𝙀𝙫𝙖

Lately, the footsteps have multiplied from one to many.

Lately, (Y/N) has begun visiting churches and temples.

Lately, sleep hasn’t been kind to her.

Lately, nothing has been the same as it was in the past weeks.

Nothing is mundane in her life anymore.

And it all began with something small—so small she didn’t pay attention at first: the creaking noises in her home. She lived alone. It was her house. There were no tenants. Yet the creaks persisted. Water dripped so frequently at night that she would wake up, circling through every room trying to find the cause But there were never any open taps or leaks said the plumber, when she called out of fear her that one day she wake up in a flood home.

Then came the unease. The feeling when one knows a pair of eyes was watching, from what she doesn't knew but surely a pair of eyes, watching, hovering around her. No matter how she turned around or checked the cameras for any intruders living in her house : nothing come to the conclusion. She tried to live with it. Ignorance, she had learned after entering the workforce, was a kind of bliss. It made the world easier to handle, especially alone. Without her parents' guidance only left behind their savings and house is something most never are fortune enough she has to manage and survive in the world her parents worked so hard to bring her. But the feeling grew and the tranquillity tainted by the mysterious creaking. It grew it's root to her meals. All her brought meals went spoiled, milk curding, fruits marred that she began to kept her windows open all the time for fresh air to smooth the temperature that has all go wrong. That's when the nightmare begins, it was before a suffocatingly dark, visioning nothing but a oppressive feeling before it become hellish soon enough, hands crawling, tearing her, dismembering her body and all sorts of horror she begun to see. Her own death become habitual to see in her dreams that she couldn't differentiate whether she is truly alive or a ghost.

But that become clear. She was alive when she hurt herself so many times, clumsy she was but not to the point bruises print so easily on her skin and falling in her own feet become common when she swears on her parents' that she thought her feet touch something only for it to be nothing when she turn back to see. Plain, nothing. Just like her imaginations from pent up stress isn't it ? She heard it happens, she knew the shifting shadows from the corner of her eyes she sees but never caught when she face the direction were nothing but illusions.

But how could she explain when the curtain she liked to draw all morning to night because she hates sun are pull wide open the very next morning ? That did it, collapsed on the floor with her beating heart still feeling the eyes watching her that she begun the daily rounds of temple and church. Prayers, reading bible, wearing a cross around her neck that she never thought have to one day. But it eased nothing. Tiredness still welcome her at morning and fresh meals still reject her. "God, what should I do ?" She brush her fingers from her forehead to scalp, as if she could scrape out the pain beneath. She sat slumped on the sofa, no strength in her limbs to rise, no desire to reach the bed.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Her eyes snap to the front door. Lid eyes stare at her wooden door wondering who is so late at night out knocking at someone's door this cold. It can't be her known ones for sure. Tired she decide to not answer. The person behind will stop eventually and problem solved.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

She sit still, waiting for the pause, waiting for whoever it is to move on to irritate someone else. Maybe it is important. Maybe it isn't. She couldn’t think anymore. All she wants is a good—

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

Her hands are trembling and her heart an wild animal ranging inside her cage of bones beneath her shivering skin on how the knocking continue, again and again and again without a pause, a breath, none louder than another or lower. All identical she grasp her mini pillow to her chest, inward inside her body, closer and tighter and harder to her chest like it will protect her when the knock continues.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

She feels like crying. Tears swelling her vision and hand too scared to grip her phone— right her phone ! Her fucking phone she yanks from the tea table and the moment her finger hover over the password of lockscreen. It stops. Suddenly and altogether. The tears never ripe enough to fall and she slowly stand up, the pillow falling from her palms now and her feet pull towards the door, nothing much— two steps before her eyes hold eye contact over the twice locked system on her door, staring it blankly as if it will twist into something but when it didn't, like her mind knows, she turn around, going straight to her bedroom. Avoiding to check the person has go away, she knows it's the sensible thing to do but she is so scared and alone to confront. Too much of a coward and the moment her palm touch the cool doorknob of her bedroom door, eyes on the front.

Her heart sink at the one black eye staring right to her through the peephole.

Immediately she avert herself, meeting her back to the hard wall, banging her head in the precess and even hurting her fragile spine but the pain is too fleeting for the person's eye staring right back at her. She slide to the ground by the wall, finger barely holding her phone as she didn't dare breath, not a hitch escape her mouth. Nothing just silent and horror wrapping her of what the fuck is going on.

Tears that she didn't even see swell fall this time, without the blinks her eyes refuse to shut, they spark like diamonds and slide down thin as a thread to her chin, not a sniff of clogged nose echo inside her ears as if her body has stop making any noise itself. All she could do is sit on the cold marble floor, processing what just happened when her thought finally peek in her brain, dare to question.

"How can there be a peephole in my bedroom door ?" That seem to bring her back to reality. "Wait, yes. H-how is that possible ? I have no other peephole other than front door". And if there is no peephole that means no eye to stare through. With that, she stand on her trembling doe's alike legs and stare.

Stare at the smooth wooden surface of her bedroom door. Nothing. Again there is nothing yet she just gaze, watch to her heart's content that never a peephole existed along the black iris but that didn't calm her disturbed heart who is stubborn to sleep on the sofa. Unable to enter her own room.

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"Last night was crazy". She mutter to herself, washing her hands in the sink, her eyes going to her reflection within the square mirror. She shake her head. "That was just insane". She groan, her throat rumbling and deep in the early morning as she drag the words too long and wipe last time her mouth with the back of her palm taking little to no toothpaste foam around the corner.

Her heart is no longer rattled and actually braver with each swag of the cross around her chest and the sun in the sky—

Drip

Her head unconsciously turn at the faint drop of water.

Her breath hitch.

A single drop of blood is on the sink.

Her calm pulses sprike crazy, thundering around her skin, beeping like they will tore out of her veins and spit alongside the one single drop of blood. A single drop. A single drop. A single drop of blood—

Drip

Another perfect, tiny round drop joined the first, merging so closely no space remained between them. One atop the other, almost fused. Slowly—painfully slowly—she lifted her gaze. Her muscles moved as one, every joint creaking in the unusually empty air. She looked up, expecting to see the plain white of her bathroom ceiling but instead found . . .

A man attached to it.

Her heart screech like a banshee before it drop right in her pit of stomach, somewhere far and deep until all she feels is numbness. Numb from watching the man's entire body pin with metal nails tracing the outline of his frame on his skin, gaps between them no more than a few inches. His neck was twisted like a cloth wrung too hard, skin puffed into strange shapes as though there were no bones beneath. His wrists and ankles were the same.

But the most unsettling thing is he got no eyes to stare back at her that even abyss got. Nothing. He is faceless, turn to her but none to stare. She just sprint, out and far from her bathroom she once found comfort and privacy and safety. Once where she cried without fearing anyone's snooping. Stayed for hours. Her feet barely slip into her sandals as her hand twist the knob, the golden light outside wash over her as she slam the door shut without looking back. Her hair is in disarray, her clothes unchanged from yesterday, her face pale from what she has witnessed.

In the air of outside, few people crossing uncaring, some glanceful at her, she feels peace. She finds her breath again, inhale and exhale again. She blinks fast to never let the darkness remember how drenched in red that man was that she can't know his skin color. "Mama, papa". She whimpers, her voice but a mere whisper, calling for them, wishing their presence with her right now, not under the ground with names written on their tombs. She can't even close her eyes to gaze at their faces if she want not to see that . . . . disfigured man. "No. This can't go on like this". She decide, wide her eyes for her fingers dragged down her skin, stretching from her forehead to her chin. "I need to buy that". With that she step ahead, brush her hair with her fingers before clipping it into a bun like it was. Just less chaotic looking.

And she walk averting eyes at every shadows her corner of eyes has to offer, refuse to chase them but when her eyes caught the glimpse of herself on the black doors her chest tightened and the world got small at how herself become someone else, grinning ear to ear wide it rips his corner of lips and tilt his head down like a bow but looking with round eyes, widened them as possible. Immediately she stuttered, foot mingling with her another leading to her bumping into a stranger that snapped her head around right to the stranger with strings of apologies spilled as easily as her lips quivered and verge of tears for the lady to nod hesitantly at her before walking away. She didn't dare look at the screen again, walking as fast as possible towards temples.

Walking and walking and walking until the lines of stalls selling goods she needs in front of the temple is present letting her take a breath. She run a little to the nearest one and stop before crashing into it. Heaving her chest like she has run a marathon but she didn't, and it confuse her when her sentence even comes in labor breath.

"I am . . . . sorry. I actually would—" She pause again, clasping her mouth to wet her dry as sand mouth. "I am sorry again. I want to buy some talisman and amulets I guess. Strong ones or whatever that works the best." She heave again, exhaling heavy that even the man look at her with concern then nod, grabbing some and spoke the number of payment.

She freeze. Shit, she forgot to bring anything as she ran— wait, she has her phone. She can pay by her phone. Relief rush through her ribs as the panic would had felt like a hurricane she doesn't know can ended plesantly, bringing her phone she purchase the goods when she saw the man silently slide a card towards her. Her brows furrow a little and look up at the man whose face grave and nod a little then her eyes dart back to the card, clearly looked like business card of someone else by the neat and polished print.

If everything could be normal she would had not taken it and call him a weird man but then again she wouldn't be buying these in the first place so she take it without a word exchange and check her bank balance to rent a hotel because for the life of her she can't bring herself to go back to the house she convince isn't haunted. No way when it's her birth house and been living for years. Nothing happen until this. . . . recently.

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In the end she decides to return home because times are tough and money isn’t as easy as spending, so she clutches the white plastic bag that has her purchase and bravely enters. Slowly and quietly she enters but she doesn’t turn around, ogling at everything; rather she stands her ground, only glancing around with her eyes. “The more you give reaction to its presence, the more its energy increases, I heard. If I even remember correctly.” So she has to pretend like it’s another normal day, coming home into a house that is now pin-drop silent, devoid of any creaking other than hers. But she realizes once she begins walking without pausing that the rhythm of walking isn’t right. Like too many steps are creaking the wood, but when she stops— standing— it stops instantly too.

Something is following her.

Again. Without looking back she just faces her bedroom. The door is closed as it was, and her hand hovers silently over the knob, too afraid to open it as the fear of yesterday still grips her crouching child. But she risks it all. Within seconds she holds the knob finally and opens it all the way, revealing her always-unchanged bedroom. Her eyes search for a change, misplaced things—but none. Everything remains as it was. But ease still doesn’t cross the boundary, and she doesn’t know whether to stick the talisman openly or just sleep with it under her pillow so whatever is haunting her doesn’t know she has noticed something out of the ordinary. Out of human’s reach entirely.

She decides to stick them anyway but in very odd places—under the bed, behind the headboard, and so on—so in plain sight it won’t be seen. With that she looks at her wrist that has the amulet tied to it and just hopes for the best.

And indeed, the best thing happens from tomorrow onwards. Suddenly no longer do nightmares torment her, nor the food spoil, nor any illusions come. “So they work ! My money was worth it.” She thinks, hugging the first fruit she eats in the house—fresh and unspoiled. Gosh, she is so, so happy and just realizes how granted she took life once, and while chewing the last piece of orange she goes to her bed. The moment she touches it she notices something— something she has been noticing for quite some time after she applied the talisman and wore this. It wasn’t like this before.

The bed is cold.

Yes, in winter time sometimes the bed is cold, but this is not how it happens. The thing is . . . . only one side of the bed is colder. And the other side is at its normal temperature. Not much warm nor cold. Whenever she touches that side, a wake of goosebumps trails her hand to her body. And as much as she might say her life has returned to normalcy, it would be a big fat lie because the footsteps still follow and the mysterious creaking still echoes. But she can’t rent in other places— times are harder than ever before and money is still tight. She also can’t pay per night at even the cheapest motels. So she pretends, acts as long as the big problems have vanished— she can manage, adjust to live in ignorance.

It is— her eyes widen at suddenly sensing something. A cool breath right behind her nape, just hovering over her like an outstretched shadow. Don’t notice or it will be stronger. Don’t notice or it will be stronger. Don’t notice or it will be stronger— She just slides to her normal-temperature side of the bed and closes her eyes, covering her head with the blanket like it will shield her from whatever that is. It’s alright—when the sun arrives the place becomes bearable. She just needs to wait for the sun.

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Pitch abyss is everywhere she looks. Only darkness and darkness wherever she looks. She can’t even tell where she is looking or if it’s a colorless dream, but—suddenly something shifts. She doesn’t know what or how really, because the darkness is still there, not shifting or moving. But something changes, something enters almost, because the feeling of a pair of eyes returns that even haunts her awake. But oddly enough it is not as oppressive as she clearly recalls. It’s less—it’s more of a watchful gaze, staring at her as long as it can. It’s the discomfort of being looked at. But no eyes can she find, nor any figure.

Her eyes open staring at the ceiling. "That was a . . . . weird dream". She thought, sitting up on her bed and just thinks curiously because the past week after applying the tailsman dreamless sleep has been coming— oh, the memory of yesterday's breath right on her nape jumps her heart. She wishes she doesn’t remember it and just turns off the light, because she has grown scared of what she would glimpse if she ever turns it off. In a way light has become her childhood shield once again, like her blanket.

Her feet touch the ground lazily, swaying a little mindlessly as she is stuck in her lately knotted thoughts. Her feet instinctively curl their toes and she looks down, frowning as she feels something— or more like gazes at something. The moment her eyes meet what she sees her throat lumps and tears begin to swell again.

Oh god, dear god, why this is happening to me ? Because staring at her is a real dead rat. It's body bloodied and the hue of the blood is light red— a fresh kill. She just can't do it, can she ? Running to her kitchen sink she throw up, the disgust color coloring the sink as her tears built and fall down her cheek unlike her screams that is deep within herself. She doesn't know how she manage to keep her head cool and not lose in screaming but it's better this then nothing. No, she has to drain her money, this won't do so she take a bag, pack her things and immediately left the house, her heart thumping already scrolling the cheapest motel to find but as she is walking, a swarm of crows darts toward her at high speed, crowding near her, making her startle and look around to only see patches of black feathers everywhere. “What is going on ?” She just raises her hands above, trying to get rid of them, feeling herself bend to protect herself when she notices they aren’t really hurting her—only prodding her with their beaks. And she just doesn’t know why they are so hostile. She is surrounded by them when a kind couple decides to help her get rid of them.

"Thank you, thank you so much". She bows to them gratefully as they smile, calling it alright, and walk away. Her smile falters the moment the couple goes away. She can’t have a moment of peace. With that she begins walking again, but this time avoiding any places that have crows nearby. She doesn’t know if she will meet another kind soul to help her. What she fails to notice is that inside the walls of the house, dogs latched on their porch begin to tense up, growling at the wall without knowing it’s toward her they are growling— but not her per se.

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"Now I can hopefully rest". Fingers crossed, she lays on the mattress a bit before pushing herself to her feet to apply some talismans she brought here too—to stick them around. She sits on her bed and begins working on her laptop, as she has to submit something on Monday— it’s a presentation. Soon the meeting of her fingertips to the keys of the keyboard fills the usual silence she never gets at home, and she begins to lose herself in it— in a way trying to shift her mind somewhere else. And nothing can be better than getting her work done. She can kill two birds with one stone.

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A yawn escape her mouth the third time and finally she realize she can't go on like this if she wish to finish it with perfection. She deserve some sleep now though the work is incomplete, she can tomorrow morning so she shut her laptop, keep it in the bedside table and walk to the close curtain window to pull them slightly and not so surprise to see night has cadence after all she is working for quite some time now. Her stomach is grumping in hunger but she is much too tired to eat or too cheapstick to waste any more money on the hotel by ordering. So she just close the curtains again and just go back to sleep, the bulb's light a night company to her fears.

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A touch— faint and cool caress her somewhere. She still sleeps away not paying any attention as sleep is pleasantly dreamless. Another touch. They are like tender grazes to her somewhere. She can't know, she just keeps her eyes close in sleep— a squeeze and she open her eyes to find herself panicking as no light is lit the room when she crystal clear remember having the light on and not that but she can't . . . . move.

She is paralyzed. "Oh gosh, oh god, oh heaven. Mama. Oh my god. Oh my heaven. What should I do ? What is this ? What is this ? What is this ? WHAT IS THIS ?" Her thoughts are spiraling at just what is this where she can't move an inch of her body . . . "oh, it must be sleep paralysis right ?" She doesn't, she wants to cry, wail— her legs are being apart. She feels something— almost feeling resemble of palms wide parting her legs. Not her but someone else and she now wants to die.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. This can't be happening to her. No. No. No. No. No. Fucking no. This can't be happening to her. How can someone enter her double checked locked door ! This can't be happening. She wants to wail so loud she want everyone and anyone to awake with a bang on their head and just help her. How can her luck be this— a shuffle of bedsheets reaches her ear, thin and almost unaudioable if the room hasn't been this awful quiet.

"Mama, papa". She calls them in her thought as she helplessly feels the bed creaks like a hinge when somebody climbs in, the mattress leans, a slow weight and she just wants to close her eyes and pretend nothing happening like it will stop the nightmare of every woman. But she can't, her eyes wide vastly wide staring at the horror, her ceiling waiting for the pair of eyes of a man to meet but they never does. Maybe he doesn't know she is awake ? She just wants to die ! Let her die than be spoiled like this. Anything is better than this— the touch appears again, it's touching her knees, her thighs, those palms she thinks are no small are just climbing higher and higher hitching her flimsy night dress up and up and up to her hips. Then it stop, suddenly and she feels the blanket move. More shuffling like someone just got inside her blanket she foolishly thought would protect her like in her childhood. But both the light and this failed her. Not that she trusted it. She can't trust anything now. Nothing at all.

It's touch this time shamelessly grab her one of breast, holding it like he is feeling it, it wrap utterly around his large palms she notice and above the fabric she sickeningly can feel his oddly smooth and slender hands. It seem his palm is large due to longer fingers. Her breath thins to papery edges.

She wants to howl. The word gets knotted in her throat like a stone. Her heart is a frantic thing beating against the ribs, a wingless bird trying to climb out. Her body lies flat and traitorous; she cannot lift a finger, cannot flex a knee.

The fan mutters overhead. Its slow circle is a white rim, a dull, indifferent face. The room smells of sweat and detergent and something else— metal, maybe— something that sits under her tongue like rust.

Just lay there and feel the acts of a man's lust, when his hand finally has enough do they caress, tracing her down her stomach, touching her belly button and then stop just as his touch is sitting atop her clothed clit and she just wants to tear this man apart, fight tooth and nail to save her dignity but she can't. Her body unable to move from a nightmare that's real. Horribly real— his hand has again went under her night gown and touch her strap of panty, lingering like he is thinking and then it come down.

"Please someone help me !" He take off her panty, the cloth toss somewhere noiseless and she just wants to close her eyes and sob but the ceiling's roating fan is all she can see, it's white head a witness to the violence about to happen to her as it spin and spin and spin— the man slip his two finger within her folds, not inside her clit just her folds as if feeling it, savoring it sickeningly. "Disgusting man. Go away, rot in hell". She curse in nothing, all vain when it's trapped in her mind, circling back to her as the man's finger circle too around her folds, feeling it's sticky and gluy texture. "Please let me die. Just die. Just die". The white fan's head just stare, watching and gazing with it's eyeless face.

He stick inside a finger and her body couldn't even hitch or grasp at that first invasion of her body. Like a foreign object it stick inside her body, when another finger join him. She can't find her breathing, she can't breath ! It is lost somewhere the way she lost her body to a man.

The man prod, circle around, grazing her inside as if he's clueless or maybe just slow the torture but he seem careful and the pads of his fingers are soft yet no near comforting at all and cool, so very cool it's like death is inside her. A corpse finger almost and she still can't snap her body out of it, her limps uselessly by her side, allowing the assault up into the bed quilt, and now he's begin digging into a place what's plenty warm inside her, and the heat's quick to steal into his fingers.

His fingers moving quicker-to work. Sweat's beading on her brow and chest, and he's so cold, anywhere and where he touch like death, so cold and helpless and he dig his finger more, gotta be wound up bad so he can dig up into those knots and cut them loose. Gut her. Give her that thing what's prettier than any name she knows.

He then grabs her hips real tight, moves himself as the bed groan again with his movement and she feels his finger bruise tight her thighs and keeping them above his, like keep them wide spread onto his skin on either of his side and sinks fast and rush his fingers become, and he wrap her legs around him to try pulling him in deeper, maybe pretend a asleep girl wants him back. He breathes out— the first sound out of him, though it's shallow and last a second.

The ache gets her heart pumping. The ache digs up into her belly, and the shape of fingers is coughing her blood she can't spill, making her stretch, giving her a thing what she doesn't want. He moves and moves and moves while she can't, and the letters what she manage to speak are nothing more than sealed behind her closed lips.

Then he pull them away, as quick as quicksand out her and could she breath, would she found her voice she would exhale loudly with her chest heaving but nothing, yet nothing at all. Just— ah . . . . . . . . . . . oh.

She

Lost

Herself.

The parts she so desire, ready to fought is all drain. All out of vain. Her life crumple. She is nothing anymore. She is not hers anymore.

She is no one really.

Just a doll of someone's fantasy. Someone's part of dream. Someone's heaven as he must be feeling himself good, dig himself real good in her, his cock's tip entered and his body follows until they become interlocked. Fully inside her where she can't feel nothing but a block of blunt, a knife piercing her inside and the second he moves it's ripping her skin, ripping her flesh apart and she can't even scream her lungs out but watch the fan who watches her.

She can't even fucking watch her rapist. Just feel in all the ways she wish she feel death instead. He's rocking quicker and grunting and fiddling with those parts of her what're tender and soft. He digs deeper; he shoves himself down into her, and he's rough and she will ache later for it just as much she is now amd that's a scar for life. He climb. He gasp. He hold her steel tight and have her and squeeze her with every inch of muscle he own, and that sticky thing what she doesn't got no name for finds her. It's soft, so soft and wet her eyes start burning with tears as hot as fire, and a shiver what cuts through the whole of her runs down her spine but the muscle aren't fair to move at your command.

It is only fair to the man who enjoys his time, enjoy the invasion of what once was her body and thrust deeper and further, exploring her inside— the same clit that hugs them real right clench like it got nothing to grasp and let him hit there and here and everywhere it hurt, it throb, it disgust, it taints.

Her heart twists, and the room's so dark, but she can feel him just fine, and she just . . . . close her eyes— she wide open her eyes and immediately with a strength of her body again she sit straight up, her limbs wobbly of newborn but she doesn't care, it's muscles sore but she does and immediately she pull the blanket over, ready to fight the man where she can end up as cold as death, bury in a ditch—

But to her utter terror the blanket she swear she saw a man inside, it's shape  now removed it's drape uselessly without shape on the ground.

No man.

Nothing is there.

Nothing but her and her tainted body and the tossed panty on the ground.

Nothing at all.

What ?

"H-how can . . ." Her voice once again got sallowed, disappear the moment she needs her, unable to form words of just what she is seeing. How can this be possible ? Just how can ? She tries to blink multiple times, just move across the bed, try to find where a man that violated her second was and try real hard not to cry. But again— nothing. She choke on nothing too, get caught on a what and suck in a trembling breath with her quivering lips as she haunch her spine, sitting on the edge of bed as she have no voice to speak then she scream. She must, as long as her lungs can keep, her throat can take.

Scream to her heart's sorrow and fear.

Just what is happening. Tears continue to drain her as if that man didn't suck it all before. She sob, wail and just bury her face on the same bedsheet she was touched. She just cries and cries.

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She didn't stay in that motel a second more and now wondering aimlessly in the road with her strap of back wrap around her body. Her eyes are heavy and red rimmed that ate the white and and her body is extremely weak from not eating anything. But the bile in her throat just refuses to let her eat either. She stands near a lamplight, bathed under the just-awakening sun, when her hand goes to her pocket and touches something sharp, yet not enough to cut.

She furrows, heart thundering at what more terrors have to unleash on her—but to her surprise, she doesn’t know what to feel at the card the talisman shopkeeper gave her rests in her fingers. And she suddenly feels foolish for not visiting a monk directly, consulting him.

“Let’s give it a try. What worse can it be than getting raped by something I can’t even see.” Calling the number as she leans on the pillar, devoid of any hope, the caller picks up. She talks a bit—where is this place, and are there appointments to book beforehand to consult the best monk. The man is patient enough to answer one by one, and she books an appointment right now. She begins walking toward the place, which is a temple she did visit but never went inside. Just behind the seller’s shop.

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Her nails sink, crescent-sharp, into the meat of her palm, and still her eyes do not lift. They stay drowning on the floor that gleams gold beneath her—each tile shimmering like molten coin of the temple. Sweat dries and clings to her skin, salt-stained, heavy, and she has never washed, never cared, for numbness swallows her whole, a black hole breathing where her chest should be, sucking light, sucking will. She waits. Patient. Patient but restless, breath snagged in the throat, until a pair of feet slips into her lowered vision. Bare, dust-darkened, plant before her.

She lifts her head.

A monk stands, robed in plain orange cloth, the folds loose, the cloth draped, and his mouth bends with a smile. “(L/N) (Y/N), if I am right to assume— we spoke, only hours past.” She nods, but it’s a jerky motion despite his gentle smile that could have comforted, had she not been unmoored from reality itself, unsure what is dream and what is ground beneath her. "You may follow—"

"What did you say her name is ?" Her eyes snap sideways to another monk, but he looks aged, more older than the one in front of her. His face contorted in disbelief.

"Sir, (L/N) (Y/N). Why ? Perhaps you know the lady ?" The younger monk question, his face just as confuse as (Y/N) who sure never saw the older monk.

"No, that's the point. I don't remember seeing your face at all and I believe I don't know you but I know that name.  I know it as well as my prayers to Buddha". His familiar eyes are now focuse upon her though a frown soured by soft befuddlement pulls at his lips. His gaze is still bright, and his voice curls without hindrance off his tongue. They are soft, filled with concern for her— a stranger to him.

At first, (Y/N) hesitates, can’t find herself to voice with that raspy throat of hers, and confusion deepens her muddled stare. But she has to, so she does. "I am sorry but my parents are let's say . . . ." Her eyes slip to the corner, avoiding the weight of his stare. "Not the most religious people so it can't be I met you in my childhood and I never almost visit temples until recently but I do remember that this is my first time stepping foot in the temple and speaking with you so". She pursed her lips. "Do I know you ?"

"Do you know a man named (L/N) Chao ? Or a woman named (L/N) Ai ?" The monk’s tone begins gentle, polite, but the edges of his words fray, threads unraveling, and something cold sinks into her gut. Something is wrong . . . . very very wrong.

"Um". She drags her mind, forces herself to recall people with that name and surname as same as that but she can't . . . at all. "No. Not at all". She shakes her head at last, small tremor running through her neck, eyes lowered, cowardice in her glance as she catches his face stiffen, alarm bleeding through his composure. “Wh—”

"Why did you come to this temple, my child ?" A smile climb upon his lips, a fragile thing meant to soothe, yet it only presses her heart deeper into its squirm, as though worms twist beneath her ribs. His eyes remain bright, kind even, but they do not reach her. Not truly.

Her breath breaks sharp. “Why ? Can you— please, first of all— explain why you are asking me so many questions ?” She cannot hold her silence anymore, many strange things been happening to her that never befall her before and now a man— a monk seem to almost know her name yet not her is odd. The elder exhales, slow and he look at the younger monk, gesture his chin to the door as if to speak close the door as empty the room is with remaining people have went away. The younger monk go to close the door but not lock it. The echo of wood meeting frame falling heavy.

While the older monk lowers himself onto the floor before her. Cross-legged. Calm. But his face grave— grave as the graveyard and as cold as the soil that covers bone. “Be at rest, child,” he says, voice low, carrying a tremor of weight. “You seem already disturbed, and I do not wish to burden you more. Yet what I will speak may bind together pieces of what you have suffered—or of what you soon will.”

The words crawl into her like smoke, like dread itself made audible. Her chest tightens, breath stutters, and still he goes on. “But before the telling, I must ask. Only a few questions. Will you answer them ?” (Y/N) stares— long, hard, eyes fix on him as if to read what lies beneath. Then, weary, she exhales, lips trembling at their corners, and she nods.

"Thank you. So, have you been experiencing some strange things ?" He inquire almost lightly like a toe testing cool water. She knits her brows, her chest folds inward, breath small and shallow.

"Yes". Immediately she answer.  "That's why I came here in the first place". Something eases in him then; his shoulders lose a notch of tension, as if a weight lifts from the ridge of his back but it's not quite relief either.

"Then child, do you feel like you are haunted ? Someone or— something unseen following you ?" Her chest grow smaller.

"Yes". She tries not to cry. Not in front of him. He watches, nods, thinking, and something in his gaze drifts to the amulet at her wrist— half-hidden by skin, glinting dull as a buried coin.

"So is it dangerous enough you begin believing in these ?" He point to her wrist and she didn't has to look to nod, she can't, she feels like she will crumble anytime if she look away.

"Plenty things has happened that makes me believe there is something". His eyes, the way he looks at her is like he knows, like he aches for her pain.

"Look, child. I can one hundered percent tell you are being haunted". Her breath hitch but it didn't let out a sound. "And it's not just any spirit but one of the vengeful male Niègǔi".

"I don't know what that means". She doesn't understand the word— doesn’t know the shape of it— but her body answers before her mind. Her limbs tremble, a small quake under skin. The name tastes of iron and cold. To hear what follows her and know it is real— both a mercy and a horror— tightens something in her throat.

"It's alright. Let me explain. The thing is Niègǔi for Niè (孽) is sin, karma, retribution, wrongdoing and the Guǐ (鬼) is ghost or spirit. Together they are called Ghost of Sin or Retribution. A Niègǔi is a ghost born from terrible suffering, betrayal, or unjust death, combined with deep resentment and that very resentment is so deep it twist it's own soul into a cursed entity unlike ordinary ghosts, souls of the dead who wander because they didn’t receive proper burial or rituals. They are weak, shadowy, mostly pitiful wondering that can be appeased with food offerings, paper money, chanting. Then there's hungry ghosts, spirits cursed by greed in life. Always starving, often depicted with tiny mouths and huge bellies. Harmless unless provoked, they mostly suffer on their own and can be cleansed by a ritual. The point is they both can be cleansed by rituals but Niègǔi are neither pitiful or roaming aimlessly. They are far stronger, so much so they retain intelligence, cunning, and full of malice. And sometimes they cannot be cleansed at all. What stops them is revenge— which comes in the form of extreme torment on the person, then death. But even if their revenge is solved, they will roam around bloodlines and karmic ties, destroying anyone who provokes them— let alone tries to control them.” Her chest shrinks down, smaller and smaller, as if her ribs fold like paper. Her head feels too heavy and too large for the small hollow of her body; breath comes in tiny rasping scraps. She watches him speak, and his careful, slow words stitch into her like needles, each stitch a cold that seizes her guts.

“But I have not tried to control them,” she blurts, panic clattering through her voice. "And I don't think I offended anyone—".

“My child,” he says, and sorrow cracks the monk’s calm. "Of course you didn't but as I said they despise to be controlled but some people do not respect the dead, some play god. Like (L/N) Ling. A woman who practiced Taoist occult arts. You will not know her.”

She shakes her head. “No. I do not.”

“So you see, in your words she can be called a witch, who was not only in name but in true sense a witch who could do black magic and other forbidden practices. Like spirit binding, where one makes a contract with a spirit for a singular job—but she tricked them into a contract of lifetime. One of them was this male Niègǔi, who was the strongest among the others of her servants. When she grew old, her practices weaker, he killed her. Then he became free, along with others of her grasp. He cursed her descendants, to destroy their life. And the woman’s grandchildren suffered a lot, so much so they one day came to me for a solution. I gave them what I thought was best. You see, when you can’t cleanse the spirit, you can trick it— by changing your entire name with a ritual. The spirit searches the given name of who it cursed. But some male Niègǔi are so smart that they remember the entire name. Even then, sometimes they get tricked. And it worked. The grandchildren left China never to return again, with new identity and religion. They became Christian.”

“But you see, it was a shortcut for them, not the ultimate answer. Because the spirit will search and search and search the name he has cursed. And in my youth I feared doing a full cleansing—afraid I would draw his ire. I regret that fear every day.” His eyes on her are almost a confession. “And by that folly, an innocent paid. The grandson’s name matched—before the change—your entire name. You bear the same name the spirit cursed.” Airless, she tries to breathe. The room tilts. She feels a small, keening animal inside her chest, wanting to die. The monk’s words drop like rocks, and the world collapses inward until all that remains is the echo of a name she never thought would bring such a curse.

"So you are saying this is all because someone changed a name as same as me and now I am the target ?" It slips from her throat—a laugh emptied of laughter. No curve of a smile, only agony, only pain, only a hollow nothingness that stares back at her from inside. She does not know how to feel. She does not know how to do . . . . “So for my name I’ve been haunted. For my fucking name?” Her spine bends, shoulders folding inward as if she’s trying to fold herself away. The curse makes the younger monk flinch, glance at the elder, but the older monk holds only remorse, sorrow deep as a well.

“Just to change my name, I was—harassed. Brought dead animals. Can’t he just leave without this burden? I thought the talisman worked. I didn’t have nightmares, just…just that heavy feeling of being watched—”. The older monk’s expression cracks into confusion. His head tilts, eyes narrowing as he studies her.

“I’m sorry, what ? You stopped have nightmares without doing any ritual? Only harassment ? brought dead animals?”

“Only ?” She turns on him, eyes narrowing, pain sharpening into anger at the word. “Do you even understand—”

“I’m sorry,” he interrupts, palms lifting. “I didn’t mean it that way. What I’m saying is— Niègǔi don’t behave like that. At all. And male Niègǔi's are more aggressive and forceful so he would disturbed your mind out, not just this, but show signs of your death, countless nightmares, show dead people and try to make you crazy but this sounds like Jiāshén, the Household or Guardian Spirits where they bring gifts— dead animals, bones, feathers, insects, found objects. In their mind, they’re feeding you. Helping. And you would constantly feel eyes on you because they are protecting you by having watching over you and so". He shakes his head once, as if trying to dislodge something. "But the most confusing part is (L/N) ling never had a guardian spirit bound to her and the one that the grandchildren were haunted is surely I know Niègǔi because they could even say they could feel their death coming and even lost one of their child killed by it". He presses his forefinger into his chin, thinking, frowning at the air between them as if it holds the answer. Then his gaze lifts to her again, heavy and searching. "Anything else to spare my child ?"

The words make her flinch. She sits up slowly, spine drawn straight by a thread, voice trembling on the edge of a cry but her eyes dry, hollow, somber. “I was touched at night. Yesterday. That’s when I finally broke.”

The monk’s breath catches sharp, his eyes go wide before he looks away, as though her words are fire.

“Heaven . . . ” he mutters, almost a gasp, then begins to chant under his breath—low, urgent prayers spilling from his lips as his fingers work the beads in his hand, one after another, a rhythm like panic disguised as devotion.

“My child . . . . .” his voice comes hoarse now. “I think you are in grave danger. Worse than death. I believed you were haunted by a Niègǔi, and it is— but it seems it has flipped its intent. Something worse. It has attached itself to you…not as prey but as possession, as affection. A thing that knows nothing of love trying to mimic it.”

Her hopelessness flares like a dying flame. She turns her face away, refusing his eyes, trying instead to pin her gaze to the shifting gold light of the temple floor, watching it ripple as the sun moves— something steady, something not alive.

She is truly misfortune, isn’t she ? That spirit— love her ? She wants to laugh but no sound rises if that's how it loves. She wants to die, now. Maybe that would help. Maybe that would end it.

"What you need is not just change of your name but a immediate ritual by a Taoist Priest. I know one of the bes..." His words trail off, fading into a wash of sound. They skim her ears but never settle, dissolving like mist before she can hold them. It’s as if she’s not even in the room anymore—just drifting, soundless, thoughtless. She can’t think, can’t feel. She only wants sleep— real sleep, good sleep— the kind she hasn’t had in months.

Actually From that point on—meeting the priest, the ritual, the preparations—it all blurs. Not because she doesn’t understand, but because she has no will left to understand, all of this was too much to process and the damage is already done even if she get rid of the spirit because she failed to submit her Monday's presentation and she can't go to office as she was prepared by the monks for this ritual and she still feels this overwhelming sense of not her body belonging to herself anymore. It's almost like everyone has invaded in her life what once was only hers and hers alone. Nothing is in her control anymore. Though she is lucky to have people by her side— truly wants to help her. She just . . . can’t feel it. It’s like she’s fallen into a black hole inside her own chest. She doesn’t know the day, or where she is. Just like a doll she is speaking the words other taught her, placed wherever they thought suited her. Like nothing is . . . . nothing . . . what is everything . . .

"Child, we succeed". The same monk sitting on the floor of her house announce but she couldn't feel joy, she couldn't feel anything—

"(Y/N)". Her eyes snap to him. Shouldn’t he avoid that name after the ritual ? But oddly his face is calm, kind, almost stubborn in its determination. "I know, you must be thinking I shouldn't be using that name but names are important because they are important to the person behind them who are important to the world, (Y/N). You see, there can be many names, thousand names similar or the same but what differentiate people are themselves because even in similar names what makes the name famous or even shine is the person. So even if you think that you don't matter or that what even matters ? Or nothing would happens if you don't exist, other people can bear your name, your place. Even better than yours. It's wrong because they can't be you, it can only be the same name with different meaning all because of you. They can't be you who even the spirit attached to you, yes for not good reasons but what I am trying to say is never think you don't matter because maybe somewhere you matter to someone or maybe not but you forever mattered to your parents ? If not then you mattered to your inner child always. Your childhood, yourself. You stay alive for yourself, you stay alive for making yourself happy that maybe your childhood self couldn't. You earn money to buy things your once self wanted. You stay alive for that self. You work to give her what she once wanted. You stay alive to buy her peace she deserves, to give her the things she couldn’t have before. No matter what name you have, it’s you who gives it its meaning. You who put a face to a name when people remember". He doesn’t know her life. He barely even knew her face— even the name belonged to someone. Yet this stranger’s words, spoken in the dim stillness of her room, break something open. Something rises in her she can’t even name. And suddenly she is crying, crying as if her ribs will split. His hand comes to rest lightly on her shoulder. She hasn’t cried since it happened, but now she does. And at least, for the first time after that incident it feels a little . . . .  less heavy.

━━━━━━━━

The click of ceramic. The soft clatter of metal. Sound spills and echoes around the small kitchen as she scrubs. The soap blossoms into a thick, white foam, swallowing the sink. It rises in peaks and swirls, childlike, almost pretty enough to play with. For a moment, her heart swells at it—a small, silly happiness she almost wants to keep.

But utensils must be cleaned properly. Thoroughly. So, with a reluctant flick of her wrist, she turns the tap. A hard rush of water slices through the foam like a blade, carving it open to the color of the plate beneath. Slowly, slowly, the bubbles thin and break until there’s nothing left. She dries the plate, stacks it neatly in the drawer, wipes her damp hands on the apron.

Her eyes drift, unthinking, to the sliding glass door—her reflection glimmering there—and she flinches. Instantly she looks away still afraid someone else would stare back.

Yes, she knows the priest successfully banished the spirit, after that incident she changed her entire name, moved out of the house she was living her entire life, changed her work branch to different state, leave the co-workers she was familiar with, burn the dresses she wore at her house. Even lost her body and said goodbye to the monk. To be honest she lost more than she gained. It isn't a happy ending, she still keeps the lights on wherever she goes. Draws the curtains wide in her new apartment. Avoids mirrors unless someone is with her. Sometimes the old weight rolls back over her like a dark tide. but . . . she is still alive. And "I think that counts I guess". She shrug and just about to turn around to leave.

"(Y/N)". A voice, a man's she never heard before, brushing just below her ear. Ice cold breath ghosts across her cheek. The sense of eyes returned like a huge dark shadow stretching up to the ceiling, hunched and looming over her back. Watching down at her.

FIN

𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐨𝐟 ◜⌜ 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 ⌟◞

A baby in her mother's womb. Inside her womb, the child begins with almost nothing— just a spark of cells, multiplying quietly under the shelter of her body. Piece by piece, it takes shape. A tiny heart forms and starts to beat, its rhythm borrowed from hers. Limbs stretch, eyelids close, fingers curl. Every ounce of growth depends on her— her blood, her breath, her strength.

The baby doesn’t know the world. It knows only her. Her heartbeat is the first sound it learns, her warmth the only climate it has ever felt. Her laughter shakes its little home; her tears ripple through it like waves. Even before it sees her face, it is marked by her existence.

When birth comes, the baby leaves one world and enters another, but its priority remains the same: mother. The first cry is not a greeting to the world but a call for her. In those first moments of life, no one else matters— no father, no family, no society. Only her.

Because before the child has a name, before it has rights or duties or dreams, it has a mother. And that bond— it coils inside her chest like a dragon wrapping scales tight around treasure. She doesn’t know what snuck in her veins, but the maid’s words, the first she ever bothered to hear with any weight, struck her world sideways when she sat before the mirror. Her elbows slumped on the desk, her face pale and bored, eyes glassy, not even pretending to sparkle pretty for the man who is just. . . . her husband. Satoru loves her already and the Gojo heir is swelling inside her, stretching her body wider than she imagined flesh could go, hidden beneath silken layers of her kimono. So what’s the point ? Security is already hers, just like Mother said.

"A secure life is far better than temporary happiness so always choose wisely". It was a motto at that point, (Y/N) heard that more than any bed time stories until it grew inside her thoughts like roots she never questioned.

So she lived securely. Secure, but never happy. No sparks, no trembling verses like the songs people sing of. And why should she crave them when the only clear whisper in her heart was "I want something mine". It startled the maid. Froze her hand mid-stroke, blush brush hovering near (Y/N)’s cheek, because she had leaned too close when her madam said it.

"You have many things, madam," the maid tried. Idiot woman. Foolish tongue.

"No, nothing is really mine". (Y/N)’s throat ached with the words, but she didn’t have strength for the long unwinding of her meaning. It felt like explaining a hundred sheets of paper she didn’t want to lift. Even her feelings inside her body’s chamber pressed heavy, draining. Exhausting.

Living itself— too exhausting.

"Well…" the maid tilted her head, naive eyes dropping to the swell beneath the folds of silk. "It's alright because madam now you will have something that's made out of you. Something only you on earth possesses. Even when the baby is born and there are thousands of mothers. Only you will be it's mother and it's your baby before anyone's". Her eyes—(E/C), dulled from gray days— widened, just a little.

A spark from match-head flame.

Really ?

And the spark leapt, caught, flared. A fire that climbed out of her chest and spread until it painted over the dust-gray world in color, in kaleidoscope the moment she first held her baby.

"You are his mother so you have the right to name him". Sweetly said Satoru, voice soft but his eyes taken a back, catching how her pupils widened, drowning her gaze so deep it almost narrowed his azure stare. He said nothing of it. Just noticed. Noticed how she smiled. Wider than anything he had ever seen from her lips. And only then did it strike him— he had never seen her smile at all before this moment.

Corners of her mouth climbed high, brushing against the round apples of her cheeks, stained rose-red. The machine beside her bed beeped higher, higher still, her heart racing wild, what felt like fireworks bursting inside her veins. She seemed . . . .  alive. Alive in a way she had never been.

How odd, how very odd. It took only few months for him to realize just how the baby boy had already bent their lives into new shapes. She had become bright, vivid, burning. And deep inside, Satoru knew— it wasn’t just motherhood. No. It was something sharper, deeper, more complicated, curling inside her chest.

And it took even fewer months of observation and separating (Y/N) and their new born child to know—

"It’s okay, you should rest. He’s fed. You’ve done enough. Rest, darling. Rest."

"Okay," she would whisper. But he always knew. Pretend-yawns, heavy eyelids then she slipped away from his side the moment he pretended sleep. He would wake to find her clinging to the child, arms wrapped tight like chains spun from her own skin.

"The babysitter will take care of th—"

"That is my child." Her voice ripped the air. A strangled scream, so fierce anyone might think he was tearing their baby from her arms, not merely suggesting as they sat on the tatami-matted floor. "Why would you even let someone else touch him ! How could you not see— he cannot live without me ! He cannot eat, sleep, even breathe seconds without me !"

And then she broke. Collapsed against him, melting into his body, lifting those eyes he remember at first sight being swallowed and now they looked at him with a yearning so desperate, so consuming, it set his heart racing faster than any battle like every time he is near her. Just thousand times more. And that's when he realize how much he enjoyed that yearning. That clutching of her on him, that embrace she does whenever she wants something out of him. Something that is always related to their child and he learned to savor it. To exploit those needs towards him.

Just like currently "He needs me, Satoru". (Y/N) pulls, tries to slip off his lap but his one hand wraps around her whole, the other flat on the desk, fingers splay over the paper the oldie higher ups send him. Bastards.

"He is three years old, darling". Satoru says, voice lazy like smoke, and drags her back into him, sets her perfectly on his thigh so she cannot move. She feels the weight of him, the way he claims her bottom as if it were another ledge on his body.

"Precisely because he is three years old he needs me". She answers, tearing her gaze to the open door. The hallway glints, just a few steps, and it taunts her with how easy it would be to go and take the child into her arms. Her (E/C) eyes then flicker to Satoru; he has his blindfold off now, crumple on the desk, and his azure eyes drink her

"No, children stop needing on their mother the moment they stop breastfeeding". He says, making it up as he goes, and she smiles because she knows he lies.

"That is entirely false and he needs me still—"

"Please the babysitter's entire job is handling tiny babies and you know we can afford doctors too if you want and so much more". He cuts her off, pulling her closer in a movement that makes the world small, his legs part guiding by her waist so she stands between them, his knees on either side on the expensive leather chair, her weight pin to him.

"Well, you can afford it". She point out, giving in to her husband's touch because she always gives to keep peace, because his hands are warm and familiar, because there is ease in this shared ledger of things. Her cheek presses to his, their breath mingles, and still her eyes slide to the hallway, to that thin bright sliver of wood where the floorboards lead to her boy.

"You are my wife which makes it our money". He murmurs. His hand slides down her waist, tracing the small hollow of her back, following the curve of her bottom to her thigh, and the paper falls forgotten. He bends her forward a fraction, arranging her so she sits between him, knees caged by his legs, and she lets him.

Giving in every motion as he longingly watch the concern in her eyes "Your wife I am and your money you earn. I am just a housewife with no income". He chuckle at that, raspy and sweet. Oh, lovely lovely (Y/N).

"Then wifey, how about I give you something made entirely out of your own ?" Her brows knit, the soft skin between them puckering, and she lets her head tilt, her cheek presses further against his, cheek to cheek.

"What do you mean by that". She nibbles the inside of her lower lip, nervous habit, small sound. He laughs again, low and pleased.

"I don't know too. I am just saying you could have anything you want, hon". Satoru smirk, His hand settles at the nape of her neck, firm, keeping her there while the other hand never stops, roaming, rubbing, finding the small planes of her spine and the hollow at her waist. He cannot get enough of her. "And I promise. Swear on our love, I will give you that". He drawl, smashing her cheek harder on his, feeling even the slight pluse under her flesh pumping, beating blood to flow. “Something rosy, something small at first, and they get bigger.” He breathes her in, his nose hot near her ear where her loose hair tickles. “You can name them. Little pieces of us.” Insteatly he feels the warmth tear from him, his azure eyes then meet her grin as wide as she first saw their child.

"You will give me another baby ?" Satoru incline his head like a man who decides on a whim.

“Why not ? We can have more than enough. How many would you like ?”

"Many, Satoru. Many, one hundred". She giggle, a sound halfway between delirium and wish, knowing how absurd it is and loving that he watches her so easily — like she’s in the palm of him, and he likes the way she fits there.

“Hm, but won’t you be in that dreadful pain again ?” he asks, lips pursed a little.

The corner of her lips falters, eyes slipping sideways, escaping his gaze to lean into thought of the labor she endured, the flesh tearing and screams out of her lungs but the fruit comes to her mind, the weight of it in her arms, too sweet to deny. So many children, all hers and hers alone. She will name them, each one, keep them close even when grown. Even then they will be hers.

She drowns in the thought, so deep she almost forgets the man holding her. Then— he stands. Lifts her with one arm banded tight around her waist, the other leaving her nape only to sweep across the desk, scattering papers, pens, every useless thing to the floor. The thuds snap her from her dream. Cold wood meets her back, and her breath jumps.

“I don’t mind,” she says, and it is truth. She doesn’t mind— not if she gets what she wants in the end. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and eyes catch nothing but ceiling, not the face of the man she needs.

“You don’t mind ? Hm.” His hum is low, drawn out. His azure eyes shift to the side, catching her profile, watching how she looks anywhere but him. He rocks her gently, slowly, as though cradling something fragile. “You don’t mind if they have my blue eyes ?” His hand slides down to her stocking, black fabric hidden beneath her kimono.

“You don’t mind if they have my nose ?”

He yanks. The straps snap apart. Her gasp bursts out, sharp, eyes flying to his at last. He grins— foolish, wide, eyes glimmering with madness.

"No". Short answer she give, always so brief with him. Just like she was sitting opposite of one another with their parents present when they first meet, her eyes at the ground. "Yes". Did she easily agree at their marriage. "No". At the further get to know each other in another room. It is all so Infuriating that the only thing she seems to want with all her breath, all her yearnful heart, is a useless kid.

"My hon' wants a baby on her huh ?" Her eyes snap back to his, wide now, caught as a moment ago they were drifting. His jaw flex tight, veins swell sharp under skin like ropes about to split. The room catches another rip of stocking, the sound thin and echo the walla, she gasps, soft little suck of air, when he folds her legs up, pressing them near her chest, trapping her small. Her breath hitch. "Pretty little baby for my pretty wifey". he mutters, voice dragging rough, blunt— like iron scraping wood, never slicing her, but close enough she feels the scrape.

"What are you doing ?" Her throat works, voice pitch higher, trembling, because this— this way— he’s never touched her before.

"Making love to you, hon." His words grind low, and then his body’s heavier, crushing her into the cool surface, another hand fumble, fast, shoving trouser down just enough. His cock freed, stiff, greedy, he push in sudden, no waiting. She cries his name, broken-pretty, so sweet he almost spill right then and there but he hold, he has to if he wish to enjoy her more. After all it's rude to gulp down food if not chewed and savoured it finely.

He thrust more and more. Her legs press up against herself, folded tight the way he wants, leaving her no space to breathe. Each time he push forward her breath breaks her breath to shards, helpless little sounds, and he bend down, swallowing it like it belong to him.

Her lashes wet, mouth falling open as if to speak, but the rhythm of him keep stealing every word before it is born. Her body twist under her grip, body trembling, but he pin her hand back down, his weight covering her until she is caught completely beneath him. "Aren't you goona beg hon' ?" He question humming a little at the end with another thrust on her that makes her choke, spit shining the corner of her mouth before she shuts it quick, refusing drool. "(Y/N), goona have to beg for what you wish". He remind her, watching in eyes gleam sharp as she fights for breath, chest heaving from the tiniest littlest bit of weight he lean on her.

While her mind is plethora of what's going on as he almost rarely ever behaved like that—never thought he’d move this way. Each thrust digs deeper, sharper, claiming her inside, hitting spots that make her shiver with a tight knot of unease, her eyes roll to her above, imagining a child, hers— (E/C) eyes with (S/F) face to compliment it's lips curling just like hers. Little hands, chubby, reaching ease her pool of pit inside her stomach. Her (E/C) eyes glances at him, husband smiling down, calm predator, and a tremble stirs her. "What do you say ?"

She replies nothing instead her hand shoots forward, gripping his crisp white shirt, yanking him down, pressing her lips to his, shocking him entirely because he never thought his plan would work so well to have her take initiative. His wide eyes catching flecks of light like sparks, veins flushing red to his cheeks so well he looks drunk. Drunk in her and his one hand snakes to her nape, stern to clamp their lips together harder as he greedily took her, lapping her lips, munching on them and just aboslutely slurring her salivas. The other grips her waist, moving her slowly, dragging himself out slower than need until only head of cock is inside before plunging— hard, sharp, and full— hitting straight to the pit of her inside, making her choke on the shared heat of their mouth. Eyes half-lid, body trembling, she comes around him surrounding him to the whites of a egg, and creaming him to end he feels wonderfully consumed.

He releases her lips, watching her below as he feels something and saw something brilliant. "Look at how deep I am within you". He made her look at herself as he tore the thin fabric of her night dress from middle as it's screech last not more revealing her nakedness and the bulge of his shape inside her upto to her navel, stretch her eyes wider with shock and wonder. "Can you see it, wifey ? Sweet wifey". He coos at her surprise face and smooch their lips sweetly, just melting under her touch and the stickness of them with sweat clinging to their body and the cool hum of AC brushing against heated skin. "My wifey," he whispers, teasing, coaxing her hips to move under him.

Her breath stutter. "Remember I didn't cum yet ?" He tilt his head, watching her face with those dizzy azure eyes of his hypnotized by her then grips her breasts, palms pressing, fingers teasing her buds, squeezing, lifting, shaping, marking her with his touch. "Let’s make you cum again". He leans to suck her buds, circling around them with tip of his tongue, flicker her perky buds and quick to bite down just lightly yet hard enough to print making her whimper and a little strangled sound caught in her throat. "This time you move". Satoru talk still the buds in his mouth and without her permission he just grip her waist and lean his body apart a little to spread her legs apart this time, completely wide as he moves her up and slam right into her. She clenches, tight, almost painfully, and he groans low into her, one eye squinting, lost in the feel.

"Gosh, hon' calm down". He mouths more of her breast, sucking her bud chasing the ghost of milk that won’t come. She whimpers again the sound caught in her throat while his other hand's abuse on her breast.

He bites, teases, squishes, molding and moves her entire body, jiggling her flesh the swag of her body at his control. Her palm presses against his shoulder, trying to shove him back, but he’s too deep, chasing the fevered heat of her breasts, thrusting her up, down, again, again.

Then he switches, dragging his tongue over her skin, licking her whole another breast, teasing the bud until it peeks, hard and sensitive too. She's slams down again, a sound resemble noise echo the weight of his ears and he hums enjoying the melody, biting down at the same time his tip of cock hitting in and when he finally had enough he moves to her mouth and her lips rings to moan he kiss her lips — and in the next pull, he comes undone with her, hot and full, filling her further, cramping the tight hole. It's white's dripping strings to the wooden table with the air breath of fresh sex.

"My lovely lovely (Y/N)". Satoru lightly pat her cheek, her daze eyes gaze at him, resting so tiredly he wish she is always like this, paint in him, tired to never protest or even think of thinking other than him. He smile, toothy and wide "See, I told you. Now you would have your little present".

FIN

𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐨𝐟 ◜⌜ 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 ⌟◞

Life was perfect. A husband who cares and snatch her away from the rot of her neglectful family and built a new one from scratch is nothing less than magical. Until it wasn't, until she realize wives don't walk in tiptoes when their husbands are angry, wives don't have to accept when their husband want to have sex, wives never want to think what could potentially tick their husbands.

That love isn't suppose to hurt.

It took her years to understand that, far more than she’d ever confess aloud, ashamed of how long she clung to the lie. How could she not, when the life she came from was its own kind of ruin? A family buried in filth and drugs, a house where clothes disappeared but needles never did. But they never raised their hands on her, only their voices which is something even her husband didn't do but those firm brown eyes staring at her with one of his brow raise awake more dread than she ever felt when she naïvely threat her parents if they ever did drugs she would throw them secretly. Those profanities no child should ever listen is much more preferable than the silence he gives her if she done something wrong yet those eyes always stare at her.

Just watch her roam one room to another doing her chores as pristine as he likes never saying what fault she’d committed to earn his coldness and when she ask, his response took form in clenched jaw and scoff that feels more degrading than any name callings she could had endured. She would sometimes even begged for him to tell her what she had done wrong at least but his lips would be sealed as tight as a coffin. She squirms just remembering the nights when his silence grew into distance. When he turned off the lights and shut himself in another room, knowing well that darkness unraveled her, that being alone twisted her chest into terror. But if she pled to sleep with him, he would simply take the car keys to leave the house so she had endured sleepless nights clutching the pillow to her chest as she watch corners like a child afraid monsters unseen to launch at her any moment despite the on lights.

But it all come to an end when she met the oh so lovely Jane, she was the only reason (Y/N) didn't died miserably young. Fate had sent a saleswoman to her door one ordinary afternoon ring her door and she open the door to let her in, very curious that perhaps the things this lady sell would help her chores done faster quickly turn into a little chit-chat where the beautiful lady's face turn alarmingly pale and eyes wide as the cookies (Y/N) has snippets her fingers multiple times.

It was then Jane leaned in, and with a strange softness began telling her a story— of a swan, she knows very silly and out of place but she listened, afraid no would upset Jane but the more she listen the more it felt like . . . she was reliving her life as the swan, as if that swan was her and she that swan but instead of happiness all she felt a pit in her stomach and bitterness in her mouth she couldn't help ask what is going on. And soon she learned Jane just created a story based on symptoms what victims of abuse go through in a story and unironically it matched her because well, she was a victim of abuse.

Abuse . . . . such a bitter and hateful word she couldn't swallow yet as the days passed, that word became a clearing fog, revealing the shape of her suffering. She realized she was tethered to the same bleak ending as the swan, unless she let Jane help. And Jane— sweet Jane, who owed her nothing—did. She guided her to the right lawyer, the right path to independence, the right home where a new beginning could take root.

Since the free clutch of her husband— oh, ex-husband she begin taking care of herself, began eating at her own pace, without fear of upsetting him, begin taking time, begin not doing chores when she felt like not to. But freedom carried its own revelations. Only when she tried to live for herself did she see the damage he had left behind because because dark circles clung beneath her eyes, etched by years of sleepless nights. Her hair was a tangle of neglect, far rougher than she had when she first met him, her teeth— oh heaven, her teeth are the worst part. It . . . so grimly yellow she feels herself wants to be swallowed by the earth from just how shamed she was. Oh, how never did sweet Jane ever recoil at just how unhygienic she was ?

Tears pool at her eyes and burned hotter than any fire it sting to call Jane to ask her for help. to beg for help with things so simple, so ordinary, things most adults moved through without thought—

“How do you drive a car ?”

“How do you get from one place to another ?"

“How do you pay with a card when cash isn’t enough ?”

“How do you talk to people at the bank ?”

And so on, these things people easily do as she can as cooking an omelette but only if it were so easy as that. She realize just how isolated he kept her from the world that she had little to almost no knowledge at survive in but she is stubborn to crawl back, even knowing he roamed free somewhere in the same country. The very reason she had first let Jane into her home, all those months ago, was because Jane spoke her tongue in a foreign land where (Y/N) had been mute, stranded, silenced.

“No. I have to do this.” She flip the phone, physically pull away to not see 'Jane' on the contact and begin to watch YouTube hacks on how to clean her teeth and stupid stupid (Y/N).

How is she suppose to survive without him, when every step forward spirale into collapse ? Everything went wrong that shouldn't be and she has another meltdown in the bathroom because while doing her normal routine brushing, blood begin to pour. "Oh gosh, oh god someone help me". Crying prefusly she pray as her nose begin to run, her face blotching into red, her skull pounding as though a hammer split it clean down the middle.

Her gums. They were bleeding.

Every mouthful of water turned crimson, every gurgle filled with her own blood. The brush ran slick with it, her teeth stained scarlet and that tangy, metallic taste just refuse to wash off. Snuff in the depth of her corners or between the teeth.

"What should I do ? What should I do ? What should I do ?" No one had ever warned her about this. Cavities, yes, decay, yes— but bleeding gums ? She paces the tiny bathroom, each step sharper than the last. “Is it because . . .  because I’m brushing again after so long? Is it . . . . too late?”

She stops mid-step, frozen, a fresh wave swelling in her throat. “Oh my god . . . oh my god.” The words shriek inside her skull, louder than her own voice, as her wide eyes lock onto the mirror. Staring. Terrified. Wondering if this is her fate now—to live forever with this ruined version of herself.

With hair thinned to threads, no thicker than a horse’s bitter tail when she loves her hair so much that cutting her hair means cutting a part of herself. With her eyes always have dark circles when she once slept soundly unafraid of the ghouls and ghosts. With her face will always have aches all over the face when she could give them the care they need. With teeth so rotted she feared she might never smile again—

She bang her head on the sink, A sharp crack, pain bursting bright, stars flaring in her vision. She let it happen, need it, because the voices refuse to quiet. Pain is cleaner than their noise. She need time, not torment. Stillness, not storm. Calm not this crippling anxiety.

"I need to see a dentist". Yes. That is the most logical step. She is an adult. She could do this without Jane, without anyone holding her hand. Book the appointment. Wait for the dreaful day and face her fears. That's it.

The end . . . . . only it isn't that easy in real life because now she is regretting ever stepping foot on the squeaky clean white walls of the dentist with only patients are children with their parents and she feels extremely out of place, feels like a spotlight dawning at her, eyes staring at her, judging her. Even the walls, floors everything. So exposed and naked.

She fix her gaze ahead, reminding herself again and again: don’t shake your foot. Don’t let your eyes dart like a hunted rabbit. Just . . . . not seem abnormal. That's it.

"(Y/N) (L/N)". The sound jolt her to her feet. “Yes, me.” Her voice come out small, soft afraid a yell alike the stuff lady would somehow turn all the people in the room to hate her and if she raise her hand above her chest would make all of them call her stupid, a child back in classroom.

"Yes, Miss. It's your turn. Please go to the room". The nurse smile kindly, something (Y/N)'s heart warm up and latch it into like a leech and nod timidly. She went to the only door out in open and Inside, the whiteness followed her, sterile and relentless, and her (E/C) eyes caught on the man in the coat— back turned, gloves pull snug. "He must be Dr. Davies".

"Umm. . . sir". She slowly call out, unsure how to approach him without being weird or anything when the man turn around, a mask tied to his ears but pull slightly below his lips giving her a surprise at how young and handsome looking man he is. Almost reminds her of her husband, no, not by looks or anything . . . just that these days she has grown used to faces older than her own, worn down with time. To see someone near her age, and beautiful at that, flustered her into silence and she avert her gaze immediately.

Narrowly missing the way his eyes narrow and head tilt in a curiosity. "Miss. (L/N), right ?" She nod without looking up, focusing solely at her dark shoes against the pavement of the floor and the light is suddenly brighter reminding her that it's worse how she have to tell a young man, thrice successful in his life that . . . she has dental issues, at this age. "Please come, take a seat". She glance at his palm gesture to the seat and she swallow thickly. Can she quit ? Like would it be too humiliating to run out and never return ?

"Yes, it would be". She decide, her feet carrying her to the seat as she sit, stiff and trembling, determine not to falter further. "Please, sit comfortably". She flinch terribly at the slight touch of his palm on the small of her back. "Oh, I am extremely sorry for touching you without your permission". His voice was low, tender, laced with apology. She didn’t have to look up to know there is no mockery on his lips, only a small, earnest smile.

“It’s alright. I was… just startled,” she reply quickly, desperate not to offend the man who now held the fate of her smile in his hands.

"Oh, relieved to hear". Suddenly he chuckles, and for a moment, she's all ice, but his laughter is warm and bright, and after a second passes, the stiffness in her joints starts melting. "So, may I know the problem ?" His voice hover close— too close. She can feel his presence grazing the edge of her skin, see the ghost of his white coat at the corner of her vision. The faint scent of mint and doctoric cleanness reach her nose. Nice, yes—pleasant even—but her stomach still stir uneasily, coils tightening rather than calming.

“Umm…” Her lips press together. The words sat like stone in her throat. She should rather die than say it aloud. She shake her head slightly, as though scolding herself inside. No—you can’t falter now. Spit it out. You’re wasting his time. Her own thoughts snap at her like a stern tutor.

“It’s just—” she blurt out too fast, the words tumbling as if tripping over each other. “I couldn’t take care of my teeth properly these past months, and now… suddenly my teeth bleed. Not much, just a little. . . but it happens whenever I brush.” Her breath ran out and she shut her eyes tight, embarrassed, half-expecting him to frown and tell her she’d have to repeat herself more clearly.

"Oh, okay. Nothing to worry yet". His voice again tender and real nice like it's nothing of a big deal and it surprise her. In a pleasant way she hadn't feel for a long time. "So, can you let me examine your teeth ?" Her breath stall. Why? The question buzz faintly in her skull, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask. He has spoken so politely, so naturally—it would feel wrong to resist, wrong to sound suspicious now that she had admitted the problem. So she nod when she feels the doctor vibrate a little like a noiseless laugh he give.

The chair swallow her as she sink back. The lamp above her head flicker on, white-hot, searing against her eyelids. She squint against it, blinking quickly. "Don't be shy. Take as much space you want". His voice come from above her, his figure leaning into view. For a moment his face eclipse the light, his shadow softening its sting. A smile plays at his lips. It's a small thing, maybe birth out of courtesy and she return it as best she can muster up the courage.

"I did". She said rather quick after moving some that helped nothing to ease up the strain putting her back of nape. He tilt his head some and a smile wider.

"Maybe be a little higher, Miss". With that his cool pads of fingers touch her nape leaving trails of shivers bouncing her skin as his fingers hold her by the nape firmly as he locate her a little further while her unease grow sharper with the steadiness of his grip to the point she for some off reason decide to spy in his eyes. They are onyx and they pair nicely with his if she is correct in her assumption muted purple hair. "Ah, nice. Thank you for cooperating". He continue softly, his way of speaking so nice and polite it makes her feel like she done every thing right.

"Okay, now I am beginning. If you have the slightest problem no hesitation to speak up". He says. He speaks lightly, and his voice is clear and kind-sounding-chipper, almost, and plenty friendly. She nod immediately. "Now you may close your eyes or else the light will hurt". She did so, the last thing she caught being his reassuring smile before darkness folded over her. But the darkness isn't calm—it writhe with the odd, childish fear that something might be waiting on the other side. A lurking presence. A predator crouch just beyond the veil. Her imagination tangle shadows into monstrous shapes until she almost wants to open her eyes again.

Then— scratch. A sudden cool touch against her gums made her flinch, a breathy sound escaping her throat before she could stop it. Too loud. The room went still. She feel his instruments pause, his hand frozen. The silence press hard enough that her cheeks flame, mortified. "What did I just do ?" Her throat tighten. She want to open her eyes, to apologize, to beg his pardon for making such a noise but she didn't either open her eyes nor spoke and it is mercy that she couldn’t see him because she could have see— the bloom of heat across his cheeks, the flush racing to his ears.

Hot. The thought crack through Seo-joon before he could stop it. His lashes fall shut, but when he dare move again, her body respond with another fragile, trembling sound. A wince, a moan, sweet and sour all at once—the kind of sound that pull him somewhere unholy. His chest constricted. His mind fill with filth.

His gaze rove of its own accord, over the helpless slope of her form, drape in that light, flowing dress that did nothing to protect her from vision. A garment made for illusions—dreams. Wet ones. He swallow, the wet drag in his throat louder than he intended. Her brows knit, faintly, as though she’d heard him. Oh, curious little thing…

“Your teeth . . . seem fine,” he offer, though his voice trip. His eyes has caught on her hand— the restless circle of her fingers over her bare ring finger, a nervous habit since the moment she stepped in. “Is she married?” the thought cut sharp. He banish it. "Umm. . yes yellow a bit but nothing a good floosh can't do that's all". And her brows undone pretty— what ? Fuck. Shut up. He told himself. What's wrong with him ? He never feels that and the more his eyes stare at her.

Her posture. His eyes drag lower. The tilt of her head, as though angle upward just for him, awaiting for something. No Seo-joon.

The soft give of her thighs. His eyes just blankly stare and imagine the bare sex of her, so small perhaps tight from the meek or loose where he can drove himself without— No, Seo-joon. You never think that way about clients.

Her belly lay all offering, like begging to mark up and bites those. His tongue lick his lines of teeth, feeling how deep he have to bite to leave marks. Nope.

Her chest. Shit, He swallowed again, too loud, too desperate, and visions unspool in him of those breasts press hard to the cool surface of his desk, her body trembling as he fuck her again and again. SEO-JOON, NO.

His eyes then land on her mouth, oh those lips all prettily wide open showing her cute reddish tongue politely sit on her mouth that could so much on his aching cock, wrap it all like a lo-li-pop, with those teeth grazing against his cock, teasing him to the fuckest, driving him mad— he will do it. He bit his own tongue hard. "Because I think the main problem is in your gums. So can I examine to see how just steady they are ?" Her eyes open, fluttering so slowly he coo and she stare up at him, that angle is doing him so dirty he never thought of it that way ever. Shit, what vixen he got in his hand.

"How ?" Her voice is soft, honeyed, eyes wide and shining, daring him with every blink, tempting the filth in his mind before he could even act.

"Touch you". Her body tense. No, no. “That’s how we check for loose teeth, or problems in the gums . . things that hint at deficiencies or issues.” Suddenly she got rocks in her throat, the harsh light force her lashes down— it seem brighter, more in spotlight where no is again not the answer but she look at him, just a slit of vision through the shadowed lashes and he's got such kind eyes pairing with kind smile and he was the top-ranked doctor in her searches, the one she had chosen, and she knew just what she had to say.

"Yes". Finished he is and smile he give, eager and all sweet-like.

"Good". And she close her eyes again, the polite little thing she is being, and then his hand move inside her mouth, immediately her breath hitch at the feel of nothing a plastic, cold thing stretch inside fingers— like the feeling of glove instead she is feeling his bare hands.

His slender fingers lightly touching at gums, those finely cut nails done no harm alike whatever tool was there. It's like he is extra gentle, extra caution but the tightness in her throat caught her off-guard, a raw, choking pressure that made her yelp, her eyes wide and look up at the doctor who's face hidden behind white mask still appears impassive. Nothing funny looking or anything but then why is his fingers inside her— throat ?

And she yelp again, years swell in her eyes and disbelief print from staring at the man from the distorted vision of tears and bright hot-white lights. She can't understand !

Her throat feels smaller and tighter around his bare fingers, in pair they are, circling around and her body coiled, tears stinging as she squeeze them away, the panic rising with every fraction of a second she can't breath.

Can't feel anything when he pull away and air tore into her lungs in ragged gasps. Her chest heave, heart hammering like a fish thrashing in the sun, eyes rolling back as reality struck. "I apologize for the extreme discomfort but unfortunately there is no way to examine your mouth".

"B-ut you sai—d my gums". His eyes slight wide at the pretty thing not confusing. Hmm. . . the dose is still to get in her head because while he enjoyed what he did but it was also to distract her from injecting her with IV sedatives.

"Oh, you must have misheard it. I said it's your mouth". Her eyes stare wide at him, they a narrow a bit then.

"He is lying". Because she heard gums clearly, he said gums had to do with the problem not the mouth— . . . what ? Mouth ? Teeth, wait, she squeeze her eyes, feeling slight droopy.

"Your mouth has some issues. I thought they might extend to your throat, but they’re fine. Your gums. . well, they’re part of your mouth, so I can see the confusion. Really, nothing to worry about.” Really ? So she just misunderstood ? N-n-No lying ? Her lids hover over her eyes closely. But what reasons he got to lie about for ? She force herself to look at him and his dark, gleaming eyes are fix on her, staring down and he's seem like smiling, but there's nothing mean in it. It's all comfort, all warmth, like a friend. Then he parts those grinning lips, and he asks, in a voice that's awfully kind and unfairly smooth under the muffle, "Nothing to worry. Leave it to me. I’ll make sure you have none.”

Okay. She nod again, the easiest thing in the world. Nod and agree and go on, she close her eyes and her breath is now steading, her shoulders relax, those bright lights dim and this time the darkness seem comforting with his fingers once again enter, this time less invasive, wondering like explorers tracing the landscape of her teeth and a thump slide under tongue, usher it out her mouth to roll it back, let the tip touch and  a smooth warm thing touch back.

And it's seem to twist with her tongue out in the open like a lover's embrace and it's feels all hot and bothered, slick is all she can feel from the warm thing twisting and sucking her tongue, it's almost like being in someone's mouth. How funny and ill-logical and the thump under the tongue suddenly stir to action, it's brush the surface where her tongue rests and it's ticklish her until another finger join it seem— a forefinger and they begin to caress the sides of her tongue, coaxing it, pinching it as she moan loudly at the dull sensation.

And she can't help but feel the slimy mixes of salivas one has a tint of something belonging to another and hers's trinkle down her throat, all cool in her warm flesh and into the soft hollow until she swallowed it instinctively. Then those fingers brushes across her row of teeth like brushing against row of chairs swift at reaching the end to only do it again. Grazing his nails on those uneven bumps between her teeth as her tongue continued to be assaulted when another palm appear, sneakily slide to the back of her nape,  she shiver.

So chilly and they hold her firm and clear, clamp it and oddly lifting her head above, and more above until it connect with a pair that fits her lips. She doesn't know but they feel just like lips as she is being eaten whole, her mouth seem no longer hers but inside someone else and they are just devouring it while something clashes with her teeth, something similar to the shape of teeth, they grazing like blade upon a sharper on her teeth and even nibble upon it. How odd.

Everything is odd. Her eyes open and the eyes and seldom expression she expect to see the doctor, working, far now just see close eyes with flashing stile lights behind him but he is closer despite being same upside down like before. Much closer that his forehead could touch her— um ? What is going on ? Why should his forehead even touch her her neck instead of chin ?—

All is mushy, all is white yet none is clear.

All is distorted, all is unknown and none feels known.

She can't breath— the thing devouring her lips left her and she hunger for air, gasping any and every with a clicking noise of shoes she feels and the looming doctor seem to be away— far away as she should.

"Jenny, cancel the rest of my appointments. I would like Miss (L/N) to be my last client of today". That's the last she hears something coherent because the next thing he said, the clicking of shoes returning towards her.

"Don't sleep— . We goona. —Fun". Still trap in a hazy dream that feels more closer to a nightmare.

━━━━━━━━

"I have to visit again ?" (Y/N) ask the doctor who is sitting while she feels. . . . weird, very weird. Something very off she can't put her finger on, only the pit in her stomach telling her she shouldn’t ignore it.

"Unfortunately one of your tooth is bad. The reason for bleeding". he says. He's serious when he speaks, but his tone is still light, and the only color in his smile is concern. She nod, and a knowing look crosses Dr. Davies. "I know a hassle". Her cheeks blush at him realizing and he chuckle, it's ringing sweet and much sweeter than before. His face also very . . . intimately soften, grazing her like her husband used to if he wasn't angry. "But believe me you are in good hands. Just pluck the problem and it's solved".

"O-okay but I can't say for certain when". She set her hands in her lap like she don't know what else to do with them— so tender. She freeze a little, under eyes of him staring, the pale lights and the tenderness and loosness inside her clit feels so different than earlier. A clit ache, damp in a way she don't know— oh, gosh he is waiting. She look again at him "I am sorry," She apologize for the upcoming late appointment and maybe her space out.

"It's all quite all right. Just make sure to come". Dr. Dravies nods his head all slow and certain, and even though he doesn't look much older than her, the look in his onyx eyes is almost wise. Maybe being doctors offering reassures come on it's own. She smile and stand up almost toppling over her own and fall if not for the doctor's swift holding her waist, slide so easy her toes curl a little and heart tighter.

"Sorry". She doesn't know why her legs feels so weak. She wants to curse herself.

"It's alright. Happens to everyone". His breath brush her ear and the whisper just seem so familiar. Like the feeling and the touch, all so. No, it can't be possible. She pull herself and smile as good she can.

"Thank you doctor". She steadied herself and hurried away, desperate to escape before her embarrassment deepen, not seeing him fold his hands close, bringing them to his face, inhaling the faint trace of her scent where he had touched her waist moments before Oh, the way she is running away made something ache inside him, a sharp thrill wrap in longing, all unaware how much fun they had and just how rotten he is when he is suppose to help her.

Tell her the truth that bleeding from neglecting flossing, from a long stretch of careless teeth, could be normal— could even be a sign of recovery yet he won't, he is not a good doctor.

He is not even a good person.

He is just a rotten doctor with a rotten heart.

But just for her.

FIN

𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐨𝐟 ◜⌜ 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 ⌟◞

The sun is unusually merciful today, dawning soft and sweet, letting her lie on the neat, fresh grass with her body leaning on her arm and lose herself in the pure bliss of it. Above, the sky is a gentle baby blue, dotted with clouds that drift lazily, almost merging, though never quite touching— each respecting the space of the other. Clouds live within the blue, and the blue gives way to them, while the sun hangs just above the earth, blending seamlessly into the scene. It’s the kind of light that has poets and painters speaking of its beauty for decades, though their words and works always fall short of the real thing because beauty is meant to move, never stop for anyone— making it irresistible thing when that's all people want to do, capture it.

Forbidden things are always the ones people pursue most fervently, though inevitably, they grow tired of them after they finally capture it. Don't they ? People are curious little creatures after all.

When suddenly a touch comes, its hand is warm and smooth, and she knows it's also unblemished. How could she not when the same hand has traced her in ways no one else ever has, touching places no one dared. It roll her to her back touching the grass's hands ticklish to her skin and meet the color of tar eyes towering her over. His presence seems to bend the sun itself, forming a perfect crescent above his head, like a crown of gold. His skin glows, buttery and smooth, but harsh to her for some reason for tears burn her (E/C) eyes.

"Oh, doll. Why so sad ?" He drawls lazily, the one that makes his voice deep yet youthful, driving his fangirls mad, and cheers louder with posters in their hands. It's a sight to behold. "It's okay, let me take it away". He lean in, his pillowy lips press on her own but she feels nothing but numb what ice touches a living thing. It dulls and stays, eventually hurting. It never ease.

Her eyes flick to the corner, where the old oak tree stands tall, watching silently. Unless there is a wound to be ease. "Ah !" She hiss rather loudly, her eyes dart back to his tar ones staring, watching her as she swallow the bit of metallic tint on her lips. He bit her, hard.

"Doll, you know". He begin, his lips no away from hers, no room for voice to fit in apart from whisper. And whisper it stays snuggling. "You make me awful sad when I am not the center of your world". Oh, she knows it, but the sting in her chest is no less real because how more covetous can he be when he is already the center of the world, like the sun behind him. No poster is devoid him, no radio is devoid of his songs, no newspaper is devoid of his name.

How much more can he ask of her. "I am sorry". Still she uncurl the words said too many times to count. And he still lits up. Maybe he just waits of her to repeat.

"Forgiven". The word falls from his lips, and with it comes the familiar invasion— his touch leeching at her waist, kneading, pressing and grab to pulls her up from the bare grass with her legs parting as naturally as years trained her. He settles her neatly, those “nice little legs” he calls framing him as her cover core meets the hardness beneath his. Her head spin, colors of the sky whirling too quickly to grasp. She blinks again and again, but when her vision steadies, the vast scenery has already been replaced by his face, so close it blots out everything else.

He leans into her, closing every gap between them as if they were puzzle pieces meant to lock together. Heat radiates off him, pressing insistently against her through the barrier of his denim. His palm's tips of fingers devilishly hitch the hem of her flowing dress until only the thin fabric of her panties and his jeans lie between them. He teases, relentless, until she pushes at him with trembling palms— wobbly, weak, like the frail limbs of a newborn fawn. Of course, he doesn’t budge. Instead, his other hand seizes her wrist, yanking hard enough to crash her lips into his. The sharp edge of his teeth beneath the kiss makes her wince.

It grind a little before his lips nibbling on hers like teeth akin of rabbit when bears the bite and canines of a wolf. Ah, what a odd thing to think. Her head slant a little but he is there to hold her and keep holding her because weight grows—sudden and immense as if the earth itself pressing down on her skull. Her head throbs, aches, pounds. And still, he grinds against her, his crotch rubbing cruelly at her through the thin shield of fabric. Heat pools low in her belly, sharp and unbearable, an ache that feels less like desire and more like a glare— something intrusive, unwelcome. Yet it grows, and grows, the more he forces their bodies to move as one.

His lips devour her mouth, slick and overwhelming, until all she tastes is saliva— maybe, if she squints her eyes enough to be familiar of the tint of chocolate he eats a lot. Especially when he's at home and it's his garden the grass are at and sun is peering down—

Then he stops. All at once. Every limb that had been muddying her thoughts falls still. Only the grip on her tightens, harsh enough to make her whine. Her vision wavers, everything nonsense, but she sees just enough— his tar-dark eyes, glaring, piercing at something unseen. She follows his gaze. Funnily enough nothing. Only grass, and more grass, and endless green. Yet when she looks back at him, his narrow eyes could set the meadow ablaze, serpentine and sharp, the vein in his jaw pulsing as fiercely as the tension straining against his jeans.

“Fucking bastards.” His chuckle is bitter, a sound with no curve of humor at its edges. His face is carve in contempt, though strangely, it fills her with a kind of sweetness she doesn’t recall taking in. Then she remembers—her head bobbing faintly—that she’d sipped honey tea earlier. Perhaps that sweetness is only now reaching her veins. Better late than never.

When his eyes return to her, those serpent-slits soften, drinking her in as though she is a memory to keep forever. The longer he looks, the more something twinkles in that tar-darkness— an odd glimmer, unsettling in its beauty. His lips curve finally into a smile, but it sours something inside her. She shouldn't have drank the honey tea, they sour quickly like curd and she leans back as he closes in, but he presses forward anyway, sealing the space with a brief kiss that pops wetly when it breaks.

Now he’s grinning like a wolf.

Before she can turn her head away and think again, he lowers her gently into the grass and the ticklish fingers return against her skin. His eyes still twinkle, a shadow cloak their true intention, darkening his face but the light is enough to see him clearly.

She almost wishes it isn't.

"You know doll". His lips press just beneath the curve of her chin. “I love you. So, so, so much.” It end with a breath that seem to release from his lungs and begin another trail of kisses. He scatters them along her throat, down the side of her neck, quick to climb atop her once more. Face to face now, he brushes her cheek with his mouth, leaving soft, lingering kisses before grazing her skin with his teeth. The bite he gives is sharp enough to leave his dots— marks no other mouth could mimic. "I love you too much to ever let you go". He confess as if he doesn't every minute the clock ticks.

His voice distorts in her ears, loud and unpleasant to her earbuds, yet she understands him as well as a dog can their master. Feverish colors her cheeks, heat crawling onto her forehead as if the day itself has grown unbearably hot. A shiver is running down her spine and and the tremor all up her inside and churning her stomach.

Her breath hitch and her hovering lids over her visions wide and stare into his dark eyes when she feels it—the dangerous brush of his aching tip against her tender lips below, dry and tight. August drinks in her face, devouring the sight: the sunlight gleaming off dew caught in her hair, turning droplets into tiny diamonds that glitter like stars. Her sweet, gentle hands rest limp at her sides, fingers curl free, while his own breath grows ragged.

He hooks one of her legs to lifts up and presses her navel and everything below right up against her. He holds her thigh, digs his fingers and thumb hard into the meat of it, and he takes guides his aching cock slow and gentle to her warm lips. Her breasts are pert and soft under the thin fabric and they press up against his chest, steal his heat to offer it back ten-fold.

She is such a feast to the straved. His eyes roam over the floral corset dress he adores. She looks perfect in it— the fabric hugging her curves, tracing every line of her body in a way that leaves him burning. His adorable lover. August takes a slow, long breath so deep that it shakes his shoulders. He’s slowly his movements like he’s thinking, but all what’s in his skull is the image of him wanting to pulls her arms in and then brings the dress over her head as it falls to her side, and his eyes to soak in the sight of her skin, the slope of her hips and thighs and belly, and the shape of her bare sex.

But he can't. Yikes, this is a double edge sword, to reveal her would be to share her, and she is not for sharing. She is all his to keep and love so he push himself inside her and he brings his right-hand to her warm clit, rubs her folds not all too gently, and his other hand drifts to her breast, but she starts squirming, and she furrows her brow and frowns.

Then he rams into her, so deep the sharp thrust nearly steals her breath, so deep it feels as though the tip of him might brush something far past her womb. Her hand shoves at his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as a scream tears from her throat. It’s a pretty sound, and he chuckles at it, but she’s running hot—hotter than his fantasies always—and all the breath in his chest goes right out of him. He’s got both hands on her hips, and all his fingers are digging down until they find bone. He’s gone and done it, now; that animal in him don’t know how to stop, and he won’t now.

He’s as tender as he can be, and she struggles to breathe— struggles to speak— but he's pressing himself all up against her, and she’s so hot she burns. Her voice slurs, thick and clumsy, as though she is drunk, and the sound makes him smile. All cotton, her head must be. Sweet, sweet darling. She doesn’t know why it feels this way, but he does. Oh, he does. And it isn’t tenderness clouding her thoughts. "P—Please stop". Her nails dig into his flesh, sharp crescents pinching deep. He moans at the sting, savoring it, welcoming it. Pain from her is no pain at all—it is pleasure. Anything from her is. Even hatred.

"Say my name and I might stop". Such a liar boy he is and to his surprise she moans it so nice and sweet that he might as well give her what she wants.

"August please ! Aug—ust stop . . ."  Instead of stop he drives harder. He pushes and pushes, burying himself deep inside her cradle, into the tight clutch of flesh that squeezes him so well he nearly loses himself. His chest lowers, his face hovering close enough that the tip of his nose almost brushes hers.

A gasp steals into her lungs, and she draws up all her muscles and goes stiff as a board, but he isn't done yet, and he keeps going, keeps mangling her until that damn animal finally reaches its peak, and that fire in his veins converges and rushes out of him.

She’s gasping, she’s a mangled mess and he made her that way, and the sight presses some at his heart, makes him pepper kiss all over her face. Her nose, one thrust.

Her chin. Another thrust. Her breath hitches.

Her eyes. Yet another thrust. She sobs.

Her forehead. He slams into her again, so deep it feels as if their very joints fuse together. She arches her back so quick he damn near thought she has snap her spine in two. Her mouth is wide open, but only a gasp escapes it, and her eyes are staring up at the sky, wide and glassy, though he knows she isn’t seeing it— only dots and stars bursting across her vision, even in the morning light.

He finally release himself and the color of whites leak all thick and wet stuffs her as his palm slides down to rest on her stomach, roaming over the smooth plane that holds nothing yet—but he knows, one day, it will hold something round and full.

His tongue peeks out, wetting his lips. “Well . . . . that would be fun.” He slips a hand to the nape of her neck, lifting her slumped, unconscious body against him. He tuts softly, she pass out again then, sitting back on his knees, he straightens her dress to it's proper length and closes the fly of his jeans. Soon, they will be inside, and he can hold her— nude. Where nothing will stand between them.

━━━━━━━━

"Doll, can you fetch today's newspaper for me". His voice is soft and silky, framing the question like it isn't a want and his wants are always full filled even at the cost of others. (Y/N) didn’t bother replying. She lift the folded paper from the glass tea table, unfolding it as she cross one leg over the other. Her eyes drift across the photographs, nothing catching her attention.

“Get it,” she said at last, refusing to stand and serve him like a servant. Being the object of his obsession is already enough.

"Oh doll, read it to me". His voice sounds far and glancing without turning her head. He is in open kitchen, making his breakfast, meticulously arranging each plate just so. No chef— no matter how skilled— ever pleased him. He is a man of strange habits, stubborn in his idiosyncrasies.

Thinking of that, she wonder why he isn't holed up in his studio tormenting some hapless employee, instead of looming over her ? By now, he’d normally be singing himself hoarse, letting her have peace in this pristine cage he calls home. "Doll, I am waiting". He hums, a unfamiliar, perhaps a new tune brewing in that restless mind of his.

She still didn’t answer. Her eyes return to the newspaper and suddenly she realize she's been been holding it upside down. As she flip it, her eyes wide, her heart leaping to her throat.

What the . . . ? She squints, unwilling to believe what her eyes are seeing. There it is, on the front page, bold black letters screaming:

“WORLD’S HEARTTHROB OFFICIALLY MARRIED TO A MYSTERIOUS MISS”

Beneath the headline, smaller but clear, the subtitle reads :

“Seen in his garden making passionate love openly.”

The photograph shows his back, clothed, yet unmistakable— just as he had been yesterday, in the garden, on top of her. Nothing explicit regarding her, just her hair fanned across the grass and the familiar dress he had made his way through… her eyes widen some more, the realization crashing into her. Oh god, it’s yesterday’s dress.

“What’s taking you so long to read ?” His voice is closer now, sending a tremor down her spine. She can’t tear her eyes away from the page, a shard of fear stabbing her chest. What if there are more photos ? She can’t bring herself to turn the page.

From the corner of her eye, she senses him just beside her, close enough to feel his breath on her cheek. “Turn the page. It’s amusing.” He purrs, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through her bones. She doesn’t need to see his face to know the smug curve of his lips is there.

Fear pins her in place. She can’t move. So, from behind her, he reaches over, slips his hand past hers, and turns the newspaper for her.

Her heart pounds, swelling to the edge of bursting as it gets fuller and fuller and fuller and suddenly it gets quiet.

Nothing.

The next page holds only lines of text—no images, no shameless exposure of her face or identity. Just the usual gossip about the famous rockstar’s secret marriage, speculation about his devotion, and endless commentary about love and wealth.

“So, now, doll. . . . you’ll marry me, won’t you ?” He drags the words out, pressing his cheek tenderly against hers, then brings a small box— no doubt containing a ring. “Because. . . . not being my wife, yet seen me on top of you . . . . in my garden. . . . ” His voice trails off, but she knows exactly what he means.

He has won again. No matter the path, no matter the obstacle—he has won. She closes her eyes, thinking. Forbidden things are always the ones people chase most fervently, though eventually, they tire of them once they’re captured. That is the way of the world.

But sometimes, the very center of obsession never fades, never tires, because it is the obsession itself— the forbiddenness merely a hurdle, nothing more.

“You really choose the dirtiest way,” she spits, voice sharp.

He laughs. “What can I do ? When sweetness doesn’t match your. . . vibe.”

Back off. That’s what sane people do. She glances down at the sparkling diamond, feeling the burn of tears hollowing her from the inside. She exhales, a sigh both weary and resign.

“I want the biggest, most expensive diamond ring. Not just any diamond.”

At least she can choose what to wear, right ? He nods happily, tilting his head to press a chastising kiss to her lips.

“I knew you’d adapt well.” His smile widens, wicked and satisfied. It is never the chase he truly sought— it is her, always her, and only her.

And only she can save herself from such scandal.

FIN

𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐨𝐟 ◜⌜ 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 ⌟◞

She has to act, she is a wonderful one so she moans, loud and lustful like she wants him like he does, dig her nails into his arms, onto those flesh, harming what little she can and she can feel what’s coming down on her. It would be concerning if it weren't normal but it doesn't make less it ugly than it always been since her first time and she arch her back to get away, to steal an inch of space, eager for the end but gluttonous men just never seem to let go.

And why should he ? He owns her for all she cares. At least til the clock hits the end and there, he release himself inside her. The man mutters a quick, sharp curse under his breath and clenches his teeth, and a sigh of all the burden left his shoulder she sees, not a second later, just as he’s trying to pull himself out, something warm slips into her.

He curses again, sharper and harsher this time, and somehow, despite the trembling what’s shaking her bones, she manage to get up just enough so that she's resting on her arms. Then her curious eyes peer down the length of herself, at him, and he don’t look all too different. Sweatier, sure, with wilder hair, but that must be how she look, too.

Got that white stuff dribbling off the tip, and that must be the same stuff what’s dripping out of her. She feel it worse when she sit up. It runs out like blood, but a little thinner. "Gosh, (Y/N). You are the best indeed". Before she could lift to meet those leer eyes he snatch her chin just to steal another passionate kiss among the rest of his time and she let him. Stuff his belly full after all that's her work. She needs hungry men to full her pocket.

"Why, welcome. Mr. Jones". She smile all pretty and real sweet like scotch to her client who nod as he yank his pants up to conceal all hints of their affair as he went to his merry way leaving her all alone.

"So peaceful". She close her eyes escaping from the drippy moist down her thigh and to the furtherest place away from here. She doesn't like this. No, that would be said lightly. She absolutely hates this. It never fails for something firm and heavy starts wrapping its fingers around her chest, and her tendons start twist themselves up like it needs her to break out into a sprint everytime their  eyes— the way those men peers at her, all heavy-like and deep like they are sizing a meat to see whether she is worth their money.

Something more precious than anything and anyone, she desire to one day say. "Fuck your money, bastards". But she is too poor and misfortune to do as she sees fit.

"(Y/N), your new client is arriving. Get ready at your room". Outside the bath, the manager announce after knock once and she sighs, can't she have one bit of a rest ? She thought he was her last client. Still, she rises, fresh and neat from the bath, only to be tainted again when she slips into the dress. Not that it matters— the ground will claim it all soon enough.

Nakedness is purity she heard but it seem here it's business, the pinnacle of temptation. She goes out of the bathhouse to come face to face to another girl, mirroring her fatigue.

"I thought that man was my last client of the day". (Y/N) ask her co-worker. It's a small brothel so all knows all's schedule whether they want to or not.

"Blondie one came". The other smile sly pulling at his lips and she continues, in a tone what’s all smooth and even. "You know always a late comer and one of the manager's favorite". Ah, Nanami. Oh, sweet saintly man. She is ever fond of him among the other flies. A delightful smile decorate her own at the thought that this day won't be as bad as she thought.

She has her dessert waiting for her. "Then seea, can't have him waiting". Fluttering her fingers to her, a wave mimicking a lady she can't be, (Y/N) pass by her. Wishing the other luck on her day. (Y/N) remember as fresh as if happen yesterday, she first met that man in his first time visiting a brothel and she certainly knew so by his darting eyes, discomfort kneading on his own palm among his pals who must have dragged him. He looked elite right from the shiny glasses and suit he wore just alike his friends expect they had their ties loose and rum on their mouth. He had his buttoned up all the way to his chin.

He was a gentleman, at least looked like one. She knew his pockets to be fat because his friends were so, the white haired famous around the whores and the black certainly was generous. She just wishes so will the new comer and went she near him like shark smelling blood and hooked him by her advances and suggestions she was surprised to not find him stuttering or fumbling at all.

He was rather calm and was actually a listener than talker than those commonly seen men who talked so big about themselves she sure if pinocchio existed they have to cut their noses by how long it would be. She told him so and he laughed for the first in their entire conversation where he should be pounding on her, he sat beside her chatting. He made her feel. . . . seen. Heard and enjoyed a man's company for the first time.

And make her realized not all men are same. The thought excited her, made the absence of action sting when he left, without doing the deed, still paid her for work undone. Off guard, confused she was until he returned again.

With his mind specifically looked for her, called for her. He was still the man he was, kind and polite and real sophisticated with his short words. That's when she couldn't take the feeling of restless. That hollow feeling whenever she isn't earning money despite not fond of it. It was confusing. It still is so she seduced him, uttering poetries she heard her one co-worker reading them who had the privilege to study before she was forced to either beg at streets or do the dirty work.

To her surprise and pleasantment he caved in and it was marvelous—

"I shamefully apologize to coming so late but I could not stay away". Nanami’s voice is smooth, eyes faintly shadow with disappointment— not for her, more for himself. She chuckles, and the flicker of his hazel gaze catches hers. Hazel like the caramel candies her manager sometimes gives in rare moods, taste delicious and cheery like the man himself.

“Do not trouble yourself unnecessarily.” She come near him, fitting herself right between his parted legs and lean her weight on him he takes without a hitch, her body never once tense at the contact, never her mind screams to sprint and never bile touches the tip of her throat. He is different. "You would look more old than you are". she tease, smiling so bright she is sure her gums are shown and her tips of fingers caress his frown to relax them and they did at the trace of her rolling skin and smooth it out in his blemished skin.

He is such a handsome, handsome man. A slight smile she notice on his lips, perhaps from her earlier remark. "Oh, not a hint of shame of getting called old ?" Bolder she becomes in his presence. She feels his hands gather at her waist to pull her near him, she let him, never taking her eyes off of him.

"I have nothing to worry as long as you find me attractive". She laughs, the flutters in her stomachs are awakening, they are giggy and talkative.

"But would you mind if I don't ?" She question, perks her mouth into a pout, his eyes stray to them which she tsk making his eyes come right to her own. He chuckle, his raspy yet soft. Softer than any fella she ever been with.

"Very much". She lets her hand wander, brushing from his temple into his hair, fingers threading through soft blond strands, delicate, almost like touching wet grass after a fresh rain. "Strange". She says out loud.

“What’s strange?” he ask, his voice dropping low, right beneath her ear where her head rest ‘gainst his shoulder. She bob there lightly, almost lullin’, and, he smell clean— like warm spice, sharp but comfortin’.

"Touching your hair feels akin to touching wet grass after rain". He laugh then, the sound deep an’ rich, runnin’ through his chest till it near vibrate her own. A laugh so fine it set her wantin’ one o’ them fancy contraptions that trap voices, so she might play it back forever, listenin’ till her heart wore out.

“That means you love me,” he declare, though his last note tilt upward, lingerin’— half statement, half question, leavin’ her no easy answer.

Fond, she surely is. But love? That kind o’ holy fire married folk bore in their bones ? She hadn’t a name for it, and the thought itself weigh heavy, near frightenin’, tanglin’ her mind till she could scarce breathe so she does what she is best at. Brings her lips closer and kiss him, he opens his lips silently and she slip her tongue in the quiet parting of his mouth turning into a slow, deliberate welcome. Their tongues brush—a fleeting stroke, heat, electric—and the contact draw from him a low sound, muffle within the cradle of her lips.

Her tongue explore, coaxing his own into the dance, and soon they move against one another with a rhythm that is both tender and consuming. His hand rise, threading through her hair, anchoring her closer as if afraid she might vanish. He tilt his head, deepening the kiss, drawing her into him until every breath she give is share between them.

The taste of her is warm, intoxicating; each slow sweep of her tongue against his sent fire rushing to his veins. He press forward, lips moving hungrily against hers, savoring the slick glide, the give and pull of their mouths. Their lips are feverish claiming, tongues twining, retreating, meeting again.

When she moan faintly into him, he feels it vibrate against his lips, and it nearly undid him. His hand on her cheek tighten ever so slightly, urging her deeper, while his other hand trail down to her back, holding her flush to him.

He starts unlacing her corset, and his fingers are awful fast, so she feel for the buttons of his shirt, and though excitement’s got her hands shaking, she make quick work of them. His undershirt’s easy enough to slip off, and the corset and his clothes get toss off as quick and painless.

He’s got a nice chest. Firm and hard she seen many times and she need to press up against him, need to feel what it’s like to have warmth share but his skin lying against her—wrapping around her and digging into her and taking that part what she don’t want nobody but him to have. The cuffs of her chemise are sliding down her arms, and her underwear falls off easy, but he’s still got his drawers on, and those’ve gotta be gone, too.

The air’s change to warm up, winding up her guts and making her blood burn, and her heartbeat pounds so loud in her ears she almost can’t hear Nanami— can’t hear herself, breathing and sighing and gasping for a bit more of him. More of his touch, of his teeth— of him and everything what he’s been given.

He’s gotta bend down some so he can step outta his underwear, and when he straightens back up, her stare falls, but he’s got one hand touching her breast, and the other cups her rear, so she follow his example— see him by looking, by feeling along the length of him, and she's touching as gentle as she can manage, but maybe touching alone is not enough, and the blond man breathes so heavy it almost shakes his shoulders.

Her name’s on his lips, and now she's on the bed, falling back against pillows so he can tumble after her. He climbs— straddles her like she might try and buck him— but he’s hovering just above her, and then he pulls back a moment and reaches for something, so she bring one of your legs up, and her knee brushes his pecker and the parts what hang beneath. He breathes in real sharp and grabs her thigh— digs his fingers in hard but not stern enough to bruise, always the caring—and his pecker’s stiff as a rod, and the fever in her blood is puddling beneath her guts, twisting up all tight, but these knots taste like the color red, like his mouth, stealing all the breath from her lungs.

He’s looking down at her, staring and grinning and making bare those sharp teeth of his, but his eyes are tender nothing of the others bright heedlights blinding her almost, and the hand what had dug into her thigh is rubbing the spots he never hurt to begin with— massaging her real, real nice, so nice she pull that leg right out from under him and hook it around his. “Tell me if it's hurts". He says but it doesn't have breath left on it.

She reach up and touch his face, and then she smile slow and soft. "Never will". Confident she is at that because never had he hurt her. He won't. She push herself up, and her fever’s rising, prickling like pretty stars under her skin—filling her head with a haze what’s bemoaning an ache what he’ll soothe. She curl her fingers in his hair, and his eyes fall to her lips, so she kiss him again. “With you.”

Nanami's other hand rubs along her side, but then he sits back and murmurs, in a voice what’s low and raspy, “Thank you for confining in me.”

Nanami reaches off to the side again, and when he leans back he’s got a bit of pale rubber what he unwraps and slips his pecker into like it’s a glove. Smile come to her lips as naturally as happiness return to her. She remembers as clear as day she asked when they first had sex.

She wondered what it was and never seen any gentlemen do that, they always dig and spill and hide and left. Oddly enough he done a lot of things she isn't used to.

His eyes glint in surprise. "Is this your time first ?" He also ask something no one did and she shake her head. No, she has done this so many times she can do various nasty stuff to pleasure a man and earn as fat tips as she can. A frown she recalls dent in his forehead and oddly he looked . . . . worried.

Worried ? Why ? Why would a customer be that ? He is the strangest man ever. But in the goodest way possible. "It's something men do to prevent pregnancy and of course having semen inside for long period of time will upset your stomach". She learn something astonishing that day, the truth behind her recurring vomits. Something she wasn't to have before joining such work. How cruel of them to never tell her this. Let her suffer, watch and ignore it. That day she felt immerse pleasure and pain.

Bittersweet. Really, such a rare emotion she thought.

Nanami's fingers are wandering, and they’ve snuck themselves between her legs and are fiddling with a part of her there what’s soft and tender and connected to a thing sitting so deep in her belly that some careful rubbing tugs hard enough at it she gasp coming back to present.

"(Y/N) dear, mind on me". He demands, his comb neat hair stray from others to come at his temple. Giving him a wild look she loves.

The pads of his fingers are nice and warm and rough enough to graze an itch budding in those knots she call guts, and the sound what curls off her tongue comes from someplace so close to her chest it tugs some on her heart as it’s leaving. Then, real slow, the tip of something presses at that space in her what’s aching, but it’s his fingers, just his fingers—but God, oh God, how many ? Two ? Just two ?

She grab the bedsheets and curling her fingers into them and squeezing—squeezing everything. Every last bit of her is bunching up and twisting, and Nanami's making it worse. He’s playing. He’s leaning down and teasing and tasting you from her breast to her thigh, and he’s taking his time with it, too. Oh naughty him but now his face is settling over those other lips of yours, and his breath is warm and cold and sends a shiver up her spine.

“Nanami !” The name starts in a gasp, low and soft, but suddenly, it’s a squeal. Her knees try to snap together, but his head is sitting snug between her legs, and she part wide to see his temples, he’s groans, and the hum makes her squirm and writhe and babble breathless about nothing.

The ache is worse. The ache has gotta press against something, but it’s buried so deep, and tongues and fingers and the tickling from his lips ain’t digging deep enough—he ain’t letting them, and it’s a cruel enough tease to make her moan. So she pleads. "Please, please— Ah ! Please". And he gives in. It never takes him much to convince, he waits always and she says and he does. He drive his tip of tongue deep within, as deep as possible touching her core that's weeping for some time and she whines so hard it echo's in the walls. Pleasure flood her like waterfall and he twist his head, easing the pain away like always he does. Pleasure her in ways she never knew before a woman can feel. She was taught only men's.

And (Y/N) cry out releasing her on him and he welcome it gladly, swallowing it. He climb up on her after being on his knees like he worship her and she smile softly. "Why are so sweet to me ?" She wonder, a thought out loud more than a fully formed question.

He pause a bit as if carefully thinking. "Because you are dear to me". She didn't question as he lean to mark her neck full of his love he says. She likes him too.

━━━━━━━━

Clothes shufflin’ round fills up the quiet. She ties her corset, and Nanami helps same as always, knots it neat, not like that first time when he near lost the strings in his own hands, fumblin’ and mutterin’ soft under his breath. It had been laughable, but she weren’t near enough to him back then to risk a laugh in his face. Men can sour quick, take offense at the bare shape of a smile if it don’t match their want. Strange creatures, men. Always demandin’.

“I was wondering something,” Nanami says. His voice comes easy, smooth, reaches her ear and pulls her head a little toward him. Gladness tucks itself in her chest at the sound of his relax voice—he don’t even know it’s there, don’t tend to his own health. She frets over after all she hate to lose the one man she don’t despise in her gut.

"Yes". she answers soft, leaning back so her shoulders rest against his chest. He welcome it again.

"You mention once that if you weren't in this . . . line of work then you would become something else". Ah, he remembers. The memory draws a wistful curl to her mouth. She had told him, fool that she was, speaking personal in a house made for transaction, but he’d asked if she dreamed, and so she had said it. That dream’s what tangled her here.

“I think it is possible for you.”

She spins round quick, eyes gone wide at the blond head, and she laughs, too loud it is strange.

“Please, sir, don’t give me more hope than my heart can stand. I ain’t strong ‘nough for the crush after.” Nanami shift none. Solemn still. She’s seen it on him before, though it sets her to a quiet smile now, ‘cause it looks funny on his steady face.

"What ?" She tilts her head, unease slipping in when his laughter don’t follow hers. Her smile dies quick. His hazel eyes stay on her, steady, studying near enough to set her restless.

"I am serious. You can if you want". He said and she leans back slow on the edge of the bed, and her tongue twists up on itself like it don’t want to move.

"And how, sir ? You tell me that. ‘Cause this contract I’m bound to— or—". She look away hastily, a frown starts pulling at her lips, but it don’t stick none like she can't believe he is making it seem like she is in here by her choice but she shake her head and look back at him. "Debt’s so high it enough to make me a lady, I reckon. That’s the bind I’m in". She reply real polite and quiet-like than she imagine but she near feels proud, ‘cause she won’t spill over, won’t lose him to temper. That bubbling at the back of her throat stays locked down.

Surprise rounds Nanami's eyes some and it soften soon after like he— pity's her ? An ache’s setting up camp right smack-dab between her eyes and warp her insides. “I did not mean it so. I apologize for my careless phrasing. It was not my intent in the least.” The ache numb a little. But it didn't go away, it stuck like a sore thump. She don’t like the turn this talk is takin’.

She couldn't even say it's alright because her mouth has become so heavy she is afraid it would fall out if she speak. "What I mean to propose is I think I can free you from this—". He stop himself like he is carefully wording each and his eyes flicker away searching it in his mind and they return but defeat in wording. "—thing". He is talking real gentle and soft like he is shielding her from the awful thing.

She can’t believe it. Stares hard at the man before her, brow dug so deep it near splits her skull. She knows men give plenty, but they ain’t charitable—not like this. She pushes to her feet, thoughts knot and spilling rough over her tongue. He looks up, surprise, head tilt slight.

“And w—why you do that ?” she asks, words tripping clumsy on her teeth. Her gaze sharpens, bears down, and he shifts under it, drops his eyes then lifts them again, looking at her like she’s the saddest thing he ever saw. Lord, stop that.

“Because I told you. You are dear to me, and I wish to see you happy, and free.” The blond man speaks plain, his smile slow and sombre, as though it aches him just to form the words.

Sweet smoke hangs in the air, presses down her chest, head pounding. She narrows her eyes, brows knit. Too good, too wide a promise. No man pays off that kind of sum. She remembers it still— clear as blood— the educated girl’s eyes bulging at the string of digits owed if she wanted her country life back.

“I will think on it,” she says. And before she turns, she sees Nanami’s whole face fall, confusion and astonishment written across it.

He is quick to stand up. "Wait !" She obey, but not turning to face him because hope is a cruel thing, wakes easy and cuts worse than any man’s hands ever laid on her body. "Y— . . . I mean do you— . . ." He stop himself like he shouldn't say what he is thinking. The voice sounds disbelief and tense. (Y/N) can feel his stare, and eyes press and pick at her like crows’ beaks. "Okay". He leaves at that then she goes, leaving him to sit with himself for the first time.

━━━━━━━━

She don’t rightly know what to make of it. Her best regular talkin’ like he means to free her, set her to livin’ a life of her own while he would never be able to pay for her time is something beyond her mind. Just how ? He’s no one to her, as she’s no one to him. Strangers don’t hand out favors. Not free ones just like She’d come to the city hopin’ to send coin back to her old parents, worn down before her life even started. Had her late in their years—forty-somethin’, near unheard of out in the country—so by the time she was grown they had nothin’ left to spare, couldn’t even buy her schooling. Illiterate she stayed, and they sent her off prayin’ for better.

She stumbled onto that brothel, dressed up like a dancin’ theater, and it caught her sure. Spun her in its cobweb, slow, till she looked down one day and realized she was stuck fast. Her parents left happy, certain their girl had escaped poverty. Ha. If she’d known the bargain struck, she’d have thought thrice before steppin’ through those doors.

Used and used again, till she felt nothing than flesh. Left bruised, bleeding, torn. Some men plain monsters wearin’ skin. She had wailed, yank herself away but the guards always dragged her back. “We own you,” they’d say. Like a piece of gum she was to them. The owner’s face stays with her worst of all—first time, all polite grin, and now twisted into snarls when she passes. (Y/N) knows the woman takes joy in her sorrow.

For the spite of it she wants to eagerly say yes to Nanami, watch the owner realize she ain’t no chewed gum to toss aside. But she is afraid to hope.

Is it even alright to hope ? Three days gone and she ain’t seen him, though he comes here daily. She’s keep herself back, fearing her own tongue might leap to agreement if he press her. Best not rush into the kind of decision that trap her here once before. She can’t make the same mistake twice.

“(Y/N), your client’s arrived !” a co-worker calls.

She wipes the last of the water from her face, presses a towel soft, and steps toward the room to serve whoever waits. Lord, she forgot to ask— new or regular ? She’d have shape herself different dependin’ on the answer.

Since his proposition her mind wanders where it ought not. She steels it now, else sloppiness earn her punishment. She pushes the door open— her eyes fly wide.

“Nanami !” Her voice comes too sharp, too high. Why hadn’t the girl spoken his name straight ? Feels like a trick. Her palm curls against the wood, grip weak but clingin’ still.

He stands there with his hands tuck neat behind his back. She notices he ain’t remove his hat, nor his coat like usual. Normally he spares them from stains, though with his money he could buy replacements ten times over.

“I instructed the girl not to mention my name,” His voice is calm and tender, but he talks cool and clear—talks he spent a while sharpening every word.

"And I thought I told you I need time to think". She press, her head slant.

"I know but I am worried".

“Don’t be. Worst things done happened. You can’t shield me. I’m nothin’ more than a pastime whore to you—”

“Don’t you dare say that.” His voice holds warning, though it stays light. Nanami moves quick, closing the distance till she near stumbles back from his rush, and they stand face to face.

But she barrels through it— over it and glares hard at Nanami “But it’s true. You pay coin for my body like the others.”

“And I do not wish to any longer !" Nanami say but the words leaves his lips awful quick, almost breathless in it's trail. It brushes with her cheek and steal her breath along. Tears gather in her vision and he swallows deep at the sight, caught in her stare, fierce even through the blur.

“I’ll give you an answer by next Wednesday. Till then, don’t come.” She turns, flees quick shameless and drops to the narrow bed she gets to sleep everyday while the softest in the service rooms. It's unfair.

Everything's unfair

She is just scared. Very very scared and lonely. The door creak open but she continue to be swallow by the mattress digging her head harder. “(Y/N), that blondie paid for your whole day,” a co-worker calls soft, “but said he don’t need your service, nor will he let others.” (Y/N) still squeezes her eyes tighter, limbs curling close, fingers claw inward. Tries to make herself small, wanting no space left for the warmth and hope that still creep in and spread across her body.

━━━━━━━━

Next day too her whole day’s bought by Nanami. Yet he don’t step inside, not to the service room, but lingers outside— near the balcony where she spends her time. She feels both guilty and disappoint, watching him stand below, looking up hopeful as some stray dog. She near rushes down to him, but instead she stops, sets aside the brush in her hair, and slips back inside.

Day after, same thing. And the day after that. He keeps buying out her hours wanting to sit with her in talk, not in service. She ain’t eager to spare the words, yet he stays. And each time, he looks worse— eyes bruised dark, frame slack, coat unkept. Something’s gone wrong in him, she can see it plain.

What had stirr sadness in her first now sours to vague sense of isolation and discomfort as why go to this length for a woman who he aren't even love.

How good one man can be ?

━━━━━━━━

A song, sweet and curling like smoke, drifts through the hall. Everyone hushes, caught on the wings of her voice. Her (E/C) eyes glimmer, mouth dry yet full, her smile climbing high to the apples of her cheeks as the light spills over her like she’s made to shine. Alone she stands, the rest draped in dark, and somehow, despite wearing nothing ornate, she glimmers as the audience is captivated by her voice. It’s almost too much to look at.

“Wake up ! Madam’s comin’.” Willow shakes her, voice sharp against the quiet. (Y/N) startles, blinking against the remnants of a dream too long and too sweet to be real. Hair tangle, dress unchange, a crust of drool on her chin— she wipes it away, cheeks hot, mind stumbling over how little care she’s given herself these days. The door slams behind Willow, and she flinches, standing before she even knows she has, eyes forward yet unseeing, the room tilting a little in her dizzy head.

Madam tsk, a sharp, cold sound. Her green eyes, deep as what looks to (Y/N) a forest no one dared enter, sweep over her. “I heard you are skipping your duties.”

“I do not, madam,” she says, voice small, careful, honest. The woman sneers, sharp and flat against the morning light.

"Try fooling me ? Mistook me your manager". (Y/N)'s head bow, eyes glue to the floor, tracing the grime that coats it, everywhere she looks, the white barely shining through. Yellowed, like Madam’s teeth. "Punishment for you—".

"My days are booked by kento nanami". Those green eyes narrow like the serpants on the painting of one tempting to eve hanged on her office's walls. 

"But you are not giving him services as I am aware". Madam hisses, lips curling back, gums flashing, disgust rolling off her in waves if she didn’t know better.

“But I still earnin’ money.”

"2 extra hours of punishments for arguing with me". Madam announces it, her roommate flinch terribly like she got beat with a whip. Na, worse madam's punishments are because she can't have her girls scarred to not appeal to her customers so she gives the girls to the vilest of vile customers who are pure sadistic and sons of devils themselves. With that the madam hum in please and turn around to leave.

"I will not give services to Kento Nanami anymore then". (Y/N) suddenly decide, her eyes glide to the madam who visible straighten up and look at her with incredulous, one side of her lip tilting upward.

"My, my, my". She walk closer to her, so closer she is sure the madam can hear her beating heart almost thundering within her chest. "When did the bird think she can sing without her master's permission ?" Madam’s brow arches perfectly, voice lilting, almost sing-song, inching nearer.

(Y/N) continue to stare back at her. It made the madam blink at her normally skittishness girl. "He only listens to me. So it don’t matter if you force me to say yes. He won’t step a foot if he knows I’m being forced". The madam stare, hard and long that (Y/N) feels a trickle of sweat down her back nape.

"You are a clever girl". The sing-song drop in her voice and flat it is like a wood plank. “We never force our girls. Do as you please, so long as you do your job.” It become more flatter as she finish and turn away to leave making (Y/N) slides down the bed, knees weak, limbs trembling. Her roommate swallows and smirk.

"Watch your back more from now on". She nod at her roommate witty yet true remark but she thinks she has decide what to do.

━━━━━━━━

"Yes". (Y/N) said, her hands on her lap and gaze on the red as blood carpet of the service room. I’m sorry for delayin’ it, for urg-in’ you not to rush my decision when all you want is savin’ me". At the last word she dares to look up, but the weight of those hazel eyes— unshielded by his glasses—presses too heavy, and she drops her gaze again. Palms damp, sweat seeping. What if she’s offended him? What if he changes his mind ?

Her brows pinch tight. No—he can’t. He gave her a deadline, Wednesday. And she’s agreein’. That should make everybody happy, right? Her breath hitch, no, it wasn’t his deadline, it was hers. She made it, she ran, and he let her go—

“Thank you for agreeing with me.” His voice cuts through, smooth and pleasant, followed by the warmth of his hand covering hers. He tugs her eyes to meet him, and when she finds that wrinkled smile, her tension clears like fog rolling off the coast. “Thank you very much. I will gladly pay your contract money.” She smiles wide, as wide as she can make it. She wears the earrings he favors—sliver pearls, never named aloud but always traced by his eyes. Red lipstick too, the shade men fall for. A cream-toned dress, chosen to match his suit, his cream-colored blazer, he must like it a lot to wear it daily.

“I was wonderin’ how I can pay yo—”

“You make me so happy agreeing with me, you know. Because you kept avoiding me, I almost lost my will. I thought you would deny me.” Nanami chuckles, low, his fingers threading with hers, intertwine, warm. “If you did, I don’t know what I would do.”

The smile stays on his face, but she sees it—a glint in those hazel depths, passing quick, perhaps only the trick of light. Still, unease creeps into her chest, bold as a traitor. How dare she feel it, here, before a good man.

(Y/N) shakes her head, smile stretching wider. “Don’t worry. I didn’t see, but I was wonderin’—”

“So, why not do this now? My valet is right here.” He rises sudden, near knocks her off balance, cutting her words in half. Her gut twists sharp, same sickness she once felt riding the rattlin’ cart that brought her from country to city.

“He is my valet. You may not have met him, as he always waits outside the…” Nanami swallows, motions behind. A man stands there, one she’s never seen till now. “…this place.”

Nanami smiles once more. He bends, lets go her palms, rests his hands to her shoulders, and brings her to her feet. “Let us see it done swiftly. We need not linger here longer than required, do we ?”

When she stands full with him, she tilts her face to his.

“Or do we not ?”

She shakes her head fast, bile rising sharp in her throat.

“Good.”

He leans in, presses a quick peck to her lips. And before she can speak, he’s gone— slip away with his valet, leaving her mid-breath, unfinish.

How to pay him back ?

“Oh well. For later, I reckon.” From here on she’d be in good hands. Lord, she hadn’t even spare goodbyes to the others. Not that they were bosom friends— far from it— but there is a tether between them, a quiet understanding only they themselves could know so she would be.

But unfortunately she don’t get the chance. Not long after, while she’s folding what little she owns, Nanami steps into her narrow room— too small for two. He passes her bags straight to his manservants, then draws her in by the waist. Says it’s done, all smooth, no trouble at all. She stares, startle. Too easy. Not near what she’d imagined.

She’d thought maybe there’d be shouting, some ruckus, something. Not that she wanted it— Lord, no— but still. Strange, how quick it ended. After all her years there, was she worth so little they just let her go for some money ? Yes, money is what brought her in, but they wanted money through her.

She turns sharp to Nanami, his hand still steady at her waist as he helps her toward the carriage. “How much money you paid again ?” She forget, yes, she forget the money that used to keep her all night. She needs to hear it.

"It's not important—".

"Please ! It is to me". Her brows knit, lips rub restless against one another.

His gaze drifts across her face. His mouth presses thin.

“The same as you once told me,” he says at last.

“That it ?” She tilts her head, searching him for more. It is short like many of his replies.

"That is it". Nanami, oh, the noble man nod patiently not a hint of irritation or disappointment at her. . . .  she does not know what to feel so she climbs the last step, settles under the carriage roof. First time she’s ridden with one over her head. Feels nice.

She tells herself nice things will follow now. She’s saved enough to return home, live quiet with her parents. And if the money slips away, well—she can farm the cows, the chickens, same as before. She’ll manage.

"So are you happy ?" (Y/N) flinch at the sound of his voice, near jumping from her seat before turning her gaze to him.

"Oh— yes. Very much". She say out quickly, nodding too. Nanami only watch her, more intently than usual. She notice— how his eyes lingering, as if he could not drink in enough of her presence.

“What?” she ask, uncertain under his stare.

“What what ?” he counter, but the question upon a question left her no answer.

“You’re looking at me like that,” she explain at last, uneasy with the heat of his gaze. It flatter her, but she could not grow accustomed to being so entirely on the receiving end of it anymore.

"Just can't believe you are present with me at the moment". She chuckle, what kind of thought that.

"Why ? I am always with you". But Nanami shake his head, sleek blond hair shifting as he look ahead. It dig a pit in her stomach so she shift comfortably.

"No, you are not. You’re a dreamer—you drift often.” His eyes return to her then, carrying a sly light, a smile upon his lips that aren't comforting. She don't know, perhaps the residue of nerves from leaving that dreadful place behind. Such things were known to happen—she once heard it from a client who, instead of burying his father, came to her bed on the day of the funeral.

“You are always in your dreamland,” Nanami went on, “dreaming of escape from that wretched place". Her brows arch in surprise. He rarely swears something that even she does more than him. "So now that you are here I thought you would be with me all the time".

(Y/N) blink. "Sorry ?" She blink some more, What’s he talkin’ about ? Wait—where are they even goin’ ? She never told him where she wanted to go. And they surely ain’t ridin’ all the way to her country, are they ?

Her eyes dart to the window— still the city, streets familiar, lamps glinting off cobblestone. So then—

“Don’t worry. I will take good care of you.”

Her gaze snaps back to him. What ?

The pit in her stomach rips wider, dragging air out of her lungs ‘til she feels hollow, empty. "W—What are y. . . you talking about ?" She says slowly, not to stumble. Something other girls taught her. Talk slowly to not stutter.

Nanami parts his lips to answer, but the coachman interrupts first. “We have arrived, sir.”

Arrived— where ? Her head jerks, leaning closer to the window. Her breath hitches. Outside stands a castle, towering, sprawling stone walls stretched against the sky. A place far too grand to simply call a home.

“Where are we ?” Her head spins back toward him, voice thin, breathless. She can’t breathe.

“Why, my home.” Nanami answers it plain, like the sun hanging steady in a blue sky. He turns aside, calm, preparing to step down.

“Why ?” The word spills, sharp, desperate.

Nanami pauses, as though considering. Slowly he turns, eyes catching hers, a small smile perch at his lips, hazel shimmering “Why indeed.” His voice quiets, softer, final. “Because we are going to live here.”

She stare at the man who is also her savior, and she tries to gather up something to say, but the words ain’t coming. That chill of the outside seem to somhow enter the tight sealed carriage and stiffing her body, and she just furrow her brow and bring her arms in to hold them. “What’cha mean ?” She inquire, her voice catching sharp, near a screech, for want of breath.

Nanami looks at her, now, and his gaze is sharp, but he's frowning too. "You . . . . seem upset". He shift forward her, his fingers eager to touch her but she shift back making his eyes flicker to the action and the only smile ghost his lips, he eyes back to her face kinda firm—so firm she pull her arms in a little tighter. Why is he gotta look at her so funny ? She ain’t said nothing wrong.

It was he, she reckon, who seem out of place. "I am not". she lies, swallowing against the dryness in her mouth. “It’s just. . . I don’t rightly understand.” She tries to smile, but it falter, for there is something different about him—different in a way what didn’t sit easy. His hands settle heavy, one upon his thigh, the other slack by his side.

"I thought you would be glad".

"I am !" (Y/N) jump to say. "I am glad you took me from that place. But I can’t make sense of this notion—that you’ll be the one to take care of me". A nervous chuckle leap out of her throat but even the echo of it rings hallow and Nanami is no fool. His lips press thin, then pull down, his face shadow and stern. With the little light and the carriage sink in darkness, he look near frightening, and it sting her eyes to behold him so. She couldn’t make sense of it.

"Stop lying. You know that one thing I do not tolerate". His voice authority, It struck her strange, foreign, the way Madam’s had the first time she’d spat the truth of that place at her.

“I—I’m sorry,” she whisper. The burn in her eyes swell, her vision blurring as though the chill has turn to fire licking hot at her skin, leaving her itching, scald. That soften him at last, and his gaze gentle.

"Dear". he calls her, voice awful tender, his head tilting as them eager hands of his slide down to her forearms, brushing light with his fingertips ‘fore settling there. "I am sorry. I am so extremely sorry". He apologize creeping near her she feels no space left for her. How ? The carriage is larger than her room but why does it feel like a coffin. He comes nearer still, wrapping her up in his arms, his face burying itself right into the crook of her neck, pressing there like a man starving for warmth. "I . . I thought you would not mind". Nanami say, he's talking light and gentle— speaking to her like she'a scared little kitten what’s holed itself up under the porch. "I thought you would rather love the idea of having me as your husband as I take you my wife". There ain’t nothing beneath her. She ain’t move, ain’t done nothing but breathe and stare, but the floor caves in like it’s made of mud and water, and the world what she fall into ain’t got no lights, no stars or any bit of sun. She sits alone, and the carriage's so quiet she hear the close mouth hiccups from herself.

He couldn't, he is a good man. Kind man who doesn't even love— "I love for so so long that it aches to even confess now. I knew it from the very first time I met you. You were the one for me. And every bit of me hated to see you left rottin’ in that filth.” Her guts twist themselves up so awful she taste bile, and she's clutching her arms real tight, digging her nails in until they reach bone—her bone, but it’s soft and squishy and quivers like a bit of fat. A shiver grabs her legs, runs right up the length of her spine and knocks hard on the back of her head, but she manage a sound—a little something, pale and hollow and malformed—and it crumbles on your lips, but the carriage room’s so quiet. So quiet the words echoes.

"You lied". Immediately Nanami yank himself from her neck and stare at her and she stare back at him, stare real wide and earnest, begging to reveal it all as some cruel trick, some game the rich play for their own amusement.

“What—no. Never. I never lied. I told you plain I only wanted to see you happy. And with me, you would be. I’ve got everything you could ever ask for.” His gaze is steady, earnest, near fevered—a man convinced of his own fancies, staring down the girl he’s ensnared.

“You’re free now. Free from that place.”

But not from him.

Tears spill careless from her eyes, and his own blink fast, face gone somber, fingers shaking. "Did you bought me ?" She finally ask, the reason she was so easily let go. Because she was brought, sold— not freed. The smoke curls like serpents—like fat earthworms, pink and fleshy and wriggling around between her fingers and toes.

He suffers something like shame, even if he’s told himself it ain’t his to carry and says. "Yes". The room's distort, and the taste of what she last ate presses hot at the back of her throat. With that she lose all sense of things, she went still. She can't believe she was— her lids close tight. "Look, see the wording you did is not very nice. What I did. . . ." His voice trails after her, trying to soothe she can't hear anything beyond she is now an exclusive gum for him only to chew on . A touch come—, one on her either side. He got one hand on her back and the other grabbing her  forearm, and he caress her hand some more, muttering is there but she can't hear really and starts gently tugging her near him, forcing their chest to meet as he lock them to another embrace.

"Please do not be upset with me. My heart only wants your be. . . . " says Nanami, and he's talking soft, so soft she almost don’t hear her, but it don’t matter what she’s said. Her bones ain’t got no substance to them as she  try her best so she can not to gag on her own tongue.

Time become slow, so slow she could no longer tell what moment belong to her or to him or when Nanami incline his head, closing the space again, his voice a low murmur she could not grasp, words slipping past her as nothing but heat and breath hovering at her lips. Soon his touch drifts, and his fingers find the buttons of her skirt suddenly her heart’s in her mouth, choking her— digging into the back of her throat like ragged bits of metal and you grab his arm, squeeze him so tight you almost can’t feel nothing. What’s he doing ? They are in public. She's in public !

Her gaze lift, colliding with his. One trembling palm press against his chest, but he only draw her closer, unwilling to yield. "I don’t love you." The whisper escape her like a confession to the dark, yet in his ears it crack louder than any gunshot. His body still, rigid. He has heard. He know. And for a breath’s span, she thought—hope—he might release her.

But his frown deepen. His hold only tighten. And there, in his eyes, glimmer that same dangerous light she had glimpsed in the service room.

"Then…" His voice is low, rough, trembling with a possession that has no mercy. "You will learn to." All those signs of him wanting more was there. In plain sight but the surprise bite her all bloody the same. And he press himself anyway along his hand keep moving, crawling like a spider up under her petticoats and chemise, brushing all cold and tender up against her skin.

Then the pad of his finger has found something, something what’s tender and soft, and a heavy shudder shakes her spine. He’s cold. He’s so cold. Her breath caught, a hiccup tumbling loose, and her heart near split in two. She can't believe he has no regards for her it's like all the other men. Not Nanami.

Her throat stings harder, and the air in her lungs burns, but his cologne is all what she can smell, and the hunger what was pawing at her belly sours into a thing too ugly to name. She know it. It’s familiar.

(Y/N) sobs hard, Nanami hushes her. He’s rubbing that bit of her, and she screw her eyes shut, laying her head against his shoulder in defeat knowing this aren't no love in it. There’s nothing but skin, and it chews her up like some kind of dog.

“I could give you so much more” he murmurs against her cheek.

But she doesn't want more. Her needs are simple and reasonable. Aren't they ?

Her spine’s stiffening, and she try sitting up some, just a little, but another of his fingers slips into her. His hand ain’t warm up enough yet, and the chill makes her suck in a sharp breath of air. She shift and almost turn, and her eyes fly open. The darkness meet her eyes, peering into her so hard blush shame her (S/C) skin and she sobs more but that too is seal by his tender kiss to her lips like it's a sweet little lovemaking.

He work inside her, teasing every tender place, until her skin burn hot as fire while the air stay chill and sharp. The cold prickle her eyes, made her blink, even as his mouth devouring hers—his hand slipping ‘round her back, unlacing the corset that bound her near breathless. The release made her moan into his kiss, like a box sprung open, air rushing in at last. But Nanami weren’t near finish. His tongue twist deeper, claiming her mouth as though it belong to him outright—never hers to command again.

He keeps pressing more and more inside her mouth, it aren't a room to fit in, their nose clashes and her mouth is wide as possible for space to sneak in like a thief and she feels herself lean back, her head loller back nearly grazing the wall, when his other hand— the one freed her corset—slides beneath her head so it doesn't hit the wall. Her eyes are force to open at this and she can't breath— she can't breath.

Her mouth’s dry, and through it all—find his eyes and peer down into them, into those open depths where that stuff what they call a soul rests. The faint light from the window catches in his eyes, making them shine as bright as honesty of his desires, and the shadows what dust his face are soft and dark.

She can't breath.

She can't breath.

Nanami twists her slight frame, wrings her out, and that unwelcome wetness rises, ugly and overwhelming. Her eyes clamp tighter, shielding herself from the glare.

She can't breath— her hands find purchase, push him back—just as he leans away from her mouth but he dig himself inside her and she shudders with her mouth open at the scream her mind wail because he was no polite about it, shove it hard and straight to up the space.

Her stomach caves in, and the room spins and the bile now reaches her tip of tongue but she swallow it back down as just as he rides up, it's higher and deeper and raw than she ever felt him. The pecker's naked like her top, breast bouncing with his pushes and she wonders when this all goona come to an end.

Suddenly, she slides, slipping into the softest cushion she’s ever known then he starts getting his knee up ontop it so he can lean over her better, and she gotta lie back to make room for him if she wishes for it to end sooner because luck is never on her side. He rubs her breasts and sinks his teeth into the skin of her collar bone, and when her back hits the cushion, his hands snake on down to her hips.

The grip of her hips real tight and sinks in faster and faster, and she just lay there, eyes close again with not a snippet of light to let in. The ache gets her moving. The ache digs up into her belly, and the shape of it is the shape of him, making her stretch. He brings in more kisses and marks litter on her neck and breasts. Even sinks his teeth on buds. It makes her whimper.

He’s rocking quicker and grunting and fiddling with those parts of her what’re tender and soft and her spine arch at the thrust meeting their hips.

He climb higher and gasp. He hold her and have her and squeeze her with every inch of muscle he owns and she feels him coming closer, something she would not like.

Then he reach for her, touch her cheek and brush back a lock of hair what’s gotten stuck to her glistening brow, and then he lean down and kiss her gently on the mouth as a liquid fill her up in her other lips. His hands gather her within him as he continue peppering kisses. "I love you". He says like he is different.

But they are all same.

FIN

I am sorry if the smut’s a bit rough, I’m still trying to get used to writing it so I can get on the level of other pro authors. It’s honestly hard but so addictive because I imagine a lot so putting them down on paper feels both good and downright satisfying, especially knowing I get to share it with my readers.

She can't anymore chew the chalky pebbles that are actually rice when the taste clings. Not even the soggy vegetables, adrift in brown water like forgotten things at the bottom of the sea, can wash it away. Just another typical lunch box from the convenience store. She can't ignore anymore that she is rotting away from home. In the same city she built high hopes for. Even the air is crowd thick with smoke, choke her by the greasy bodies of strangers.

She wish to return from where she came from. Wish to be coddle by her mother when she was a child crying more than laughing. Wish to lay beside the warmth of her kind parents so she did. Pack her bags with the same amount of things she came with and left the decay city.

"What happen ?" Her mother's wore eyes furrow at the state of her daughter standing hold the same luggage replace with sag shoulder, unslept eyes marred with dark circles and empty stomach still groaning shamelessly. Behind her, the dark still breathes. It clings to her coat like a jealous lover, unwilling to release her even as she steps across the threshold. But her mother stands bath in light— the golden kind that smells like warm soup and old lullabies. And for the first time in so long, the girl feels the stir of something more than survival. Something almost like hope.

"Love, who is at the door ?" Her father pause just as their eyes meet and he becomes more familiar to (Y/N) than the nameless years she wasted pretending she belonged elsewhere. His face hasn’t changed much— only soften, only aged. Guilt and disgust gnaw at her at how she now desire something she cared not before, standing tail between her legs almost, even stray dogs are more loyal than blood children. She is sorry. Truly is for being blinded by the promise of luxury life and wanting a name made of her own breath, not borrowed from the lungs of her parents.

Her mother usher her inside after not earn a reply from her. (Y/N) has none, well not ones she won't be embarrass to release out of her.

That mom I couldn't handle the pressure of city.

That mom I couldn't handle the stored food.

That mom I missed you terribly.

That mom life outside home is dire.

That mom I am jobless now, resigned.

Shame she should be for wasting her parents money on her education only to still be empty handed.

But those aching emotions melt away like a shameless child she is at the smell of steaming hot food wrafting from the pots and gentle white lights above her and that presence of childhood and home.

She sit down on the chair, her coat taken away by her father to hang on the doorway hanger and soon her mother fill the empty plates and bowl with her food which smell's glide through her nose to straight to her stomach that made the hunger nails scratching shaper, painful and greedier so she pull her hands and gobble down the food like she didn't ate for decades. She might as well not. The rice feels like rice, soft and buttery and the curry has flavors of many spice that warm up and slice the nails of her hunger filling them so much it has no space to want.

She feels alive. Not caring of the improper of not wiping the specks of rice sticking around her mouth and orange gloss left behind by the curry’s oil on her lips and the mustache of warm milk draw after the meal she ate hours earlier.

"We shall talk tomorrow. Good night". Her mother leans in, presses a kiss to her daughter’s forehead and on other hand, she holds the empty glass of milk, the faint white residue clinging to the bottom (Y/N) finish. (Y/N) murmurs the same words back— Good night— and her mother turns toward the door. But just before her hand finds the edge to pull it shut, she pauses. Looks over her shoulder. A quiet moment passes.

(Y/N) smiles. Wide. Earnest. The kind of smile that hasn’t found her face in years. And that is enough. Her mother’s shoulders ease, lips curl faintly upward, and she pulls the door close with the softest click

Alone now, (Y/N) exhales. A long, slow breath that seems to shake loose some of the tension she carried all the way home and let her eyes finally roam around her bedroom that is kept as it was. Not one thing touch, the bedsheets still the hue she once swore she’d never tire of and the posters on the walls, curling slightly at the corners, immortalizing old fascinations like sacred relics of a girl she barely remembers being. Same as ever.

When her eyes fall on her pulled curtains window, her heart hitch catching across the road, standing beneath a oak tree of the hush of nightfall, is a silhouette swathe in darkness. No face, no features— only an outline carve from shadow, still and watching. A man, perhaps.

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

Then instinct overrides curiosity.

Slowly, without sound, she shifts forward on her bed, crawling across the mattress like a child afraid to wake a nightmare. Her fingers find the curtain’s edge and pull until the fabric meets in the middle with a sigh, sealing the scenery she has no interest to explore. She has enough of that, now she needs rest and peace. Maybe it's a creep or who knows her trick of mind.

Either way, she has enough of fear.

Let the night keep its secrets.

She wants none of them.

“So,” her father muses, voice light with morning ease as his fingers work at the beans her mother handed him, “how does it feel ? Sleeping in your old room after seven whole years ?”

The question floats across the dining table, mingling with the scent of lingering breakfast and the soft clatter of dishes being wash in the sink. Her mother hums quietly in the background, sleeves roll, hands slick with soap, as though no time has pass at all.

“Hopefully good,” He adds, glancing up at (Y/N) with a smile that tucks itself beneath the silver edge of his glasses, perch low on the bridge of his nose. “Your mom and I kept it just the way it was.”

"Indeed wonderful". (Y/N) reach out to place it right. Her father chuckle at his wife's habit that seem to divvy to his daughter. "No wonder". And just like that, a smile finds her. One that’s real at how steady her parents have remained, like the house itself, unmove by time or distance. How foolish of her to ever think she could thrive without her parents.

Her gaze drifts again, drawn this time to the window left slightly ajar. The breeze slips through rustling the sheer curtains with delicate fingers, stirring the stillness. Beyond the glass, the view remains familiar as from her bedroom. The same old oak tree stands across the street however no man stands there looking just like a domestic morning that her eyes trace the house beside the tree she completely missed consumed by the stranger.

Now, in daylight, it reveals itself more clearly. Same walls as her own home, same narrow frame and sloping roof as any other. But this one wears its age. The shutters hang slightly crooked, the paint is fade, the windows cloud with dust. A house that looks forgotten. Empty.

“Poor Mrs. Lovelace” The words arrive softly, carry on her mother’s voice as she step closer, the pity in her tone enough to pull (Y/N)’s attention. Both her parents are watching that same house, heads bow just slightly, as if grieving.

(Y/N) turns fully toward them now, curiosity prickling gently at her. “What happened to her ?” She knows Mrs. lovelace, how could she not with such fancy title it always stood out in her childhood that she vaguely remember being obsessed with titles and whines why father didn't inherited one.

Funny, how that memory feels tender now.

"Poor woman abandoned by her children and the grieve of losing her husband you know.." Her mother tail off, her brows furrow at an memory unknown to (Y/N) who in that topic can't help but seal her mouth. It's seem cruel to hear when it isn't herself doing the same thing.

Abandoning her parents.

She rather avoid that conversation itself.

There he is again. Her breath stills, chest pull tight like a thread wound too fast. Her fingers curling around the curtain— gripping so tightly the cloth strain beneath her knuckles.

He is no longer beneath the oak tree.

Now he stands in the middle of the road— still, as if stitch into the pavement. The same faceless silhouette veil under the night. There are no eyes to meet, yet she feels his gaze all the same pressing down on her, heavy as stone.

She moves just an inch fingers twitching to pull the curtains shut but before the fabric can slide into place, the silver flash of a car cuts through the quiet. Its body gleams beneath the moonlight, sleek and too fast, a streak of metal and motion.

It barrels forward.

Straight toward him.

And the car passes through him.

No crash. No recoil.

Just a blur.

For one horrifying second, his form shudders— disbands, distorts like smoke torn apart by wind. Her heart leaps to her throat, then up into her skull, pounding so violently it echoes in her ears like the roar of a caged beast. She can’t think. Can’t breathe. The world contracts to the sound of blood and terror.

But then— he is there again.

Whole.

Unmoved.

As though the car had never touched him at all.

As though he had never unraveled into something not human.

Her lungs seize, drawing air that tastes like iron. Her mouth is dry, tongue thick and useless. Still the pounding in her head continues— louder, harder— like the scream of a bear clawing to escape, thrashing against bone and thought until lights bask her clicking with a noise.

"What happen ?" Her mother’s voice arrives from behind, trembling with concern but it's soon turn into a raw, strangle grasp as her mother rushes forward, delicate arms pulling (Y/N) away from the window as if to shield her from the night itself.

She’s press into a warm chest, wrap in a grip that quivers. Her mother holds her tightly like afraid she might shatter into pieces too small to gather. Behind them, her father reaches for the curtains— yanks them close with such force they shriek across the rod, a high, metallic wail. She doesn't know how but it did.

“It’s alright, sweetie. We’re here. It’s alright,” her mother whispers into her hair, rocking slightly, those calming words bounce over her head.

Two days in a row she saw him. No, it.

"You can stop screaming". Her mother whisper when (Y/N) realize the sound rattling her bones, the one she thought is in her ears, in her skull, in the walls is her own. Her own voice, ripping from her throat like something foreign. Her lungs burn from it. Her ribs ache. She has been screaming without knowing.

“What was that ?” (Y/N)'s voice barely makes it past her lips— hoarse, strain still echoing somewhere inside her chest. The curtains are drawn now but the weight of what stood beyond it still lingers. It presses against the glass.

Even now, she can feel it watching.

Each swallow scrapes against her throat, sharp and burning, as if something splinter inside her.

“We told you not to look out the window at night,” Her mother says quickly, the urgency in her voice slicing through the thick air.

(Y/N)’s eyes snap to her. Her mother’s gaze those same familiar eyes, the very ones she sees in the mirror— meet hers, wide and serious, and suddenly a stranger in their expression.

“What?”

A lie.

It has to be.

She was never told that not once. Not even in a joke. Her brow furrows, disbelief flickering across her face as pain flares in her throat with each breath.

But something shifts in her mother’s face. A ripple of recognition. Of regret.

And then silence.

Her mother turns to look at her father. He is already looking back, still and grim, as if they’ve spoken this conversation before, in a time when she was too young to understand.

(Y/N)’s eyes dart between them, heart rising like a tide in her chest.

“What’s going on ?” she demands, the question thick with fear. “You know that— that…”

But she can’t finish it. The word dies in her throat. To acknowledge it would be to breathe life into something that should not be real. So she didn't.

She didn't have to when her parents know exactly what it is.

“It— I’m sorry,” Her mother murmur, voice thin as thread.

She didn’t meet (Y/N)’s eyes. Instead, she look down at her feet, the floor, anything but her daughter’s face, as if the ground might soften the truth or offer her a place to bury it.

“You must have forgotten,” She continue, her voice caught somewhere between excuse and regret. “I suppose it’s understandable. You were only a child when we first told you. And later, well… you buried yourself so deep in books you hardly even looked out the window, let alone opened the curtains.”

She swallow then—hard, as if bracing herself for the words that would follow. Perhaps even bracing for (Y/N)’s reaction too. A flicker of hesitation cross her face, then something heavier. Fear, perhaps. Or guilt.

“It’s a rule, sweetheart. One we gave you when you were small. Never open your curtains. Not when you hear something. Not when you smell something. And—” her voice falter, lower, “—not even when you feel something.”

That last word drop like a stone in water. Feel— spat out with disgust, as if it taste wrong in her mouth. As if she would rather bite her tongue than let it leave her lips.

(Y/N)’s chest tighten. Her heart no longer beat where it should— it is in her throat now, fluttering against the walls like a moth trap in a glass. Her breath struggle to come and go, caught between the instinct to panic and the need to understand.

She could still see him. That man. That shape. That terrible outline engrave behind her eyes like a burned photograph—flickering, stuttering, replaying itself in jagged loops. Sometimes he is clear, solid, undeniable. Other times, he glitch—like a dream just out of reach, as if her own mind were trying to convince her it has never happened at all.

“Because of...it ?" She ask softly. Her voice isn't angry. It is hollow, as though spoke through a fog.

Her mother’s eyes flicker up, only for a moment. “Yes". she agree. Silence follow. “It's something,” her mother whisper, “something that isn’t supposed to exist. It isn’t supposed to stand there, watching the houses.” A shiver unfurl along (Y/N)’s spine like frost creeping through her bones. Houses ? It isn't just hers ? She doesn't know whether to feel comforted by the idea that others had seen it too or horrified that whatever it is has made the rounds. That it isn't a private curse, but a plague.

“And they say… once you see it, it takes something from you. Something precious.” (Y/N)’s blood run cold.

“Is he… a devil or something ?” (Y/N) ask. “Is that what he is that he takes things from us ?”

Her mother shake her head slowly. “I don’t know. But it does take. Sometimes… the person themselves.”

The words strike like a slap. (Y/N) choke on the thickness gathering in her throat, saliva clinging like it knows it has no place to go. She couldn’t go. She has just return. She has only just come back to this house that still smell faintly of childhood and memory.

Her voice come out in a trembling whisper. “Is this something the whole neighborhood follows ?”

Her mother nod solemnly.

“It was on the road—” (Y/N) start to say.

“Road ?” Her mother echo slicing her sentence, voice sharp with dread. Then her face crumple, her hand flying to her gaping mouth. “B-But…” She couldn't finish. Tears swell up too quickly and she sob.

Her father move to her side, silent, and wrap an arm around her trembling shoulders. “The thing is…” her father begin behalf of her mother, his voice low and brittle, “they say it’s always seen on the other side. Across the street. Beyond the glass. And the only ones who ever see it on the road…”

He pause. “…are the ones already doomed.”

(Y/N) stare at him. The words didn’t quite settle. They hover—too heavy, too vast to sink in.

“Because that means,” he continue, slower now, “it’s getting closer.”

Her voice came out dry, paper-thin. “How do you know that ?”

Her mother turn her face away again, but this time she couldn’t hide the tremor.

“There were others,” He reply. “People who weren’t… taken. Not by it, anyway.” His voice dip to a whisper, one barely fit for the air.

“They took themselves. And in their suicide notes, they described it. The thing. Watching it. Feeling it. Day after day… like a slow, unraveling madness. A descent. And it’s not hard to connect the dots, dear. Not when the pattern is always the same.”

“So I’m next ?" (Y/N) said. It isn't't a question, even though her voice lilt like one. It is simply a truth being spoken aloud. She didn’t cry. Couldn’t. Her body refuse the release. Her eyes remain dry, fix and wide, as if even her tears has decide it is best not to draw attention.

So she sit in silence, watching her mother fall apart and her father teeter on the edge of it.

So this is what coming home looks like, she thought. Not just warmth and comfort but the taste of ash and the echo of something creeping closer.

Her father inhale slowly, the breath rattling in his lungs like old paper. When he finally spoke, his voice is rough—scrape raw—and carry the weight of a man who is trying, and failing, to wear a mask of strength.

“All I can tell you now,” he said, “is to keep the curtains drawn. Always. Day or night. And never, under any circumstance, open the window. Not even if you think you’re alone.”

His hands are fists now, knuckles pale, his skin ghostly beneath the overhead light. But his voice stay firm, brittle like dried wood about to snap.

How could they not be afraid, (Y/N) thought, when they were haunted ? Or at least something that resemble like it.

Ah, she remembers now. Something "(Y/N), never look outside the window at night." Her mother's younger, brighter voice had warned her—commanded her, really—though the dreamy haze of childhood had softened the gravity of it.

“Why ?” her younger self had asked, head tilted in defiance, a budding rebellion curling in her lips.

“Because there stands a Seeker,” her mother had replied, “one who hunts bad, disobedient children. And once they defy their mother’s advice, they become his prey. He always catches them.”

That had been enough to frighten her into obedience—enough to keep her in line without question. Now that she recalls it, even if she had remembered sooner, she would’ve dismissed it as another childhood tale meant to scare kids into caution. A metaphor for predatory strangers, she might’ve thought. Nothing more. Nothing real.

But now, after seeing it—after knowing—she wants to die. Shit. Shit. Shit. She doesn't know what will come for her now, what she has invited in with her gaze.

Sleep had come briefly, maybe for an hour, and with it, a dream of her childhood. That was the last rest she knew. After that, only torment. Only the fear.

She watch— bleary-eyed, with bruise shadows beneath her lids as her parents brought a priest. A man whose entire demeanor wither the moment he step into her room. His face turn ashen. He claim nothing could be done. The pity in his eyes confirm it. "There’s a great malevolent energy here," he said.

She also watch her parents beg. Plead. Desperate for answers. For anything that could drive the thing back— hold it at bay for even a little while.

“What if I move ?” She ask, voice quiet but trembling. “Like took my parents and left this town ?”

The local priest only shake his head, a sorrowful smile curling on his lips. “Many have tried. And it always ends the same. The lucky ones… left bodies behind to bury unlike the disappeared ones".

The night also does not pass quickly. Summer nights instead of being warm, lazy, harmless become a races to the sun in reverse, draping it, smothering it, holding it back as long as it can. It lingers— thick and swollen as though some unseen hand is holding back the dawn, stretching the dark into something almost unending. There is always that weight, that pressure of eyes on her, like a presence leaning close enough to breathe against her skin. It peers, it pries— watching what should belong to her alone.

Sweat prickles along her temples, sliding down her spine. She wakes with a sharp, choking jolt— pull from the paralysis of dreamless black into a darker waking.

She sits up slowly. The room is thick with shadow, air heavy in her lungs. For a moment she can’t understand what she’s seeing— until she does.

There.

Just behind the curtain, unmoving—its outline waiting.

If her terror could pull from the raw clay of imagination, it would shape the face it knows is there: press against the glass, skin warp by the pressure, eyes stretch wide as moons, pupils scouring the dark for her. Searching.

If she is unlucky—truly unlucky—he might be looking back at her right now.

She snaps the thought in half, the way a child might shut a closet door to keep the monster inside. She searches for her parents, calling them without quite meaning to.

They come rushing, the lights flaring into the room.

The shadow is gone.

But it's presence hasn’t lift—if anything, it’s heavier now, as if whatever had been outside has simply step closer, into the marrow of the house.

It feels like those eyes have found another way in—boring through her skull, sinking in like hooks.

She buries her face in her mother’s chest, against the thin softness of aged collarbones. The ache of terror begins to blur at the edges, washed in the familiar scent of her. Her father’s hand moves gently through her hair.

And strangely —she feels comforted.

It’s the kind of comfort that comes after pain: the sting soothed, the wound blown on with tender breaths. Like a scraped knee tended to under a parent’s touch.

The danger, the dread, the reality pressing in from beyond the window—all of it recedes beneath the warmth of their arms. In the steady hum of her mother’s heartbeat and the careful sweep of her father’s hand, she feels safe. Safe enough to believe, for one trembling moment, that nothing could reach her here. Invincible she is.

She felt it before she saw it.

The weight of its presence press into the room like a second atmosphere— silent, but thick. The only sound it made is the faint, sour pull of breath squeezing past whatever serve as its lips—if lips even exist there at all. Each inhale is slow, deliberate; each exhale measured, like the steady rhythm of a sleeper’s lungs.

Like hers should have been.

The ends of its breaths seem to travel, bouncing off the walls, skimming over the clutter on the floor, until they found their way into the hollows of her ears.

Without moving her head, her gaze shift toward the edges of her vision.

It is there.

Standing just behind the door. In the corner.

She could have move—could have ask, demand, scream—yet her lips ignore the tug of her thoughts. Her skin is stone, her body lock in place, and her bones are lead, too heavy for her mind to command. Mercury courses through her veins, mingling with her blood, seeping into the cavity of her chest. It is cold.

The pillow’s fabric press against the back of her head. She tries to sink into it, to bury herself in the false sanctuary of its softness. Sleep. Pretend to sleep.

Never mind that she isn't. Never mind that her mind is wide awake, thrashing for an escape her body would not give.

She told herself to forget the thoughts—forget the reeking of gasoline—flood her ears and drown out the sound of her own breathing, forget the truth standing in the darkest corner of her room.

The truth that is watching her.

And then—her heart froze.

Color enter the darkness.

Two eyes, their glow rising from shadow like coals catching light. Not human—not truly—but white as pearl, gleaming with a cold, headlamp brightness. The glow thin and vanish for a heartbeat as a nictitating membrane slid across them, muting their light, then reveal it again in a wet blink.

They move—up and down the length of her body.

Tracing the rise and fall of her chest beneath the blanket drawn to her chin, as if the thin fabric could hide her.

They watch.

And they did not look away.

The coldness seeps in her spine and then grab at the breath that tried to escape past her nose. The air stops suddenly in the back of her throat at it's eyes fly up to her gaze and twinkle with a brightness so sharp it almost hurt to look at, for a heartbeat, she swore she saw flecks—tiny motes—spiraling away, as though his gaze has shatter shards of dust breaking off from a star, only to fade before they could fall.

“What do you want ?” The words scrap out at last, her voice brittle, dry at the edges, carrying the faint creak of something straining under weight.

The change is immediate. His gaze narrow, as if her speaking has displease him.

And then he move.

She heard it first—the soft, splintering shift of the old wooden floorboards. The sound slide into her ears and the mercury in her vein solidifies into hard, heavy shapes. It blocks the flow of her blood— threaten to tear the lining of her arteries. The night keep him veil in its black mantle, but she feels him approach until he stand at the foot of her bed.

“Your most prized possession,” he said.

“I have none,” she answer without hesitation—too quickly. She aren't fooling anyone.

“You do. All humans cherish something.”

Her lips tremble. “Then… you know what it is ?” He blink slowly, a movement heavy with confirmation. Tears swell and slip from the corners of her eyes. She didn’t need to hear his answer— she already knew.

“This life ?” she ask. Her voice falter on the words. She thought of her parents. Of this house. Of the walls she has grown up within and return to, like waves curling back to the shore where they’d first been born.

“Indeed.” She sniff, but it did nothing to ease the tightness in her throat. The thought of being torn from this place, from them, feels no less than a death sentence.

"Can't it be replaced".  she ask, the words tumbling out in a plea. Her tongue press against the roof of her mouth, coating it with saliva so it wouldn’t crack and dry.

"Can it be equivalent to something else ?" The question cut through her. She fall silent. She didn’t know what this thing value—what currency it dealt in. But if it is something like her happiness, her joy, her belonging, then—

"Me ?" The thought leap out from her mouth with a care of consequences.

"You ?"

“Yes,” she said, her voice steadier than the pulse hammering in her throat. “You seem lonely. You’ve been here for years… decades, maybe. Don’t all creatures—human or not—need someone? I can be that someone. You can have my soul, bound to you. Be everything you ask for. All in exchange for you not taking… this life.”

She draw in a trembling breath. “Every night, under the dead of night, I am yours.”

He didn't answer.

Then she feels it, a hand, a finger— a claw, touching her shoulder, hovering just below her skin, her chin. Light enough to caress, sharp enough to draw blood. It nipping at the fabric, and slid it slight to draw a path in her throat and something beneath her skin crawls in tandem with it's motions. It moves slowly, languidly.

Her heart shudders from it's silence and her mind can't think to scream. She wants to run, want to dive under the covers, to bury herself so deeply that the bed and blankets would swallow her whole and return her intact in the morning to her parents. But her body doesn't listen and the weight of it's pericing eyes is strangling her.

Then it pulls back faster than a blink of an eye. "Accepted".

When she wake, her mother’s arms were wrap tight around her and her own skin feels almost too warm—feverishly so. Heat burn through her, the kind that feel both like standing at the edge of a grave and lying in the throes of a raging illness. Her head throb, her limbs are lead, and her body seem to sink deeper into the mattress with every breath.

“Oh, my baby… are you alright? You weren’t waking up". Her mother’s voice crack, the words quivering with tears. (Y/N) tries—weakly—to lift her arms in return, to fold herself back into that safety, but her body is too heavy. All she could manage is to rest her head against her mother’s chest, letting the tears slip quietly down her face, soaking into the fabric there.

“We thought we lost you,” her father said. Through blur vision, she saw him turn his head slightly away, dragging the back of his hand across his eyes in a quick, almost a guard gesture. He didn’t want her to see.

But she could barely hold her thoughts on them—their fear, their relief—because something else was pulling her focus.

In the farthest, darkest corner of the room, where the sunlight couldn’t quite reach even in the middle of the day, she sees him.

He stand there, unmoving.

The curtains are still drawn, but daylight seep in around their edges, and yet he is clearer than shadow—watching her.

Those eyes—pale, almost colorless—lock on hers. They didn’t waver. Didn’t blink. Didn’t need to.

Her throat tighten, and the tears come harder.

She is scared. More than scared. And alone in a way that even her parents’ arms couldn’t touch.

What had she done ? How could she have struck a bargain with something that wasn’t even alive ?

She must have been mad. Completely mad.

This time, when he came, it was beneath a sky swallowed whole by darkness—no moonlight to follow, no stars to watch. He arrived silently, slyly, as she sat upright in her bed, her dream already stolen away. Her eyes remained closed, laced with fear and revulsion, not just at his presence but at the terrible thought that he might rob her of her side of the bargain.

What tongue does a beast speak ? What if it lied— what if it broke the deal and took her away regardless ?

She couldn't allow that. She has to remain here, in this house built brick by brick by her grandparents, lovingly remodeled by her parents for her future. She couldn’t let him—some watcher in the dark—claim it, claim her away.

When the weight of something cold settle on her shoulders, she froze. Only when her gaze flick to the edge of her vision did she catch the glint of crooked teeth parting, as if breathing her in. A hand—or what resemble one—slide from her shoulder to her arm down, drawing a path before he pull her tight in an immediately embrace. Her breath halt and She could feel his breath—rag and unnatural—against the heat of her back. So cold, it remind her of the frostbite she had once suffered after ignoring her parents' warnings. It was unpleasant. Just like him. Just like this moment.

She feels his claw for fingers touch her forehead— her strands of hair really and pull them behind exposing her bare neck where something utterly cold touch, Icy. Painful, if only faintly. She didn’t know what it is—barely more than a featherlight graze—but it made her flinch, and at once, he went still.

As if he knows.

Then it dip again.

This time, she is certain—lips, if he even has any. She flinch again. His grip tighten like shackles around her arms, and he press himself closer to her back.

Suddenly a grasp left her lips at something sharp, pointy bite her skin like it's a flesh to consume but it didn't sink deeper, breaking her skin because if it did she might cry out and beg to let go.

Betray her side of the deal. Run to her mother's arms for the comfort she always got and complain to father of how aweful being a woman feels. Only to be desired, not cared for. She feels him nipping at the place where shoulder meets neck, as if weighing the tenderness of flesh before tearing it from bone. She is nothing to him but a bargain sealed like the ease of flicking a coin into the dirt before a beggar with hope in her eyes.

And before she know it she’s falling onto the mattress—not to sleep, not to rest, but for something far more excruciating. Her chest and her stomach press against the fabric, and he is behind her, gripping her, holding it still like if she are to fall somewhere he will still clutch onto her like a leech not ready to let go it's host until all blood is drain from her. Gosh, gosh, gosh, if only it is that easy.

She sob borrowing her soft comforter's fabric to bury her face to not turn him away, got him thinking her troublesome. Does she have to do this every night ? Or every time he comes ? When all she suggested was someone to fill the void of loneliness like a friend would, not a whore.

How naive, idiot (Y/N).

He traces the edge of her sleeve with idle fingers, toying gently— almost thoughtfully— before gripping tight and tearing with a sudden, brutal force it squeal in the silence. Her eyes slam tight at that, her chest heave heavy and she could feel his presence on her, her back full of him yet he weight nothing like he is wind itself. Only feels no touch.

It's hands sneak up under her night gown and he rubs her thighs and leans in real slow so he can press his lips to her back of nape while the other hand pulls at the fabric from above, dragging it down inch by inch, like peeling the skin from fruit, until she’s left in just her bra, exposed to the air and the quiet hunger of the room. He feels and squeezes and holds as best he can on her bare waist, her navel— fingertips sinking in like he wants to carve out a place for himself in her body—and she sobs, breath catching as the wind slips through and strokes her bare torso with its cool fingers too. Her vision blurs, soft around the edges, and she blinks hard, chasing away tears she doesn’t want to claim.

As he invades her more, he shoves her gown aside completely, casting it off like a discarded veil, she begin to dream, being to imagine sitting on the porch near her father's chair. That’d be the nicest, prettiest spot, where the wind brushes her face, and she can curl herself up real tight and rest your cheek atop your knees. She can keep to herself listening to the nature's heartbeat, her parents giggling sweet nothing to one another as she busk at her own business but that didn't last long as she feels a sudden sharp jolt snaps her back— a stretch, a sting, something pushing inside that feels too familiar, something her past few ex boyfriends taught her.

But it is nothing like the previous, no pretence of romance under the course and too big, too tight up inside her.  He holds her thigh, squeezes her like he don’t wanna let go, like she is the only thing keeping him tied down, and then she feel him sinking roughly. And when he thrusts again, it’s not tentative—it’s claiming. Not a new thing to be tried on and worn for the night, but something to be inhabited. Sweat beads cold on her brow, and her mouth is dry and heart’s already scrambling for your throat.

He pushes so deep she can feel the tip of him brushing against your liver. He makes her fit around him, works himself in all good and enough, but he’s got her nearly to the point of tearing, and a sudden sneeze might rip something in her— might fill her stomach up with blood and leave her coughing up the taste of crimson and agony. But she bend as well as she can, and somehow, she don’t snap. She whimper, gasps, grunts, enduring it all with her body half-fold and her mind elsewhere. Only when he jerks her hips higher— angles her as if to reach more deep of her untouch—does she cry out, voice raw and shapeless in the dark.

It’s the strangest feeling— being full and hollow at once, like she’s bursting and yet completely empty, a sensation she’s never known before. He leans down until he has her all cover and he gathers her up in his arms and starts kissing and tasting her again with an eagerness what’s almost feverish. He moves his hips, grunts some while he’s doing it, and she struggles to breathe— something thick and unrelenting pressing high into her, shoving up against the base of her lungs.

He’s got big hands, and one of them snakes between them and starts touching and rounding her breast— bare. She hadn’t even notice— when has the fabric disappear ? Wasn’t it there just a second ago ? It isn’t fair, how everything slips away so quickly.

It isn't fair how tight he winds her up. It isn't also fair how red it turns her insides, how he can twist her up like it wants but it isn't love, only a newfound desire, and it don’t fill her mouth with nothing but salt. Like somebody’s dunk her head down into the river, and the current washes over her and into her and makes her fingers claw the sheets, clinging to the last familiar thing: the soft scent of laundry on her sheets her mother done with care. She grips them tight, anything to stay grounded, to keep from being sweep away. She gotta squeeze her eyes shut tight, and something wet and salty slips from mouth, saliva it is drooling across her mouth, but then she gasps— air, finally— but it’s cold and metallic, and the weight on top of her groans like a beast, something just barely still a man. Two steps remove from a stranger. Maybe less.

A shudder runs up the length of her spine, and he shoves himself down deep into her one final time. Something must have snap just then, might’ve torn like a piece of paper, and a bit of pain cuts up into her belly and spills across her hips and she scream, bitterly as a crow's squawk. The pig’s gonna be butcher now, and the meat’ll get smoke and then glaze with honey.

He hugs her tight to him, so tight she almost can’t breathe, and then the moment’s gone and his grip slackens, but he waits a minute. Hesitates, almost, and his head’s bow, she can’t see his face anyway, but his chest is press flush against her back, and he breathes all deep and low and for a moment, he doesn't move. Then he slowly begins to peel himself away, jerking back like someone unfamiliar with the act of letting go— like it pains him to detach then he pauses and peers down for a moment at himself and the choice he’s made.

An ache is blooming deep in her hips, dull and distant, as if her body is beginning to weep before her mind can catch up. The tears on her face haven't even soak when finally he turn her to face him. She sees nothing. Nothing but sickly pale eyes set in the silhouette of something that might be a man who is like a thief but he isn't no thief. He has dress what he is taking as a willing deal. As willing as a soul can be when death seems kinder than living.

She lies beneath him— cold, bare, emptied.

Watching.

Waiting for him to be gone.

But he lingers. He has already taken, devoured, drained. And yet when he leans down— mouth brushing hers, lips tangling into a kiss like a knot—she knows: he’s still hungry.

Greedy, greedy bastard.

“You are pretty,” he mutters, his voice—like something spoke from beneath the ocean, warp and distoried. “And pleasant. I like you.”

The words don’t pass his lips. No, they move only to taste her— to press, to suck and yet the sentence resounds inside her skull, echoing like a thought not her own. It hums there, low and awful, and if not for the voice—if not for its texture like broken glass— she might have believe it is hers.

And with that, the bargain seals. Iron-bound. Irrevocable.

And every night at the hour where eyes of others asleep does he comes to her. And she becomes his. Merge into something that is not entirely herself, not entirely him, but shape in the dark space where names are useless.

By daylight, she lounges and laughs and eats beside her parents like in the good old days. They smile, blissfully unaware that for each hour she spends in their warmth, she must pay at—

The hour without eyes.

FIN

𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐨𝐟 ◜⌜ 𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐎𝐟 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 ⌟◞

At her words, something pull in his chest. He could not say whether her answer has tightened around his heart or whether his own heart had begin to twist of its own accord.  "I meant it in only one way and that is how could a man such as he— a fool, by all appearances come to marry a woman such as you ?" Her laugh come in response, quick and shapeless. Hollow. It scrape the edges of the silence.

“Your Majesty,” she said, with the smallest of bows, “you jest too far often.”

"And why should I make jests at the expense of others if not truth I am speaking". His voice is a little firm, the quiet sternness at the rim of his voice— just like the feeling in his chest.

She is quiet for a moment and a softness bleed between them before speaking. "For safety, security, position, standing, respect". She answer. "And love". She stare at him, the look in her eyes is soft and shining but the way she spoke the final word as though it were an afterthought, something obligatory, almost forgotten revealed more than she could conceal.

As if love were the last thread she is taught to mention, and not the first she felt.

A faint shift of cloth draw her eyes. The king has turn, only slightly, in his chair— just enough for her gaze to fall from the front, drawn to him by the rustle of motion and presence and when she look down, her heart hitch at the sight of his sore hand without the sliver-thread glove, revealing raw skin, red and peeling in parts, the flesh angry and marred. A wound not freshly earned, but stubborn in its refusal to heal.

Something in her chest stir, tighten. She had seen desperation before knew what it meant when the very skin seemed to eat itself in defiance of rest. And yet, instead of pity, admiration flow her. Fierce and sudden. Something she rarely feels for anyone let alone a man.

Mayhaps it show. For the king, watching her, feel his own expression dull, watching the slight pull of her neck, the faint tightening beneath her jaw. He brace for revulsion—wait for it to touch her features like a stain.

But it never come.

Instead, there is only smooth curiosity. A quiet surprise. Not scorn, not pity. And that absence strangely nourish the hope, flair it a little.

"Do you find it absolutely revolting ?" It is a mere question yet it climb from his throat and curl off his tongue sounding much weaker to the ear, less of a question.

Her gaze stay with his hand, steady and unyielding, and somehow that steadiness comfort him. "Your majesty, have you". She falter, as though weighing the shape of the thought, hesitant to mar its honesty with clumsy speech but he could not wait.

"Tell me". He encourage. Her eyes flicker at his at that and a rich, warm emotion shine in her gaze he can not will himself read it, he recognize it but he wait to name it. He is a king, not a god. No holier thing, no deity to be adored, accepted across all.

"Have you ever witness a child birth ?" She finish and it caught him wholly unguard, so much so for the first time ever did (Y/N) caught his eyes wide bright and look away he did and strings of coughs ripple through him as to wash away the discomfort or mortified she does not know which but thought he would not answer and cover his palm in his glove pretending to be never part of such conversation.

Yet he did not. "No. I was not allowed to see a sight of my sister's birth and I have no one to comfort who would confine in me related to those". After he peer at her, spies only to be astonish to see the line press thin her lips curve into a gentle smile and a delightful affability shine in her eyes as a short buzz in her chest at the innocence of his answer and all Baldwin could focus is the smile on her.

She lean real close yet no much to invade his privacy. "Your majesty, I have witness childbirth twice. And let me tell you— it is the most gruesome, most terrifying, most god-awful ordeal one could ever laid eyes on, more than any fierce battlefield I caught glimpse of but after the birth did I feel this strange surge of pride and thought honor. I thought that no one had the right to pity those who suffer such pain because when someone is doing their best, one should utter well done not". A break in the grey allow light to pour through, gilding her features in honey warmth. The golden gleam touch her eyes as she lift them to meet his—those limpid, knowing eyes, narrow slightly by the curve of her smile. "Poor you".

"Thus, I have no right to find it anything other than praise and reverence like it deserve". Her voice is but a murmur, soft and sweet, smoothing his aching heart with kind and comforting touch. The tightness flee and he inhale. A full breath. The first in what feels like hours. It fill his lungs, cool and clean, dispelling the fog that has cling to the edges of his mind. It's as though something heavy within him had been unknotted, and all he can he do is sit in the quiet it left behind.

━━━━━━━━

"That was most refreshing, Your Majesty. The finest amusement I have known in some time, I thank you for the pleasure it brought me," Thomas declare with an eager smile, rising to his feet after a courteous bow. Sweat clung to his brow, strands of hair matted across his forehead.

Yet to the king's gaze, there is no sincerity beneath the glisten only a self-satisfied pride, the bloated kind born of men who indulge heartily in their own enjoyment, never pausing to wonder whether others have partaken in it too.

The king observe him in silence, his expression inscrutable. "I see as well". Baldwin murmur at last, the words deliver flat and low, as he nod. The sun is soon to be set so would the couple when. The sun, slipping toward its descent, cast its golden farewell through the windows soon it would vanish, as would the company gathered here.

“I was wondering,” the king said, voice mild but deliberate, “if I might invite you to dine Mr. Thomas.” At that, a ripple of confusion stir among them.

“Mr. Thomas was not invited before, I believe,” he continue, calm and sure, “and I would dislike for him to be not include to the hosting of this time. I would join, too.”

At the king’s request, (Y/N)’s brow furrow ghosting across her features quick, but not quick enough. She banish it at once, masking it before it could be caught by any but the most watchful. Yet the king’s gaze had already found her. Those azure orbs, usually clear and cold, now seem to flicker with something warmer or perhaps it is only her thoughts weaving knots of confusion where none existed.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Her husband answer hastily, too eagerly. “It would be why, the most delightful day of my life.”

He bob his head with giddy enthusiasm, the motion clumsy, almost childish, unable to contain the flood of excitement in his chest. (Y/N) agree too after he glance toward his wife, as if remembering she stand there at all.

━━━━━━━━

“So, Mr. Thomas, are you finding your new surroundings agreeable ?” ask Guy of Lusignan, the husband of Sibylla, his fingers curl loosely around a goblet of crimson wine. His posture drip with arrogance, and (Y/N) could see it plainly— he is the sort to bring trouble wherever he went. She could not help but wonder how such a man manage to wed the king’s sister. Surely, Sibylla might have refused. But perhaps even among the nobility, one’s voice was not always one’s own.

“Marvellous,” Her husband reply before she could think further, snapping her attention to him— particularly to the fifth glass of wine clutch in his hand. He has never acquaintance himself with the notion of moderation. It did not exist in the world he occupy, and she fear he would once again disgrace himself before the king.

The thought brought her back to earlier, to the king’s quiet words spoken in their solitude. She found herself wondering— was what she said then sufficient ? Had she chosen the right words, honest and soft as they were? He had grown so silent after, refusing even to meet her eyes.

Her gaze drift across the length of the table, past her husband’s boisterous laughter, to the far end where the king sat. He has not touch a bite of food, and as her eyes land upon him, she draw a slow breath through her nose for his gaze is already upon her. Steady. Heavy. She ponder how it escape her notice ? Then again her attention has been fix too tightly upon her husband and all the ways he might unravel.

“How long have you been wed to Lady (Y/N) ?”

Guy’s voice drag her sharply back into the moment, as if yanking her by the nape. Dread crept cold and damp over her shoulders at the question— one she despise above all. Her lips part instinctively, ready to spare them both, to speak before her husband could—

“For—”

“Ten years, my lord,” He answer swiftly, beating her to it, voice proud and oblivious. She bow her head, a small motion, almost reflexive, and Guy let out another smooth laugh.

But she knew what is coming.

Beneath the table, her hand sought his with urgent haste. Her fingers found his palm and pinch, a sharp warning mask by the linen drape. He turn to glance at her, eyes narrowing in a silent scold.

“That is quite wonderful,” The noble muse, raising his goblet once more. Wine touch his lips, deepening their hue. “With so many years behind you, one would expect the halls full of heirs by now. Never a concern for legacy, I suppose.”

“Oh, no. I have none.” It is her husband’s voice, thoughtless and careless.

(Y/N)’s jaw clench. Shame rose bitter in her throat, and she did not lift her gaze. She dare not— to anyone present within the table, not even Balian, her soul-brother seat further down. The silence that follow press down like damp wool. The clinking of silver cease. Even the air grow still, as if the very walls haa recoil.

“My dear, I believe this glass ought to be your last,” Sibylla’s voice chim in—playful, airy. “I can see your legs already plotting the path homeward.” She even laugh, a sweet peal of sound high and clear (Y/N) heard but all she could is gaze into her lap as though she might dig a hole through the fabric and vanish into it. Pray the earth to open its maw beneath her and consume her whole—grinding bone and pride alike between its teeth.

“Well, why not ?” said Guy at last, saving them all from Sibylla’s brightness. “But not before a toast with Mr. Thomas.” The words come crooked, as though dip in vinegar. The laughter that follow grate—too loud. It scald the back of her ears, and her skin tight in prickle shame.

“Why not,” Thomas echo easily, as he always did. Thoughtless agreement is his most fluent tongue.

“To generous Mr. Thomas,” Guy declar, raising his cup. “for loving his wife still.”

She shut her eyes. Stitch them close with all her will, so tight the strain behind her lids made her temples throb. She wish she could disappear into the dark behind her eyelids, where no one could see how her hands tremble in her lap.

“Cheers,” Her husband echo, and though she pretend blindness, she could feel the grin in his voice. Wide. Charming. Feel him stretch his cup across his face like a flag raised high. Indifferent to her humiliation again.

“What is the meaning of this toast?” The king’s voice broke through the hall like tempered steel drawn from its sheath— quiet, yet cold enough to slice. The mask dull the edges of his words, but not their weight. Beneath its gild shell, his tone bore the heaviness of command.

(Y/N) froze. (Y/N) hesitate, confusion darken her muddle state and she turn her gaze upward, slowly, to meet the sovereign’s veiled face.

“Hm?” He press, and there is no softness in the sound. “Tell me—why should that warrant a toast ? Loving a wife such as Lady (Y/N)—is that truly so rare an act it deserves exaltation? Must we raise our cups to something so... basic in duty ? When she is his wife. Is she not ? And generous, you said ? In what way, I wonder, is he generous ?”

The warmth drain from Thomas’s face. His usual grin—so careless, so loud—vanish like wax under heat. A dreadful frown settle in its place, slow and uncertain.

Guy, too, falter. His hand grip tighter faintly around the stem of his goblet as he brought it to his lips, draining the wine in a single pull yet he could not drink away the chill settling in his limbs. For Baldwin’s gaze, dark and unwavering, linger not on him but upon Thomas... and it saw far too much.

“I fail to see why there need be effort to love Lady (Y/N)— when love for her should rise unbidden, like breath. She is a woman any man of sense would count himself fortunate to call his own.” He look at him, his azure eyes sharp and glower at Thomas and Balian's stomach knot who sat quietly across the table recognizing the same voice, the same fire in Baldwin’s gaze and voice as when he had once condemned Reynald de Chatillon in public—before all men. That voice of low, controlled, yet brimming with contained fire. A reckoning, if not now, then very near.

Thomas swallow. The wine that once made him bold turn to ash in his throat. The warmth that had lit his face with foolish cheer begin to scald, leaving blotches of crimson shame at his neck and ears.

“Pardon me,” he stammer, the smile long gone, “it… it was a mistake.”

“For what ?” Baldwin ask at once, the words cutting the air before Thomas could finish his breath. He lean forward then, placing his elbows lightly upon the snow-white cloth of the table, as if to brace the weight of what he was about to demand.

"F–for…”

(Y/N) watch her husband flounder, watch his words tangle and collapse. It stir something in her. She feels it— small, mean satisfaction that curl in her gut like fire. She smother it behind still lips, behind a posture of modest stillness. But oh, it bloom quietly.

“Apologize to your wife,” He take his gaze away, as if the sight of the man is beneath even his contempt. Yet his voice quiet and clip carry enough weight to crush the breath from the room. No one dare so much as shift in their seat. "You have not offended me—only exposed yourself. For to imply Lady (Y/N) is lesser than you, and must be grateful for your affection, is an insult that lands solely on her.”

"I am sorry". Thomas murmur at last, his head turning slowly toward her—as though each inch cost him his pride. The words trip from his lips, reluctant and raw. Never before has he been brought so low in the presence of others, and it show in his shaking breath. (Y/N) give a small, impassive nod as he turn to glance toward Baldwin, seeking absolution.

“Guy.” The king voice cut through the silence again. “Apologize, too.”

The room turn.

Guy, who has kept his eyes low and sullen posture, blink. His brow furrow in disbelief. Yet the king merely stare—unmoving, like a statue carve from frost and judgment. His eyes, shadow behind the delicate silver of his mask, gleam like a crow’s—sharp and vengeful.

Guy swallow.

He share one final look with Baldwin a foolish attempt to resist but the silence strangle him.

“Pardon me, Lady (Y/N),” He mutter, the words sour on his tongue. “I… am sorry for my behavior.” No sooner has the words left his mouth than Baldwin lift a hand in dismissal, as though swatting away the presence of flies.

“I shall take my leave,” He said, rising to his feet. “My appetite has been spoilt.” He murmer raising Immediately, Tiberias was at his side, ever the loyal shadow. The others, caught between shame and duty, scramble to rise with him—chairs scraping, silver clinking, but no voices dare fill the silence.

The king pause once more before leaving, his gaze flickering coldly to Thomas. “Hopefully,” He said, “you’ve learned from your mistake.”

And then he turn, robes whispering behind him as he depart.

━━━━━━━━

“I still cannot believe the king saw fit to humiliate us like that,” Thomas mutter, shaking his head as though the weight of the evening still clung to his temples. Disbelief etch itself into every line of his face. “Frankly, I fail to see the saint you once claimed him to be.”

His hands work impatiently at the sleeves of his coat, twisting behind his back as he struggle to shrug it off. His gaze remain lower—fix somewhere on the seam where the stone wall kissed the floor, as if unable to meet anything more human.

“Do you think he intends to punish me formally ?” He ask, voice thin with unease.

(Y/N) look at him from where she sit—perch on the edge of the guest bed, hands fold neatly in her lap. The guest room has been offered by Sibylla, with a peculiar sort of insistence. Something about showing her gardens, about air and calm and sunlight tomorrow, as though she were trying to scrub the memory of the night away with flowers and civility.

And (Y/N) had accepted it only with a soft smile, gratitude blooming faintly in her chest—not for the room, nor for the garden. But for the gesture as it does not matter when this exact moment has occurred several times yet only this once did someone defend her and that is not her husband.

And now, as she regard Thomas, her voice come cool and even “Are you truly unaware of what darkened his Majesty’s mood ?”

"What ? I had not once spoke ill of him". Reply her husband smooth and urgent and it is that coolness that prohibit his tone from smoothing her heart. She sneer looking away from the only struggle her husband seem to face tonight is with his coat. Not with her. Not with this. As though the fabric clinging to his arms deserve more attention than the fraying threads of their marriage.

"Can you not tell—". Her voice spike before she caught it. She draw in a sharp breath, eyes falling close, lashes fluttering against the tightness in her throat. Then, quieter. Tighter. “Pray tell me, husband. Have we not lived through this exact moment again and again? Have I not begged you—begged—not to bring up how long we’ve been married?". And when her eyes open, the warmth that usually adorn her face is gone—replace by a grim as cold as stone.

“But why ?” he ask, his voice cracking around the words, still trying to make sense of it. “I don’t understand you—” he is bewildered, even as his coat finally fall from his shoulders. His chest rise with exertion—half from the heat of her words, half from his struggle to free himself from the fabric and the silence between them. He look at her fully now, ready to speak but the words wither.

For he saw them— those tears swelling in her (E/C) eyes, catching the faint flicker of candlelight like sorrow-cut diamonds. Her cheeks flush with fury, her mouth trembling with restraint. And in her gaze, a line of hate glimmer that he can no longer pretend. "Why do you pretend to love me when it’s clear you can not stand me ? Why do you speak around me, ignore me—refuse to even name how long we have been wed ? Why does the truth of our marriage embarrass you ?”

His gaze narrowing and he fought against the tremble that tries to grab hold in his tongue. “…Why are you ashamed of me ?"

Strange, how he looks at her with such wide, trembling eyes—those soft, beseeching pupils that might bring his mother to her knees in mercy but not her. She could not feel a ounce of forgiveness remaining for this man she married. Nor softness for his confessions rather a surge of rage in her heart grow hateful fangs and she fist the blanket in her palms. “Ashamed ? Love ?” she spit, each word barbed and bitter. “You bastard. You know why I married you. You know I have told you a thousand times not to speak of our years together—those ten years, a cruel count for any woman, enough to bear more than five children by now. And yet here I lie, barren while you open that babbling mouth, fuller than the jester’s, spewing foolishness as though it has anything to do with my fondness for you". Anger deep, and harsh roughen the woman's tone and draw her lips back from her glowering teeth and in the mud of her eyes so dark in color look nearly black. Immediately his eyes wide in response and dart to her entirety.

"Do you not know how people ought to think ? Do you take me as a fool that I wouldn't know is you are not so foolish, because if you were, you would not survive so long, that you could not hear the men’s toasts, their mocking praise, thinly veiled insults toward me are thus toward you by extension ? Have you never heard your mother’s venom, always poised to strike to me like a beast watching from the dark ?"

"And love, you speak of love but what have you done to earn it ? Do you believe like the spoiled son you have always been that it will be served to you on a gilded platter? Huh ? I have went through child birth alone twice, without your help because you were too frighten to see the womenly blood that could take my soul anytime and these past years I have been trying everything to conceive the very heir you desire even when the doctor gave me warning that I wouldn't survive just like my past children. Did you mourn them, husband ? Did you even remember them ? You speak of shame and fear of losing me, but do you know what it is to fight every day to remain your wife, terrified I’ll be cast aside, replaced the moment I falter by your mother like a broken trinket ?”

“I cannot conceive,” She whisper, her voice hoarse and full of ruin. “Do you hear that, truly hear it ? The greatest tragedy for a woman whose worth is measured by her womb and despite knowing this, have you ever once sat beside me ? Spoken a word of comfort ? Stood between me and your mother's words ?” The red in (Y/N)'s eyes bleed into her cheek and lips.

"Do you not know I choose you because you were the bestest and only option I had towards nobility. I choose you for standing not love as now I pay the price for it every single day". Her fingers are curling and her knuckles are pale as the moon and as sharp as her bone lay beneath. Her teeth bitter as she speak, her lips pull back in her blood soak cheeks and in her (E/C) eyes burn a frustration and hatred as bright and cruel and unforgiving as the dessert sun.

"You know. Nothing. Of. Me". Shame is a dull color and even bitter sound he let out from opening and clamping his mouth shut at her last words. He swallow thickly, his adam’s apple bobbing visibly—loud, almost vulgar in the hush that falls between them. He parts his lips once more—

Suddenly his eyes dart towards the door, past her that she narrow noticing and shot her eyes towards the direction and the woman's eyes go wide, full moons round and pale with sickly emotion, gleaming like wet coins in the candlelight and her fingers loose the death grip on the blanket at the sight of the king standing alongside his trusted man Tiberias and her soul-brother. All wore bewilder expression, no doubt the king too.

How long they have been standing there ?

Why ?

Did they heard everything ?

All of it ?

Her deepest darkest shame she buried so hard ?

She drag her pupils down to the white blanket, the horror in her eyes dawning in dark and desperate. She could feel the king's gaze, it's a cold weight and ever colder when it knew her naked now. Settling those gaze upon the back of her nape like icicles.

And for the first time King Baldwin saw her crack, the married woman stare beneath her, pale, cruel and sole of color from her eyes. It's so aching he wish to never prevail upon it. There is a terrible ripping sound in her head, like flesh tearing from the bone and her lower lip begin to quiver.

"We come to have an audience with you. Mr. Thomas". Tiberias break the silence making it easier for all in the room and though the said man nod, the action is all a cruel, reflex of dismissal nod. Yet the king could not bear to see sight of him, only able to stare at how tears burn at the back of her lids, the way her chest rose too shallowly to breathe, the way her vision must be swimming behind a veil of salt.

"Your majesty ?" Tiberias’s voice broke gently through the king’s trance, pulling Baldwin’s gaze from the woman back to his ever-loyal commander. Thomas now stand beside him, waiting evidently ready to leave. Only then did Baldwin recall why they has come at all. But he has not come for Thomas. That had only been the excuse. What he truly sought is a glimpse of her.

And he has seen far more than he intended.

“Go. All of you, go before me.”

A frown settle Tiberias’s brow at the unexpected command, but something in the king’s tone still his questions. Somehow, with a few quiet words and a firm hand he convince Thomas to leave alongside Balian. The door shut behind them with a hush like the last breath of the dead, leaving only the king and (Y/N) in the room.

A silence as deep and airless as a tomb follow. The shuffling of his robes reach her ears before the shape of him enter her vision. Still, she said nothing. Has nothing left to say. She only register him when the mattress shift beneath his weight. It dip beneath him without a protest, the blanket sliding just slightly as if even the bed did not dare disturb the moment.

Then a tear escape her eye. It trail down her cheek and slid along the curve of her nose, tracing its slow path to her upper lip in silence.

“Do you wish for me to kill him ?”

Her eyes snap to his, those eyes of cold azure, unwavering and impossibly sincere.

“What ill has my husband committed,” she whisper, breath catching, “for you to even think such a thing ?” Astonishment shimmer in her gaze, and the tear that has linger finally fall from her lip to her chin vanishing.

"For he made you suffer". A faint line carve itself between her brows at his reply.

"Everyone suffers".

"But I do not wish to see you suffer". The words, so softly spoken, loose something inside her. More tears swell—unshed, gliding down the curve of her cheek—as she continue to look at him. At those azure eyes that seem to hold everything, and yet give away nothing of the enigma king he is.

"And what becomes of me, your majesty ?" she ask, her head tilting slightly in quiet play, as if leaning toward a warmth she could neither trust nor flee. It is absurd, this moment. And yet it feels more intimate than she has ever known.

"My wife and the queen". Unease and bewilderment draw color from her eyes and the line of her mouth is tight. 

She could not believe this. Not true.

She lean away from the man and caution gleam like coins in her pupils that got Baldwin to want to grab and tear it out of her, he do not wish to become the reason for it and for fear he would only has his patience, the very virtue to guide him.

"Is it a—".

"No, nothing is ever jest with you, (Y/N)". Her breath caught. The way he said her name—plain, unadorned startle her. Only lovers or kin spoke so. And they were neither but strangers bound by nothing more than a meeting the day before.

"You know nothing of me".

"Enough to want you". She turn away. Her hair, loose from its usual binds, fall like a veil to shield her face. He has never seen it undone before. And somehow it made her seem more fragile— more exposed.

"I am older".

"Age has never stood in the way of marriage. You would know that better than I.” His voice is gentle, too tender and far too near. It sting, like honey pour over an open wound. It made everything feel too real, too close. A king’s gaze is never a gift— it is a snare in silk.

"I—". She pause, then crane her neck back slightly, retreating deeper into the curtain of her hair, as though it could protect her. "I cannot conceive". In hush she said, the only thing that might spare her of his interest she does not know how she capture.

"I know". He said after a moment it tore a tear within her gaze as it slide her cheek. "So do I. I mean to speak painly, I have leprosy and due to it I do not believe I could father a child and even if I did, the nature of thus child could inherent my curse so I rather not have a child at all". Vanish, eaten all her excuses to push him away, deny the king of his wanting or waning his desire.

"Why ? Why you want me ?" She would not look at him. Her eyes search the walls, the lavish embroidery of the carpet though everything has blur behind the salt of her grief. "What this used woman have that you desire so much ?"

"I don't know". She feel it, a touch from his on her curtain of hair and how he glide it with the back of his fingers so tenderly tugging her eyes to meet his as he tuck the hair behind her ear and slowly meet and trace her cheek to hold her curve of chin with those silken glove fingers. "All I know is I love you thus I want you". And just like that, the veil of disbelief split down the center and in her eyes sudden, aching, torment is again bleeding spilling from her lashes.

She shut her eyes tight, drawing a sharp breath through clench fists— as though she could inhale strength and exhale the mourning. Mourning for all she is losing, all that is slipping through her fingers like water and when she look up, reply her tone as firm as it is tight. "Does your love comes with respect of my answer ?"

It taken him a back but he nod nevertheless. "Of course, yes". He utter.

"Then I refuse your proposal". She pull away from his touch, her chin lift out of certainty. And in her eyes is that same dreadful resolve he has seen the day they met, the very thing that had drawn him to her. No sweetness. No performance. No coyness of a fair maiden. Only the aching clarity of a woman who meant every word.

His hand, suspend mid-air, drop soundlessly to his side.

“May I know the cause of your refusal—  beyond your marriage ?” he ask. She part her lips, but he gently add. "And please not lie for you love your husband for I heard it with my own ears you never even did yearn for him the slightest".

So he has heard everything, she realize and speak. "It is your rank, Your Majesty. That alone is reason enough.” She steady her voice, though it tremble at the edges like glass under strain. “There is no peace in royalty. There never was. You may offer love but it cannot coexist with peace in your world. I’ve already given all my strength to being the wife of a titled man… and I fear what little is left of me would not survive becoming a queen I would no longer be just a wife. I would become... a symbol. A crown.”

"Ah... I see". His voice come raw, gravel-thick and strain, as though the words had been claw from somewhere deep within his ribs— or perhaps torn from them entirely. There is no fury in them, only a hollow ache thread through each syllable. The pain cling to his tone, unmistakable even beneath the veneer of calm. She almost fear he would change his mind soon or done so—

"I understand". He stare at her and beneath the stoic mask he has attempt so vainly to fashion himself, she saw his lashes blink fanatic above the faint golden light, his eyes begin to ripple. With that he stand up, leaving her sat on bed alone.

It's lonely now she feels, devoid of any emotions or too many to choose one from.

Soon she lay down, waiting. Not knowing waiting for what, the sleep mayhaps because it did not grace her this time as easily as it does, her gaze hang on the space of anything, nothing in particular when the door open and she need not see to know the footsteps belong to her husband who without a word lay beside her. Yet a moment later he reach out and draw her close, his arm winding around her waist, her back to his chest and remain like that so did she. Not resist him or sleep. Just stare into the void after he snuff the light off. Morning arrive in pale strokes across the windowpane. She feel him stir, heard the rustle of his clothing, the familiar cadence of dressing. A warm hand press briefly to her shoulder—tender, almost reluctant—before the door thud open. Then close.

Only then did she sit up. Her eyes blink into the light bleeding through the open window, where the wind push the curtains in lazy billows. She stare at it for a while, the breeze brushing her skin like thought itself, until at last, she rise to her feet.

Today, when he return, she would speak to him. A decision is waiting to be said aloud.

━━━━━━━━

Adorned in jewelry and a gown newly wore, she stand by the open window, waiting. The sky above has been kind all morning, stretch in bright blue, the sun burning proudly in its throne, untouch by any whisper of cloud. It is a beautiful day.

Too beautiful. And yet at the day’s splendor, something curl within her gut. A strange unease, sudden and sharp, as if her body has sense something her mind has not. A bad omen. A terrible hush between heartbeats.

"Where is he?" He has not yet arrive. She could not tell how long she has waited, only that the sun has climb high now—higher than before, when it has still been climbing, still full of promise.

The door burst open.

She spin around, one hand flying to her chest, clutching her pearls as though they might anchor her to this earth. Her eyes, wide and stricken, melt at once into relief—if not confusion upon the sight of Sibylla stand in full light, radiant and composed, with that breathtaking smile she wore.

But even Sibylla pause. Her smile falter at the sight of (Y/N)’s pallor.

"What has paled you so ?" she ask. stepping forward with a note of concern.

At once, (Y/N) remember her manners and dip into a bow. “Nothing,” she murmur, straightening at the subtle rise of Sibylla’s hand. “Your entrance merely startled me. It's nothing worth worrying over.”

"Oh, but have you forgotten ?" Sibylla’s voice lifted in playful chiding, though no true irritation color it. "I invited you last night to see my private garden, the one I tend so dearly."

Heaven help her. She has forgotten entirely. All overshadowed, consumed by the storm of her feelings, the weight of his confession from the king—

"Is she aware ?" At that her (E/C) eyes flicker into those green orbs swirling mirth and oblivious smile. "Seem not ?" She thought.

Sibylla then laugh. "Fret not so much. I’m not upset. Who am I to scold you, when I myself am so often forgetful ?" She said, brushing the tension aside with a wave.

"Shall we go, then ?— if you’ve not otherwise occupied yourself ?" (Y/N) pause, thought slide behind her gaze before she give a small nod. He still has not come. She could spare a little time. At once, the royal woman move to link arms with her— an easy, fluid motion that made (Y/N)’s heart twitch. A soft confusion stir in her chest, though she made no move to pull away. She let it be.

Together, they step toward the doorway, nearly at its threshold, when hurried footsteps broke the moment.

A servant rush into view.

But not just any servant.

(Y/N)’s eyes narrow the instant she recognize her— her own private maid, young and slight and usually quiet as a wren. Yet now, she look breathless, wide-eyed. The moment her gaze land on the royal presence, she drop into a bow, waiting for permission to rise. Only once Sibylla give the faintest nod did the maid dare to approach.

She lean in close to (Y/N), her voice barely above a whisper. "My lady—Sir Thomas is dead". Her (E/C) eyes shot hot towards the sorrowful visage of her maid.

"N-no". She stutter in weak protest. "It cannot be". She scream strangle, fly her palms over her face and the horror in her eyes grow ruinous and desperate over her face and she succumb to her own pool of grown and her hands are shaking.  "oh— no, oh heaven !"

"What happen ?" Sibylla watch her crumble to the ground, though her voice spew fast, it do with devoid of any urgency. The maid whip her head up to her highness.

"Sir Thomas is dead". She once again declare and that broke (Y/N) for the second time. Her spine bent and she cried as Sibylla rush to her aid, her palms hold her arms for (Y/N) could not feel anything beyond the fact he died. He has passed away and she knew. She had this inkling, had this odd feeling gutting her this morning of the very news she was about to heard.

There were footsteps then. More people entering. A blur of movement and shadows at the edge of her vision. But she heard none of it. "Sister". A familiar voice—a warm one, like memory wrap in wool—cut through the haze. Arms found her, embrace her into the warmth she could not get at her first mourning.

━━━━━━━━

It had taken the whole of a day to simply stand— shoulder to shoulder with the mourners— silent and shrouded in the color of sorrow and her face as blank as the gray sky that loom above.

Yesterday, all she had done was wept. Wept until her bones ached and her limbs no longer obeyed her. Until she crumpled into a fitful slumber, the kind that grants no rest, only escape.

And now, she stand behind his coffin watching as they lower his coffin into the earth—into that cold, brown soil that welcome him back to the place all flesh must return. Dust to dust. Silence to silence. Now dread seep through her, slow and suffocating. Panic coil tight in her ribs. What was to become of her now ?

There is no one to stop her mother-in-law from casting her out—thrown to the wolves that prowled the streets, starved of kindness and waiting to feed on the weak. Her own parents were long buried, their graves weathered by years, their names spoken only in prayer. And though she bore the title of Balian’s sister-in-law, to remain under his roof now would be unseemly. Improper.

And what man would wed a widow who could give no heirs ?

None.

She is better off dead than alive, to wither like a woman would be watching herself catch fire slowly, agonizingly and being forced to stand there and feel it all.

Like now she did not even realize when the mourning has finish and she sat at the edge of the guest chamber within the palace, her fingers limp in her lap, staring off space again. She could not even say her decision she had made in morning that she wishes to leave this kingdom to return. Who knew he will be claimed by the very earth beneath this foreign soil, buried with haste and grief. And his dear mother on her way to visit her beloved son's grave. (Y/N) wonder how would she feel when she learned the manner of his death?

Run down. Crushed beneath the weight of a carriage as he crossed the road only trying to reach the palace, only trying to bring her a gift. A simple box of sweets he had seen the day they first entered the kingdom.

They said he still clutched it in death.

Fingers curled, stubborn even in the afterlife, around the delicacies he thought might make her smile. And when his mother would hear it… She would drag (Y/N) to the very doorstep of Hell.

"You whore, the cause of my son's death". She would spat, her spits falling in (Y/N)'s face but she will not be able to defend herself because indeed she killed her son.

No, not directly. But the cause would still be her.

The door open and she turn her face slowly, eyes gliding with no hurry to face the very same sliver mask and white robe concealing the king. As his killer stands in front of her. She is not naïve nor stupid to see it as mere coincidence at how the very next day her husband died prior to when the king profess his love and ask if she desired him to kill her husband.

Without a care of the consequences she always have been burden with, her hand lashes out and seizes the candle from the table. In one swift, damning motion, she hurls it at the king, intent on watching it strike and melt him to the ground like wax beneath fire but it seem he has not wane to his sickness yet that he flick of his wrist, knocks the candle away, and it spins out to the far corner of the floor, a harmless, sputtering ember lost to the dark.

“Execute me,” she declares, her voice cold, crystalline. “For I have committed treason—I meant to kill the king.”

"I would not. It was not your intention—".

"Oh, your majesty then you not know me very well. It had my every bit of intention to hurt you". With snarl she look at him, such contempt she bears he know he been found, she is aware of what he has done and advance closer. At noticing that, she turn around, eyes searching for the next object to become a weapon when the king's hand found her. He seizes her by the arms first, and the heat of him burns through her sleeves, a moment later, his grip travels down, binding her wrists in his palms and he squeeze them tightly.

"Please, not be upset with—". He lean in, voice trembling like a fraying string. A softness weigh it down, sorrow just beginning to bud in his chest. Not even the cries of his own heart could quiet the quiver that touch his tongue.

"Not be upset with you ?" she echo, pressing the words through clench teeth. “Upset ? Then, Your Majesty, you are far more mistaken than you care to admit. I feel nothing for you but rage. You left me with nothing. You left me empty. Without my husband, I have to fend for myself.” Her breath rose, words tumbling into a shriek more than a scream.

"No, you would not have to".

"How ?"

"Because you would be my wife and the queen".

"Oh, I forgotten why it even begin".

“You were unhappy. Believe me, I would make you happy. I would give you the respect, the standing, without ever a whisper of being replaced. I would love you—devotedly—”

"Shut up ! You truly do not understand the weight of what you’ve done. Yes, I was unhappy. Yes, I might have chosen better. But you— you are worse. You would not even be alive long to protect me". Her voice shakes with the fire of it, and her wrists twist, wrenching in his grasp, but he does not release her.

"Yes, your majesty, mayhaps you would me love me like no man in my life has but could you protect me once you are gone? From beneath the earth? From the grave ? What happens to me then ? Who will shield me from the wolves that circle ? Yes, I may wear the crown but the crown bears its own doom. And death is the dearest of its burdens. Every man who bows to me in daylight of court would seek to slit my throat. Every day, I would rise only to fight for my life. If not harder than before, then crueler."

"Do you not understand ? I would be no safer than a lamb among butchers once your death— your inevitable, unpredictable death comes to pass. Is that what you plan? To leave a guard behind for your dear nephew the one you groom as heir to be king ? Would I even live long enough to see that day ?” Her tone as hot as a fire as fear flood through her face, running in her veins and it pain him to see the weight of her own words cast upon her heart so heavy her chest begin to heave.

"That's why I would take you with me".

"What ?" The word stumbles out, doubt clamoring in her skull. What does he mean by that ?

"You shall be buried beside me. In the same coffin. On the very day I die—we shall lie side by side." A chill runs the length of her body, so sudden and sharp it robs the warmth from her skin. She feels it leave her, the blood, the breath, the beat of her pulse— it all seems to pull back as her heart recoils with a violent shudder.

Her eyes, wide and unblinking, lift to his. Those azure irises still shimmer with light, bright and fill with impossible hope, as though he has just spoke a vow of love rather than a sentence of death.

And then— he releases her wrists. The gentleness is worse than restraint. His fingers, ghostlike, trace down to her waist and pull her into an embrace, warm as a hearth and just as capable of burning. Her chin found its perch upon his shoulder, and a tear escape before she know it had form in her wide eyes. “I love you far too much to leave you behind in such a cruel and unkind earth. Even in death, I can not bear to part. I shall not go on without you not even into the afterlife". His voice pleasant and light to the ear but the words it spoke has poise them so greatly disbelief tries to shield her, smothering her hearing with its cold hands, still the truth pierces through and all she could feel is agony as tears after tear, falling freely without a blink— grief made liquid. Agony, endless and wordless, soaking her cheeks.

"Have you drove yourself mad ?" she whispers, though there is no strength left in her to lace the words with anger. No breath to arm her voice with accusation, not after witnessing what this man dares in the name of love.

His mask cold as moonlight, grazes the bare nape of her neck. It is a mere brush— feather-light, like the wing of some pale nocturnal thing and yet it again steals the warmth from her spine, drawing forth a shiver that coils downward like a drop of ice melting through flesh.

“What choice do I have,” Baldwin breathes, so near she feels the words bloom against her skin. "when the arrow of cupid you loosely shot me dead center ?" A pause, then softer still

“A bullseye, my lady.”

FIN