explicit warnings: manhandling, public sex, rough sex, hair/head pulling, oral (m rec), choking, cowgirl, spitting, reverse cowgirl, unprotected sex, breast play, fucking an ex lol yes that’s a warning, multiple orgasms, the chains stay on, hella backshots, emotional sex, creampie OOP, club sex reader is bad, yoongi loses his gd mind, couch sex, wall sex, chair sex, umm yeah alexa play like animals thanks

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“What’s taking you so long!” 

Groaning, you concentrate on getting your lashes just right. “Told you it’d be just a minute!” 

“I know.” Hoseok pops into your hotel bathroom, deep neckline and even deeper scent of cologne almost making you jab yourself right in the socket. “But it’s been ten.” 

It’ll end up being a lot longer than that if he keeps cocking that perfect brow. Shouldn’t he know the rule of getting ready already? 

Done with your current task, you blink and inspect yourself in the wide mirror spanning the master bath. “Yeah, a minute means twenty. So I have ten to spare, right?” 

Bright teeth shine as he shakes his head. And you know it’s because you’re both slated to be super early anyway. 

Everything’s going according to schedule. All your old friends flew in yesterday, and the plan for today is to head to dinner to watch the night game with everyone. After that, you’ll walk straight to the club a few blocks down that you’ve heard to be the best in town. 

Well. Best in town for absolute eye candy. Taehyung warned that everyone that’s been to Lo Prohibito knows the dress code is simple but effective: luxurious. Unless your face card is so lethal you get in on that alone, or you happen to have celebrity status. 

And your confidence can only take you so far. You look fucking good, but you aren’t risking being turned away just because you were lax getting ready. 

So ten more minutes it is. Hobi will just have to deal with it. 

Goddamn, he could get in without a single issue, though. Honestly, he could be wearing a linen shirt and shorts with sandals and they’d mistake him for a millionaire. “I’ll be ready before you know it,” you say over your bare, perfumed shoulder. “You’ll be able to see your lover soon enough.” 

Hoseok shoots you a grin before huffing out, “Got me, huh.” 

“You’re the easiest person in the world to read.” Leaning over your makeup bag, you rummage through your brushes. “Whatever you’re thinking is always written all over your face." 

Quick laughter coats the bathroom in more light. “I can’t help it, okay! It’s always been that way.” When you focus in the mirror and pat your face, he suddenly drops two pitches in tone. “Sorry about yours.” 

Here you go again. You know exactly what he’s talking about. 

“Hobi,” you sigh. “I don’t care anymore, okay? It’s been a month.” 

“I know, but…” Expelling a heavy, sympathetic breath of his own, he leans against the double door entryway. That dulcet yet gravelly tone of his rolls across marble floors as he says exactly what you don’t want him to, “You seemed pretty happy with them.” 

You were. In fact, you were more than happy. 

But something just didn’t feel right. Sure, the days you spent with your most recent fling were perfect. You felt comfortable with them, you admired how thoughtful they were and how attentive. 

It was the nights that made you more than hesitant. 

Because no matter how many times you slept together, you never felt truly understood. What you wanted, what you needed? They would get so close to getting it right, only to never reach that level of intensity and passion you were looking for. 

So you broke it off one quiet, cherry-red sunset on the beach weeks ago. 

Only to find out that they were seeing someone else the whole time anyway. 

Fuck love. To hell with happiness. Why do all your relationships end up this way? Why do you always attract the people that seem perfect on the surface but hide so many flaws underneath? It’s starting to fucking annoy you and you may damn well swear to the single life forever. 

Though. There was one relationship that didn’t exactly end this way. 

But you’re never thinking about that one again, so no point in shuffling through those beautiful, tragic, regretful memories now. 

“And now I’m happy without them,” you finally respond to Hoseok, who tears his gaze from the white floors to see you staring in the mirror. “Probably happy without anyone else, actually.” 

What a fucking lie. 

“I mean, there’s time to find someone you...” Your friend pockets a hand while adjusting his loose top, shadows naturally accenting his abdomen. “Never mind. See you out there. Love the red.” 

You swish the silken floor-length material of your gaudy, quite revealing dress. “Thank you. This is my favorite part, look.” 

Hoseok watches as you stomp your leg out of the thigh-high slit so comically it catches him off guard, cackling before a lighthearted, “Careful with that!” 

“Says the man who’s practically naked.” 

All you get is a shameless shrug before your friend spins on this heel to leave, no doubt checking the texts on his phone. 

At least he's excited about seeing his gorgeous pull after so long. And you do not blame him one bit. The way he looks at her? She may as well be a goddess because his gaze turns almost reverent every time. 

A blurry memory consumes your mind like a haze, and you see completely different eyes with just as much fervor. They watch as you mount slow, chests slick with sweat and breathing deep from hours of—

Manicured hands grip the sink as your brush skitters onto granite counters. 

Fuck. Never again. 

Never, ever, ever again.

Pull yourself together. You’re a whole different person with a whole different future. That version of you is one you left far behind, as well as the life that came with it. 

You extend ten minutes into fifteen. 

And Hoseok’s outright whistle at your emergence lets you know the extra time was worth it. 

—

—

Dinner is loud and vibrant, with the whole restaurant locked in on the game and erupting in cheers when the home team scores. Or at least, the team that the majority of fans want to win scores. 

You aren’t completely sure, because there are jerseys of every country everywhere you look. It’s the one time you feel a sense of togetherness, with everyone giving each other friendly jabs and your group doing and saying anything to rile each other up. 

Hoseok is downright lethal with his date, the two of them showing off jawlines that can kill as they watch the nearest screen. But they’re on the other end of the long wooden table, so you have to find other people to converse with. 

Unfortunately, you find that the person sitting in front of you is a stranger, seemingly knowing someone else in the group and just happened to tag along. He quickly offered small talk when you all started ordering, which you already found a little awkward because you were trying to focus on what to get. 

Now, he keeps giving you more and more information about his achievements and endeavors, not once asking for your name. Figures.

Both the friends you’re sitting next to are no help, either. 

To your left, Jeongguk’s checking his phone for the fiftieth time this hour, scrolling through videos to avoid having to speak to anyone. 

And to your right, Taehyung cheers and stands when another goal is scored, locking elbows with the stranger behind him and drinking from his glass mug. Apparently he had been making fast friends while you were entertaining the guy that keeps staring at you. How cool. Happy for him. Can you both switch seats? 

Your wish doesn’t get granted for another hour. So that means you’re still talking to and giving polite encouragement to this gentleman. Though the term gentleman is very, very generous. It became more than obvious he just wants to fuck from the way he's been shamelessly ogling your plunging neckline. 

Mercifully, Jeongguk finally saves you, leaning in and pretending to show you a reel or tiktok or whatever the fuck he’s scrolling through. Instead, a text he typed into your message thread is all you see. 

Wanna go outside?

Going along and laughing at his fake share, you give him a grateful smile and nod. Turning to the man watching you with curiosity—and is that really jealousy?—you excuse yourself, 

“We’re gonna check out the second floor! Be right back.” 

Not even waiting to see nor hear his reaction.  

—

—

Outside the restaurant and not on the second floor, you can finally breathe again, watching the city come alive with its vehicle rush and streetlight hum. 

Next to you, your tattooed savior takes a long hit of his vape, and you run a hand across the thin gold chain around your neck. 

Without your permission, another memory slips through your defenses. And this one proves sharper, astonishingly clearer than the first.

Hands grab a string of gold from a nightstand, and you instantly ache because you remember what comes right after. As soon as it’s clipped onto a slim neck, you watch the necklace lower, and lower, right before you angle your mouth up to take it between your—

“Fuck.” 

Jeongguk whips his head right as your eyes snap open. “You okay? What’s wrong?” 

No. There are a thousand things wrong. You didn’t even fucking realize your vision went dark until light flooded out your unwanted nostalgia. 

Fuck, you hadn’t thought of that summer afternoon in years. Your reaction was visceral enough to spurn an oncoming headache. “Nothing,” you whoosh out. “What time is it?” 

“Almost time to head over to Lo Prohibido.” Gripping his phone, the man asks with concern, “You sure you’re good to go?” 

Head pulsing, you nod. “Yeah, I’m fine, just dehydrated. Can you pick a city that won't try to burn me out next time? I'm down for traveling but it's been hell here.” 

Unconvinced and unfazed, Jeongguk cocks his head to the door. “Let’s go back in. I know your favorite person is waiting, but you gotta drink water.” 

“Don’t,” you groan. “He’s cute, but I got the biggest ick like halfway in.” 

Your amused friend giggles as he holds the door open, “You lasted a lot longer than I thought you would.” 

Laughing when more cheers erupt from inside, you give his jacketed arm a playful shove as you look down the street. “I’m nice, okay? Don’t—”

Your heart. 

It booms. 

In an instant, the whole world blurs, lights and bodies making solid, serpentine lines and even sound itself rolling to a deep, dull hum.

The only one you can see. The only person you can make out with perfect clarity. 

Is the one you’ve been trying your fucking hardest to not remember. 

Staring right at you with eyes you’ll never, ever forget. 

Yoongi. 

He’s just down the way, standing amongst a group with a striped jersey, dark hair swept so perfectly your chest pangs. Even though everyone around him is animated and laughing, the look on his face makes it undeniable he’s not focused on anything else.

And with a stopped heart, neither are you.

Until your lower back is held, tugging you out of the dream as Jeongguk’s question is laden with worry, 

“Seriously, what’s going on? Do you need to go back to the hotel?” 

You jolt away from his touch, but the action isn’t warranted. For fuck’s sake, he’s a friend you’ve known just as long as you've known the spectre down the street. Why did you feel the need to escape his worrisome hand? He isn't like the guy you just met.  

If that dude had been the one to touch you, though, you would’ve fucking decked him. You are not letting him feel an inch of your skin, and that includes the majority of it you’re baring at the back. 

“No, I’m—I’m fine,” you manage to get out. “Just thought I saw.. Never mind. Water.” 

Yoongi would’ve damn near murdered that creep, too. 

Shit. 

Right before stepping back in, you turn to peer back down the sidewalk, brain concluding that what you saw was your imagination and your heart adamantly disagreeing. 

However, there’s no sign of Yoongi anywhere. That same group of people continues to chitter away outside, but he’s nowhere to be seen. 

So your logic is sound. It was just a dream. There’s no way he’d be here, and he looked way too fucking handsome to be real anyway. Maybe your mind is just playing tricks on you as an act of revenge for making it remember him this much today. 

Because you’re remembering everything. The way he knew exactly how to get under your skin. The times he proved so patient. The way he absolutely knew how to act under your sheets. 

And his. And elsewhere. Anywhere the two of you decided to make love. 

And that singular word is exactly why your flame burned its brightest before choking out. 

You were ready. 

He wasn’t. 

And you regret your decision to leave more than anything else in your entire life. 

Because you could’ve fought harder. You could’ve given him more time. But when you confessed under a blanket of stars and didn’t hear those three words reciprocated, every single celestial plummeted from the sky, plunging you headfirst into a deep, dark ocean of insecurity and bubbling self-loathing. 

The night you left, you left everything. You left your room, your apartment, the city you called home your entire life. Like a coward that couldn’t face rejection. 

Because you didn’t even tell Yoongi goodbye. 

And that’s the last damning reminder you hurl at yourself before rejoining your friends inside. 

—

—

You readily down two glasses of water. 

Inwardly laughing at the fact that the same dude straight up left to “meet up with his brochachos.” 

—

—

Lo Prohibito is decibels louder than the restaurant, and that includes the moments everyone cheered to the max.

A dazzling laser show beams from behind the raised DJ booth, and machines shoot out air to provide much needed circulation and boost the spread of confetti. 

To your delight, everyone here is just as pretty as you imagined. You’re thanking all your lucky clovers that you were accepted inside, strutting in on your heels with chin held high. 

Maybe not as high as it could go. 

But you refuse to let anything else bring you down tonight. You’re supposed to be having another great outing, spending it with your friends and enjoying the nightlife while you’re still able. 

Bright colors span across every surface as a thumping bass shakes your toes, and you wait for the rest of your group to trickle in to find a good dancing spot—and a much needed drink because you are desperate for one. 

At this point, you’ll pay any price to forget whatever the fuck you saw earlier. 

Be it a figment of your imagination, or a devilishly attractive ghost, you just need to wipe that achingly handsome face from your mind. 

There’s no way he’s here. And even if who you saw was real? It wasn’t the man you loved. 

Because there’s no way Yoongi would even look your way again. 

Not like you want him to anyway. Forget him. He gave you everything except the one thing you ultimately wanted, and you couldn’t live in his moonlight without your stars slowly burning out.

Breathe. Focus on the present. Stay in the now. 

“Come on,” he instructs, holding your fingers before grabbing your waist. “Stay with me.” 

“Sorry,” you whisper to your stumbling feet. “I just keep messing up that damn step and it’s annoying.” 

“I know.” He grips your hand, turning so that you land against his chest, comforting tone soothing your burning ear, “But you got a lot more chances to get it. We got time. Stay in the now.” 

“Okay.” 

“That’s my girl.” 

“Come on!” 

Your past whisks away with the club fog, and you follow Hoseok and the rest off the crowded floor. “Where are we going!” 

Hand on the nearest winding staircase, he turns with a smile. “Got us VIP! We’re up here.” 

“No fucking way?” How the hell did Hobi manage to do that? Wasn’t this place booked up the last time you both checked yesterday? “How!” 

Cheekily, the man simply plucks at his undone overshirt and wiggles, smirking as his date doubles over in a laugh. 

“Oh, you’re a freak,” you call out behind him with praise. “Thank you for your service.” 

Thank Jung Hoseok and those abs indeed because the VIP booth is a godsend. Sure, it’s still crowded on the second floor, but at least you don’t have to worry about standing shoulder to shoulder the whole night. You have somewhere to retreat to when you need a breather. 

Which Jeongguk is already taking the most advantage of, settling into the middle of the booth and planting elbows on the long table stretching end to end. Music blares while people shout all throughout the club, but he seems quite zeroed in on his phone. 

Maybe you can both use each other as a scapegoat again if you need to leave. He’s been enjoying himself for the most part, but you can tell he’s extremely ready to go home and the night just started. If you weren’t desperate to let loose and forget years of your life tonight, you would’ve offered to get shitty fast food with him and walk around the city instead. 

Mm. That still sounds like a backup option. 

“Who wants drinks!” Taehyung calls out from the far end of the booth, standing to wave someone down and glancing at everyone giving him their orders all at once. “Let’s just get bottles!” 

Perfect. He knows exactly what to do, so you let him drive and settle into the booth to wait for the liquid ailment to your problems. 

This club has it all, you muse as you take everything in. From endless bottles and extravagant cocktails sailing over the crowd, to sparkler shows and pops of streamers raining down from above, it’s a paradise of a getaway. 

But the outfits? To your surprise, you feel slightly out of place, even arguably overdressed wearing the most expensive thing you own. Yes, there are loads of tens walking around, even some elevens and twelves if you’re honest. But you do see quite a few people in outfits as casual as Jeongguk’s leather.

Either way, almost everyone is dripped in the most lavish jewelry and clothing, from designer to exclusive to wait someone got in wearing a jersey? 

How the hell? Despite the outfits you saw there hasn’t been anyone in here with a jersey, is he famous? It's the same one you saw on the sidewalk when you—

Fuck. That’s not him, is it? You can’t quite see his face, but that back is so… 

No. No no no. You’re staying here for awhile so that better have been another mind trick or you're taking that backup plan with Jeongguk immediately—

“Here,” Taehyung catches your attention while hastily holding out a glass. “This is what you wanted, right?” 

You take it with shaky fingers. “Yes, it’s perfect, thank you.” 

When you turn back, the red and white stripes are gone. 

And you release a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. 

“You okay?”

Turning, you notice that Tae’s eyes are extremely focused on yours. You nod as you down your shot in one go. “Yeah, I’m good.”

His honey rasp slows on the way out, “You sure..?”

“Yeah.” When you push more of the stinging, sweet alcohol down, you decide to start telling him what you saw. “I just… I thought I saw…”

Taehyung is one of the only ones that never questioned why you left town. Which you’re grateful for, because you couldn’t handle all your other friends sending you text after text after call. It was fucking overwhelming, but you had one person that just allowed you to make decisions and live with them. 

“Saw who?” He asks, cutting through your vision with long fingers in a wave and calling you back to reality. 

“No one.” You don’t even wanna say his name. It carries the weight of the world. “Forget it! I’ll be good as soon as we start.”

Unconvinced but letting you have space, Tae doesn’t pry. 

“If you say so.”  

—

—

For the next hour, everything is great. You play stupid drinking games with your friends, cheer for the most random shit the house emcee yells, and you start to slowly wash the unwanted memories from your mind. 

At one point, Jeongguk stuns the section by dancing on booth cushions and swinging his jacket, revealing he only had a thin tank underneath. Many people stare slackjawed at his physique and understated choice of outfit, but you can only cackle with your friends because you all know he’s gonna go right back to his phone in seconds. He just really, really likes the song playing. 

And you’re enjoying the DJ set, too. As long as they don’t play specific songs, you can enjoy the rest of the night in absolute peace. 

Especially the one song that haunts your every waking moment. The first time you heard it, in a club somewhere along pink lemonade sand, you trudged knee deep into the crashing tide and didn’t leave until the sun dipped under the horizon. 

Because it hit too close to home. And your deluge of tears gave back infinite saltwater to the sea. 

Relax. Don’t throw any possibilities into the atmosphere, especially when your mind is fucked up tonight. Your friends are heading down to the dance floor, so go with them and forget everyone else. 

Making sure your drink is finished, you feel ice hit your lips before clinking it down, rushing to join your group at the top of the staircase. 

Only to stutter so close to the edge your heart leaps out of your chest.

It keeps falling, and falling. Because there’s no mistaking this time. That man you saw wearing the outfit that’s starting to haunt you? He’s talking animatedly to someone across the second floor, dusty pink elbow perched on the railing with a drink in his still so veiny hand. 

And your mouth turns sour at the way his shoulder is tapped by pretty nails, tongue hot and darkly spiced when Yoongi just laughs into his cup.

God. He’s here. He’s devastating without even trying.

And, as your blasphemous logic reminds you, that beautiful smile will never be yours anymore.

But that doesn’t stop you from staring. Because while on the street, you could’ve argued he was a hallucination birthed from dehydration. Right here, in this moment, you’ve sobered up in a snap and you know for a fact what you’re seeing is real.

Maybe it was better when you assumed he wasn’t. 

At least then, you didn’t have to entertain any worse outcomes than just seeing him. You didn’t have to think about how you’d feel seeing him so close to someone else.

Looks like the universe is giving you the final consequences of your escape. Yoongi has your fate in the warm, rough palm of his hand, and you know he’ll do nothing but let it fall to the rumbling floor below. Just to watch with unblinking eyes.

“Hey, you gonna go down or what?”

Turning, you start to move to the side, embarrassment heating the skin of your back that was just lightly grazed, “Shit, sorry—”

A strong arm pushes you sideways into hard metal as a duo of guys head down the stairs. You figure it’s an accident, but that doesn’t stop your face from contorting in pain and a curse to fling from your mouth. Because damn that fucking hurt. 

“Dude, watch it!” The one behind looks back at you to apologize, “Sorry about my—”

Oh… Really… 

The guy from dinner halts in his apology, and your brow lifts right before he waves you off. 

Waves you off. 

At least your intuition is always spot on. Good riddance, you were completely valid to ditch his brochacho ass earlier. 

Rolling your eyes skyward and even aiming a petulant tongue at his retreating back, you scoff before leaning on chilled metal, letting a moment pass before heading down to Taehyung and the rest of them. 

Where are they anyway? If you don’t spot them from here it’s gonna be hard to find them on the.. ground.. 

Your heart looks up before you do.  

And you catch your ex watching intently from across the way, phone sliding from his ear before he straightens to start walking. 

…Towards you? 

Fuck. 

It’s been bad enough catching glimpses of Yoongi and seeing him entertain someone else. If he gets one foot right in front of you? Everything you’ve worked so hard to build up against him and the haunting memories of your relationship will collapse into dust. You can’t bear him seeing how you haven’t changed your fucking mind. 

To your utmost pain, all roads have always led back to him. No matter how deep you relate to or click with someone, no matter how happy another person makes you, no one has come close to how Yoongi made you feel. 

Because he’s the only one that understood even the darkest parts of you. And he’s the only light in your life you ran away from. 

There’s a reason you watch every sunset. There’s a reason you stand on the beach back home and don’t move your sandswept legs until the last rays give way to the ocean line. 

It’s because of the guilt. The guilt of turning away from the warmth you held in your hands and the warmth you left behind. 

Your eyes stay tethered as your ex makes his way down the long side of the upstairs balcony, partiers smushing together and bottles roving over his head as ladies take them to VIP tables. 

Based on the heat in his eyes? Yoongi’s on the universe’s side. There’s no way he’s seeking anything else other than revenge. 

Shit, shit shit. This isn’t good for you. Literally nothing great nor healthy can come out of this if he ends up in your orbit. One word, two words, and even worse, three words from those unforgettable lips would destroy you and never let you recover. 

But your hands stay tight on the warming railing. And they won’t fucking let go. 

Downstairs. Go down the stairs. Go. 

Yoongi’s almost here. All he has to do is round the corner. He's close enough for you to notice the silver chains adorning his neck.

And the last thing you think with a withering heart is how devastatingly handsome he’s become. 

With a tight breath, you pelt high heels downward one hasty step at a time. Winding, winding, spiraling like the thoughts storming your mind. The further down you go, the farther away he is. 

Your heel catches on your dress before you stumble, but you don’t look back to see if Yoongi’s even still behind you. 

Chill the fuck out and don’t fucking trip. You already had nasty falls before with scars to prove it and a sticky club floor is the worst place to sprawl onto. 

Keep going. Disappear into the crowd. Go find your friends. 

And deal with the unmoving, gaping hole in your chest later. 

—

—

It takes you awhile to find them, but soon enough, you're back to having the time of your life. The lineup of DJs is all stellar, with only a few misses here and there, even getting Jeongguk to stay on the dance floor longer than you expect.

What's even better? There's no sign of Yoongi. Surrounded by sweaty bodies and flashy grins, you don't catch a single glimpse of him in the crowd.

Good. That's good, right? You wanted this. You wanted to avoid him and run, just like you did the last time.

Your group starts to split up in the commotion of lights and confetti and streamers, but you're fine dancing on your own. With each ebb and flow of music, you lose yourself, letting your heart get swept away by stories of love and loss. Every song holds a piece you understand. Every verse carries the same message.

You aren't alone in being alone.

So embrace it. Let the hurt come later. Smiling wide, you await the next song up, arms thrown in the air with everyone in beautiful togetherness around you.

Then it starts.

The one song you knew you'd hear at some point but sure as fuck didn’t want to.

While people around roar at the familiar opening, you feel like disappearing entirely. Where’s the nearest coastline? You need a rising tide. 

As the melancholic notes buzz up your chest, you slowly, quietly, lower both arms to your sides. Around you, the floor moves in sensuous circles and dips, and you envy everyone for not feeling how you feel. This glowing, searing pain setting your chest ablaze until it’s nothing but a pile of cinders, only to be washed away with the waves crashing against your knees.

With each scathing line, your heart cries, remembering exactly why it hit too deep. All those lessons you took that started on a whim. All those sunny afternoons practicing and stumbling about your living room. All those times you were held close and knew there’d be no one else.

Your heart isn't strong enough to stay in the now. It doesn’t want to. It will always remain in the past, on a rooftop gazing into a sea of stars and hoping for a different outcome. 

Night, after night, after night. 

Suddenly, you’re back in the past, too.

Because a hand, so sure and so steady, settles onto your hip from behind, and your eyes burn when another slides along your bare shoulder. Heat from a body you can sense from anywhere in the fucking universe warms the skin at your back, and you shake as lips touch the shell of your ear to whisper three words that shatter what’s left of your soul, 

“One last time.” 

You aren't in the past. You're here. And so is he.

Breath whooshing out in a hitch, your throat is in absolute flames as your eyes slide shut. Then you nod, because you can’t think of doing anything else, and you allow him to lead.

And he feels so perfect against you it hurts. 

You feel how strong he’s gotten, how sturdy and lean. And yet, you also feel the same soft give you used to feel all those years ago. You know how pliant he could become under your mercy, just like all those times he gave you complete control. If you faced him, you could run your hands along that stomach you’ve kissed every inch of a thousand times over. 

But you’re too much of a pathetic coward to turn around. 

When you back into him, his quick hiss into that groan you miss so fucking much flips every warning light in your body. But you can’t help it. You know this dance, this connection, this reunion will be the last you will ever have. 

He never loved you. You never said goodbye. 

Everything that’s left unsaid swirls around you as you move in perfect sync, both your hips moving as one and your hand snaking up and back to grip his neck fuck he feels just like home. 

Yoongi… Still feels like home. 

A single, hot tear leaks from your eye as you sway, burning a path down your cheek as your other hand closes tight around fingers holding your side. When he grips you even tighter, another tear betrays you, and you feel his lips so close to your neck you expect him to kiss there if he wanted to. 

But he doesn’t. 

Of course he doesn’t. 

So you take what you’re given. A dance. Just one. One last unforgettable dance before your life changes all over again. 

Knowing this song by heart, you know it’s approaching the end. The bittersweet last chorus clues you in, and you tense around his neck just a little tighter, hoping Yoongi didn’t catch the need in your fingers for this moment to never end. 

Mother Earth can swallow you whole as soon as the last word is sung. You give her your express permission. 

Because you feel so hopelessly in love all over again, and you can’t bear your affection to be unreciprocated a second time. 

Just like that. Against your deepest, sincerest wishes. 

The song dies. 

And immediately after, as if your world hasn’t just been upheaved and tossed to the wayside, the next number booms. Everyone on the dance floor cheers again when it’s extremely familiar and a faster tempo. Even more people fill the floor because they need to feel this one in their bones. 

And you need nothing else but to leave. 

Get out. Go. Yoongi said so, right? One last time. It’s over. This tension between you needed an outlet and that song was the one out you both could use to set it free. 

And it’s done. So you start your brisk walk away.

Only for your wrist to be held and your heart to fall out of your ribcage. 

Fuck.

When you turn, you forget you’re tear-streaked and full of painful regrets. 

And the look on Yoongi’s face heats your soul all the way through. 

Because his eyes are unwavering, brows cut deep and mouth completely shut. Over his forehead, tendrils of mussed bangs sweep slow, and his chest rises and falls with every hard, wordless breath he takes. 

And you finally get the courage to whisper his name. 

Without a word, he slowly pulls you in, not stopping until your hands softly push into his strong chest and your face is inches from his. All heavy bass and bright beats of music fall away. All lights shift until you can only see him. 

Time. All that time apart vanishes when you finally feel this close again, his steady expression watching you with an emotion you can’t place but feel ripping at your walls to destroy them. 

What is happening? What’s he doing? 

Does he know he has the power to hurt you in ten million different ways?

Fingers rise to wipe the sadness from your face, only inviting more to pour from your eyes. “Yoongi,” you whisper again, breaking the dam you’ve been building block by block this whole time, just like you were afraid of. And you can’t fucking stop. “Yoongi…”

Then, when his eyes slide shut, you think he’ll let you go. Why can you only say his name? Why the fuck are you ruining this singular moment that you’ve only dreamed of having wait wait why is he resting his forehead against yours fuck wait—

“You know how long,” he breathes out, “I’ve been waiting to hear you say that again.” 

Have mercy.

Your soul finally snaps in two. 

You can only say it once more, broken and chipped, before Yoongi grips your jaw and kisses you like it’s his last minute on earth. 

And you push back with a ferocity that’s been dormant for years, a magnificent flame never awakened by anyone else. Nothing else. Just him. Only him. 

Rivers stream from your eyes as his arms circle you, hands gripping the skin of your back as your nails rake down his. Around you, people dance and bump into your bodies, but neither of you seem to fucking care. No one else exists. The only music you hear is every deep breath Yoongi takes and it’s your favorite, favorite, favorite.

You shouldn’t be doing this. There’s no possible way this doesn’t leave you without a broken heart and a shell of whatever intact spirit you have left. 

But goddamn if you don’t stay in the now more than ever. 

“I don’t give a shit,” you tumble into his mouth, waiting until he pulls away enough for you to spill every forbidden thought you’ve harbored in your beating chest. “I don’t care if you never loved me. I don’t care if you moved on. I just—just tonight, Yoongi, I need you—”

Your plea is engulfed by another soulshaking push of his lips, and you think that’s the end of it until he tugs away from you before swerving his head around the floor. 

“Come here,” he orders, gripping your hand and reminding you just how perfect his fingers slot with yours. 

Time. You’re getting more time? Your tears and the burning in your chest don’t quell as you’re led through the crowd. When you get strange or pitied looks, you don’t care. All these perfectly dressed people can fuck off. 

When they stare at the man guiding you, that’s what gets your stomach flaring. They can have him. Just after you get one last time to carry you through the rest of your loveless life. 

Yoongi suddenly turns to look at you trailing behind, and he waits to bring you in front of his side, now leading you both together through the rest of the packed floor. 

Ah. This is the man you remember. 

And that just makes everything hurt even more. 

Soon, you’re led off the dance floor and through a series of turns, Yoongi heading up a long back staircase before rounding into a hallway of doors before he checks each one. 

What are these? Karaoke rooms? Party rooms? You don’t know, but the ache in your body hunches you over, and it takes everything to not crumble before he finally stops and yanks open a door. 

“Yoongi, what are you—?”

A dim, neon-lit room is what you come to, and you hear a faint click while noticing the long window looking out into the club below.  Different lounge chairs and couches fill the space, and you can see just enough out the glass to know you’re even high above the VIP tables. The room feels exclusive but you don’t get to observe anything else as you’re being pushed into the nearest wall to be liplocked again. 

Fuck, he’s gotten even better at this. 

Just like you have. 

As your dress is gripped tight, your thoughts all blur together in a lustful slurry. How many has he taken to bed after you? Do you remember your own count? Has anyone else made him feel like you do? With a searing green flare, you remember that no one has come close to him. How awfully one-sided would that be if he found someone that completed him.

A veiny hand grips the side of your neck before sliding to your head. “Fuck,” Yoongi grits out. “I… I can’t.” 

...What? 

No. No no no. 

Your heart begins its fast descent. Because if Yoongi doesn’t want this, you have to respect that. As much as you will scream into the night, you’re not gonna stop him if he gets up and leaves. 

Because you did. So why shouldn’t he get that same chance to destroy you? 

“I get it,” you hitch out, holding his strong wrist with shaky fingers. It’s only fair. This felt too good to be true anyway. “I know.” 

“It’s not that.” Yoongi slides his free hand on the wall, holding it at your shoulder. “I just… Fuck, if we do this, I can’t promise I’ll hold back.” 

Oh. Fuck that. 

You tug the warm silver around his neck. “Then don’t,” you urge to his grunt. “If this is all we get? I don’t fucking care.” 

“Even if I t—”

“Do it, Yoongi,” you plead with a gritted cry. “You can do anything to me, whatever it is just do it.” 

“Fuck.” 

All doubt flees from his eyes as your back gets smushed into the wall, your lips puffed and parting when he places hot, open mouthed kisses down your column. 

Hands keep their quest in gathering up your dress. And you make quick work of his belt before pulling, tugging, yanking it out of its holster. 

“The fuck,” he shoots out. “Who the fuck taught you that?”

Your eyes flicker to his as you grip the hem of his jeans. “You really wanna know?”

“No.” He switches up on a dime. “Don’t tell me.”

Your lips collide again before he rips his mouth down to attack your chest, nipping at a spot that has you flinching and hand sliding between your legs. When he runs a finger along your underwear, his eyes practically burn out as he growls, “You’re this fucking wet already?”

“I told you,” you gasp out. “I need you.” 

Your hand is yanked to the front of his jeans, and shock and emotion completely cover the expanse of your face feeling how unbelievably hard he is.

Unfazed, Yoongi continues kissing up to your shoulder, leaving hot saliva trails all over your skin and bunching your silk in his hands. “Seeing you in this? Lost my shit.”

“You're lying.”

“All fuckin' night."

“Liar.”

Liar, liar. A bold faced lie. You saw him talking to other people. You saw his anger piercing across the club. But you watch as his look levels, and your cheeks sizzle at the way he shifts his jaw, 

“I’d never lie to you.” 

Shit. Your heart bats eyelashes before you shove it out of frame. 

The organ in your chest is a walking liability, especially when it’s connected to your mouth. So there are many, many things you might reveal tonight in the throes of agony and passion. Things you will regret come morning waking to an empty bed. 

The best way to not say anything that could potentially do more harm than good? Keep your lips occupied. And that’s exactly what you intend to do. 

“We’ll see,” you grit out, unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down. When Yoongi lets you twist to shove him back against the wall, his eyes flare in dark need when he hisses, 

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” 

To show him how you’ve grown in the years you separated, to show him what he could’ve fucking had. 

To show him that you aren’t taking a single bit of this last, serendipitous night for granted. 

Kneeling slow, you slide your hands along his clothed chest, kissing his chains exactly how you used to and smearing lipstick all the way down his jersey.

“Fuck…”

Balancing on your heels, you wince at the tight bend in your knees, but you aren’t going down completely because your kneecaps aren’t what they used to be. Fuck that. You can do plenty in a low squat anyway, and he’s seen you look a hell of a lot more awkward many times. “Shit,” you still whisper. “You’re lucky I can’t wait to swallow you.”

A curse flings out of his mouth. “Get up, babe.”

Heart ringing at the name, you reject his order with a harsh, “Shut up.” 

You want this, and you know for a fact he does, too. When Yoongi tries to bend, you pull down his underwear, springing his cock free and almost salivating at the sight. 

Just like you remember. Everything about him is just how you remember, and yet his body has only gotten stronger and filled out in all the perfect places. Yoongi’s a man now. A real, grown man. 

If you both just met tonight, you know he would’ve asked for your name before anything else.

Cut the shit. You are not getting into that now, not when you have him with hands trembling against a wall before you take him in your palm. As soon as you touch, Yoongi expels a deep groan, kicking his head back and gripping the wall with a large hand.

What’s going on? You haven’t even done anything yet. Why does your chest constrict at how sensitive he is? This isn’t the time to relax, but you really can’t help but soften at his complete and utter unravelling. 

It’s almost as if nothing’s changed. 

Yoongi lowers his gaze, and you lock glistening eyes before you take him in your mouth, slow on the tip and swirling to get it coated and prepped just right. Your hand expertly glides along his solid, slick length, squeezing at the spot you know makes him fold. 

“Holy fuck,” he gasps out, hand hesitating to palm your head before balling in a fist against plaster. “Shit, babe..”

Again? Does he even realize what he’s saying? Is he trying to hurt you because if that’s his goal it’s fucking working. 

Anger, regret, painful nostalgia drives you forward, sinking his velvety ridges inside your throat and proving to him how much better you’ve gotten. With every plunge, you hollow your cheeks, already feeling the telltale searing at your eyes and spiraling up your throat. His endless stream of sounds and praise tumble down your skin, and you keep sucking mercilessly even when his hips buck and his eyes squeeze tight.

Releasing with a loud pop, you feel a huge strain on your soaked legs as you adjust, tilting your drenched chin to bury your face in his sack to lick and take it in.

“Baby..”

At this new, old nickname, you grip his cock tighter, swallowing him whole again just to hide your real tears behind the ones streaming from taking him in so deep. 

More. You give more, and more, and more. Time will take away everything else so what you can give is all you got.

Hands grip your head in desperation, and you let Yoongi push you onto his length until your airway is closed tight, nose and cheeks flush against the skin of his thighs. His scent is heady and just like you remember, if only slightly different due to the new musky cologne he’s probably sticking with nowadays. Not like you can focus on it too long because your airway is screaming to be freed again. 

Tears leak over your lashes as want slicks your cunt, and you hear syllables that could be words before you finally give his legs a telltale tap.

Oxygen floods your lungs as more tears stream from your eyes, lips sopping wet and saliva leaving your chin in strings. Gulping, you go right back to it, taking him in again and pumping his slick ridges quick.

“Get up,” he commands with a rasp so deep it rumbles your chest. “Get the fuck up.” 

You’re pulled upward so fast your legs cry at the bends, and you’re spun so quick the wall hits your shoulderblade and you cry out into a furious mouth. 

Pleasure and pain intertwine as you match his intensity, raking at his shoulders and clawing into his hair. With each kiss, he reaches deeper into your throat, and you know he can taste himself on your tongue with the way he claims it in waves.

For a moment, there’s no one else in the world. You aren’t in a dimly lit lounge in a club away from home. You’re right here in his bedroom, getting slung and dragged along his wall and knocking every one of his plaques and posters off-kilter. 

“Yoongi, I—”

“I know.”

Without further prompt, Yoongi wrenches at your dress to shove it up to your hip, burning a path along your leg with expert fingers. As you hook itover his smooth forearm, your lips part when his other hand slides between your thighs. 

You know your underwear is soaked all the way through. 

And now, so does he. “Goddamn.”

“I can’t take it anymore,” you gasp out. “Just—”

“Are you still on the—”

“Yes.”

Shifting the sodden material to the side, Yoongi wastes no time, angling himself to rub over your folds and moaning in tandem with you because holy fuck this already feels so—

“This fucking pussy,” Yoongi grits out, sliding in perfectly and so smoothly it’s like neither of you ever left each other's sides. Your high moan cuts into the cherry ceiling when he sounds like he’s just struck gold, “Shit, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Yoongi, please—”

He’s talking absolute nonsense. Gonna be? How is that possible when you won’t see him again? 

All questions vaporize when Yoongi’s hips snap up, launching you up the wall again, and again, and again. Pops of need and lust zoom straight to your head, sparkling out of your eyes when you feel his lips smothering your neck. 

You’re in heaven. You’re in hell. It feels so good it hurts. Caught in a flurry of need and anguish, your nails rake down his shoulders before scratching at his arms, shivering at his outright growl, 

“Don’t do that.”

“Oh, I—”

“Do that shit again and I’ll come.” 

Shit. You don’t understand how he could be so shameless. You’re trying your hardest to keep it together and here he is saying whatever the fuck he wants? If you let your mouth just as loose as he has there’s no telling what you’d be shouting out. 

But you settle for an apology for now, just in case you actually hurt him, “Sorry.. My nails are super long right now.”

“I noticed.” Another thrust launches you into the sky. “They look good but they hurt like hell.”

“Oh.. Sorry again.” A moan escapes when he shoves into you, mind hazy because he’s still placating you. 

“I’m not saying that’s a bad thing.” Devilish, he breaks into a slow smirk you haven’t seen in ages, and your ribcage folds inward and inward. “I’m just not fucking done with you yet.” 

Oh. He doesn’t want this to end, either. 

Now that changes every fucking cog in your brain. 

You keep yourself upright as long as you can, arms slung around his neck as you both move together, dip and lean together, breathe so hard it scorches your chest together. Every muscle in your planted leg burns, but it’s nothing compared to the stare you have connected to his eyes. With each deep thrust, his brows furrow and his teeth peek from his lips, and every groan you hear goes right into a chest for safe keeping. Right next to all the other memories you want to lock away.

Yoongi’s pace starts to quicken the more your mewls encourage him. What was sensuous is now unbearable and, as your dress threatens to shift, you know your breasts will be on full display soon, and Yoongi bites his lip with a grunt with his next hard thrusts.

Soon enough, you feel a chill on your nipples as they’re freed, moaning to the ceiling when Yoongi immediately heats one whole with his tongue. “Baby!”

Goddamn it. You weren’t supposed to address him like that, too. But maybe it’s better than saying his name because every time you do there’s a charge sparking the air. 

So you decide to switch, moaning the same word over and over as he licks and sucks, dragging his teeth along your exposed chest and littering it with heavy proof of his lips. Just like the lipstick on his jersey, you know he’s claimed his own marks on your skin. 

And neither of you will be able to hide them when you part.

Expelled tension flits about in light streaks as you move with him, slick with exertion and tight with muscles working in double time. You both know this is the last time and you’re acting like it. And you send a prayer to the heavens to let time stop just to keep holding him in your arms. 

Suddenly, your heel slips, and you yelp before strong arms keep you upright. “Shit, sorry.”

“I got you.”

Summer sunsets smother your vision as you let him guide you from the wall, gently placing your leg down and leading you to a sofa. Everything simmers to a lull, and you have a moment to catch your breath and steady your racing, racing heartbeat. 

When Yoongi sits on vibrant cushions, you admire the way his biceps fill those sleeves right as he tugs his jersey clean off. And you have to fight to not teeter over, continuing to stare in awe at him, so perfectly filled in some placed and chiseled in others that you start to wonder how you even left in the first place.

Of course you know why you did. So why bring it up now when you’re right here? Why agonize over the past when you’re standing right between his legs?  

“Baby.” 

You flick your gaze back up to his. 

“Stay with me.”

Tears zing up your eyes as you nod, heart plugging your throat as you mount his toned thighs. When you feebly place hands on his searing shoulders, you hate the way your words shake on the way out, “Stay in the now. I know.”

Yoongi’s eyes shine with a light in them you weren’t sure was there before. But you can’t wait long enough for confirmation because your heart is keeling over with ache. 

He remembers. He remembers. Does that mean he’s thought about you, too? 

Focus on something else. No time to think about the past, nor the future. No time to notice that the way Yoongi looks at you now is so heartbreakingly similar to how he worshipped you before. Back when things were perfectly imperfect. Back when you were sure he loved you before he proved to you that he didn’t. 

“Still so beautiful.”

Liquid fire fills your eyes as your breath hitches, guiding his length to your entrance before sinking onto him with no issue. When you both groan, you let your glittery vision watch the ceiling instead of him when you admit, 

“You look so fucking good in red.”

There’s no response as you breathe, angling yourself to feel him deep and moving in a slow push and pull along his legs. Your thin chain tightens as your neck strains above Yoongi’s head, and you wish you had the guts to look down at the ones around his neck. They’re already deadly resting on his clothes, but rocking against the flush of his skin is how you love them the most.

Still, you can’t bear to look. You know you’ll lose yourself in those eyes if you dare stare long enough. Because what you saw earlier looked too close to longing, which would be impossible because that only exists in yours. 

“And,” you whoosh out in tired breaths, gripping your fingers on him a little tighter, “Looks like you.. finally hit the gym.. like I kept fucking saying.” 

A puff of warm laughter hits your chest before sweaty hands grip your waist. “Always said I would.”

“But you never did,” you huff out, grinding on him harder and melting at his little sounds. One thing you will keep giving this man credit for: he isn’t ashamed to be just as vocal as you are. The more people you ended up meeting? The rarer and rarer you realized that bedroom quality was. 

“I did eventually,” he grits, holding you in place and surging into you so hard you yelp to the stars. “Didn’t I.”

“Fuck you,” you bite, moaning when your argument dies the moment his tongue swirls around a nipple again. What’s left comes out a garbled mess of a groan, and you hate, hate, hate the dark chuckle against your breast. Partly because he’s a constant problem, and partly because you yearn to see his smile again. 

“What else is new about you,” Yoongi suddenly rasps, hands lowering to rest on your hips as you ride him. “Aside from clearly getting better at this.”

Lost in lust and surprised at his question, you finally peer down to see him looking up already. “No thanks to you.”

And your world stills as he doesn’t respond right away, any hint of sunlight fading from his features. “No thanks to me,” he slowly agrees. 

Fuck. You didn’t mean to do that. 

Slowly slipping hands from his body, you rise from his length and mourn the disconnect before standing. When Yoongi only regards you with eyes on fire, you slowly turn and rest on his thighs. 

He’s not gonna like this. But he asked.

You turn your head before slowly sliding one side of your dress completely down, revealing a rough scar on your back a little lower than your shoulder.

And your soul immediately clenches when Yoongi heats your back with his body heat. “The fuck?” His fingers feel so light, so protective as they caress your mark. It’s confusing, and you abhor it as much as you need it. “What happened?”

“I fell,” you whisper. “Pretty hard.” 

Details of how and when it happened don’t matter. But he wanted to know what was new, and the scar on your heart isn’t exactly readily available to show. 

“I did, too.” 

What? At his voice over your shoulder, you strain your neck to see him. “When?”

Why is he kissing your scar? Exes don’t do that. Exes don’t do anything you’re doing right now. 

“Before you left.”

Now you feel worse. When the hell did that happen? Why didn’t you know about it? “Sorry,” you breathe out with sorrow. “I didn’t know.”

Another slow, calm graze of his mouth tightens your throat. Because he’s since moved across your back, lips now touching where your shoulderblade hit the wall. 

“I know,” Yoongi sighs. “I never told you.” 

He never told you many things.

Stepping into dangerous territory is making you regret showing him your worst moment. So you shift your ass to push over his cock, feeling it throb against you when you wisp out the worst reminder, “We don’t have much time.”

“Mm.”

When you feel his hands shift your dress, you lift up and allow you both to effortlessly situate you back where you wanna be. Your back hits his chest as he guides himself up into your folds, and your head kicks back to lie across his shoulder like the red silk flowing over your thigh. 

“Just like you said,” you start to whisper, eyes already welling with oncoming regret, “One last time.” Every syllable just as melancholic as the notes of your favorite song. 

When Yoongi starts, your heart weeps at the pace. Because it reminds you of better times, sensuous and intentional and convincing you to confess all over again. It takes everything not to speak, your moans escaping in weak puffs and your hips swelling in a calm wave. 

This is too much. This is way too fucking much and you finally break when his name leaves you like a prayer. “Harder,” you beg. “Please, please go—”

You’re cut off as soon as his hips jolt up, flinging you to life before going at a menacing pace. Yes yes yes this is the one you need. The one you crave. The one that leaves no room for feelings and decisions. Your dress threatens to slip off your sides with each pound, slowly rolling and accentuating your chest in seconds. “Shit, holy shit!”

“Fuck, you’re so tight—”

“So fucking big—”

As if knowing exactly what you want, your arms are held back, locked into place as you’re under the absolute mercy of his dick slamming up into you over and over, skin slapping obscene and thighs burning from the stretch across his lap. 

Yoongi knows you better than anyone else. A frustrated growl tears from your lips as you arch so far back you connect clouds, and a strong forearm wraps across your stomach to pin you so fucking close you may as well mold right into him. Passion streaks down your limbs as sweat beads along your skin, the heady scent of sex and forbidden fruit swirling into your nose. 

More. More more more he’s giving you everything. As your arms are freed, you can only grip the other forearm slinging over your upper chest, nails digging into creamy skin and leaving angry, cherry red lines.

Words, praise, everything under the sun is being spewed onto your slick shoulders as you mash your teeth and eyes tight. You even hear a word you’ve been wanting to hear for years, but that can’t possibly be true because there’s no way Yoongi would ever—

A hand closes around your throat, and your eyes fly back into your head.

You’re so close. Fucking hell, your thighs are singing and your throat is burning and your abdomen strains from the arch but you need this release. You need this tidal wave to consume you. If only to forget for a split second that Yoongi isn’t—

“—yours.”

What?

Another fierce round of thrusts almost topples the two of you over, and white hot pressure paints the edges of your eyes as you strain for breath. You’re so close. So fucking close it’s right within reach.

But it all vanishes in a snap as Yoongi stops, and you cry with a teary rasp, “No, please, baby—”

“Not yet.” He hauls you up, making you sit straight and facing away yet again. “You know what to do.” 

Fuck. There’s no way he remembers this, too. You flinch at the slap to your breast before shakily getting up, legs wobbly but positioning yourself on his cock perfectly before sliding down. 

Both heels planted on the ground, you brace his strong knees and work his slick length, eyes rolling at his breathy groans and curses leaving his mouth in spurts. 

You know exactly what to do to make him lose his goddamn mind. So you do it all, swirling and swerving your hips while flicking off your silk, showing him the best view of your ass as it bounces. Your legs tire, but you don’t, and you use the music leaking into the room to set your sickening, aggravating pace. 

“Fuck, baby..”

“You asked for it.”

“Don’t regret a goddamn thing.” 

You can tell he’s on the brink of madness, and you can only picture the way his head thumps back on the couch, mouth torn by his teeth and brows furrowed to hell. His muscles are probably contracting in waves, including the ones in his perfect, bulging arms. 

“You shouldn’t,” you hum. “Since this is all you get.” 

Without a word, hands reach out and tug you backward, and you’re up on your feet and tripping before your hands slap the firm cushions of the next chair over. “What the fu—”

To your absolute delight, Yoongi plants a foot on the chair before gripping the pliant dip of your hips, pushing tears from your eyes with each quick, deep thrust he rams forward. Stars dance along your vision as drool leaks endlessly from your mouth. “Baby—! Fuck!”

“This pussy’s so.. Fuck.” You’re shoved so far down that your moist cheek smushes into firm cushion. “Say my name.”

“Babe—”

“As much as I wanna hear that every fucking day”—Yoongi shoves into you again and keeps his cock thrumming inside your cunt—“Right now, I’m gonna hear my name. So say it.”

“Yoongi—”

His deep, gritted command makes you snap, “Louder.”

“Yoongi—!” 

You feel it. You’re at the brink again. With every snap of his skin pounding against yours, you’re inching closer and closer and closer to the edge, waiting for the fall that will end you. “Baby, I’m gonna—”

Firm arms haul you upward and you’re both travelling the room again, legs skittering until you hit back first into the nearest wall fuck that took your breath out.

Yoongi’s breath catches as he slams a hand against the plaster to steady, face burrowed in your neck and hair brushing harsh against your ear as he buries inside of you again. Fire spews from his mouth as you feel his cock squeeze up into your cunt, and his arm tenses tight behind your knee as he commands,

“Come for me, love.”

You don’t know what the fuck you just heard but you know he didn’t just say—

“I said come.”

Instinct. Pure, animalistic instinct surges your orgasm forward in a high crest, breaking onto shore in hot, white waves as you tremble around him. Your cunt squeezes and tugs, your poor leg threatening collapse as Yoongi roughly hums so deep against your chest. Pleasure, starlight, the warmth of an afternoon faraway heats your body just right, and one crash leads into the next so effortlessly that tears zip down your cheeks.

Your name rips from Yoongi’s throat. 

And it’s enough to send you right over the edge again.

How the fuck is this possible how the hell can someone break you with your own name how can Yoongi have this much of a hold on you when it’s been literal years? It doesn’t make any sense and the cries into his neck as he holds you close are akin to sobs. Maybe they are. Maybe they’re your way of mourning everything that could’ve been. Everything that will never be. 

But at least you were able to have him, shaking in your grasp and pulsing in your core. One more night. One last time. 

“Fuck it, come here.” 

Your sobs are yanked from the wall again, and you don’t know up from left as you're thrown onto a sofa, back curling as Yoongi tugs your head upright. Your tears slide down your neck, wetting your necklace as he breathes out, 

“Again.” 

Fuck! Your cunt tightens around him as you gasp out, “I can’t… I can’t—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Yoongi growls, clutching your chin and flinging hot spit onto your face that catapults you into another level of need you’ve never been to holy fuck. Smothering it against your cheeks, he taps you once and it brings destruction. “I said again.” 

All your limbs lock at the bends as you throw your head in a strained cry, a release that overpowers all the others flushing through your veins and igniting beams out of your sweaty chest. Wave upon wave crashes into your soul and your ears ring so loud you can barely hear or see Yoongi watching from above. You can’t. You’re too caught in chaos. You can’t see the way he looks at you. 

“Come for me, Yoongi,” you suddenly plead, “Let go.”

“Let me pull—”

“Do it now,” you hitch out. “Come inside.”

A prolonged moan leaves his mouth as he launches into a pace that has you screaming, teeth gritted to hell and fingers gripping you so hard you know they’re going to bruise. But who cares when your skin will match your heart? Who gives a fuck about anything else anymore?

Beautiful weight crushes your chest as Yoongi’s body turns erratic, jolting and seizing up. And you know he’s racing to his own cliff to dive and you’re gonna be right there to catch him. Slinging your arms around his drenched back and fisting the wet base of his hair, you’re already ready and waiting with harsh harsh breaths, because you're about to break him.

“That’s it, baby,” you whisper to his ear, ravaging his slick neck with your lips and scraping teeth over his ear just how he likes, hearts beating as one when you stop just to connect your forehead to his. With a singular, throaty gasp, you plead,

“One last time.”

Yoongi’s sudden release sends a pulse through the air, and your core beats and beats with each pump of essence he spews inside. Heaven and earth collide with stars as you hold tight, and your thighs shake as he finishes filling you with the longest orgasm you have ever, ever seen him endure. 

The float down doesn’t come quick, both of you softly suspended in time and air. Steam radiates from your skin and flows from your mouths with each breath, and beads of sweat slip down his jewelry as he stares with a deep vastness in his eyes. 

Why is he so quiet? 

Why are you so quiet? 

Why do you feel like crying again? 

With one more shaken breath, Yoongi swallows, chest heaving right after as he struggles to gather himself. His shoulders are so broad when he moves under your hands, closing his eyes as soon as your brows touch,

“I know it’s over.”

Your heart flares.

“But I need you to know.”

Stars light the night sky.

“I love you. And I always will.”

A sob breaks your silence, hand flying to cup your mouth before you hunch forward into his trembling chest. Days and days of pent up anger and sadness spill out all at once, and you weep into his chest because you can’t bear to let go. 

“I know you’ve moved on,” Yoongi continues with a shake to his words, not pausing at the way you choke and weep. “But I’ve regretted never saying it back then. And I’m not gonna get another chance.”

What the fuck is happening. What does he mean? What does he mean? Your body can’t stop as it locks and locks, sobs wracking your chest because this is fucked up and confusing and everything you’ve been wanting for the longest time. This is all you wanted. And you only get it at the very end. 

“I didn’t even say goodbye,” you shake out. When you lift your trembling head, his lips are already so achingly close to yours and his hand moves to steady your neck. “I left and never came back.”

When his eyes are the only ones that speak, you start to spill everything out, words tumbling into one another and pinging to the floors around your tired feet,

“I tried so hard to forget you. Tried so, so hard to stop loving you. Every day, I’d wake up wanting nothing to do with you, only to see you in my dreams and remember how it felt to—to—” 

Bright red flares across Yoongi’s eyes as he keeps listening, jaw pulsing and brows so tense. 

“At first, I was so angry. At you, at myself, at the world for letting me love you when you never loved me back. But now, I know what I did was wrong. And I regret it every day that I live.” 

When your face contorts in sorrow, Yoongi brings a hand up to wipe your cheek, thumb brushing away your tears. “I did, babe.” Your breath stops and your eyes splay wide. “Just never had the guts to say it first.” 

First. 

Yoongi loved you all the way back then? Before that starry night that’s kept your heart captive for so long? It pulses against your chest, ramming and ramming into your ribcage to get to his. 

Only one question barrels through your mind. “…Why?”

Yoongi looks from one eye to the next. “Because I didn’t think I deserved to.”

Everything clicks into place and you suddenly feel so, so upset. You are going to fight this man to the moon and back. Or, better yet, you’re gonna fight him to the moon and leave him there. “You think I thought that way?”

“No.” He sighs, chains shaking over your chest. “And I replay that night over, and over. Knowing that I’d do anything to go back and tell you how I felt.” 

Yoongi never lived in the past. He was always adamant about staying in the present. So knowing he’d been stuck there right next to you makes your chest collapse before slipping down into the deep sea. 

“When I saw you today? Every day I told myself I’d get over you didn’t matter. Every reason I told myself I couldn’t be with you was bullshit.” 

Your throat constricts again.

“But when you kept running.. I knew you were done with me for good.” Yoongi’s hand falls. “And there was nothing I could do to change your mind.”

“Yoongi…”

All this time, you both had your own reasons for avoiding each other. Everything you fed into your logical side was just a ploy to project your feelings, and it turns out Yoongi did the exact same thing. 

He said he wouldn’t be able to hold back if you did this tonight. And now, you’re blessed to know exactly what he meant. 

So you also let everything go. 

“I was never done with you,” you choke out, seeing a swath of emotion brush across his face. “Because I’m still in love with you, and I will be even if you walk out of here without me.”

Musk and heaven consumes you in a hug, and you cry into a bare shoulder as you hear Yoongi vow something so full of longing and conviction you hold him tighter, 

“I’m not going anywhere else without you.” 

Music continues to pulse outside, lasers continue to dance around the room. But you see nothing but the light in your lover's eyes. 

And it’s a beautiful, beautiful sunrise. 

—

—

When you both finally part, it’s only to let him get dressed and for you to use the nearest restroom. In the quiet wake of your emotional storm, Yoongi walks you to the window spanning the far wall of the lounge, and you both watch the club floors move and sway from above. And it’s only now that you feel shy. It’s only now that you feel nervous seeing everyone below. 

But a thought occurs to you that dashes all others away, 

“How did you know to come up here?” 

Yoongi gives you a look that you raise a brow at. “I…” He sighs. “Let’s just say I know my way around this place.”

Ah. Of course. “Come here often?”

“Not for the reasons you think.”

Your brows are fully bent now. “…Huh?”

“I own the building.” Hands busy, he adjusts his jersey as if he didn’t drop the biggest shock of the century on your toes. “And a couple others in the city.”

What. 

Pause pause pause hold the fucking phone. 

Yoongi lives in this city? He owns what? This is a little too much to take in, but you have time. And you’re gonna hound him for every single detail of his life that you’ve missed. 

You have time. Your prayer had been answered tenfold. And you send endless gratitude to the sky. 

But suddenly, a second realization pierces your mind and you lightly shove him. When Yoongi looks at you in shock, you yell out, “You asked what’s new and I showed you a scar! Now you tell me you own a fucking building?” 

Your lover laughs, and the sun rises even higher over your horizon. Ducking your next swipe, he’s already back to irritating you again as he clarifies, “I said more than one—”

“Oh, fuck you!” 

He rushes forward and gathers you in his arms, not caring if anyone sees your embrace in the window. “You wanna go again?” 

Your face heats as your eyes roll heavenward, exactly where you feel like you are in this moment. “I have a pretty big hotel room,” you divulge. “And no one to share that bedroom with unless someone else catches my eye tonight, so…”

Yoongi’s eyes crease as he kisses your forehead. “Fuck that. Take me home.” 

Your giggles into his chin bubble out in pink, poppable spheres. 

As magnificent and dreamlike all of this has been, you're starting to find logic again. Because more than one question badgers into your mind.

How long have you been gone? Have your friends not even checked on you? Did they try? Did they leave do they even still have the... table…

Wait.

Everything else clicks into place. 

The random city everyone flew to that Jeongguk picked. The infamous club and dress code you heard about from Taehyung. The table that Hoseok bragged about getting…

“...You're the one that got us VIP.” 

That stupid, annoying, ridiculous grin. Of course this is how you'd be reminded of how much you love to hate it.

“Now come dance with me,” he says with teeth still flashing wide. “Let’s see if you ever got that step.” 

Eyes sparkling, you let him lead you down and onto the dance floor, moving through until you’re suddenly next to your friends that shout and holler at your arrival together. 

“All of you are crazy!” You yell out, tears in your smile as they burst into laughter. “Why didn’t you just tell me!”

Yoongi grabs hold of you before chuckling into your ear. “I told them not to.” 

“Why?”

“Didn’t know if you were really done.” He grips you tight, face falling into seriousness. “But I heard you broke up with someone a month ago. This was my only chance and I took it.” 

Holy fucking shit.

“Thank you.” You kiss his cheek with purpose. “I love you.”

Yoongi’s cheeks rise high, dimples prominent and eyes carrying the light of the universe. Lips close, he responds how he wanted to the first time.

And you seal your devotion with a kiss full of starlight. 

“Ugh, here we go.”

“Already at it again, huh.”

"Figures. Didn't you see his jersey?"

“Get another room—!”

Suddenly, the same song that used to haunt you comes on once more, but this time, you welcome it with a swell of freedom in your chest. The waves of your mind calm, washing onto an empty beach and fading into a mesmerizing valley of blue.

Yoongi grins as he holds your hand, and you can't help but stretch your mouth wide as you both immerse into the crowd, moving and spinning and stepping perfectly together on every beat. Laughter and joy fills the space between your hearts as you all cheer, sharing this infinite moment together as fate intended.  

In a beautiful, unforgettable dance. 

-

-

fin :)

-

hi lovelies what did we think !! | main masterlist

a/n: so don't ask how i managed to write all of this in a single day (now two) lol i think this madrid yoongi broke me. anyways, here's the sidequest that became the main quest for a bit! i'm back to writing three tangerines so 3tan13 will be finished here real soon :D thank you all for reading and i hope you enjoyed this irresistible ex turned lover yoongiiiii :DD did i cry? yes. can you prove it? no!!!!

a/n 2: as always, reblogs and comments and asks are always super appreciated! i love sharing things with you guys and a big part of that is getting to hear what you all liked and what you're excited about. happy to chat, and thank you for reading!

++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here!

The specter haunting your thoughts doesn’t appear for a few days, and the soldiers are mercilessly silent. They don’t speak of the wife they’ve left at home, or how their son is doing with his sword training, or how they heard the chef is making their favorite tonight. Such thoughts must feel blasphemous to speak aloud near the almost dead. They think it’s for your sake, not to taunt you with what you don’t have, but it’s really for them. So they don’t have to think about how you won’t get to experience such beautiful little moments once the guillotine drops. So they don’t have to think about how you’ve experienced them before, as every human being has. They don’t have to think about the life you’ve led, and how they’re actively facilitating its end.

One day you finally break, watching two of the men who’ve been kindest to you shift nervously on their feet, eyes fixed straight ahead. “You can still talk, you know.”

They jump, as though somehow they forgot you were still here, alive and breathing. In their minds, you’ve already died. They share a look you can’t quite decipher, mouths set into twin grim lines. “We know,” one says.

“Do you?”

His shoulders are so tense you worry he may crack himself in half, but to his credit he manages to keep his tone calm. “We just have nothing to talk about.”

They flinch when you laugh, an edge of madness creeping into the noise. “Oh, yeah? Every single soldier in this entire place has nothing to speak about? Every single one? Do me a favor and don’t lie to me. I barely have any time left, I’d like to spend what little I have pretending things are normal. I can’t do that if you all have already buried me.”

They don’t give you the mercy of speaking again, but you almost think you see one of their shoulders shaking, his hands trembling around his blade. It makes you relax a bit, despite the fear and rage and defeat swirling in your chest. They’re mourning you. Isn’t it something of a blessing, to know someone is? Perhaps they’ve grown fond of you, or perhaps their time on the battlefield hasn’t beaten the gravity of death out of them, but either way they know that you’re here now and can’t help but fear the thought of your absence. That’s something.

Zoro only comes to visit his dear ghost after yet another week of staring at the wall, listening to nothing but the dripping of water and occasional footsteps coming down the hall. At first, you convince yourself that you’ve dreamed it, the familiar sound of his boots thumping against stone. It has to be wishful thinking. You’ve been dreaming of him enough that it’s worked its way into your waking hours, and soon you’ll feel the warmth of his arms around you and hear his soft voice whisper something you’re far too afraid to admit you want to hear.

But he’s here, flesh and blood, gesturing the soldiers away with a single jerk of his chin toward the door. They scramble off, desperate to be free of you. You think these two find you unsettling, disturbed by the way your sharp eyes have gone vacant and your normally proud posture has started to slump. A walking corpse.

Your cell creaks as he opens it, the sound bouncing off the walls and back to you again and again, an infinite loop reminding you exactly where you are and what’s coming. Zoro sits across from you, hair mussed and eyes tired. “You alright?”

You can’t help but chuckle. “What the hell do you think?”

He rubs his forehead, the weight of what he’s carrying dragging his shoulders forward. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

You sit in silence, waiting for the other to speak, but you’re both struck silent by the gravity of the situation. It’s coming any day now. You can feel the breath of the reaper against your neck, a constant chill running down your spine and a tension in your body as you await for his bony hand to wrap around you. Zoro’s warmth can’t drown out the feeling, even if you know he’d like to try.

“Tell me more about yourself,” he finally murmurs, his eyes boring into yours. There’s a heat there, a determination you’re used to seeing in an enemy commander.

You should answer. You should give him this, just a few small pieces of you to carry with him. But the more of you he carries, the more it will weigh him down and hold him back. The more it will make him suffer, make him mourn someone he never really knew. Every piece he has will just remind him of how much he didn’t know.

“No.”

“No?” He blinks, once, twice, surprise clear on his face.

“No. No more talking. No more pretending this isn’t happening.”

“Who says we’re pretending this isn’t happening?”

He’s a terrible liar. You can see it in his eyes, the pain and regret and longing. Or maybe he’s a fine liar, but you’re made to be his weakness, to slip through his defenses in the exact ways he wouldn’t want you to. “Zoro, this is for your own good.”

He scoffs. “My own good? Just another choice you’re making for me, huh? I want to know you. I want to spend time with you. No matter how little it is.”

He reaches out to you, but you flinch backwards, head hitting the wall. “No, you don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s going to be like to be alone. To lose someone you never really had.”

“I’m going to have to know it. There’s no way out, alright? I know that. But that doesn’t mean I can’t know you at all.”

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that he’s going to have far more time without you than he ever did with you. That he’s going to spend years remembering a few memories he managed to scrounge together, a few stolen moments in this damp and rotting cell. He needs to leave you to rot with it.

“You’ll never really know me. We don’t have time for it. This is kinder.”

“You seem very sure everything you’re doing is kind. That it’s all for my sake.” He shakes his head. “You don’t have to worry about what comes after. That’s my problem.

You can hardly hide the shake in your voice, but you don’t want to let him know he’s getting to you. You need to stay strong. "You're going to regret this. One day, years from now, you're going to see a beautiful sunrise and, for a moment, wonder what I thought of it. You're going to see a flower and wonder if I would have loved it. You're going to wake up and realize you never knew my favorite color, favorite food, favorite song. You're going to regret not knowing me, Zoro. It's going to haunt you for the rest of your life. And you're going to understand why I tried to spare you from this."

He's silent for a moment, jaw clenched. He breathes in the stale air deeply, before quietly asking, "Well, what is your favorite color?"

You laugh, a low, bitter sound. "That's not the point! There will always be something you don't know! Always something you'll regret not having said! Nothing we do now can change any of it."

He looks at you with a degree of pity you don't understand. "But I can know this. So what is it?"

You sigh. "Blue. My favorite color is blue."

He chuckles softly. "Some part of me hoped it would be green."

"Maybe it could have been," you say, before you can stop yourself. You can see it clearly in your mind; a soft, sunny morning where the rays of light catch his eyes so perfectly that you cannot help but fall in love a little bit more, enough so that you begin to see him everywhere there's even a hint of green. But the only life you have is this one, and it's ending shortly. "But that doesn't matter now."

"It still matters," he whispers, "to me. I'll remember."

Your frustration mounts again. He's promising to torture himself in your absence. That's not what you wanted. You didn't suffer countless silent nights and the arguments that followed just for him to end up suffering anyway. If he does, it was all worthless. You refuse to accept it was all for nothing. "What, so I can live on in your memory? My heart's still going to stop. I'm still going to be six feet under, if they even bother to bury me. Stop doing this, Commander." There it is, that distance you need. He'll remember you like this: cold, bitter, unworthy. He can freely bury you in his mind, let you rest the way you deserve. He'll find some unpaired soul to settle down with, one that could never compare to a martyr in his heart but that might just stand up to a pathetic shell of a soldier.

"Is that an order?"

You stare unblinking. He doesn’t flinch. In a battle of wills, you are unfortunately perfectly matched. And god, you are so, so tired of fighting.

“You’re the most frustrating man I’ve ever met,” you murmur, eyes falling closed in defeat. 

“I’ve heard that before.” You can hear the smile in his voice. You don’t let yourself open your eyes to see how handsome he looks when he’s smug. You don’t need to know. It’s better to never know at all than to see it once and know you’ll never experience it again. No matter what he thinks. If he wants to carry your body around with him, you can’t stop him. You’re finally realizing that. You’re both horribly stubborn, but he’s better equipped than you. Better fed, better rested, better everything. He knows he can outlast you. No matter how determined you are, you’re worn down beyond repair, even if you did have any way to build yourself back up. But you’re so very tired.

“What else do you want from me?” You ask softly, thoroughly defeated.

He reaches forward to take your hand in his. It’s rough, your calluses rubbing together, years of training and combat sanding away all of the softness from both of you. He stares at where your skin meets, intertwining your fingers and clinging to you as though the moment he lets go you’ll be taken from him forever.

That’s a lot closer to being true than you’d like.

He shifts closer, approaching with the same amount of caution one might use for a feral animal. Maybe a feral animal would be less dangerous to him. He squeezes your hand, warmth seeping in and banishing the ever-present chill that’s haunted you from the moment you were thrown into this cell. First his shoulder presses against yours, then his hip, then his thigh, until he’s pressed every inch of his side to yours. His body heat seeps through his uniform and your tattered clothes, and you can’t help the way your eyes flutter shut as you lean into him.

You shouldn’t do this. You shouldn’t give in. But god, it makes you feel more alive than you have in years. It makes you feel human again. So you push down the martyr in your head and allow yourself to relish in the feeling of another human being, of his hand gently cradling yours, of being cherished in what little time you have left.

“I’ll miss you,” he whispers, because he is the cruelest man you have ever known.

“I don’t want you to.”

“I know.”

His head leans against yours, and you can smell the salt of his sweat and the leather of his uniform and god that smell shouldn’t make you so weak. But it does. Everything about him rips away the things you know should be and leaves behind only the confusing what is. Reality makes no sense with him.

His voice shakes as he speaks. “Are you afraid?”

You laugh. “Of you? Yes.”

He scoffs. “You know what I meant.”

“I do.” Your answer was more honest and vulnerable than he could possibly understand.

“I wish it wasn’t like this.”

“Wishing won’t change anything,” you whisper. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

It’s the closest thing to real gratitude you’ve ever given him, and he looks at you like you’ve blessed him with his truest and greatest wish. He shifts, pulling away so he can face you, and you’re mortified by the soft whimper that leaves your mouth as his warmth gets further away. “Would you have wanted this, if things were different?”

He clasps your hands together again, fingers intertwining. His eyes are shining with emotion, pleading with you for something, anything, and unfortunately Zoro makes you more honest than you’ve ever been in your life.

“I want it now.”

He lets out a single shaking breath, and you expect him to pull away, but suddenly the world shifts.

It’s frantic, the way he pulls you toward him. Your teeth clack together, his callused fingers pressing hard enough into your arms to bruise. It doesn’t seem quite right to call it a kiss; it is far too consuming, as though he wants to steal all of you, down to the breath in your lungs, and refuse to let you go. And he doesn’t, not until you’re banging against his chest, begging for release, and gasping as he backs away from you. Your cheeks are wet from the tears that forced their way out, and you heave out the only words you can think right now. “I hate you.”

And you do right now, for being cruel enough to give you a taste of him. Weren’t the kind words and gentle touches bad enough? No, not for him. With his next words it becomes clear: Commander Zoro, your enemy, the destined love of your life, has never held any mercy for you.

“I love you, too.”

You fail.

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The specter haunting your thoughts doesn’t appear for a few days, and the soldiers are mercilessly silent. They don’t speak of the wife they’ve left at home, or how their son is doing with his sword training, or how they heard the chef is making their favorite tonight. Such thoughts must feel blasphemous to speak aloud near the almost dead. They think it’s for your sake, not to taunt you with what you don’t have, but it’s really for them. So they don’t have to think about how you won’t get to experience such beautiful little moments once the guillotine drops. So they don’t have to think about how you’ve experienced them before, as every human being has. They don’t have to think about the life you’ve led, and how they’re actively facilitating its end.

One day you finally break, watching two of the men who’ve been kindest to you shift nervously on their feet, eyes fixed straight ahead. “You can still talk, you know.”

They jump, as though somehow they forgot you were still here, alive and breathing. In their minds, you’ve already died. They share a look you can’t quite decipher, mouths set into twin grim lines. “We know,” one says.

“Do you?”

His shoulders are so tense you worry he may crack himself in half, but to his credit he manages to keep his tone calm. “We just have nothing to talk about.”

They flinch when you laugh, an edge of madness creeping into the noise. “Oh, yeah? Every single soldier in this entire place has nothing to speak about? Every single one? Do me a favor and don’t lie to me. I barely have any time left, I’d like to spend what little I have pretending things are normal. I can’t do that if you all have already buried me.”

They don’t give you the mercy of speaking again, but you almost think you see one of their shoulders shaking, his hands trembling around his blade. It makes you relax a bit, despite the fear and rage and defeat swirling in your chest. They’re mourning you. Isn’t it something of a blessing, to know someone is? Perhaps they’ve grown fond of you, or perhaps their time on the battlefield hasn’t beaten the gravity of death out of them, but either way they know that you’re here now and can’t help but fear the thought of your absence. That’s something.

Zoro only comes to visit his dear ghost after yet another week of staring at the wall, listening to nothing but the dripping of water and occasional footsteps coming down the hall. At first, you convince yourself that you’ve dreamed it, the familiar sound of his boots thumping against stone. It has to be wishful thinking. You’ve been dreaming of him enough that it’s worked its way into your waking hours, and soon you’ll feel the warmth of his arms around you and hear his soft voice whisper something you’re far too afraid to admit you want to hear.

But he’s here, flesh and blood, gesturing the soldiers away with a single jerk of his chin toward the door. They scramble off, desperate to be free of you. You think these two find you unsettling, disturbed by the way your sharp eyes have gone vacant and your normally proud posture has started to slump. A walking corpse.

Your cell creaks as he opens it, the sound bouncing off the walls and back to you again and again, an infinite loop reminding you exactly where you are and what’s coming. Zoro sits across from you, hair mussed and eyes tired. “You alright?”

You can’t help but chuckle. “What the hell do you think?”

He rubs his forehead, the weight of what he’s carrying dragging his shoulders forward. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

You sit in silence, waiting for the other to speak, but you’re both struck silent by the gravity of the situation. It’s coming any day now. You can feel the breath of the reaper against your neck, a constant chill running down your spine and a tension in your body as you await for his bony hand to wrap around you. Zoro’s warmth can’t drown out the feeling, even if you know he’d like to try.

“Tell me more about yourself,” he finally murmurs, his eyes boring into yours. There’s a heat there, a determination you’re used to seeing in an enemy commander.

You should answer. You should give him this, just a few small pieces of you to carry with him. But the more of you he carries, the more it will weigh him down and hold him back. The more it will make him suffer, make him mourn someone he never really knew. Every piece he has will just remind him of how much he didn’t know.

“No.”

“No?” He blinks, once, twice, surprise clear on his face.

“No. No more talking. No more pretending this isn’t happening.”

“Who says we’re pretending this isn’t happening?”

He’s a terrible liar. You can see it in his eyes, the pain and regret and longing. Or maybe he’s a fine liar, but you’re made to be his weakness, to slip through his defenses in the exact ways he wouldn’t want you to. “Zoro, this is for your own good.”

He scoffs. “My own good? Just another choice you’re making for me, huh? I want to know you. I want to spend time with you. No matter how little it is.”

He reaches out to you, but you flinch backwards, head hitting the wall. “No, you don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s going to be like to be alone. To lose someone you never really had.”

“I’m going to have to know it. There’s no way out, alright? I know that. But that doesn’t mean I can’t know you at all.”

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that he’s going to have far more time without you than he ever did with you. That he’s going to spend years remembering a few memories he managed to scrounge together, a few stolen moments in this damp and rotting cell. He needs to leave you to rot with it.

“You’ll never really know me. We don’t have time for it. This is kinder.”

“You seem very sure everything you’re doing is kind. That it’s all for my sake.” He shakes his head. “You don’t have to worry about what comes after. That’s my problem.

You can hardly hide the shake in your voice, but you don’t want to let him know he’s getting to you. You need to stay strong. "You're going to regret this. One day, years from now, you're going to see a beautiful sunrise and, for a moment, wonder what I thought of it. You're going to see a flower and wonder if I would have loved it. You're going to wake up and realize you never knew my favorite color, favorite food, favorite song. You're going to regret not knowing me, Zoro. It's going to haunt you for the rest of your life. And you're going to understand why I tried to spare you from this."

He's silent for a moment, jaw clenched. He breathes in the stale air deeply, before quietly asking, "Well, what is your favorite color?"

You laugh, a low, bitter sound. "That's not the point! There will always be something you don't know! Always something you'll regret not having said! Nothing we do now can change any of it."

He looks at you with a degree of pity you don't understand. "But I can know this. So what is it?"

You sigh. "Blue. My favorite color is blue."

He chuckles softly. "Some part of me hoped it would be green."

"Maybe it could have been," you say, before you can stop yourself. You can see it clearly in your mind; a soft, sunny morning where the rays of light catch his eyes so perfectly that you cannot help but fall in love a little bit more, enough so that you begin to see him everywhere there's even a hint of green. But the only life you have is this one, and it's ending shortly. "But that doesn't matter now."

"It still matters," he whispers, "to me. I'll remember."

Your frustration mounts again. He's promising to torture himself in your absence. That's not what you wanted. You didn't suffer countless silent nights and the arguments that followed just for him to end up suffering anyway. If he does, it was all worthless. You refuse to accept it was all for nothing. "What, so I can live on in your memory? My heart's still going to stop. I'm still going to be six feet under, if they even bother to bury me. Stop doing this, Commander." There it is, that distance you need. He'll remember you like this: cold, bitter, unworthy. He can freely bury you in his mind, let you rest the way you deserve. He'll find some unpaired soul to settle down with, one that could never compare to a martyr in his heart but that might just stand up to a pathetic shell of a soldier.

"Is that an order?"

You stare unblinking. He doesn’t flinch. In a battle of wills, you are unfortunately perfectly matched. And god, you are so, so tired of fighting.

“You’re the most frustrating man I’ve ever met,” you murmur, eyes falling closed in defeat. 

“I’ve heard that before.” You can hear the smile in his voice. You don’t let yourself open your eyes to see how handsome he looks when he’s smug. You don’t need to know. It’s better to never know at all than to see it once and know you’ll never experience it again. No matter what he thinks. If he wants to carry your body around with him, you can’t stop him. You’re finally realizing that. You’re both horribly stubborn, but he’s better equipped than you. Better fed, better rested, better everything. He knows he can outlast you. No matter how determined you are, you’re worn down beyond repair, even if you did have any way to build yourself back up. But you’re so very tired.

“What else do you want from me?” You ask softly, thoroughly defeated.

He reaches forward to take your hand in his. It’s rough, your calluses rubbing together, years of training and combat sanding away all of the softness from both of you. He stares at where your skin meets, intertwining your fingers and clinging to you as though the moment he lets go you’ll be taken from him forever.

That’s a lot closer to being true than you’d like.

He shifts closer, approaching with the same amount of caution one might use for a feral animal. Maybe a feral animal would be less dangerous to him. He squeezes your hand, warmth seeping in and banishing the ever-present chill that’s haunted you from the moment you were thrown into this cell. First his shoulder presses against yours, then his hip, then his thigh, until he’s pressed every inch of his side to yours. His body heat seeps through his uniform and your tattered clothes, and you can’t help the way your eyes flutter shut as you lean into him.

You shouldn’t do this. You shouldn’t give in. But god, it makes you feel more alive than you have in years. It makes you feel human again. So you push down the martyr in your head and allow yourself to relish in the feeling of another human being, of his hand gently cradling yours, of being cherished in what little time you have left.

“I’ll miss you,” he whispers, because he is the cruelest man you have ever known.

“I don’t want you to.”

“I know.”

His head leans against yours, and you can smell the salt of his sweat and the leather of his uniform and god that smell shouldn’t make you so weak. But it does. Everything about him rips away the things you know should be and leaves behind only the confusing what is. Reality makes no sense with him.

His voice shakes as he speaks. “Are you afraid?”

You laugh. “Of you? Yes.”

He scoffs. “You know what I meant.”

“I do.” Your answer was more honest and vulnerable than he could possibly understand.

“I wish it wasn’t like this.”

“Wishing won’t change anything,” you whisper. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

It’s the closest thing to real gratitude you’ve ever given him, and he looks at you like you’ve blessed him with his truest and greatest wish. He shifts, pulling away so he can face you, and you’re mortified by the soft whimper that leaves your mouth as his warmth gets further away. “Would you have wanted this, if things were different?”

He clasps your hands together again, fingers intertwining. His eyes are shining with emotion, pleading with you for something, anything, and unfortunately Zoro makes you more honest than you’ve ever been in your life.

“I want it now.”

He lets out a single shaking breath, and you expect him to pull away, but suddenly the world shifts.

It’s frantic, the way he pulls you toward him. Your teeth clack together, his callused fingers pressing hard enough into your arms to bruise. It doesn’t seem quite right to call it a kiss; it is far too consuming, as though he wants to steal all of you, down to the breath in your lungs, and refuse to let you go. And he doesn’t, not until you’re banging against his chest, begging for release, and gasping as he backs away from you. Your cheeks are wet from the tears that forced their way out, and you heave out the only words you can think right now. “I hate you.”

And you do right now, for being cruel enough to give you a taste of him. Weren’t the kind words and gentle touches bad enough? No, not for him. With his next words it becomes clear: Commander Zoro, your enemy, the destined love of your life, has never held any mercy for you.

“I love you, too.”

You fail.

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𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙰𝙲𝙸𝚃𝚈

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When he opened his eyes that morning, Hyunjin wondered if he was ever going to know peace again.

It had been days, but restlessness had made a home out of him. Ever since the night of his return, he had been living with this borrowed block of lead pressing on his chest, making it damn near impossible for him to breathe. He had become so irritable that the former jester of the family couldn’t take the lightest joke, spewing snide remarks left and right and making everybody walk on eggshells around him.

Who in their right mind would want a slice of that bitter pie three meals a day?

Not that he wasn’t an avid reader before, but even the aides had noticed this was excessive—Hyunjin would go into his study right after he woke up and wouldn’t come out until the sun set. Every day, when Minji went to serve his morning tea, she would see a new mountain of books on the desk, and by dinner time, it would have been reduced to an anthill already.

And Chaerin’s efforts to discreetly learn what was happening to her son were yielding no results. 

The abrupt bookwormism had come about due to Hyunjin’s desperate need to keep his mind occupied. If he didn’t deplete all his mental resources by the time he went to bed, he couldn’t sleep a wink, tossing and turning just to end up back in his study again. If he was lucky, he would doze off on the chaise with a book on his face, but the next day, he would have to pay for the shuteye the next day with severe back pain.

All this trouble because of a splinter, and it was driving him crazy.

He wouldn’t be this agitated if sleeplessness was his only problem—Minji probably knew some herbal tea recipe to remedy it, but if only she knew how to brew potions instead. Something that would let him dictate the shape his thoughts took if he so much as spaced out for a few seconds. 

Because the counterfeit courtesan was all he could think about, and it was driving him fucking crazy.

He kept reenacting that exchange in his head over and over again, each time writing even wittier lines for himself to turn the conversation in his favor, but make-believe was no substitute for the satisfaction of the real thing. She didn’t leave him be even in his sleep, that atrociously beautiful demon, scorning how vain he was, how foolish he was, how he never earned anything himself in his life. To his face.

GOD, the audacity!

“Top of the morning, brother.”

Suddenly, the drapes were opened with a sharp swish, flooding the room with blinding sunlight. 

“UGH, MINJAE!”

“I’m surprised you still haven’t left,” the older leaned against the windowsill, cheesing into his ornate blue mug.

“What are you talking about?” Hyunjin sat up in his bed, eyes shrunken into lines trying to adjust to the brightness.

“Calm yourself, grumpy. I was just referring to your grand declaration. How you would leave if your return wasn’t glorious?” He loudly slurped on his coffee as Hyunjin started clothing his half-naked body. “I heard you didn’t touch your food that night.”

WHO would have the fucking appetite after getting punched in the stomach, seriously? It was astounding enough that Minjae had any wits left for gossip when he was around Gabby, but out of everything he could have heard, did it have to be the one that involved him? Hyunjin wasn’t sure of the extent his older brother knew of his humiliation, but he wasn’t exactly prepared to defend his honor on the matter ten seconds into consciousness.

Or, you know… Ever.

“That was uh… I didn’t realize how travel-worn I was,” he lied the best his drowsiness allowed him.

“You were too travel-worn for a good time,” Minjae cocked a brow. “The rakemeister himself.”

“What do you want, Minjae?”

“Nothing,” he shrugged, annoyingly grinning. “Mother asked me to wake you up. She is expecting you in the drawing room.”

What the heck was that smirk about, though? Did that mean he knew everything? Was the exasperatingly tempting demon a friend of his? Was this whole thing concocted as a tasteless welcome prank? Was that why Jaehyun told him he wouldn’t forget that night?

Because he sure as hell didn’t!!!

“Good morning, dearest,” Chaerin welcomed her son with a big smile and patted the couch cushion next to her. “Come, sit.”

“In high spirits this early, are we?” Hyunjin held his mother’s hands and kissed them.

“I sure am. There is something I should like to talk to you about, but before that…” she nervously wiggled in her seat. “Are you quite well, dearest?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Your absence is… amply noticeable,” she carefully broached the subject, her shields fully up just in case. “I understand you enjoy your reading, but it’s as if you haven’t returned at all. Do we not make you feel welcome? Or is there another reason you are holed up in your study so much?” 

There is this make-believe courtesan that I almost fucked, Mother, wasn’t a sentence he could utter in this lifetime. Well, nothing about that night was explicable, to be frank. The excessively libertine details that led to the moment of his damnation. Why he had been haunted by a ghost for days on end. How he was going to ridiculous lengths just so he wouldn’t think about her. Because if he thought about her… 

If he thought about her, he was overcome with these intense urges to… 

He closed his eyes and took a deep, sharp breath to calm himself. 

“I–I did not mean to upset you,” Chaerin panicked. 

“You did not upset me, Mother,” Hyunjin looked at her with furrowed brows, flashing a confused smile. “Gosh, have I been that unpleasant lately?” 

The fact that she only opened and closed her mouth, unable to give him an answer, was answer enough. Why, yes, he had been unpleasant and a half, actually. No one in this house had the correct tweezers to remove splinters, yet Hyunjin was acting like it was a cardinal sin that they didn’t when nobody even had to, raining on everyone’s parade just because a few clouds were passing by his. 

Selfish would be a wild understatement of his egregious behavior as of late.

“Please forgive me,” he apologized with those big eyes his mother could never resist, gently squeezing her hands. “There is nothing to it, Mother, I promise. I just thought I could spend my time doing something valuable is all.”

Well, Chaerin knew there was something to it, but she also knew what happened every time she was relentlessly insistent. Her children were butterflies, the bunch of them. Flying far, far away the second she started chasing them, so she always had to wait for them to come perch on her shoulder instead. Even more the case with this unbelievably stubborn morpho. 

Charcoal black on the outside, iridescent blue on the inside. 

“If you say so, dearest. Onto the matter at hand, then!” she squeezed his hands back with a smile. “Listen, Hyunjin, this season—”

“I will have to stop you, Mother,” Hyunjin emphatically interjected. “You know how I feel about these things. If this is about me joining the marriage mart again—”

“I said listen,” she interjected back, tone unusually firm to convey just how serious she was. “Rina and Nari are making their society debuts this year, and it is of utmost importance that they find good matches. I should like to have you accompany me to the events we will attend to chaperone your sisters.”

“Minjae and Jaehyun are perfectly capabl—”

“They will be there, as well!” Chaerin impatiently raised her voice. “Hyunjin, please. I need all my sons with me to make a good impression.”

“You’re not seriously expecting Jinseok to—” 

“All my sons of age! Stop being a wiseacre,” she lightly slapped his hand. “Yerin and her husband have known each other since they were children; she never had to present like this. This is going to be our first official season, and I will need all of you to be on your best behavior.” 

Accompany me to chaperone was just a thinly veiled way of saying “so I know you’re not defiling someone’s daughter somewhere”, but who could blame Chaerin? The Hwang name was held in such high regard, but certain members of this family seemed to have long forgotten it, coming dangerously close to crossing the line between esteem and notoriety with their excessive pleasure-seeking. 

But Hyunjin couldn’t care less. 

He had declared long ago that he was never going to pretend to be something he wasn’t just to sire heirs like cattle. Why would he willingly imprison himself to become someone’s husband when he had no interest in building a husbandry? If anyone was genuinely interested in him and not his last name, they were always welcome for a conversation—strictly no words, tactile communication only. 

It was fine if people were talking ill of him, but it had never occurred to Hyunjin that this could come back one day to hurt the people he loved most dearly. 

“I will not jeopardize the prospects of my sisters, Mother. You have my word.” 

“Oh, you have elated me, dearest!” Chaerin hugged her morpho tightly. “You may go read now if you wish to.” 

Hyunjin left the drawing room and started climbing the stairs to do exactly that. His footmen had managed to find the goods at long last—a few first-edition novels and a rare volume of poetry he had been searching for everywhere. An eternity of waiting later, they were finally on his desk, and just the thought of getting his hands on them was making him salivate. 

Among other things…

God, to feel the firmness of that binding… The thickness of that spine. The subtlest creak when he gently opened the cover like he was undressing an untouched angel. The satisfying flutter of pages turning, delightfully crisp, giving him the kind of goosebumps only derived from caressing an untouched angel. Lips on delicate skin, good deed and sin dangerously akin, making his own ears ring while kissing an untouched angel. 

And if feeling lust for a damn book made him a deviant, then he was going to enjoy every deviant minute of it.

But twelve steps later, his parchment-scented arousal evanesced out of nowhere. 

Ugh…

Ugh, if that infuriatingly enticing demon knew, she would fuss about the footmen, too, would she not? Ugh, she would ridicule that he didn’t even walk to the bookstore himself. Ugh, she would taunt that he simply had to have the first editions. So what, huh? Was it a crime to be a collector of things?

Was it?!

All you do is reap the unearned advantages of your father’s station, no?

As if an invisible hand slapped him on the face hard enough to draw blood, Hyunjin suddenly turned around and stormed out of the house and blacked out shortly after. He had no recollection of what may have transpired between slamming the front door and the coachman declaring their arrival at his desired destination. 

Magnolia Alley.

“Always a pleasure to host a Hwang man,” Gabriella welcomed him by the front door, looking like she had recently woken up herself. “Though is it not a bit too early for debauchery, my lord?” 

“I’m not here for entertainment, Gabs. It’s information I’m looking for.” 

Having heard these exact words not too long ago, Gabriella felt a strong sense of déjà vu. She furrowed her brows in surprise, though it wasn’t likely that Hyunjin was looking for the same information as her overly enthused guest.

Unless he was severely concussed and didn’t remember that he used to practically live on Rain Street. 

“Of course. How may I be of service?” she wrapped her shawl tighter around her. 

“The night we were here, a woman came to my room. Well, before my intended appointment,” Hyunjin began describing his suspect. “She pretended to be a courtesan, but then confessed to not being one, and—”

“JESUS CHRIST, HYUNJIN, YOU HAD BETTER NOT—”

“NO! God, nothing like that. We only exchanged words,” he immediately raised the defense flag. “Tell her to come down, please. I have a few words I should like to say to her.”

That was a lie. Not only did he have no idea what he was going to say, but his unfinished plan entirely leaned on a maybe—that words were somehow going to come to him when he saw her face. 

Well… 

“I’m afraid that will not be possible as she is no longer here,” Gabriella uttered the last words Hyunjin wanted to hear. “She left just before your arrival, actually.” 

No…

He had finally found the correct tweezers, but they had chosen today of all days to vanish into the wind? Was this some sick joke designed to drive him even crazier?

WAS IT?!

“WHERE DID SHE GO?!” Hyunjin inadvertently yelled at Gabriella’s face out of acute frustration.

“Well, pardon my respect for privacy, my lord,” she emphatically spoke with a dangerous frown, warning him to put a cap on the insolence eruption. 

“I–I apologize for my unseemly behavior,” he instantly dipped his head. “I’m… quite distraught nowadays.” 

“Would you like your scotch early to take the edge off?” she offered him breakfast, not at all jesting. “You seem like you’re about to fall from it.” 

“I will hold you to it for another day,” he heaved a resigned sigh and turned around. “Oh, and Gabby.” 

“Yes?” 

“Minjae sends his regards.” 

The most exquisite woman in Magnolia Alley, if not the entire Clarendon, was uncharacteristically timid, unable to hide the smile tinting her lips pinker. Just the mere mention of the name, yet she was all but twirling her beautiful black curls cascading down to her waist.

“You deliver my regards to him, as well,” she gracefully nodded.

Hyunjin sent the carriage away and decided to walk home, hoping the crisp air would help clear the fog in his head. As he mindlessly wandered the streets, he racked his brains trying to understand just what the hell was happening to him lately.

Nothing about this made any sense.

He had always lived his life however he damn pleased unapologetically, and for good reason. Instead of fantastically performed plays, Clarendon loved watching people fall from grace, which was why this town’s gossip pots were never going to stop boiling for anyone—not if you were an exceptionally well-mannered gentleman, not if you were a notoriously depraved rake. It was actually quite comical that opium was considered illicit when Schadenfreude had a lot more people addicted to it. Nevertheless, for a rumor to have scandal quality, even the hypothetical thought had to make one feel ashamed. If you, like Hwang Hyunjin, took obnoxious pride in it instead, you were kind of being a spoilsport.

Then why did a lifetime of blissfully deaf ears suddenly decide to have absolute pitch? What was it that bothered him this much when he never paid any mind to what anybody ever said about him? Why? 

Why? 

Just WHY?!

Hyunjin was well aware that he had to put an end to this strange fixation before it started causing him some serious trouble. And he was genuinely going to.

Until he noticed the woman a few feet ahead walking towards the square.

“Hey!”

He had been seeing that figure behind his eyelids for so long that he would recognize it everywhere. Same hair. Same posture. Even the same manner of walking. Rags of a commoner yet way too much grace. Allure of a seasoned courtesan but a vexingly pure face.

Just like an untouched angel.

“Hey, wait!”

Oh, she was going to get an earful now. Oh, she was finally going to pay for dragging him through her hell. He was going to scream at her at the top of his lungs to either leave him fucking be, or beg her to come grace his bed even for one night so he could finally remove this maddening splinter once and for all.

Right…

Fucking…

NOW!

“LOOK AT ME!”

He grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her close. Such a coarse touch, yet it was enough to alert his entire body as if the gods of wrath and lust were smiting him simultaneously. He had been longing to look into those angelic eyes once again. He had been yearning to be perceived by them, no matter how much scorn, disdain, and contempt were crawling in those pristine waters. He still wanted to swim in it to his heart’s content even if the poison was going to burn him into nothing.

When he finally met the gaze that haunted his every waking minute, Hyunjin saw that they were widened in terror and immediately let go, a burning sensation rapidly spreading all over his face.

“I… I most wholeheartedly apologize, my lady,” he folded his body in half with a deep bow. “I humbly beg for your forgiveness. I mistook you for someone I know.” 

Someone I know. 

What a load of total and utter crap! 

“Oh, it’s quite all right, my lord,” the young woman smiled when she realized her aggressor was a Hwang, the one that was more princely than the prince himself, hysterically giggling as she looked back a few times while walking away.

Hyunjin had committed an act any sane person would call the constables for, but just because… he looked a certain way… 

His shoulders drooped when he heard the glass of disappointment shatter in the distance. He then heaved a deep sigh, turning around to head home. And he was genuinely going to. 

Until he noticed where he was standing. Right at the doorstep of what used to be the container of his soul.

Harlequin’s Jubilee on Rain Street.

He suddenly lost the ability to move. He had never been one to believe in signs, but Hyunjin couldn’t produce one logical explanation as to why he ended up there when he had been avoiding this place like the plague for years. Even the briefest thought of going inside, and his breathing turned erratic, drowsiness and nausea charging at him at full speed. He started sweating as if it was a scorching summer day, his ears ringing loud enough to muffle everything around him except for a horse’s heartwrenching neighs echoing through a timeless void. His vision was blurring, darkening from the outside, and if he couldn’t hold onto something right fucking now—

“My lord, are you quite well?”

“HUH?”

The three men now surrounding him flinched in fear, but Hyunjin was at least pulled back to reality. If he knew he was going to sink neck-deep into the quicksand of embarrassment today, he never would have left home in the first place.

“Y–Yes. I just… felt faint for a moment. Thank you for your concern.”

Thousands of miles traveled. Just so this would never happen again. 

And yet… 

The resignation that everything had been in vain became too heavy a burden for him to stand on his two feet. Finally accepting he had to host the fog in his head for the foreseeable future, Hyunjin got on a carriage to go home and just watched the streets with vacant eyes. Maybe it was just not the time. Or maybe this was the trial he had to endure for a lifetime. The very one that was going to either make or break him. 

Thousands of miles traveled in vain, but it at least had the saddest silver lining. At least he now knew he could endure it. Even if he broke out in a cold sweat in the middle of nowhere, even if he froze rigid in the worst slum he could possibly be in, even if worse came to worst, he at least knew he wouldn’t end up in a nameless grave in a remote corner of the world. Anyone in Clarendon would at least recognize him and send word to the Hwangs that their son was about to take his last breath. If he never left the house, he might not even have to experience the frigid terror ever again. He couldn’t stand the excess liveliness of the estate sometimes, but that was still the only thing that made him forget everything for a moment.

When he crossed the threshold of his front door, he hoped he would be welcomed by intolerable noise.  

“...and these are my oldest sons, Minjae and Jaehyun.” 

There was an unusual crowd in the mudroom. His mother, his siblings, and Minji were gathered together, welcoming someone with warm smiles. Hyunjin thought he was going properly insane because for the briefest second he thought… 

No.

He wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice within the span of a single hour. He just needed some sleep to readjust to reality, and that was it. And he was genuinely going to.

“It is my honor to work for a family as illustrious as yours, my lords.”

Until he heard the woman standing before his entire family. 

He did recognize that figure. He would recognize it everywhere. Same hair. Same posture. Even the same manner of speaking. So soft but bore blades under her tongue. So gentle but knocked the wind out of his lung. So serene like a warm summer breeze embracing him at the sunset, caressing his hair as she lulled him to sleep.

Just like an untouched angel.

“Ah, just in time! Dearest, come meet the newest addition to our aides,” Chaerin beckoned him. “This is Nari’s new lady’s maid. Came with a stellar recommendation from the Kim Estate.” 

Hyunjin was dying a thousand deaths.

He didn’t know whether to cry out of sheer rage or unmitigated glee. He had been searching all corners of the sky when all he needed to do was turn his gaze to the ground.

If he knew you were going to land right into his palm like that, he would have wished to bring his beloved grandmother back from the dead instead.

He spent all his willpower not to do anything rash and just waited for you to turn around. No coarse touch this time, but your mere presence was still enough to alert his entire body. Your jasmine scent still quickened his heartbeat dangerously. He still didn’t know what to say, but he just knew that words were going to somehow come to him when he looked into those angelic eyes once again. Just once. Then he would know.

He would know how to end his inexorable misery.

Look at me. Turn around and look at me. Perceive me. Perceive me!

All you needed to do was twist your body so he could drown in your eyes, but Hyunjin could swear it was taking hours, and he was losing patience. He was dying to see how you would react to seeing him again. Had you been thinking of him, too, by any chance? Was his mere thought vexing you enough to lose sleep, or were you dreaming of a romance? Would you say yes if he asked you for a midnight dance?

Did you touch yourself at ungodly hours of the night to the memory of him kissing your skin at all?

When your gaze finally met his, however, Hyunjin saw that your eyes were widened in terror just like the lady on Rain Street, but unlike her quick shift to shy giggles, you were screaming silent “oh no”s at him as if you had faced your death. For any other person, a long-awaited second encounter falling flat would simply be considered lackluster, suboptimal, or anticlimactic at best. 

If you were Hwang Hyunjin, this was as offensive as getting your entire lineage cussed out. 

What do you mean you’re not melting at the sight of him? Did you NOT remember anything from that night?!

Who knew? He was right. He indeed knew what to say now, but even he didn’t think it would be this…

…odious.

“A new lady’s maid, huh?” he tilted his head, voice way too condescending for no reason. “I sure hope she at least knows not to run her mouth.”

Even the unison gasp that rose from behind you wasn’t enough solidarity. Oh, you knew. You knew from the minacity dripping from his words. You knew from the animosity crawling in that blank stare. This loathsome beauty, trapped between an angelic fiend and an infernal seraph, was going to make life hell for you. Clarendon was supposed to be your safe haven, the shelter you could finally breathe easy, yet out of everywhere you could start the first day of the rest of your life, you had ended up at the one place you shouldn’t have even walked past—the den of the cavalier lust incarnate you had rattled.

And now he wanted revenge for stomping on his pride.

“Brother, that was entirely uncalled for,” Minjae quietly warned him, but his mother was not as calm.

“Collect yourself this instant,” Chaerin hissed. “I will not have you embarrass me like this.”

“I simply stated my wish that Nari should be treated with utmost respect, Mother,” Hyunjin put ample amounts of stress on the word, the curve of his lips somewhere between a leer and an evil grin. “Nowadays, even courtesans think they can say whatever they please to gentlemen way above their stations under the guise of candor. As is common knowledge, there is a line that shall never be crossed.”

“Hyunjin!”

Hyunjin. So the name of this walking brittle ego was Hyunjin. Even his name was offensively pleasant. Probably infinitely satisfying to moan. Inducing a violent urge in you to slap his ridiculously stunning face just to listen to him whine.

Ugh… Hyunjin.

“It is quite all right, my lady. Young master is indeed right,” you reciprocated with a polite smile. “Lady Kim has instilled in us that the foundation of any smooth-running estate is the mutual respect between the staff and the household.”

“Ah, is she not the wisest!” Chaerin nervously laughed to disperse the thickening air. “Minji, my dear, please show her around. Then hasten dinner preparations. We are hosting the Seos this evening.” 

“Certainly, my lady.”

As you walked past, you glared at Hyunjin still smirking at you, trying extremely hard not to roll your eyes at him. 

Ugh… Hyunjin. 

Once you managed to shake off the annoyance, Minji’s tour turned into a majestic sightseeing experience. The Hwang Estate was so large that it was like a sovereign state of its own, not to mention unbelievably beautiful. Invaluable china vases filled with fresh flowers from their massive elysian garden, precious artwork displays transforming rooms into miniature museums, enormous portraits all over the walls of Lord and Lady Hwang, of who you assumed to be all their children—four boys and three girls, all looking like personally chiseled by god herself. 

Your indoor promenade ended in the bustling kitchen, as big as the main drawing room of the Kims, if not bigger. It was like a pocket-sized factory inside. Everyone was working at a dizzyingly fast pace, but the rhythm was so memorized that everything worked like a well-oiled machine, so smooth that simply watching everything from afar was oddly satisfying. 

“All, may I have your attention please?” Minji gently tapped a knife on the edge of a silver plate and introduced you to everyone. “This is Miss Nari’s new lady’s maid. She will be helping around the estate, as well.” 

“How do you do?” you slightly dipped your head to the small crowd. 

They acknowledged your presence with friendly nods and murmured “welcome”s, carrying on with their tasks at full speed. You didn’t take any offense—it was obvious that no one had a single moment to spare from the noble duty of running this house, and soon, neither would you.

“How do you do?” a girl noticeably younger than everyone around here approached you with a big smile.

“This is Giselle. She was Miss Yerin’s lady’s maid up until the day she became Mrs. Seo Yerin,” Minji introduced the girl to you. When her eyes landed on the cook fervently chopping in a corner, she headed towards him with quick steps. “I shall ask Pascal what you can help with for tonight.”

“Lady Hwang took me in when I was only twelve,” Giselle chirped as if she was talking about a dear friend. “She is just the kindest, is she not?”

“She certainly is,” you smiled back at her, but it vanished when a certain someone popped into your mind again. “Though I cannot say the same thing about her son.”

“Which one?”

“The rude one,” you deadpanned with even deader eyes, convinced your description was enough to discern who you were referring to. “The older ones seem quite kind.” 

Giselle giggled like a virgin at the mention, touching her ear like a cute nervous tic. “The Hwang men are famously handsome, but Young Master Hyunjin is…” she looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, then leaned into you to whisper, “...a rake.”

“A what?”

“A rake,” she repeated, still giggling. “We wager on how many hearts he will break every season. His record so far is five.”

“Well, count me in for six this year, then!”

“Minji!”

When a man’s voice bounced off the kitchen walls, you and Giselle both turned your heads towards the door, and she let out a small gasp, clutching at your arm as if she was about to swoon. 

“Mr. Jaehyun, you have no business here, sir!” Minji scolded him, albeit with the warmth of a grandmother.

“Oh, come on, this is the best part of the house!” the handsome man launched his charming dimples, sure to melt even the most unthawable hearts. 

“Such tomfoolery,” she involuntarily broke into a chortle. “How may I be of service?” 

“Mother says Lady Seo is not to be served any bread tonight. It upsets her stomach.” 

Despite meeting this man just a minute ago, he somehow felt eerily familiar to you, but it made absolutely no sense. There was literally no place on the face of this earth where you would be able to cross paths with a man of his status. But that voice… 

Was this gentleman perhaps leading a double life as a chanteur at Magnolia Alley? 

“Certainly, young master. Anything else?”

“She also requests to make adjustments to the dessert. Lord Seo prefers pudding over jelly.”

Huh…

You did know this voice from somewhere, but where? You were trying not to stare as you rolled your memories as far back as a few weeks. Your last days at the Kims. The ride to Clarendon. Rain Street. You would remember seeing a face as handsome as his. Did you see him in a dream or something? No, that wasn’t it, either. It was right at the tip of your tongue, and you were pushing it as hard as you could so it would fall off.

Just where did you know this man from?!t

“And Pascal is to replace sugar with honey for Lord Seo’s servings as he enjoys it when it tastes a lot sweeter.”

Oh…

Oh, wait…

OH MY FUCKING GOD!!!

“A whore’s cunt tastes a lot sweeter. I think I prefer women over girls.” 

Your eyes suddenly widened like saucers. Didn’t a certain rake mention he and his brothers were quite the esteemed patrons at Gabriella’s? 

THIS was the Jaehyun you had heard that night!

A feeling of unease started to spread in your chest even though you had nothing to do with any of this. By any chance, did Giselle know that this man, who was a complete Prince Charming by day, was also a rake by night? 

Oh, the dilemma was nauseating. She could be your first and maybe only friend here, but she was also clearly smitten by Jaehyun. You didn’t want to hurt her, but you also didn’t want her to have any false impressions. Nor did you want your first exchanges with the estate residents to be salacious gossip about your masters. If you did tell her what you witnessed, would it be kindness or just cause unnecessary pain? 

But what if she knew everything, and it just didn’t matter to her? 

As you were in the eye of this turmoil storm, Jaehyun and Giselle shared a look, and it suddenly distorted your perception of him. The man who spewed unspeakably shameful words in bed with a woman looked like a clueless boy, little hearts bursting from his eyes as he blushed all the way to the tip of his ears. Maybe Giselle wasn’t nursing something entirely unrequited within her. Maybe this was how two people from irreconcilably different universes loved each other. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to splatter tar on her beautiful vista. It wasn’t your place anyway. 

Nothing about shattering someone’s source of happiness could be deemed “kindness.”

“Well, the Hwang men are handsome,” you quietly spoke into her ear, “but Young Master Jaehyun is the fairest of them all for you, is he not?”

“Hush, you!” she bit into her bashful smile and left to chop vegetables, looking like a cute tomato herself.

Once you received your task for the evening, you surrendered to the current of the kitchen, and you couldn’t tell how fast time passed; one minute you were whipping cream, and the next you were serving soup for a table of fifteen. When you finally saw Yerin in person, you had half a mind to tell Lady Hwang to sue whoever made her oldest daughter’s portraits because NONE of the paintings had done justice to this jaw-dropping beauty. The kindness of her heart was shining through her angelic face, just like the rest of the Hwangs.

Well, except for one.

Throughout the whole dinner, Hyunjin was staring holes into your soul, looking clearly displeased with everything. He wasn’t doing anything particularly malicious, but as the end of the dinner drew nearer, the sense of impending doom in your chest was intensifying.

Apparently for good reason.

“Who made the soup tonight?” Hyunjin asked out of the blue as you were clearing the dessert plates.

All heads around the table turned in his direction, and a dense hush instantly fell over the table. You were confused as to why you were subjected to the question when Minji was right there, but you answered nevertheless.

“It came from Minji’s capable hands, my lord.”

“And the appetizers?”

“It was Giselle’s meticulous work.”

“And the roast?”

“Pascal personally oversees all main courses.”

“And the pudding?”

“That would be me.”

“It was terribly bland,” Hyunjin threw his fork onto the silver plate, tsking in disapproval. “We shall not have such incompetence again.”

“Hyunjin!” Lord Hwang raised his voice.

“What? I am simply stating my opinion, Father,” he calmly responded. “The Seos are not only our esteemed family friends, but our honorable in-laws now, and they should not have been insulted like this, would you not agree?” 

No offense to Lord Hwang whatsoever, but this goddamn spawn of Satan was simply stating way too many things today, entirely unsolicited. It had not even been twenty four hours, yet he was already on the clock, hellbent on causing as much misery to you as possible. You could take it if he at least had the decency to do it in private, but it was a different story altogether when he decided to do it with not one, but three families present.

“It–It was quite delicious, my lord! Truly!” Lady Seo shrieked in panic.

“I have matters to tend to. I bid you all a pleasant evening,” Hyunjin stood up, leaving everyone mortified in his wake. 

The fucking NERVE of this man!!!! 

All he knew was the pleasures of the flesh and nothing else. ZERO sense of humanity. What did these ladies even see in all his impertinence? He could be the most beautiful thing to ever exist, but what did it even amount to when he had a rotting corpse for a heart?

You were internally screaming your lungs out, but stood scarily silent on the outside, holding the crystal jug in your hands so tightly that you were moments away from shattering it.

“Brother doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Rina held your hands tightly. “The dessert was absolutely delightful, I assure you!”

“I am most appreciative, my lady,” you brokenly smiled at her.

You politely nodded at everyone at the table, then left for the kitchen as calmly as you could manage, trying your hardest not to smash every single piece of china you saw on the way. When he himself had no power to exert on mere mortals like you… Just because he shared a last name with a man who worked hard for it to mean something… When the said man could not be any kinder to the people around him, regardless of their station… But his son… His goddamn monster of a son…

That fucking brat!!!

“Young Master Hyunjin wants his scotch served to his study,” Minji informed you as soon as you entered the kitchen, immediately making all your hair stand on end. “Two ice cubes, with a twist.”

“Then he shall be served promptly,” you stared at Giselle, silently begging her to please please rescue you.

“He has specifically asked for you,” Minji urged.

“Did you do something to anger him so?” Giselle quietly asked, clearly scared, though unclear if for you or of you. “Young master usually has quite the mild temperament.”

“Perhaps my existence alone is enough to antagonize him for some reason,” you held back angry tears.

You briefly considered spiking Hyunjin’s drink with laxatives to teach him a lesson, and you would do it if you didn’t need this job. You dropped the ice cubes into the glass like you would throw rocks into a lake with all your might, hoping some of your hostility would at least embitter the taste. You prepared the rest of the tray flawlessly out of spite and went up to his study, taking deep breaths back to back by his door.

“Your digestif, my lord,” you soullessly declared as you entered the room.

“You at least know how to pour a drink, I hope?” he uttered without taking his eyes off the book he was reading.

You dropped the tray on his desk with a loud thud, barely avoiding slamming it on his face.

“Did I do something to you?” you raised your voice, not caring what he might retaliate with. “Why do you relish vexing me so?!”

“I am merely reminding you of your place,” he replied, finally holding your gaze. “There are proper ways to express opinions to a gentleman, but you shall not provide them unsolicited.”

“Oh, you are one to talk!” you groaned, exasperated enough to choke him to death.

“I most certainly am,” he calmly closed his book. “I am not about to ask for permission to speak as I please in my own home.”

“Is this about that night?” you furrowed your brows deeper. “I got under your skin so bad, you are now trying to get back at me for it?”

“I shall not waste my time arguing about this with the likes of you,” he reached for his drink and took a long sip.

Likes of you, huh?

It wasn’t even a conjecture, was it? This was god’s honest truth unlike his self-proclaimed seductor charms. He really did not care for anything in this world other than himself. Paid no mind if he broke hearts. It wasn’t even a case of if—Giselle had said herself that they were wagering on how many.

“You are incapable of feeling anything, are you not?” you scoffed, no longer able to contain the quiver in your voice. “I wager you do not even know what shedding a tear feels like, you sorrow-ignorant, affection-agnostic, soulless villain of a man!!!” 

The man who was unaffected by literally any and all human emotion looked like his entire world was uprooted all of a sudden. He wouldn’t react any differently than this if you had struck him right across his face, breathing labored, nostrils flared, and knuckles turning white. His widened eyes were scarily unblinking, and all the color that had drained from his face was dripping into his eyes, painting them redder with each passing moment. Along with a coat of… 

…mist.

“Get out,” he ordered you in a barely audible voice.

But… How?

Had you gone too far with your insults in the heat of the moment? So what if you had; how come it suddenly legitimized his horrendous behavior the entire day? 

But unlike this angelic fiend, you owned a conscience, and when his lips started trembling, it felt like getting stabbed in the chest back to back to back to back.

“My lord, I’m—”

“I SAID GET OUT!!!”

You left the room as requested, letting all your tears run free as soon as you closed the door. At least you wanted to until you ran into Lady Hwang in the hallway. A part of you, the tiniest part of you wanted to ask. If you had been doing something to upset him. If you were truly incompetent tonight. What the hell her ice prince son might have been crying about.

If she knew he was capable of crying at all.

“I am so so sorry on my son’s behalf. His actions tonight were unforgivable, and he will face consequences for it,” she held your hands tightly, eyes filled with remorse to the brim even though she had no reason to feel it. “He isn’t usually like this, I assure you. He seems to be distraught by something lately, but it is no excuse to treat anyone that poorly. Please accept my sincerest apologies.”

You were shocked to the core that the lady of the house would debase herself like this for a mere aide. You weren’t used to it at all. What you were used to was the ice prince’s glacial monstrosity. 

It wasn’t even a conjecture, was it? Lady Hwang did have a kind heart. Giselle had said herself that she took her in when she was only twelve. What kind of a monster would do that? 

How come that man was the son of this woman? 

“Please do not fret, my lady. All is well,” you smiled through your tears. “If there isn’t anything else, I should like to retire for the night.”

She nodded, still silently apologizing, and let you go. You descended to the servant’s quarters in the basement, put on the darkest clothes you owned to blend into the night, and snuck out to go to Rain Street for your first lesson with Vi. You felt terrible for lying to Lady Hwang, but maybe she would understand if you explained why. Maybe she would understand that the charcoal her kind would never touch for fear of soiling their delicate hands was your one and only source of happiness in this life. 

You had high hopes that studying with Vi would help ease your heart a little bit; you had been looking forward to tonight for the longest time after all. Nevertheless, even though you did feel happy, something wouldn’t stop sizzling in your chest like a piece of ember that refused to die out, making you writhe in guilt. You did follow Vi’s instructions to a T, but you kept thinking about Hyunjin. You kept thinking about the deepest browns you had ever seen turning hazel when clouds passed by them. His tears didn’t fall; they crashed around you like thousands of crystal balls. Sure, you hadn’t done anything to deserve such abhorrent treatment, but did you have to stoop to his level? Did you have to demand two sorrow-stricken brown eyes for the price of one? 

Why were you even surprised to notice you had been sketching his painfully beautiful face as if to confess to your sins?

“May I see the results?” Vi asked at long last.

You immediately covered the parchment you were working on and handed her the assignments she had given you. She seemed quite pleased with the results, but you couldn’t even enjoy it. Now you were mad at yourself for two reasons—you were the one that begged to be here, but you couldn’t even focus on a word she was saying, all going in one ear and going out the other. The last thing you remembered from the night was promising to come back on your agreed-upon date, this time to hold your end of the bargain. 

You couldn’t stop thinking about Hyunjin as you left Harlequin’s Jubilee. You couldn’t stop thinking about him the whole way home. 

You were still thinking about him when you crashed into him as you were trying to sneak back in, scattering the contents of your binder all over the spotless marble floor. 

As soon as you saw his face, all the ugly feelings came rushing back, but it was now just a plate of cooled-down bitterness instead of boiling hot acrimony. You acted like he wasn’t even there as you were gathering pieces of paper and sticks of charcoal. Maybe you shouldn’t have. 

Then you would have noticed he had stepped on a piece of parchment the size of a hand, discreetly dragging it towards himself. Right after, he crouched with you as if nothing happened and started helping you collect your things.

“Do not bother yourself with it for the likes of me,” you quietly spoke without looking at him. “I can pick it up on my own.”

“Where are you coming from?” he asked in his blizzard voice.

“Nowhere that concerns you, my lord,” you answered equally frigidly. 

“It’s midnight,” he declared the obvious. “If you are coming into my house at this hour, it very well concerns me. There are modest ladies living under this roof.”

You heaved a deep sigh as you rose to your feet, already too tired to play his tiresome games. Not today. Maybe tomorrow, if you could restore enough energy in your sleep. If you couldn’t, not ever. There was no rule carved in a stone mandating you to converse with your masters beyond a simple yes and no.

But there wasn’t anything forbidding you from taking one last jab at him, either. 

“First of all, I am coming into your honorable father’s house, but you can rest easy. It was nowhere near Magnolia Alley where you would return from at this hour,” you spat in a single breath, snatching the papers in his hand. “I shall bid you good night.”

As soon as you turned around, he lifted his foot and picked up the piece of parchment he had hidden underneath. All his features immediately softened when he saw a scarily accurate charcoal depiction of himself, all the way to the dimple that only appeared when he frowned.

As Hyunjin watched you descend the stairs to the servant’s quarters, something he had buried sixteen feet under his soul tried to take flight again.

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𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄: 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐎𝐍 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄

You can tempt fate, but you cannot beat it. Whatever is set in stone, you have to fulfill it. You can repent, but it means nothing. The debt of anguish must still be paid. You can tempt fate, but you can’t defeat it. Whatever is set in stone, you have to fulfill it. The same torment rewinds to punish a stray vow. Unless you can turn the stone into ashes somehow... Ice stuns fire. Fire swallows ice. Frost soothes pyre. Blaze lulls rime. And higher above desire Lays our paradise. Everywhere your light touches is home to me.

𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐀 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. 

He walks into his cavernous living room barefoot, stepping on the pages of sheet music scattered all over the floor. The name of the room is just a figure of speech; even though some decorator has put serious effort into this cathedralesque space, it has not been lived in.

His castle of darkness is not meant for entertaining guests.

The misty night framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows doesn’t let much streetlight in, but he has no desire to illuminate his den anyway. He sits on the piano bench, puts one arm over the open fallboard, and rests his forehead on it. His slender fingers make love to the keys, delicately playing a glum tune that has been living in his head for as long as he can remember. It’s reminiscent of Moonlight Sonata but with no moonlight in it.

The soft keystrokes wake up the miniature phoenix sleeping by the fireplace. She flies across the room and perches on his shoulder, gently rubbing her head on his stone-cold cheek. The longer he plays, the more perfectly symmetrical snow crystals form on the keys with cracking sounds. It’s always fernlike stellar dendrites, and each needle pierces his heart, spilling his longing for something obscure all over his insides. 

He relishes that pain. He thrives on it.

It makes him feel alive. 

He doesn’t feel much, nor does he want to. That detachment is the finger that pulls the trigger with no hesitation. It’s the thumb that wipes the blood splatter on his face. It’s what makes him walk away from dead bodies with outrageous nonchalance as if all he did was break a glass. He has committed lifetimes’ worth of sins to be found guilty, but he feels no guilt whatsoever.

He lives to be feared above all else. It’s the only thing that satiates his appetite for destruction.

“The car is ready, sir.”

He turns to the man backlit by the entryway lights and nods, then pets the phoenix’s head to say goodbye. The fiery bird is the only thing that makes him feel… something. He puts on his combat boots, grabs his leather jacket resting on the Chesterfield sofa, and heads out.

The ride to his destination is silent spare some jazzy instrumental playing in a tolerable volume. He watches the neon lights pass by from his tinted window, a murder of crows flying circles in his head. Every minute he’s awake, he’s playing chess with invisible opponents, and he has to calculate all the way to the endgame, not just two moves ahead like a fucking amateur. 

He’s had enough of busybodies, especially an exceptionally nosy law enforcer constantly trying to get all up in his business. She just doesn’t know when to give up. She thinks she’s all that, but he thinks he’s all this. Sure, he can make her think she’s onto him, that she can throw him behind bars any day now. He has some needs, too, you know. Even a man who spits on the world he owns needs to be entertained sometimes.

Everything bores him to tears.

She is not your ordinary agent, he knows that. She is all that. Criminally beautiful even though she runs something called Criminal Resonance Intervention Team. Quite intelligent; it hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park to dodge her. A fellow Sigma gene holder, but most likely clueless about the actual extent of her power. There is no way the people she blindly pledged her stupid allegiance to told her the truth. It’s not like she can find out she is an Outlier on her own anyway.

But he knows. He knows everything. 

That’s why he wants her.

He finds it cute that her core is fire when his is ice. It’s like the universe wants them to slash each other’s throats while doing a bad impression of star-crossed lovers. 

He doesn’t believe in hogwash like destiny. 

When the car comes to a stop, he loads his gun for good measure and gets out. Life’s volume is so mute in this part of town that his steps on wet concrete sound louder than bombs going off. Next to the rusty door of what looks like an abandoned hangar is a brick column. He slides the third brick from the bottom and a holographic retina scanner appears before him. The authenticator decides he is not a stranger whose eyes should be pierced with neurotoxin needles and authorizes his entry. There is only darkness inside. He walks down the stairs towards the only light at the bottom of the chasmal space and meets three men in surgical attire working under sickly fluorescent lights. 

“It’s ready, Boss,” one of them greets him with childlike enthusiasm.

There is a reason why one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. He collects suspended doctors like a dragon hoards gold. He looks at the corpse on the table bearing his identical features all the way to the freckles on his body.

“Nice work. I should give you all a raise,” he smirks in contentment. “When you wrap up here, serve it to our friends from the press at our agreed-upon time.”

As he climbs the stairs to the ground floor, he issues three payment orders of a million each. His chauffeur is waiting outside holding a bottle of hand sanitizer for him. He dispenses two pumps and coats his ruthless hands with invisible gloves, then gets into the car.

“Did you feed the bird?”

“Yes, sir. Everything is in place,” the man in the crisp suit confirms and starts the obscenely expensive car. “She thinks she is meeting Callum in person.”

He flashes a sensuously devilish smile as his contentment doubles. 

They head to a vantage point that reveals what a beautiful slut Verona City is. He gets turned on while gazing at her sometimes. If he could fuck her, he most certainly would. Maybe even take her as his mistress. He finishes two glasses of scotch while he patiently waits. When the alarm on his phone goes off at exactly 2:23 a.m., he takes out something that looks like a car remote from his pocket. The small device has a minuscule orb that contains glowing blue plasma and a whimsical button under it that says ‘Bye Bye’.

“I haven’t said happy birthday to you yet, have I?” he speaks to the man in the driver’s seat, the apology in his voice a genuine knockoff. “Make a wish.”

He rolls down the car window, sticks his hand out, and presses the button. One of the warehouses on the West Side turns to dust with a deafening roar. He watches the explosion in the distance like he’s watching fireworks, not as cheap but certainly tenfold more entertaining.

Even a man who is sick in the head needs to be entertained sometimes. 

“Let’s head home,” he closes the window and looks at his chauffeur in the rearview mirror. “I’m fucking starving.”

The car starts again, and they take the scenic route back to the base. He makes a quick stop on the way to pick up cassia seeds for Ember. As soon as he makes it home, the bird smells her favorite treats all the way from the fireplace and flies like a bullet to greet him by the door. 

Instead of his dinner table, however, he heads to his piano, sits on the bench, puts one arm over the open fallboard, and rests his forehead on it. His slender fingers make love to the keys, delicately playing a glum tune that has been living in his head for as long as he can remember.

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

He has never once claimed he was sane.

𝐒𝐊𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐀

Third night in a row… 

It’s the middle of a very harsh winter, but it feels like someone is pouring molten lava all over you. These hot flashes you’re getting every month only seem to deteriorate. You can’t breathe. You can’t sleep. Every healer that steps foot into the palace claims they have the remedy, but nothing works. You are so restless, you are about to claw yourself out of your skin.

You have heard the rumors like everyone else, of course, but your father deems it a fool’s tale. There is no such thing as healing springs. You are not to leave the grounds under any circumstances, especially when you do not have any control over your blaze. You are strictly ordered to just rest and wait for this desert storm to pass. Sleep on it. Take baths maybe.

You are about to die laughing.

How about you bring spices with you instead of lavender petals while you are at it? It would certainly do a much better job of bringing out the flavor of the stew you will turn into, since the water starts boiling the second you dip your toes in.

You’ve had enough.

You wait until midnight to make sure the meddlers are asleep. Once the murmur in the marble hallways comes to a standstill, you gently wake up the phoenix sleeping with her head under her wing by your bed.

“We have to be really quiet, Cyra,” you offer her a veiled apology. “We won’t be long, I promise.”

The fiery bird rubs her head on your cheek, then flies to the balcony by your side. She perches on your back and sinks her claws into your cloak, swiftly taking you away to Skotia Woods. The darkness of midnight safely shrouds you, and the cold wind blowing at such heights is already so soothing that you can only imagine the relief you will finally get when you arrive at your destination. Your heart races in your chest as if you are running to a lover you have been longing for all your life.

Cyra makes her descent into the heart of the dense forest and lets go of you a few feet away from the lake, perching on a rock nearby to keep watch. As soon as your bare feet touch the pure white snow, you can feel your soul healing. You slowly walk towards the frozen body of water, your eyes closed, relishing the comfort of the rime melting under your steps. 

Once you make it to the edge of the lake, you strip. It’s perfectly dark everywhere else, but the moonlight shines bright, ricocheting off the solid white surface to place heart-fluttering kisses all over your naked body. The ice begins to crack with each step you take. Steam starts to rise as you move further into the water. When you reach a point that’s deep enough, you submerge yourself fully, entrusting your misery to the cold, hoping it keeps it and never ever gives it back to you. It’s blurry when you open your eyes underwater. There is nothing much to see anyway. Darkness reigns supreme here, too, but you can still make out the whites of the ice further ahead. 

You resurface and comb your hair back with your fingers. The harsh wind howls in the distance. It must be below zero; you can see your breath in the air, but it feels like a balmy spring day to you. You smile in delight when you look around. The path you have paved under the water is perfectly visible on the surface, drawing a nonsensical abstract shape. You start laughing. You are genuinely laughing for the first time in a very long time with the joy of a child making snow angels on the ground. You swim some more, paying no regard to the time, bathing yourself in the moonlight as much as the healing waters of the small hot spring you have unintentionally carved in the ice.

When you are sufficiently rejuvenated, you walk out of the water. Ghosting your palms on your body, you dry yourself and put your clothes back on.

“You really shouldn’t venture so recklessly.”

The low voice manifesting out of thin air gives you a terrible start, and your heart sinks with sheer terror. Cyra shrieks and flies towards you, opening her gigantic wings to the sides to shield you. You are more scared that something will happen to her. If the approaching shadow is what you think it is, there is no way she can survive a strike.

“Down, Cyra,” you whisper your command to the bird. “Do not move.” 

A pair of Alexandrite eyes glows in the dark like a kaleidoscope, part blue, part violet, part aqua in hue. You try to keep a composed façade, but your heaving chest betrays how unnerved you are. No rumors. No legends. Most certainly not a fool’s tale.

The Ice Lycan is as real as the healing springs and is now prowling towards you.

“Stay back, beast!” you muster all your courage to come off as intimidating as you can. “Show some respect for your princess!” 

“Tsk, but where are your manners?” he taunts, words falling off his lips like rolls of velvet.

The closer he approaches, the more prominent his figure becomes. He stands tall like he has unyielding pride for a spine. His arms are burly like he has built this very forest with his bare hands. He quietly growls like he is sick and tired of being starved. 

The shadow steps into the moonlight and transforms into flesh and blood. Your heart falls out of your chest.

You have never beheld such beauty in your life.

It’s the kind of beauty that hides inside the most weathered boulders. Coarse at first. Badly beaten. Most will take one look and then walk away because it’s just a stone. It’s nothing special. It’s everywhere. But if you can be patient enough, if you are adamant to crack that rock…

The Alexandrites it carries in its bosom will mesmerize the life out of you.

“You are on my land, and you expect me to bow down to you?” he leans into your face threateningly.

“Your land?” you scoff, in disbelief at the audacity. “Everywhere is my land!”

“Why, please grace me with the tales of your triumphs to conquer this land, princess. How much blood did you spill? How many tears did you shed?” he places his hand on your face, descending to your chin beguilingly softly, then harshly lifting it to force you to look into his eyes. “Did you at least break some sweat?”

You are stunned, frozen in your place, but it has nothing to do with his subzero touch. You get lost in those eyes. The fractals dancing in them hypnotize you. You can see every detail quite clearly from such proximity. The subtle cracks on his skin, the stray snowflakes clinging to him…

Your vision starts to blur for some reason.

He feels confused; you are supposed to be petrified, not look at him like he is the only thing you have ever wanted from this life. You are even more confused; his frigid existence not only brings your heat back but also makes it ten times worse. You don’t even realize how heavy your breathing becomes when your gaze lands on his lips, tempting you like all seven sins morphed into one. You want him. You want him.

You want him.

Your world is shaken to its core when you hold his face and close the distance between you completely. The glacial sensation engorges the quiet fire burning within you like a rising tide, but somehow pacifies it at the same time. The thin layer of ice coating his skin starts to crack at the corners of his lips. Your fingertips go numb and begin to stiffen, slowly taking on a light blue tint. 

You feel a thump in your chest, but it’s by no means metaphorical. 

He pushes you away and presses his fingers on his lips, eyes widened in shock. His bare torso looks like it’s suddenly drenched in sweat, little drops freezing as they trickle down his magnificent body. He waves his hand in the air in panic, palm facing the ground, and the sword-like icicles manifesting from the hasty line he draws between you all point at you threateningly.

“Take your songbird with you and do not come back here!” he roars and disappears into the darkness.

Your heart should break, but instead, it sings. A smile creeps up your lips. You have always been told these lunar beasts are as vicious as they come, but you aren’t as sure anymore.

You have never seen something as endearing as a flustered Lycan before.

𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐀 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘

“Good morning! Today’s date is September 25, Friday, 2054, and it’s -2 degrees Celsius outside. Your outfit recommendations are ready in your closet if you wish to go out today. Your breakfast is—”

“Geez, Xandra, you’re worse than the Chief!” you groan at the voice of the faceless digital assistant, salty as fuck for waking you up from a bombastic dream. 

As soon as the word ‘breakfast’ is pronounced, a white cloud bolts into your bedroom as the final destination of his parkour route, jumps on your bed, and licks all over your face.

“Yes, okay, breakfast time, Samoyay!” you break into a giggle fit. “Good morning to you, too, baby boy.” 

While baby boy describes his mannerisms perfectly, it paints a very misleading picture of the gigantic Samoyed that smiles all the time like he’s constantly excited about something. As you refill his bowl in the kitchen, your phone rings, a remarkably odd occurrence for 6:30 a.m in the morning.

“Did you see me in your dream last night?” you answer Minho’s call.

“Get your ass in here,” he urgently cuts to the chase in a dismal voice. “Now.”

At the bureau, the entire CRIT crew has its eyes on the big screens decorating the walls of the watchfloor. The breaking news is about an explosion that has taken place on the West Side, citing multiple casualties. The arson is suspected to target Duskfall’s notorious leader Zephyr, real name unknown, who has been pronounced dead on the scene.

“We are two seconds away from storming that base and it’s razed to the ground with him in it?” you loudly scoff. “Not buying it.”

“Congratulations on unlocking a brand-new paranoia achievement, Captain,” Minho retorts.

“How did they even identify the body?” you point at the screen like you want to pick a fight with it. “We have jillion different visuals all claiming it’s him, plus all the verbal accounts we’ve collected to date vastly differ from one another.”

“The coroner’s team ran the DNA samples from the scene and got a hit in the evidence database,” he explains. “They confirmed the death.”

“For all I know, the coroner works for him. I expect everything from that motherfucker,” you cross your arms over your chest. 

“Put the tinfoil hat away. You need to accept that our prime suspect is gone,” he implores you to see a microscopic amount of reason. “It’s over.”

“It’s over when I say it’s over, Minho.”

“I don’t think it works that way, Agent.” 

The Chief’s voice echoes behind you, stern but somewhat resigned. When all else fails, you always look to him to reassure yourself that it’s only turbulence, but when even a seasoned commander like him looks that defeated, it’s about 97% confirmed that the plane is going to crash.

“Patrol fleets did a pulse check. All his known affiliates went into hiding,” he debriefs the team. “Until there is at least Level 2 activity resurfacing on our radar, this case is now classified as cold. Effective immediately.”

“But sir—!”

“Let it go, Agent. It’s time to move on to other things that can actually yield results. We wasted enough time,” he gently taps your shoulder. “Dismissed.”

You don’t want to accept it. It can’t end like this!

Your every waking minute has been dedicated to this energy smuggling case for god knows how long now. With every extraction operation you have busted, with every base you have raided, you have been closing in on your faceless target inch by inch. Indeed, the distance between two things will never close if one of them jumps two steps further every time the other comes only one step closer, but for you, that’s never been a reason to just give up. Because giving up means you are turning Verona City into an all-you-can-eat buffet for Duskfall. Giving up means no Sigma gene holder is safe from being randomly kidnapped on the way to work one day. Giving up means even stronger weapons of mass destruction will be built harvesting their core energy.

Countless hours, terabytes of data, hundreds of victims, comrades dead along the way…

It cannot be wiped out with a half-assed ‘Because I said so.’

Once the crowd starts dispersing, you get closer to Minho and nudge him to walk towards the break room.

“I’m still going tonight,” you whisper to him after making sure no one is in the vicinity to eavesdrop. “My guy is meeting me there.”

“Captain…”

“I just know it in my gut that Zephyr is still alive, Minho,” you start arguing your case. “Callum says I will definitely find what I’m looking for at this event, and he knows who I’ve been fucking bloodlusting after.”

“You keep calling him he for convenience’s sake, but you don’t even know who this silent informant is,” he begins his own opening remarks. “How do you even know this is legit?”

“Because every piece of intel he has ever provided us checked out,” you answer feverishly. “Did you forget we cleaned up most of the West Side thanks to him?”

“Yes, but that was then. The winds have shifted since,” Minho assumes his role of logic’s advocate as usual. “If Chief hears you’re disobeying a direct order, you will get suspended!”

“Which is why he won’t,” you emphasize, eyes threateningly widened like saucers. “I’d much rather ask for forgiveness than permission, and I’m just letting my partner know on the off chance that something happens.”

“At least let me come with you.”

“No, that will draw unnecessary attention. I only have one ticket anyway,” you firmly refuse. “Are you still my ride or die?” 

He’s exasperated. There is no point in trying to talk you out of it since it’s nothing but a futile attempt with your stubbornness. 

“If it looks like things are gonna go south, do not do anything dumb,” he urges you, more like a brother than a subordinate. You squeeze his shoulders with a triumphant smile on your face.

Yes, it’s a risk. It’s a stupidly big risk, but you’re willing to take it.

Because you have nothing to lose anymore.

𝐒𝐊𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐀

Oh, it’s a miracle. 

The news of the princess waking up with no embers on her skin reaches His Majesty first thing in the morning, and the latest healer that just happened to be in the palace receives his weight in gold as a reward. You have no intention of telling your father that he is being scammed because you cannot risk divulging that you are indeed frequenting a certain spring mentioned in some fool’s tale.

You have been visiting the woods every night to bathe, but it’s not just to soothe your blaze. A small, unwavering hope in your heart longs to see the Alexandrite eyes again. You want to feel his frost on your skin again. You want to tell him if he feels lonely all by himself among the evergreen trees, you can keep him company. But he never shows up. 

Your hope is dying like a candle in the snow. 

As you prepare to leave on the fifth night, a deep howl reverberates throughout Skotia Woods. It’s not a bone-chilling omen of danger; it wrenches your heart the way it sounds like a lament over something that will never come back. It’s dead silent except for the echoes still resonating within you, and you are trying to figure out which direction is home to that sound.

Before you can take three steps, a leviathanic cotton ball appears through the trees. It has to be a cotton ball; you have never seen a wolf this big and white as snow. It looks more like an oversized dog. Cyra flies towards it in alarm, but her shrieks are quick to subside when she hears whimpering. She lands and hops alongside the beautiful beast as it limps closer and stops at your feet to smell you. Cyra sadly chirps, showing you the red stains on the dog’s back legs.

“Oh, you poor thing, what happened to you?” you kneel, eyes filled with worry. “It’s alright. It won’t hurt in a bit, okay?”

You sit in the snow and tenderly embrace the gentle giant in your lap. It looks twice your size when you are at eye level. You close your eyes. A warm breeze blows from your palm as you ghost your hand over the bleeding wound, and vibrant pink strings of light swirl around the leg. Moments later, the whimpering stops, and you are attacked with affectionate licks all over your face. 

“What did I tell you last time? Are you trying to fall prey?!”

Your giggle fit instantly stops like a sword has fallen on it, but your heart chirps as loudly as Cyra does at sunsets. The Alexandrite eyes are looking at you again. Then they look at the dog. Then its legs.

They take a full aqua hue when they land on the blood stains.

“What did you do to him?” he lunges at you, coarse hand holding your throat in a tight grip. “What did you DO?!”

“I–I didn’t do anything, I swear! He was hurt! I w–wanted to soothe the pain!” 

The cotton ball acts faster than Cyra and bites the Lycan’s ankle to throw him off, then gets in front of you and aggressively growls at him. Your cough softens as you rub your throat. His heavy breathing calms down. As he caresses the dog’s thick fur, an icy blue light appears, covering it in a coat of ice so thin that it’s invisible if the moonlight doesn’t directly reflect on it. 

He suddenly gets up and leaves with rushed steps. The cotton ball takes one look at you, then follows suit. You hurriedly get on your feet and start tailing them.

“What is your name?” you ask as you try to catch up to him.

“Stop following me.”

“I just want to know your name.”

“Do you intend to call out to me at nightfall?” he derisively spits. “I do not grant death wishes. Leave.”

“Why do you have to be so rude?!”

“A myriad of apologies. Did my beastly ways upset the princess?”

“Why are you staying away from me?” your voice rises. “I’m harmless. I won’t hurt you.”

“But I will hurt you.”

“Just… LOOK AT ME!!!”

He turns around so fast you almost bump into him. His chest is heaving, nostrils flared, jaw clenched tight like he’s forcing restraint. It doesn’t scare you. His eyes still glow aqua, but not as brightly anymore. You approach closer. Slowly. Throwing caution to the wind. You don’t know why you naively think he’s not going to do anything to you. Maybe he will, and you will die in this forest tonight, and no one will ever find your body. But you don’t care.

You just don’t care.

You reach for his face and put your hand on his cheek again. It feels like the finest porcelain under your touch. You are terrified you will somehow damage it.

“How are you this beautiful?” you admire him, hypnotized by his sheer existence. “I just want to gaze at you for hours.”

The softening of his features is imperceptible to the naked eye. As your hand descends from his cheek to his neck, his heart races just like the way it does when he’s running wild in this forest, but this feeling is brand new. He doesn’t like it. He feels tickled inside. His spine starts to sweat.

You are quite literally melting him. 

“Kritzephyr.”

You don’t understand what he’s trying to say. Your eyes narrow when this seemingly unknown tongue caresses your ears. 

“My name,” he averts his gaze from you, brows still creased. “It’s Kritzephyr.”

“Kriz…tophr?” you tilt your head trying to pronounce the strange word.

Your failed attempt at replication amuses him. The crack in his stoic façade is so subtle that you will miss it if you don’t own a magnifying glass.

“Sure,” he suppresses the chuckle growing in his throat. 

“Can we sit here together?” you point at the lake to your right.

He nods as he stares at his feet. The cotton ball chases Cyra like she’s a butterfly, and she taunts him by floating over his head. You both sit on a rock, just watching them in silence. This is the first time you witness his smile, and it’s nothing less than glorious. Your heart beats harder when you notice he has dimples embellishing the curls of his lips. He doesn’t look at you, but he can tell you are looking at him. His pinky moves just enough to touch yours. You intertwine your finger with his like you’re making a promise.

Behind the trees, a pair of poison ivy irises gleam as they watch the two silhouettes sitting side by side. The more she wants to throw up jealousy, the brighter they glow with homicidal rage.

𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐀 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘

“Altipotens.”

If Chief were to see you in your disguise, he would probably bid you a fun evening rather than confiscating your gun on the spot since it looks like you’re about to attend some nepo baby’s ostentatious wedding. The hosts have packaged the event as a fundraiser, but their choice of venue is remarkably bizarre for something that’s supposed to be for public benefit. There are no lights oozing out of the derelict building you are standing in front of to indicate any sort of human activity inside.

Worst case scenario, you will commit your first arson in self-defense and flee the scene.

The Judas window on the iron door slides close when you utter your bespoke code, and the door opens. You are greeted by five people in security uniforms and Venetian masks covering their entire faces, a perfect addition to the already strong off-the-wall vibe, and they scan you for any devices or weapons you may possess as you are strictly not allowed to carry any on you. One of them gives the green light, and the door to the right of the dark space unlocks on its own. Jazz progressions immediately flow into the darkness you are standing in and hold your hand to come play.

Your itinerary is pretty much by the book so far. Wear an ice blue dress: check. Find the correct location: check. Go through security detail: check. Don’t die in the meantime: in progress.

You approach the bar and sit on the only stool available, squeezing yourself between two sharply dressed people. Now all you have to do is wait for Callum to spot you.

“Anything to drink, miss?”

“Any sauvignon you have is fine. Thank you.”

As you look around the room, impatiently tapping your fingers on the counter, a shadow is cast on the dapper bartender’s features. He subtly presses a button before him, then reaches for a wine glass.

“She meant guacamole,” the stoic voice of the man sitting to your left corrects. “Excuse the improper fundraiser decorum. She is a virgin.”

The bartender dips his head in acknowledgment, but his eyes cling to suspicion as he leaves. You don’t know if it’s to prepare this strange order or not. Your head turns towards your savior. He has an almost-finished glass of scotch before him.

“If you think a bartender wants to take your drink order in a place like this, you’re asking to get killed,” he softly whispers, then finally turns to his right to meet your gaze.

The second you lock eyes with the pair of Alexandrites behind the Phantomesque mask covering half his face, a strange feeling sets in. You would remember if you knew anyone with such distinct gemstones for irises, yet it’s so strangely familiar that it’s driving you crazy you can’t place where you know him from. He reaches for your face and leans into your ear, warm breath starting an ice cold blizzard on your skin.

“Don’t say anything stupid and follow my lead,” he whispers with a gentle kiss on your earlobe.

“First time someone is with you, sir,” a man in a crisp suit greets with a synthetically polite smile.

“That would be because I’m not usually the biggest fan of human interaction,” your barmate responds with a languid turn of his stool. “She is obviously my guest.”

“May I see her insignia?”

He breaks into a smile. It’s a smile of tranquil lunacy. It’s the kind of smile that signals a rapidly depleting supply of patience, and there is no telling what may happen if it’s completely bankrupt.

“I will pretend I didn’t just hear this for your sake,” the nameless Phantom pulls you close from your waist with aqua hellfire blazing in his eyes. “Certain parts of my lady’s body are for my eyes only, and I will be required to gouge yours if you perceive her.”

The suit man swallows. He pretends he has asserted sufficient authority to follow code.

“My most profound apologies,” he nods in remorse wrapped in equal parts respect and terror, then leaves.

When the suit man walks out of your field of vision, the relief spreads in your veins so fast that it gives you a headrush. Your shoulders droop as you catch your breath.

“I… really appreciate it,” you offer your gratitude.

“You’re welcome, but I can’t say I reciprocate the sentiment. I’m a little sick and tired of constantly moving because of you.” He waits for a couple of seconds before he lowers his voice to a seductively discreet volume. “Agent.”

His endlessly entertained smile feels like the most derogatory insult that can touch any pair of lips. It jumpstarts your synapses. Your breath stutters in your throat, and something hot starts spreading in your chest.

The legend of the underworld stands right before you.

“It’s you.” You work up the courage to utter the name you have only heard in hushed whispers. “You are Zephyr, aren’t you?”

“Extreme pleasure to meet you in person,” he inserts a chivalrous filter in his voice, still acting like the intents and purposes of the night are entertainment-related. “I don’t mean to be crass, but you are so much more pleasant to look at up close.”

“I fucking knew it!”

Your impulses take full control of you, and tremendously miscalculating what would be the correct time and place to blast a scorchstorm on your mortal enemy’s face, you raise your hand. At least you want to. All he does is move his gaze from your lips to your hand, and in the zeptoseconds that lapsed between the two destinations, you lose the ability to move. He stares at your hand like he is no longer amused. He stares like he is disappointed. Like he is offended.

He stares like he is bored.

“Don’t make a scene. You will be dead before you can say freeze,” he turns to his drink again and conjures ice cubes in his glass with a circle he draws in the air. He chortles to himself when he realizes the unintended pun he made. “The irony would be almost as cute as you, though.”

“Unfreeze my hands, fucking monster,” you quietly spit through your clenched teeth.

“Some jobs make you a monster, some jobs you have to be a monster to do,” he takes a lackadaisical sip and relishes the chilly bitterness on his tongue before it burns his throat. “Whichever you think I am is wrong, by the way.”

He twists his stool in your direction, and one look at your hands melts your invisible shackles. You can move your hands again, but barely; it feels too hot and too cold at the same time like a frostbite. Like you’ve been standing in a snowstorm for hours.

“Let’s skip the foreplay. I’m getting turned on,” he heaves an impatient sigh. “I will give you something way bigger so you’ll get off my dick.”

“There’s nothing bigger than you!”

“Why, thank you for noticing,” he grins, all but humble. “Feel free to ride me to death, but I meant metaphorically.” 

You’re caught so off guard, your mind goes fully blank. He takes the opportunity to segue into more serious matters.

“Dynamo Inc. in exchange for an already dead man,” he rips off his seductor dimples as he makes his offer. “I’ll tell you what they’re bidding on tonight and what they intend to do with it over the next five years.”

If you could find your voice, you would yell a deafening “WHAT?!” like you do when you are astounded at the choices made by the characters of your favorite shows. You can’t believe their affiliates are roaming this shady as hell place right this moment. 

Dubbed ‘pioneers of human life betterment’ with those Xandra assistants they invented, Dynamo has created a ‘respectable’ front for themselves as energy tech giants, and that tremendous success came with an absolute market monopoly they can abuse. Even though there is still no conclusive evidence on it, it’s a known fact that their corruption goes deeper than the sewers of Verona City, and the talk behind closed doors has it that Duskfall is just a measly subcontractor serving the gargantuan scope of Dynamo’s activities.

No matter how much you suck at mental math, this probability problem holds grave importance, and you have to solve it fast. 

Hard fact: He is not actually giving you Dynamo—just the information that can tank one of their hundreds of possible operations, which apparently has a five-year plan.

Harder fact: There isn’t a single person that embodies Dynamo as a whole, which means they can always grow back an arm that’s cut off. The absence of the man that finishes the job, on the other hand, will inevitably expose a lot of operational vulnerabilities until they can replace him.

The hardest fact: Zephyr is a solid yes whereas Dynamo is a doubtful maybe. He is standing right in front of you right now.

Ergo, close but no cigar.

“No,” you firmly reject. “I want you.”

“Baby, believe me I want you, too, but there are too many people here,” he licks his lips as he drags one finger from your shoulder down your bare arm. His soft voice suddenly turns ruthlessly stern, painting a clearer picture of the actual status of his mental stability. “You should think of this as payback for the informant services you’ve been using for free for so long.”

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

FUCK! 

You should have known better. You shouldn’t have naively believed in the vigilante spirit of the civilians wanting to fight for their city. You should have known that you were being played for a majestic fool.

“You’re Callum?!”

“In the flesh,” he triumphantly smiles, knowing full well he just checked the mate, and tucks your hair behind your ear. “If word got out who your source was all along, one might think… I don’t know, you are colluding or something. We wouldn’t want the honorable captain of CRIT to get a corrupt rep now, would we?”

“We didn’t ask you to provide intel for us.”

“But you also never bothered to ask for the price. You’ve racked up quite the debt, beautiful.”

He gets off his stool and stands tall before you, wrapping one hand around your waist like a snake as he lifts your chin with the other. He gazes at your beauty with eyes glowing a ferocious violet, utterly mesmerized. You should feel angrier than whatever it is you are feeling right now. He looks at you like he wants you both to get the fuck outta there and have your naked showdown in an obscenely expensive bedroom somewhere, ravishing each other all night long.

And a granular piece of you wants to let him.

“You really should pay attention to who you’re getting in bed with before you get your cunt licked. I’ll gladly do it either way, but it’s you who will black out when you can’t take it anymore,” he throws your biggest failure to date with the suavity of an overpriced homme fatal, each word whispered against your lips like sweet nothings as if you’re in between his sheets. “It’s time to pay the piper now.”

“And if I refuse?”

He pulls you closer, and something sharp and pointy presses right under your left ribcage. You can’t tell what it is, but it feels too cold to be a mere blade. It’s somehow dry and wet at the same time. 

“I don’t think you have that luxury,” he places the softest kiss on the tip of your nose. “Please don’t make me do it before we kiss even once.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Nothing within the realm of impossible.” The poking feeling subsides as he pleasantly smiles at you as though you just agreed to a dinner invitation. He nods towards a large matte black door in the distance, the very same one the suit man walked through not too long ago. “We’re gonna go into that room, and you’re gonna put your horrendous acting skills to good use for me.”

“As what?”

“I already insinuated something to cover your pretty ass, and everybody inside is probably already talking about it,” he brushes your face with the back of his fingers. “You will act the part of either my mistress or my queen. Your call.”

It isn’t excitement, you’re sure of it, but you still don’t know what caused something to thump that hard in your chest when he said queen.

“I’d still like to keep whatever remains of my dignity, thank you very much.”

“My queen, it is,” he finally peels himself off you. You shiver when he takes a step back. He extends his hand, launching his dimples at you without any servings of smugness for once. “Do we have a deal?”

As if you have a choice. Exhaling out of your nose in frustration, you shake his hand. He intertwines his fingers with yours and places a chivalrous kiss on your hand as he stares into your soul. You can’t tell for how long he’s lingered there, but it feels like minutes, nor can you look away from his hypnotizing Alexandrites, now gleaming in a shade of warm purple. Much closer to a cozy pink than a faded blue.

You could swear you heard a cracking sound when he removed his lips from your skin this time. 

𝐒𝐊𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐀

“Why do you never come out during the day?”

Snowdrops are in full bloom in Skotia Woods. It’s much colder than usual tonight, but the thin layer of scorch that outlines your body helps you keep warm. You are unwittingly radiating a pink hue around you. Cyra and the cotton ball you now named Chion are playing as usual as Kritzephyr sharpens his dagger. You wonder why he feels the need to carry a blade when he has several of those for teeth already.

“How do you know I don’t?” 

You falter when he responds with a question in that blizzard voice of his. He steals a glance when you’re not looking, and the corners of his lips curl ever so slightly. 

So you come to the forest looking for him when the sun is out, too, huh?

“I sleep through the day now,” you pierce the silence again, a somewhat bashful smile creeping up your lips as you glue your eyes on the small fire you set before you.

“Why?”

“So that I can wake up at night.”

“But why?”

Isn’t it obvious? It should be obvious, but he insists. It embarrasses you when he does. You feel like you are overstepping even though you are the owner of everything the light touches. 

“No… reason,” your voice wanes into a whisper.

He has been alone for as long as he can remember and liked it that way. Never in a million years did he think there would come a day he would enjoy someone’s company. He likes asking you questions he knows the answers to. He likes being liked by you. 

Maybe a bit too much.

“It is not wise,” he sternly declares as he turns the other side of the blade. “The forest is crawling with all kinds of beasts.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“By blasting little matches from your hands?”

Oh, you see red. It makes you so mad that you unleash that fury by sending a raging fire on a mass of ice floating on the river. It doesn’t melt; it immediately sublimates.

“That was unnecessary,” he looks at the hot vapor floating in the air with blank eyes.

“What does it take with you?!” you jump to your feet in exasperation. “I have done nothing to you! Why are you so cold to me?”

“Are you really asking that to me?” he retorts, voice as calm as a winter night, and points to his left to remind you of the white blanket covering the entire forest. There is nothing but ice as far as the eye can see.

“If you didn’t want me here, you would tell me to go,” you pout with the stubbornness of a child.

“I did. Many times,” he corrects. “You don’t seem to understand what it means.”

“Do you… really not want me here?”

He looks up at you and witnesses your sorrowful eyes. The glow around you has turned into a faded pastel. Fuck, he has gone too far. He panics really really bad and feels his chest tightening. He wants to ask you to burn him alive as punishment. No. No. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. 

“It’s… n–nice,” he stammers, “wh–when you are here.”

You smile at him so brightly that he can feel his spine sweating again. Your heart takes flight. You rush to his side and sit right next to him, one hand gently caressing his face. He melts a little more when he feels you on his skin.

“What are you so afraid of, my ice king?”

He closes his eyes and leans into your touch. He wants the world to stop. He wishes he could be something else other than the monster he is. He can’t even look you in the eye as much as he wants to.

“Of… scaring you,” he quietly replies.

“You mean when you change?”

He musters a little courage and aims his Alexandrites at your gaze. His brows are furrowed. They are furrowed so often that there are permanent creases on his forehead.

It still doesn’t take anything away from his beauty. 

“Do you know what happens when my kind falls in love, princess?” he continues without waiting for an actual answer. “It’s very ugly.”

The glow around you suddenly turns hot pink when he says fall in love. You wonder whether that question means what you think it means. You have heard things about Lycans being… devoted creatures, but that’s about it. 

“But how can something as pure as the snow be ugly?” you ask him with genuine curiosity.

He squeezes his eyes like he’s in pain, then abruptly stands up to leave.

“You won’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” you grab onto his wrist.

“No.”

“Tell me!”

He turns around and kneels to be at eye level with you. From that up close, he looks like a predator about to devour you in one bite, eyes glowing a ferocious violet. He looks enraged. He looks wild.

He looks hungry.

“I will forsake everything that’s not you. I will know no such thing as a moral compass, and I will be solely ruled by my instincts. Anything and anyone that dares to take you away from me will perish. My devotion to you will be my sole guide in everything I do, and every full moon, I will love you so vehemently that you will gasp for air. Will you still want to be my crystal bride THEN?!”

You lean forward and take his lips within yours with no hesitation. He doesn’t push you away this time. His is a passion so clandestine, and the frost it’s buried under is the only thing that can calm your blaze. It doesn’t matter that he is a beast; it’s still as pure as the snow surrounding you. His kiss is a soothing touch on your lips. Your kiss is a cozy embrace on his. It feels like the exact thing the other needs.

…has needed since lifetimes ago.

“Yes,” you delicately hold his face in your hands. “As long as you have room for me in your heart, I will always want to be your bride for an eternity.”

He holds you tight in his embrace, feeling your heat on his fingertips. As he tastes your lips deeper, your heat comes back, fueling his. There are voices in his head, whispering abominable things to him. His breathing escalates. He is scared of himself because he can feel how violent he is getting inside.

He forces himself to stop even though it’s not even the last thing he wants.

“Do you not… want me?” you look at him with the saddest eyes he’s ever seen.

“There is nothing I want more,” he holds your hands tightly. “Not in this life, not in any other, but just…”

You are willing to completely devote yourself to him, but you can’t understand why he is so apprehensive. It’s not naive to think he’s not going to willingly hurt you. Maybe he will, but even if he does, you know it will not be because he wants to inflict pain on you. Even if he does, pain from his hands will still taste so sweet, you know it. 

You just know it.

“You are my snowdrop,” his face falls with shame. “How can I ever do this to you?” 

Your sorrow subsides, and a smile blooms on your lips again. Your heart swells with your adoration for him.

“You are not doing anything to me,” you touch his face. “I want to belong to you. I already belong to you; I just want to seal it. 

“I don’t wish for you to… see me like that,” he divulges his biggest fear. “I don’t want you to be scared of me. It will kill me if you abandon me with myself again.”

You lift his chin and make him face you. His beautiful eyes are glowing a faded blue. You press your hand on his chest, hoping against hope that you could absorb some of his burden.

“There is nothing that can make me walk away from you,” you reassure him. “Even you couldn’t.”

A small drop of relief burns his chest. He kisses your hands with gentleness that does not match his frame.

“In three nights’ time, it will be new moon,” he hesitantly speaks. “If you… still want me then…”

“I will always want you.” 

He can’t help himself and steals a kiss from you again. It rapidly escalates. You force yourself to stop this time because otherwise you won’t be able to keep your hands off of him. You know you belong here with him, but if your ice king wishes for it to be on a new moon night, you shall respect it.

You shall be his under the sheets of the night.

“In three nights’ time, I shall take you as my bride,” he kisses your forehead and sees you off. “Come back to me safely, my queen.”

He watches the fiery bird whisking away the owner of his heart until it becomes another gleaming star in the sky. As he touches his still ablaze lips to feel you once again, he notices there are remains of a smile there. He feels excited. He feels nervous.

“Good evening, my lord,” a raven-haired woman approaches closer. “Went for a walk in the moonlight, did we?” 

And when he hears that voice, he feels furious.

His smile immediately perishes. He doesn’t acknowledge her and walks away with firm steps.

“Didn’t you forget a little something during your little… confession?” she chirps, following right behind him. “Like how you are supposed to take me as your bride?”

“I told you this many times,” he responds without looking at her. “No such thing will happen.”

“I am your fate, my lord. No one can go against it.”

“Only fools would believe in your voodoo called fate,” he suddenly turns around and threateningly points at her. “And even if it existed, you sure as heavens would not be in mine.”

She is not intimidated in the slightest. She contently chuckles like a lunatic instead. He attempts to leave, but with a snap of a finger, poison ivies from both sides of the path hold hands and block his way. 

“This is your friendly warning. I strongly urge you to come to your senses and untether yourself from the princess when there is still time, or I will not be as nice next time,” she warns. “I will destroy everything you hold dear.”

Snowdrops are in full bloom in Skotia Woods, but when she stares at them with that much envy in her eyes, they turn charcoal black and wither in an instant.

“Starting with her,” she places a kiss on his bare shoulder and walks away with a sinister smile.

𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐀 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘

“Stop looking so nervous. We are here to shop,” your forced plus one hisses under his breath, his arm linked with yours. “You’re my queen. Act like it.”

You start walking among the tables hosting different casino games, the kind of cash that can save a small country thrown around like measly tips. It’s unclear what fund is being raised for what cause here since nothing about blood money says philanthropy.

“Your little trick at the bar,” you speak softly not to raise suspicion, watching dice roll and cards flip all around. “Your core is ice?”

“If you have to ask, I will start second-guessing my estimation of your intelligence,” he responds with a smirk.

“Is it considered cannibalism if you eat ice cream?” 

“Very amusing,” he turns his head to you. “Quit your job and come be my personal entertainer instead. I’ll pay you bank.”

“You’re a Sigma gene holder, too,” you grimace, not hearing him. “How can you even live with yourself?”

“You’d be surprised what you can live with, beautiful. Nothing is ever what it seems,” he heaves an indifferent sigh, detaching himself from you once he notices a table in the distance. “Wait for me here.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do by myself?!” you shriek.

“Just check out the merchandise,” he fixes his cuffs. “If you like something, put it on my tab.”

“Can’t I just come with you?”

“Entrance is by invitation only, and not even being my mistress entitles you to admittance.”

“Your mistress?” you repeat in the language of ‘I beg your fucking pardon?’

“What? You’re still my queen,” he smiles with mirth in his eyes. “Do you see anyone around wearing wedding rings? People come here to misbehave.” 

He pulls you close by your waist, catching you off guard, but as soon as the distance between you becomes almost nonexistent, his face falls. The smug grin evaporates. He looks like he’s getting mad at something, and you can see his eyes are slowly turning violet again.

She is yours. Take her.  

A shiver slides down his spine.

He has never felt anything like this before in his life. A hot flash envelops him like a straitjacket, immobilizing all his faculties of reason, and he suddenly feels very antsy. His chest is tightening, his heart rate is escalating, and his teeth are itching. He wonders if he’s on the verge of a heart attack because if he is, he really needs to get his priorities straight—all he can think about is creaming your pussy so thick that it gushes out of you.

Then you kiss him out of nowhere like an intrusive thought, and his knees almost give way.

An intense wave of déjà vu washes over you. His taste, the shape of his lips, the texture of his skin, everything is so maddeningly familiar as if you’ve been kissing each other for decades already, and it drives you crazy that you don’t know from where. It’s just a kiss, but you can feel something long dormant within you has just been set alight. You just can’t be sure if there was a sign inside that said Do not awaken.

When you look at each other again, his eyes somehow turn into shooting stars—they flash luminous violet for the briefest moment, but the gleam instantly dies out. 

“Do not mingle. I don’t like anybody touching what’s mine, and I’m not in the mood to off someone,” he speaks into your lips in a hushed tone. “It’s hard to find a body shop that doesn’t ask questions at this hour.”

He then walks away, and something finally releases you from its death grip. You can breathe normally again, though slightly dazed like you just woke up. You pat your cheeks to snap out of it and channel your attention to the room instead, scanning the tables for any familiar faces. 

“Good evening.”

To your left stands a man. He wears a cologne crafted to make people smell like gentlemen, but it isn’t enough to mask the stench of his sleaziness. 

“Good evening,” you greet him nevertheless. 

“You seemed so lonely from afar,” he approaches closer. “Can I offer my company to the beautiful lady?”

“Oh, I’m with…”

You don’t know anything about this man! Do people know he’s Zephyr? Does he go by another name? You don’t want to divulge something you’re not supposed to and make people even more suspicious. You would prefer it if you stayed in one piece tonight.

But you’re horribly blanking. 

“…a date,” you eventually finish your sentence.

“Some date, huh?” he rests his hand on your bare shoulder. “I wouldn’t let a beauty like you off my arm for one second.”

You stare daggers at the fingers calloused from counting so much money, giving this entitled slime a three-second grace period to fucking remove it. You’re trying your best not to make a scene here, but if it comes to that, you’re not above killing a man just with your thumb. 

“Do you want me to handcuff you to myself, baby? Because I’ll do it,” a maniacal voice graces your ears.

His blizzard arrives before Zephyr does. He appears out of thin air and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close as if to shield you. He pierces a hole into the slime’s forehead with his radioactive aqua eyes, bright enough to blind half the room, yet he has such a pleasant smile on his face. So damn pleasant that it’s fucking terrifying. 

“Good evening, Markus. Did you have a death wish?” he politely asks. 

“M–Mr. Bang,” the slime stutters, clearly about to faint. He then bows so deep, his forehead almost touches the tip of his toes. “I apologize, sir. I–I didn’t know you had a guest with you.”

“Guest doesn’t quite cover our bond,” he turns to you and gently kisses your neck. “Wouldn’t you say, my queen?”

He is yours. Make him kneel. 

His lips make contact with your skin, and you hear words reverberate inside your head. You don’t know why, but you believe it. In that moment, you believe you are his queen. Your heart has already started doing weird somersaults when he’s close by, but the more you are around each other, the stronger your body seems to be responding. 

When you remain silent, he lightly squeezes your side for you to come to your senses and react.

“Stop embarrassing me in public,” you touch behind your ear and giggle bashfully.

He knows it’s fake, but it still sounds like music to his ears. He holds your hand and brings it to his nose, the hot flash blasting on his face at full force again. His eyes close on their own. He doesn’t know why either, but he finds himself inhaling your scent from your wrist and softly kissing it, looking damn near blackout drunk. Or maybe he’s been drunk this entire time. 

On what, the jury’s still out on that.

“Keep this seat warm for me, will you? Your man has a little… business to take care of,” he emphasizes, holding your chin. “Don’t miss me too much. I’ll be back before your drink arrives.”

He’ll be away just for a few minutes, but he still kisses your lips goodbye like he’s going to war, and your heart tries to break free from your throat. You get whiplash when the butterfly-adjacent feelings quickly turn to stone-cold terror as Markus gets dragged to what seems like a supply closet in the distance. It’s so loud that nobody even bothers to look in that direction when the door slams close.

“Which hand did you touch her with?” Zephyr asks with eerie tranquility. 

“Sir, please…”

“Which… hand?”

Markus raises his right. Zephyr grabs the work gloves resting on a shelf nearby and shoves them in the slime’s mouth. His face contorts in pure rage, and there’s no telling what he’s about to do to this man. 

But all of a sudden, he stops as if invisible fingers pull him back from his collar. 

“What am I doing?” he shakes his head like he’s just coming to his senses. His features soften, he smiles, and reaches for a handshake. “Just promise me that you won’t do it again, okay?”

Markus fervently nods and takes the hand that will absolve him. As soon as the ice-cold fingers wrap around his, however, his entire arm freezes solid, little snowflakes forming on his skin with subtle crackling sounds. It feels so fucking heavy that he’s about to fall to his side. He can’t move.

“But you did touch my queen, though.”

Zephyr twists the arm as hard as he can, and it breaks with a loud crack like he’s walking on ice wearing lava shoes. Markus’ eyes immediately well up with tears, his ear-piercing scream a mere whimper because of the suppressor he’s chewing on.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” his punisher smiles like all is well and leaves. 

When he walks back into the loud room, Zephyr spots you grabbing two champagne flutes from a passing waiter. He smiles again, but this time it’s by no means saccharine. Come to think of it, this might be the only thing from tonight that was genuine. 

Well, along with that other thing that happened when he kissed you.

“Aw, you care about me,” he coos while reaching for the extra flute in your hand. 

“Bang,” you repeat what you’ve heard a few moments ago. “What’s your first name? Click?”

“Trying to be funny?” 

“Not trying, I’ve been told I’m very amusing,” you imitate him. 

“You are,” he acknowledges, clinking his glass with yours. “My offer stands. Just one hour a night with me, and I’ll change your life.”

“I’m not your actual mistress,” you deadpan. You’re not sure you even want to hear the answer, but your morbid curiosity puts a gun to your head to ask him, “You didn’t do something to him, did you?”

“Doesn’t concern you since he will soon be a dead man,” he casually answers.

“What? Why?!”

“Because no one touches what’s mine,” he leans into your face, “and certainly not my queen.”

“I’m not your queen!” 

“Aren’t you, though?”

He rests a finger on your collarbone and slowly drags it towards your cleavage where the pendant of a snowflake necklace rests. 

“Such good taste,” he admires. “You should know, nothing turns me on more than blind loyalty.” 

“How the fuck is wearing a necklace pledging my allegiance to you?” you cock a brow.

“Everything ice touches is mine, snowdrop,” he firmly declares. 

You shudder from head to toe when you hear that name.

No one has ever called you that before. You’re not sure you’ve even seen snowdrops in your life. Then…

Then why?

“Dance with me,” he holds your hand and pulls you to a secluded corner. 

He doesn’t ask. He tells and he does. For such a crass man, he holds you unusually tenderly. A strange feeling fills you up when you look into his eyes. They are so distinct; no way there is another pair like this in the universe, let alone in Verona City. Which is why it’s even more uncanny that you feel like… 

…you know him. 

You don’t know why you feel the need to wrap your arms around him tighter, but you do. For the first time the entire night, you see him get the tiniest bit flustered, and it surprises you.

“You’re not really the big bad wolf you make yourself out to be, are you?” you chuckle.

“Sure,” he suppresses the laughter growing in his throat. 

He doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t know you, not personally at least. This is the very first time you have interacted in person, yet it still ticks him off to homicidal levels when he notices the mark on your neck.

“Wasn’t aware you were already running with the wolves,” he clenches his jaw. “I’m a very jealous man, just so you know.”

“Look who’s trying to outfunny me,” you scoff.

“I wasn’t trying to be funny. I’m known to cause bloody scenes,” he responds flatly, “but you already know that.”

“I don’t know what your sick mind is imagining, but that’s a birthmark,” you inform him.

He doesn’t believe it. It looks too distinct to be a birthmark. He wonders if he can remove it if he stares at it long enough. He wonders when you would be available for a dermatology appointment.

His thumb caresses the mark, and you suddenly wince like someone has pinched you. A frame of a frozen lake flashes before his eyes in one-tenth of a second. 

She is yours. Take her.  

He looks at your lips. You look at his. The violet shooting stars appear again, but they don’t immediately die this time. Your hands move on their own and slide down his broad chest. His hands move on their own and slide down your back. One of them stops at your hips, but the other continues until it reaches your inner thighs. You suddenly forget what you’re supposed to do, where you are, who you are… 

All you know is that you want him deliriously.

He is yours. Devour him.

“Christopher,” he says out of nowhere.

You don’t understand what that has to do with anything. Your eyes narrow when this unfamiliar name caresses your ears. 

“My name,” he repeats, not even blinking as he breathes heavily. “It’s Christopher.”

Christopher. Chris.

This is the very first time you’ve heard it, but somehow a part of you still wants to say “I know”. You look around to see if there is a clock nearby so you can declare the time of death for Zephyr. 

“Why are you telling me this?” you ask him. “It can and will be used against you.”

Chris never sweats, but he can feel the drops forming on his spine. He can feel the scorching heat you are exuding, pulling him in, swallowing him whole, threatening to melt him to depletion. But he doesn’t care. 

Even a man who has seen everything including death needs to be entertained sometimes. 

“Because I wanna hear you moan it,” he answers and crashes into your lips headfirst.

You grab the collar of his shirt and pull him close until your back hits against a wall. That tight space you are squeezed in between a locked door and an out-of-order slot machine is not exactly interchangeable with a room. You are indecently groping each other in a room full of people. Any passerby can see what you’re doing if they squint into the darkness, but you don’t care. This isn’t a sudden itch you have to scratch. This isn’t a whim you are luxuriating in. 

This feels like a survival need that has to be met right now, otherwise you will fucking die.

As he lets you undo his belt, Chris runs his hand up your thigh. He slides your underwear to the side and teases your dampened folds. You are wet, but you can’t take him like this. Without him getting you to beg for mercy. Without him working you to the brink of passing out. Without him making you flow a river of slick.

Slick.

SLICK.

He sees red.

She is yours. Take her.  

GOD he should have just grabbed your hand and fucked right off to an obscenely expensive bedroom somewhere, but he’ll make do with what he has. 

He harshly rips your underwear and drops to his knees, sliding your dress up to your hips. Fuck, you look so tight. Oh, you look like he could gobble you up in one bite. Like he could swallow you whole.

He puts your pussy in his mouth, and that’s exactly what he does.

He is yours. 

His hands are wrapped around your thighs, firmly keeping you in place, but you feel like an earthquake is happening. You don’t understand how this is even possible. He just licks, but licks deep. He licks like a dedicated servant serves the master he’s crazily in love with, so intense that you’re screaming at the top of your lungs like you’re getting triple penetrated. It’s intense, but you still push his head deeper into your cunt, trying to beg for your release. You would if you could form a single sentence. All that comes out of your mouth is incoherent sounds of pleasure. And guttural moans of his name. 

Chris is about to lose it. 

The more his tongue flicks on your swollen clit, the hungrier he gets. The more he pushes you to the edge, the more your legs shake. It’s alright. He just needs you to be ready for him. He needs your walls all engorged. He needs you to drown him in your slick.

Slick.

SLICK.

“CHRIS!!!”

The more you seize with inhuman amounts of pleasure, the more he feels an inhuman kick between his legs. 

You dig your fingers into his shoulders and pull him up, then latch yourself to his lips. The more you swirl your tongue around his to taste yourself, the more you feel the rasp of the growl in his throat. You finally free him and palm his girth, but something feels odd enough to make you stop and stare. 

He’s… big. Inhumanely so.

It caresses his colossal ego that your jaw drops at his size, but your frantic movements come to such a sudden halt that he looks down, appalled at what he’s seeing himself. He is almost twice as big as he knows himself to be, and what leaks from his slit does not look like precum. You look at each other again. Your eyes are questioning. His neon violets are impatient.

“Spit on it,” he firmly orders. 

He says the words, and something drips down your thighs as though on command. It’s so much that you think you’ve soiled yourself for a moment. It’s thicker than water, but not as thick as blood. Colorless, but not at all odorless. Smells sweeter than a flower’s nectar, in fact.

It’s as if you’ve rented your mind and soul to someone else. You no longer feel like yourself. 

A deranged smile blooms on your lips as you stare at him. You collect all the spit in your mouth, let it slowly drip on his soaked tip, and as soon as it makes contact with his skin, your back hits the wall again. It hurts a little bit, but it hurts good. Your smile devolves into maniacal laughter that does not belong to you. 

So do your words.

“Devour me,” you demand with narrowed eyes.

And that’s exactly what he does.

You don’t remember ever feeling this wet. It’s so slippery that he slides right in despite his inhuman size, and he seems to be growing even bigger inside. The obscene squelch of his thrusts is the only thing you can hear. It hurts, but it feels so right. You feel like you’re about to burst with how full he makes you feel, but it feels so right. You might die right fucking now, but it feels so right that you’re on cloud nine.

“Chris…”

“Louder. No one’s gonna hear,” he pants into your mouth. “Now be a good girl and take it.”

“Chris.”

“Take it.”

“Chris!”

“Take it!!!”

Something explodes inside you with such pressure that it feels like a bomb has gone off, your thighs drenched with the cum gushing out of you. As the euphoric haze starts to clear, you feel disoriented like you’re coming down from a bad trip, and a sharp headache pierces your head. The awareness of what you’ve just done knocks on the door of your consciousness, but the commotion that you haven’t even noticed has erupted in the room doesn’t let you process any of that. 

“What’s going on?” you ask, sanity barely there. 

“We’re leaving,” Chris grabs your hand and bolts towards the exit. 

You remember there were maybe fifty people in here, but it’s as if the population has somehow tripled. Chris tries to push through the crowd as fast as he can, but there are so many people trying to make a break for it that they push through you, the torrent of bodies separating you in an instant.

“CHRIS?!”

“WHERE ARE YOU?”

“CHR—!”

The loud explosion temporarily deafens you. Darkness swallows your vision as the ringing in your ear subsides. The last thing you remember from your consciousness is a painful howl,  but it’s not a bone-chilling omen of danger.

It sounds like a lament over something that will never come back.

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*a/n: End of Vol. I. Don't freak out; this story only has two volumes.

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