodged upturned furniture, fallen beams and splintered shoji. Somewhere behind you, Madame Yoru screamed.

You burst into the parlour, your hand flying to your mouth as a series of hacking coughs tore from your throat. Thick smoke clawed at your lungs with every inhale, while a wall of blistering heat rolled across your skin so fiercely that your eyes watered. You knew you should’ve kept running, should’ve sprinted out the doors into the street beyond, taken in the world before the sun crept over the horizon, lost yourself in the maze of Ba Sing Se… but instead you were rooted at the centre of the room. Your gaze drifted upward, and you laughed.

The display was burning.

The great tiered platform, once the pride of the House of the Evening bloom, had become little more than a towering pyre. Flames climbed hunrgily from perch to perch, devouring lacquered timber until blackened and spilt apart with deafening cracks. Silk cushions shrivelled, embroidered fabrics curling in on themselves before erupting into showers of glowing embers. How many nights had you spent up in the highest tiers, looking at the men below? How many times had you prayed never to descend those steps again? One by one, the carefully placed seats where you and the other flowers had spent decades waiting to be chosen gave way. You watched as it collapsed inward, showering you in a spectacular burst of sparks and hot wind.

The fire spread greedily across every familiar corner of the parlour. The paint of the red and black pillars crackled, the draperies that had once enshrouded the room billowed as pillars of flame, and the lanterns that had once hung above were lost in the smoke. The low tables lay overturned amongst shattered porcelain, abandoned cups of sake and baijiu bubbling.

Your laughter caught in your throat as movement stirred beyond the smoke—at the mouth of the corridor stood Madame Yoru, and with no hesitation and fangs bared, she lunged.

But to your surprise, and maybe horror, she made it all of half the distance before a blur of blue and black crossed your vision. And much like Peony, Madame Yoru was frozen in place, mouth agape in confusion as she slowly looked down at the wooden stake protruding cleanly through her chest.

Almost immediately, cracks spread across her skin, the shrill sound of her scream cut short as her body fractured, collapsing into a pile of ash that scattered across the burning floor, revealing Zuko. The masked Warden’s chest was heaving, visible wounds poking through slices in the fabric of his clothes. Despite it, deep down you knew. You knew that if Zuko was standing before you… That if the House of the Evening Bloom was burning around you… No, Lord Kage would never have allowed it. So it could only mean… You knew it could only mean that…

Lord Kage, the Red Prince of the Pleasure District, was dead.

The monster was dead.

The Blue Spirit had killed him—he had done what centuries of Wardens before him had failed to accomplish.

He had killed him.

Your knees buckled, and you collapsed before him, a sound caught somewhere between a cough, sob and a laugh escaping you. Suddenly, the smoke no longer felt so unbearable, nor did the heat radiating from the fires surrounding you. As Zuko stepped closer, over the pile of robes and the scattered ashes Madame Yoru had left behind, you raised your chin to meet his gaze with a sniffle. Up close, you could see the full extent of his wounds; some were deep, but nothing life-threatening or crippling. You could even see the bite mark you’d left on his neck peeking out at you from under his undershirt. Blood and ash were smeared over the oni mask, and you studied the blank, smiling expression carved into the wood.

“Lord Kage is dead.” Zuko finally spoke, loud enough to be heard over the roar of the flames, though his voice was gravely from the smoke. “You’re free now.”

Free.

The word felt foreign.

You smiled up at him, not the practised smile of Spider Lily, but simply your smile. Perhaps the first honest smile you had worn since entering the House of the Evening Bloom. And it seemed to tell him all he needed to know, as he didn’t appear surprised as you reached out with trembling hands for the stake still clenched in his fist. He did not stop you as you guided the sharpened point towards your chest, resting it directly over your undead heart.

Still smiling, though tears blurred your vision, you pressed it into your skin, just hard enough to feel the promise waiting on the tip. When you finally spoke, there was no performance left within you. Only the girl Lord Kage had stolen all those years ago, asking for one final act of mercy. You curled your fingers around his and spoke what you hoped would be your final words.

“Kill me.”

The studio speakers finally went dead, leaving nothing but the sound of heavy breathing fogging the mirrors on the dance room. Minho didn't drop to the floor like the others, he still stood in the center of the room, pulling the collar of his soaked shirt away from his chest and staring intensely at his own reflection. In the background, Changbin and I.N were already talking about getting food, but his eyes continued fixed on the mirror, tracking the exact second his foot slipped during the bridge.

“민호씨 (Minho-ssi)!” The choreographer called out, waving a tablet.

Before he could take a step, the studio door clicked open. You slipped in, face mostly hidden under a beige cap, keeping your back almost pressed to the wall as you moved toward one of the senior trainers. You bent into a quick, tense bow and whispered something that wasn't korean, the vowels were too soft and the rhythm was completely different.

The trainer didn't look up from her clipboard. She just let out a sharp sigh, rolled her eyes, and barked a dry “그래 (Sure).”

You bit your lip, your fingers twitching against the strap of your hoodie. Without another word, you turned and practically bolted out the door. Minho watched the door click shut, his brows knitting together.

By midnight, the building was mostly dark as Minho finally gathered his gym bag, sneakers squeaking loudly in the desert hallway. Near the exit, one last group of female staff members passed him, their tired faces lighting up while they offered quick bows.

“수고하셨습니다, 민호씨 (Good work, Minho-ssi).”

“조심히 들어가세요. 수고하셨습니다. (Please be careful on your way out. Thank you for your hard work.),” he replied, giving them a small nod.

As their giggles faded down the street, probably towards the nearest bar, the lobby went quiet again. When he noticed a silent shadow tucked near the vending machines.

It was the same beige cap from earlier, but this time you were sitting on a low stool, face buried behind a black mask, staring so hard at your phone that you didn't hear him approach. Minho stopped a step away, tilting his head to look over your shoulder. On the screen, a picture of a blue coastline flashed next to a text cursor of some korean-learning app, where your thumb hovered over the keyboard a bit hesitant.

“해안 (coastline),” Minho said into the quiet space.

You jumped on your seat, the phone nearly slipping through your fingers before you caught it against your chest.

“The word,” Minho pointed a nonchalant finger at the screen, completely unbothered by startling you. “You are new here? Never saw you.”

“Ah…” You pulled your mask down slightly, your voice a little shaky. “I am... stylist assistant. One year. Just small gigs.”

“Stylist assistant?” Minho tilted his head, absorbing the foreign language he also didn’t feel quite used to after all those years. “Cool. One year is... a long time.”

“네 (Yes),” you muttered, looking down at your hands. “하지만 한국어는 (But korean)… still very hard for me.”

“Oh, Felix too,” Minho shrugged, his sharp features softening into a casual smirk and a light chuckle. “He makes mistakes every day. It's okay.”

Headlights cut through the glass doors of the lobby, painting the walls white. A black cab pulled up to the curb outside, you glanced at your phone, hastily grabbing your clothes’ bag from the floor.

“I need to go. 수고하셨습니다 (Thank you for your hard work),” you said in a rush with a shy smile, throwing a clumsy bow before jogging out into the night.

Minho stood in the empty lobby for a moment, the heavy glass doors swinging shut as he let out a quiet breath, an amused smile spreading over his face at the sound of your adorable accent that still lingered inside his head.

—

With the release of a new comeback, over the next few weeks, Stray Kids operated in a clocked schedule of photo shoots, dance practices, and clothing fittings. But even through the hectic pace that took over the days ahead, he could always find you on the sidelines, working hard but lingering your eyes a bit too long on him before another staff called you out.

Whenever the last member wrapped up the day or the staff organized the few remaining equipment, you’d be there, untangling wardrobe racks or waiting on late-night shipments, and Minho would still be waiting for you under the fluorescent lights every night.

He didn't really like doing small talk, but he couldn’t deny how much he felt delighted by your cute reactions towards his presence, when he'd just walk up, tap something with his foot or finger, and wait for your response.

“목걸이 (Necklace),” he said one night, flicking the silver chain dangling from his neck.

“Moggeoli,” you tried a bit hesitant, your tongue tripping over the double consonant.

For a moment Minho stared at the shape of your mouth, licking his own lips to the thought of it against his. “목. 걸. 이. Again.”

“Mok... geol... i?”

“그치 (That’s it),” he would mutter as his eyes crinkled at the corners with a proud smile.

When your korean hit a wall, you'd shove your translator app in his face and Minho would read the overly formal text, make a disgusted face, then say some short english words and explain to you how people actually talked in Korea. He could be a bit blunt, not care much about grammar rules, but he never ran out of patience with you.

By the end of the month, the entire JYP building felt like a rush to finish up the last adjustments for the showcase that was less than twenty four hours away. It was past midnight again when you dropped onto a metal bench in the hallway, completely spent after packing away dozens of heavy boot boxes. Your brain felt completely fried from a solid twelve hours of trying to decode so many korean styling directions and tasks.

“Ah!” You flinched as a freezing water bottle pressed against your cheek.

Minho was standing over you, swallowed up by a black hoodie a few sizes bigger than him, his hair still slightly damp from the last practice. He looked completely wired, his eyes bright with that restless energy as he slid onto the bench next to you, keeping a bit of space between you, but close enough that you could feel his intoxicating scent wrapping around you.

“Today... very hard work,” Minho said with his voice a bit husky from fatigue, tilting his head toward you. “괜찮아 (All right)?”

“괜찮아요 (All right),” you sighed, letting your shoulders drop as you offered a tired smile. “Just... my brain is…” you mimicked a small explosion with your hands.

Minho let out a breathless laugh. “Me too. Choreo today... crazy.” He leaned his head back against the concrete wall, staring blankly at the hallway ceiling. Neither of you spoke for a few minutes, the silence didn't feel awkward anymore, it was just the quiet of two people who had survived the same long day.

When his stomach suddenly let out a loud growl, getting you to turn and look at him with a worried expression. But Minho didn't even look embarrassed, he just tilted his head with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Ah, I’m so hungry,” he muttered, shifting his weight and turning his body fully toward you and resting his elbow on the back of the bench. “You free tonight?” He spoke slowly, using his hand to emphasize the words. “Members at home, so…” He pointed a finger at you, then at himself. “Me. You. Ramyeon.”

You blinked. “Are you asking me out for dinner?”

“Yes. Dinner.” He nodded firmly, sensing the language barrier might need a bridge, he pulled his phone out, thumbs typing quickly across the screen before turning it toward you where the translator read: I know a really good place near here where the staff won't bother us. I can teach you the food vocabulary.

Your heart gave a sudden and unexpected flutter when you looked up from the screen, his usual playful smirk was gone, replaced by a surprisingly soft and genuine expression.

—

The restaurant was mostly empty, tucked away on a dark corner where you didn't have to worry about anyone recognizing him. Minho picked a table in the furthest booth, away from the small crowd near the counter. Over steaming bowls of ramyeon and a few drinks, the constant pull to check your phone translator faded, somehow with enough patience and fragmented phrases, the words just made sense.

Outside, the heavy and humid air from the past few days started to shift, low thunders rumbled across the sky and the imminence of a storm settled in Seoul. Rain started lashing against the restaurant’s glass windows, but inside, under the low yellow lights of the booth, the only thing keeping your attention was the relaxed smile on Minho’s face.

After each shared giggle, the heat of the burning soup and the kick of the alcohol began to catch up with you, loosening your tongue when his piercing eyes landed on you.

“You know… your voice is so cute in korean,” you smirked, twirling some noodles on your chopsticks. “It feels almost easy when you speak.”

“그래 (Really)?” Minho murmured, his voice dropped into a velvety, playful tone. He didn't reach for his phone this time, letting the foreign, melodic syllables just hang in the warm space between you.

“네 (Yes).” You bit your lower lip, trying to press down the growing smile curling on your mouth as your pulse started to hammer harder against your ribs.

“너 한국어 할 때 진짜 귀여워. 가끔 연습할 때 너 보느라 집중 안 돼 (You're also really cute when you speak korean. Sometimes when I'm practicing, I can't concentrate because I'm watching you).” He leaned closer, his dark eyes locking onto your lips before rising to meet your gaze. He reached across the small table, his long fingers gently playing with the sensitive skin just below your ear to tuck a strand of hair behind it.

“That’s not fair,” you blinked confused at the shift you couldn’t decode. “You're cheating. Translate it.”

Minho let out a low chuckle that vibrated deep in his chest. Instead of reaching for his phone, he slid along the booth, closing the distance between you until his lips slightly brushed the shell of your ear. His hot breath sent a dizzy spike of heat straight down your spine.

“우리 집으로 가자. 내가 너한테 뭘 하고 싶은지 직접 보여줄게 (Let's go to my place. I'll show you exactly what I want to do to you).”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes burning with a possessive heat that left absolutely no doubt about his intentions, even without the translation.

“What did you say?” Your voice came out in a quiet, uneven breath. “Translate. Now.”

Minho’s boyish, teasing smirk returned, he leaned in and pressed a faint kiss right to the corner of your mouth.

“I said,” Minho murmured in english, his voice returning to that polite cadence, though the fire in his eyes didn't waver for a second, “that the weather is weird and we should go to my house.”

—

The front door had barely clicked shut behind you before the skies were torn open outside, the sound of torrential rain hammering the windows in Minho’s apartment. You were both utterly drenched, water dripping from your hair and pooling around your sneakers. Without a word, he disappeared for a second, returning to drape a plush towel over your head and pointing down the short hallway.

“Bathroom. Warm shower. Go.”

He left a neat pile of clothes on the counter for you. When you finally stepped out of the fogged bathroom, his already oversized black t-shirt draped all the way down to your thighs, while the sweatpants hung far too low onto your hips, the drawstring pulled as tight as it could go.

The living room was quiet, save for the low murmur of the TV broadcasting a weather warning about the storm. You sat on the floor, waiting for your damp hair to dry, awkwardly feeling the heavy buzz of the alcohol wash away as you drank a large glass of water, that left you intensely aware of the kiss at the restaurant and the fact you were currently wearing his clothes in his apartment.

The soft padding of bare feet broke the quiet. Minho walked into the room, his own hair damp and messy, and slid down onto the floor beside you, resting his back against the base of the couch.

You stared down at your fingers, suddenly unsure of what to say. “Thanks,” you mumbled under your breath, keeping your eyes on your lap. “For the clothes... and the dinner... and everything you did for me.”

Minho offered a quick glance, sitting with his legs slightly spread, one knee pulled up closer to his chest, the other leg extended as his thigh almost brushed against yours. Scratching the back of his neck, a rare, genuinely shy smile touched his mouth.

“It's okay,” he said softly.

Silence stretched through the apartment, making the space feel entirely isolated from the storm outside, he shifted again and his body heat pressed closer as he leaned closer to you.

“I can... teach other things too,” he murmured, voice dropping an octave, “나 지금 너 진짜 필요해 (I really need you right now).” His warm breath fanned directly over the sensitive skin of your neck, sending a sharp shiver down your spine. “Try it.”

You swallowed hard, your heart instantly pounding against your ribs even faster than before. “What does it mean, Minho?”

“Say it,” he countered, his dark eyes locking onto yours with unblinking focus. “And I will tell.”

“Na jigeum neo jinjja… pilyohae,” you repeated. The syllables felt stiff on your tongue, completely unattached to any meaning in your brain, but you forced them out anyway.

“It means,” Minho’s large hand reached up, his fingers cradling the back of your head and tilting it slightly to the side. “I really need you right now.”

Before the translation could fully register, he leaned across the small gap between you. His lips planted a soft, lingering kiss just under your ear, tracing a slow line down your jawline until he reached your parted lips. The kiss started slow and hesitant, almost as if he were trying to find a way to translate how good it felt to touch you without using words at all.

But the hesitation didn't last, it deepened rapidly, turning into a breathless rhythm as your tongues tangled in a wet embrace of pure need. Your hands went up to his broad shoulders, fingers gripping the fabric of his hoodie as you pulled him closer, sinking entirely into him. At that moment, you didn't want to pull apart and risk hearing any more of the foreign language that had isolated you for the past year, not when it finally made perfect sense.

Minho was the one to break the kiss, his chest heaving as he pulled back just an inch. He was panting, lips already twitching to press back against yours, but he stopped himself, holding your face firmly between his palms.

“계속 키스해줘 (Keep kissing me),” he breathed out raggedly against your swollen lips, his thumb wiping away a trace of moist from your chin. “Say it.”

“Gyesog kiseuhaejwo,” you whispered instantly.

“Keep kissing me.”

His palms slid to the sides of your face, angling your head as he bruised your lips again. The pace was urgent, sucking and biting at your lower lip, drawing a needy moan from the back of your throat. He pulled back again just far enough to look down at you, his pupils completely dilated and dark with heat.

“Want more?”

“Uhm,” you breathed, unable to form any coherent word or thought.

“Say 더 해줘 (Do more).”

“Deo haejwo,” you promptly repeated, your hands tugging him back down to you.

Minho let out a rough chuckle, hands sliding down to your waist as he pulled you directly onto his lap. The hard line of his growing manhood pressed firmly against you through the soft fabric of his sweatpants as he dragged his lips across your flushed cheek, his voice a soft murmur against your skin.

“더 해줄까 (Should I do more)?” He chuckled.

You didn't understand a single syllable, but the friction felt so good you didn't even care. You just leaned into his touch, your mouth seeking his as he captured your lips in another bruising kiss.

“느낌 너무 좋아 (This feels too good),” he muttered against your mouth. The casual and cute tone he used with the other staff members was entirely gone, replaced by a low rumble that vibrated deep in his chest and sent a wave of shivers down your spine as he ground his hips up against yours.

With a swift movement, his large hands wrapped under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly into his arms before laying your back down onto the soft cushions of the sofa. He let out a ragged exhale, his gaze completely focused on you as he gave a light tap to the inside of your bent knees.

“다리 벌려봐. 힘 빼고 (Spread your legs. Relax).”

You instinctively followed his order, spreading your legs open for him. A satisfied smile touched his lips, his fingers hooked into the waistband of the oversized sweatpants, slowly pulling them down over your hips along with your underwear, leaving you exposed to the cool air of the room. With a gentle but unyielding tug, he slid the hem of the shirt up your torso, exposing your perked up nipples underneath the fabric.

A sudden wave of shyness hit you and you started to close your legs again, Minho paused, a single eyebrow arching as he looked down at you. He brushed the tip of his finger against your jaw, silently commanding you to look into his eyes, before trailing that single finger down the center of your breasts, past your stomach, and directly over your damp core.

“잘하네, 착하지 (You’re doing well, good girl),” he mumbled against your skin, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.

You could see the heavy distortion of his bulge in his gray sweatpants, but he took his time, sliding his fingers over your slick skin before easily pushing two digits deep inside you. A few pumps later and a breathy moan escaped your throat, your hips instinctively arching into his touch.

But Minho pulled his hand back, the sudden loss of friction making you whimper wanting more. He reached up, pulling his own hoodie over his head in one fluid motion to reveal the toned lines of his chest and shoulders. With an impatient push, he stripped out of his pants, finally freeing his hard length that now hung stiffly in front of him. Completely uncovered, he loomed over you, his member giving a slight throb as his eyes tracked the way your thighs clutched at the air.

He reached into the pocket of his jacket, which lay discarded on the floor beside the couch, and tore open a condom wrapper, rolling it on quickly over his veiny shaft. Leaning back over your chest, he settled his weight between your thighs, aligning his round tip right at your entrance.

A small, anxious whimper left your lips, desperate to feel him inside you as he dragged his length with a stretch through your folds, your brain scrambled through the few korean phrases you actually knew, trying to patch together something from your previous lessons.

“Ah... 느낌 좋아요 (it feels good),” you whispered, voice trembling at the overwhelming sensations under your skin.

He let out a soft chuckle, the heavy tension in his shoulders melting as he pulled you flush against his bare chest, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck, slowly sinking all the way inside you.

“Why so polite?” he murmured, his breath hot against your collarbone as your warm, gummy walls opened to accommodate him. “Just say 좋아 (It's good).”

“좋아,” you gasped out, a breathless moan tearing from your throat as he began to move, his full girth making you fully aware of just how strong and manly he actually was beneath his usual baggy clothes. “더 해줘 (Do it more).”

“귀엽다 (so cute)... you learn so fast,” he murmured against your skin, a praise that felt like a caress, before blocking out the rest of the world by pressing another wet kiss over your parted lips.

“너 정말 꽉 조이네 (You’re so tight),” Minho groaned, his voice dropping into a ragged, low groan.

You had absolutely no idea what he’d been mumbling for the past few minutes, but the way his hips stuttered told you everything you needed to know. Your walls were clamping down impossibly tight around his length, catching every heavy friction of his thrusts.

“정말 미치게 하네 (You’re seriously driving me crazy).”

Another helpless moan broke from your lips when he suddenly lifted his torso, his large hands anchoring firmly onto your hips to angle himself deeper. He bit his lower lip hard, his eyelids fluttering shut as a violent shudder rolled through his entire body, sending the heat straight into yours.

“나 더는 못 참겠어. 너 진짜... 너무 좋아. (I can't take it anymore. You really... so good).”

With a dominant grip on your waist, he delivered a few more perfectly angled thrusts, his length throbbing maddeningly against your most sensitive spots until a sudden, burning tension struck both of your bodies at once. You cried out, a high-pitched yelp escaping your throat as your core tightly convulsed around him.

With one final, deep thrust, Minho buried his face into the crook of your neck. His breath was burning against your skin, panting more unintelligible groans until his entire body went rigid, a wave of intense pleasure taking over as he shot all of his warm load inside the latex.

The frantic pace slowly ground to a halt, leaving only the sound of your uneven breathing as Minho wrapped his arms around your waist and shifted his weight, pulling you along with him as he rolled onto his back on the couch. You collapsed directly onto his chest, your skin slick with a thin coat of shared sweat, his heartbeat was a wild, erratic thumping against your cheek.

Slowly, his fingers began to thread through your damp hair, the gentle, constant motion letting you drift toward a heavy slumber after such an exhausting day. But just as your eyes started to flutter shut, he hooked two fingers under your chin and tilted your face up to force you to look at him again.

A wide and teasing smirk spread across his face, his eyes crinkling with that familiar, playful malice. Before you could even blink, he reached down and gave your bare ass a light pinch on the soft flesh.

“Ah!” You flinched, instantly awake.

“아직 안 끝났어, 바보야 (It's not over yet, dummy),” Minho chuckled, his voice still husky but dripping with mischief. He tapped your chin playfully, switching back to his accented english. “Tutoring only finishes when the teacher says finish.”

You send your text and look up, thinking you have a moment before he shows up. One look to the left proves you wrong. You know that look, like he's annoyed and plotting, but playing nice in public. You can see it in the way his eyes are sharp but he's composed otherwise, hands in his pockets as if he's relaxed until he gets closer. Then they slip out calmly, clench and unclench, and you know they're going to grab you like the leash he texted about. 

You smirk and stand, sticky tanghulu fingers and all, squeezing your blind box under your arm and making a nonchalant, super chill speed-walking escape. 

“Don't run.” Chan says, not even loud but you hear it and you know he's talking to you. You blow out a breath through puckered lips, fighting not to break out into a cheek burning smile. 

“That just makes me wanna run more.” You mutter over your shoulder, the blind box slipping as you see how close he is now. If you weren't in the mall, you'd sprint. And if you sprint, he'll still catch you. You squeal instead, small and anticipatory, and turn around to face him. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” You start, the apples of your cheeks aching the way you were trying to avoid.

He doesn't say anything, just lifts his brow at you like you're overreacting, even though he's the one hunting you down with his gaze like there's a red dot on your back. He slows down once he approaches you, sticks out a hand to take the tanghulu you bought him.

Your eyes squint in suspicion, but you hand it over slowly like he's an animal you're trying to tame. 

Only once it's in his hand does he glance down at it, tongue in cheek like he's trying not to laugh now too. If you could see your expression, you'd get it. 

“You good?” he asks, half genuine and half his way of asking if you're done doing whatever it is you're doing. He reaches up to wipe his nose with his thumb, a chuckle tickling the skin.

“Mhm.” you nod, a knowing smile on your lips and at least three shopping bags that are sticking to your fingers. Three new shopping bags you obtained on your own while getting distracted after leaving the bathroom. And only one thing in each, which annoys him even more. 

You pull your blind box out from under your arm. “Look what I got, it's a sanrio blind bo– okay,”

Chan takes it from you mid-sentence, tucking it away into another small bag from an earlier stop, and ushering you closer with two fingers. “C'mere.” 

You start to move before you even fully process the command, stepping forward until you're right in front of him. You look up, sugary fingers hooked neatly around several paper and plastic shopping bag handles, and a pleading glint in your eyes that might buy you some gentleness later on.

He lifts one brow this time, entertained by how cooperative you are now after just trying to make a run for it a second ago. He points to his side, the space right next to him, “Stay here.” 

“Alright,” You nod in understanding, fighting between a straight face and a laugh. As you're moving to stand beside him, his hand grips around your wrist securely, palm immediately warm and knuckles flushed from how firm his grip is. Your temporary leash.

Chan rolls his shoulders a bit, side eyeing you but finally letting a bigger smirk through. “Be good while we're out.” 

You love that, ‘while we're out.’ 

Before you can respond with protest or something else that would probably acutely annoy him, he starts to walk again and leads you to walk with him, setting the pace the way he always does. 

You can't help but laugh under your breath, a literal “Hehehe.”

He glances down at you and you catch his gaze, pretending not to be cackling to yourself. Once he looks away, you stick your neck out in his direction and laugh silently again just to tease him. 

He sighs, seeing you from his peripheral view and shaking his head. “Fucking brat.”

಄ more fake texts