#colors..brushes..textures..shadows n lighting...

[diaroza]

rules: choose your 5 favourite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you’ve brought into the world. tag as many writers/artists/etc as you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works!  Ty for the tags @/ imminentbox, nln4, biracialclaude

My first proper portrait and final design for my oc Rosanna

Marangelo Christmas gift exchange :) 

FH:R sailor moon style 🌙✨

A Halloween vampire au for my ocs Benny and Dane 👅

Finally, this is prob my fav piece(s) I’ve done of Benny and Dane this year. They were studies at first but then I got a little too carried away 🙈

Tagging @d1ptra​ @wardenchampion​ @inaplanetyat​ @gruvu​ (feel free to ignore If u don’t wanna lol)

[zarteyaz]

The Hundredth Dawn - 1

✶ Pairing: Azriel x Reader

✶ Summary: A century ago, the Night Court didn’t just lose Rhysand’s sister—she was taken, claimed by an old bargain no one dares to name out loud. Now she’s back, with a smile too calm and a power that lives in the dark between sleep and truth, the kind that can soothe a mind or rewrite it. Rhys wants to protect what he once let go, while Azriel finds himself unravelling at the sight of her, because some storms don’t just arrive—they make you realize you were never really looking up at all.

✶ A/N: MERRY CHRISTMAS to all those who celebrate! ngl this was actually supposed to be two chapters, but i kept writing and here we are, so it's quite long BUT ITS WORTH IT I PROMISE (u better keep reading if u wanna see azzy boi)

<- Prologue ║ masterlist | Part 2 ->

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The first breath of Velaris hits like a bruise she didn’t realize she was still protecting.

Not the air—air is air, and she refuses to be sentimental about oxygen—but the texture of it. The damp sweetness off the Sidra. The mountain-cold that doesn’t apologize for itself. A faint edge of citrus drifting from somewhere downriver, like the city is still shameless enough to smell like home.

She stands at the mouth of a quiet street with her cloak drawn high and waits for the world to prove it’s real.

No trumpets. No welcoming party. No solemn procession waiting at the doorstep of her absence.

Of course.

It’s almost funny, almost, how a part of her still expected something. A sentry on a rooftop. A shadow in an alley. A sign that her name hadn’t been filed away and locked.

She exhales slowly, and her hand drifts—traitor, habit, instinct—to the inside of her wrist.

No chain.

Only the memory of one.

Only the ghost-pressure that used to tighten when she thought about leaving.

It doesn’t now.

That should feel like victory.

It feels like stepping onto ground that might vanish the second she trusts it.

“Right,” she mutters, and the word comes out with the dry bite of her own voice. Still hers. Still sharp. “You’re back.”

The wards recognize her before anyone else does. Not with drama, no flare of power, no lights in the sky, just a soft, intimate brush along her skin, like the city leaning close to check she isn’t a lie.

She stiffens anyway.

Then she starts walking.

Velaris has changed. It has also not. That is the cruelest part.

The Sidra still sings through the heart of it, bright and stubborn. Shops spill color and scent into the streets—spiced pastries, ink, paint. There are more balconies now, more lanterns, more little flourishes of beauty where there used to be plain stone.

As if someone came along and decided the city deserved softness in places it hadn’t dared ask for.

She doesn’t let the thought settle. Doesn’t let it become a feeling. Feelings are how you lose the fight before it starts.

She follows the thickening of wards toward the hill, toward the knot of power that always sat above this city like a crown.

And then—

A sentry steps into her path.

He’s young. Too young. Which means the century has done what centuries do and rolled right over every familiar face. He straightens, hand dropping to the hilt at his side.

“Hold,” he calls, polite but firm. “State your—”

She lifts her hood just enough for him to catch the line of her face.

The words die on impact.

He goes pale in a way that would be funny if it didn’t hurt.

“By the Mother,” he whispers, staring as if she’s a myth that learned how to bleed. Then, louder—half-shouted, half-prayed— “Get the High—”

“Don’t,” she cuts in, and her voice snaps like a tether. “Don’t announce me like I’m a ghost. It’s undignified.”

He flinches. Regains himself with an effort that’s almost admirable.

“Apologies, my lady,” he breathes. “We—we weren’t told—”

“No,” she agrees, bitterness slipping out sharp as flint. “You weren’t.”

He realizes he’s staring and bows deep. “I can escort you.”

She considers refusing just to prove she can.

Instead, she nods once. “Fine.”

He moves ahead by half a step, leading her toward the wards that thicken into something warm and layered and new. And because he’s either brave or foolish, he asks, carefully, “Would you like me to send word ahead? To… prepare them?”

Prepare them.

As if you can prepare a room for a century.

“If they didn’t prepare themselves in a hundred years,” she says sweetly, “one boy with a message isn’t going to fix it.”

He goes very still. “Understood.”

Good.

Let him carry that upstairs.

⸻

The River House wasn’t here the last time she stood on this hill.

It sits nestled among trees like someone built it with bare hands and hope—warm stone, wide windows drinking daylight, balconies meant for leaning on with a glass of wine and too much time. The wards around it hum in a way that makes her skin prickle: intimate, careful, lived-in.

Someone loved this place into being.

Her mouth twists before she can stop it.

The sentry sends a pulse of magic. The wards ripple in answer.

The front door opens.

A woman stands there, framed by warm interior light.

Dark hair braided back. Eyes sharp as a blade’s edge—and older than her face should be, the way surviving makes you ancient. Power coils around her like a second spine.

And beside her—half-hidden, half-brave—is a child.

Two, maybe three. Small wings peeking from the back of his shirt, downy and restless. Violet eyes too bright, too knowing for someone who still has crumbs on his fingers.

The woman’s gaze lands on her hooded figure and hardens—protective, assessing—

Then it shifts.

Recognition—like a memory snapping into place.

Feyre’s breath catches. “You,” she whispers, and it isn’t accusation. It’s awe edged with grief. Her eyes flick, not to the sentry, but past him—like she’s seeing the overlap of Rhys’s mind and this moment.

“You’re his sister.”

The sentry looks between them, relieved someone else has context.

She doesn’t answer immediately. Pride is a stupid thing. It’s also the only armor she has on.

Feyre steps down from the threshold before she can decide whether to retreat.

“Rhys told me,” Feyre says softly, as if the words matter. “Not… not the details. Just—” her voice wavers, and she swallows hard. “Just that you were gone. And the way he—” Her gaze shines. “The way he missed you.”

Missed.

A clean word for a messy thing.

Before she can build a wall, Feyre closes the distance and wraps her in a hug—fierce, sudden, human.

For a heartbeat she stands rigid, shocked at the audacity of being welcomed by someone she has never met.

Then, against her better judgment, her hands lift and settle briefly against Feyre’s back.

Feyre breathes into her shoulder, voice muffled. “Welcome back.”

The words hit like a blade turned sideways.

The child chooses that exact moment to waddle forward and seize the edge of her cloak.

A tug. A demand.

His voice is small but certain. “Who’re you?”

Feyre pulls back, wiping quickly at her face as if embarrassed by her own softness. She crouches beside him, hands gentle on his shoulders.

“That,” Feyre says, and her voice steadies like steel being drawn, “is someone important.”

The boy squints up at her, face screwed into suspicion. “’important?”

“Yes,” Feyre says, and something warm and aching comes into her eyes as she looks back up at the woman she’s holding space for.

Feyre then glances up the path—eyes sharpening, posture shifting.

Because the world suddenly inhales.

Power snaps through the air like a storm deciding to be seen.

And Rhysand arrives like he has been running for a century.

Not a graceful winnow. Not a composed High Lord entrance.

He appears—and stops, so abruptly it looks like the world has punched him in the chest.

For a heartbeat, he only stares.

His face isn’t courtly. It isn’t controlled.

It is raw.

Split open.

Like someone who has spent a hundred years forcing himself to live with a hole in his world and has just been asked to look directly at it.

Then his knees hit the stone.

Hard.

“Little star,” he breaks on the name, as if saying it out loud costs him something vital.

She goes so still it aches.

Of course he calls her that.

Of course he does.

She should bite him for it—should bare teeth, should wrap herself in sarcasm and steel the way she’s practiced for a century.

Instead, the bitterness in her chest falters. Not gone. Not forgiven.

Just… drowned for a moment beneath the sight of her brother in the dirt like he’s praying and she is the miracle he never thought he’d be allowed to touch again.

Rhys reaches for her hands like he’s afraid she’ll vanish if he doesn’t anchor himself to something real. His fingers are trembling violently, almost clumsy with need.

“You’re—” he tries, and fails. His breath shudders. Tears spill without apology, tracking down his face as if his body has simply stopped pretending. “You’re here. You’re here—”

Her own eyes burn, traitorous and hot.

She’s not supposed to cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of strangers and sentries and a High Lady she’s met for all of ten breaths.

But Rhys’s hands close around hers like he’s holding the last thread of a rope and he cannot afford to let go, and—

She blinks, once, twice.

The tears come anyway.

Quiet at first. Then a cracked inhale—the sound of her composure slipping like a blade sliding from a numb hand.

Rhys makes a broken noise and presses his forehead to her knuckles, as if he can’t bear the distance between his heart and her skin.

“I thought—” he whispers. “I thought I’d never— I thought I’d lose you and it would be… permanent. I thought—”

“Rhys,” she manages, and the word comes out wrong. Too thick. Too young. It tastes like the cliffside and chalk and all the things they never said when it mattered.

Feyre’s hand lands on Rhys’s shoulder—firm, grounding. “Breathe,” she murmurs, voice cracking with love and warning.

Rhys tries.

He fails.

He drags in air like it hurts. Like his ribs remember the century without her and resent the sudden weight of joy.

“I didn’t know when,” he says, words tumbling out, raw and frantic. “I didn’t know if it would be a decade or a century or never. I looked for every crack, every loophole—” His eyes squeeze shut, tears dripping down his lashes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t— I’m sorry I couldn’t—”

She swallows hard, because she can feel the sharp thing inside her—the old edge, the you didn’t fight enough—trying to lift its head.

Not now.

Not when he’s shaking like this.

Not when he looks at her like he’s afraid she’s made of smoke.

“Get up,” she says, voice too rough, because if he keeps kneeling she will fall apart completely and she refuses to give anyone the satisfaction.

Rhys laughs—wet, wrecked—and rises.

And then he’s on her.

Not High Lord composure. Not careful distance.

He pulls her into his arms so suddenly she stumbles, and the hug is not gentle.

It is desperate.

It is the kind of embrace people give when they have already buried you once in their mind and cannot believe they are touching you again.

Her body goes stiff from old instincts, from old rules.

Then—slowly, like she’s testing ice—she lets herself lean in.

And it is… unbearable.

It smells like home. Like a life she wasn’t allowed to live.

Her breath shudders out.

Rhys’s shoulders shake.

“Stop,” she mutters into his collar, because she can’t handle the sound of his crying. “Stop that.”

“I can’t,” he whispers back, ragged. “I can’t— I’m sorry. I’m so—” His voice breaks, and something fierce and wrecked slips into it. “I’m so glad you’re alive. That you are here”

Her throat tightens around a response she doesn’t trust to be kind.

So she does the only thing she can:

she holds on.

Her cheek presses to his shoulder.

She breathes him in: night air and citrus and that familiar, impossible scent that has always meant mine. safe. home.

Rhys’s arms tighten like he’s trying to fuse her back into existence.

He buries his face against her hair—breathing her in like he’s starving, like he’s trying to memorize the proof of her.

There is a sound in his throat that is not quite a sob and not quite a laugh, something animal with relief.

And the bitterness—gods, the bitterness—dims around the edges.

Not erased.

Not forgiven.

Just… pushed back by the sheer, brutal fact of this moment.

Because she is eight again, for half a heartbeat.

Small hands clutching his shirt after a nightmare.

Rhys holding her like the world can’t reach her if his arms are a wall, whispering I’ve got you. I’ve got you.

She is twenty again, blood on her knuckles from training, furious at the world, and Rhys catching her by the shoulders and shaking his head with that half-smile that always meant I know you. I know you, even when you’re trying to make yourself unlovable.

And now—now she is older than she has ever felt, and he is still holding her like that same promise.

Her hands fist in his shirt without permission, gripping as if she might drown if she lets go.

Rhys pulls back just enough to look at her.

His thumbs brush her cheeks, wiping at tears like he’s trying to undo the fact that they exist.

“You’re real,” he breathes, laughter trembling at the edge of a sob. “You’re— Mother above, you’re real.”

She swallows hard and forces her voice into something sharp, because she cannot let the softness swallow her whole. “I’m standing in your yard, Rhysand. Yes.”

His laugh breaks, brighter for a heartbeat—then cracks again, like the joy is too sharp to hold. “Still mouthy.”

“Still dramatic,” she returns, but her voice wobbles and ruins the insult.

Rhys looks like he might shatter again.

Then Nyx tugs on Rhys’s sleeve and says, very seriously, “Daddy’s crying.”

Rhys makes a choking sound, half laugh, half sob. “I am,” he admits. He scrubs at his face with the back of his hand—useless gesture, the tears keep coming anyway—then looks back at her with his eyes shining. “Because… because this is your aunt.”

Nyx’s eyes widen. “Aunt!”

Rhys nods, throat working. “My sister.”

Nyx turns his solemn, star-bright gaze on her. “Your my aunt?”

She huffs, wiping at her own face like she’s annoyed the tears exist. “Apparently.”

Nyx considers, then leans forward as if he’s inspecting her properly. His gaze flicks to her eyes, holds for a beat too long—uncannily observant.

And something catches in her chest.

A memory of another pair of eyes—softer, older, the kind you could drown in.

Before she can stop herself, the words slip out, quiet and hoarse:

“He has mother’s eyes.”

The sentence lands like a stone dropped into deep water.

Rhys goes utterly still.

His breath catches so sharply it hurts to hear.

For a moment, he looks like he’s been struck.

Then his eyes squeeze shut, and his face crumples—not in grief alone, but in something aching and holy, like the name of their mother is a prayer he hasn’t allowed himself to say in too long.

“Does he?” Rhys whispers, voice wrecked.

Nyx blinks, and announces, bright as a bell, “I have eyes!”

Cassian would laugh at that later, she thinks wildly. Mor would cry and laugh at once.

Right now, it punches another soft thing into her ribs.

“Yes,” she tells Nyx, voice gentler despite herself. “You do.”

Nyx grins, delighted by being affirmed. “I like you,” he decides, as if that settles the matter permanently.

Rhys laughs through fresh tears. Feyre makes a sound that is half sob, half smile.

And the ridiculous, terrible thing is—she feels it.

The warmth. The tug. The home of it.

Not the house. Not the walls.

The people.

Her brother’s hands on her face. Feyre’s fierce welcome. A child with wings and starlight in his voice claiming her without hesitation.

She looks away fast, as if she can outrun the softness.

Rhys’s fingers catch her chin gently and turn her back—careful, reverent, like he’s handling something fragile.

“Come inside,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Please.”

There is a world of fear in that plea.

She manages a nod.

⸻

Inside the River House is worse.

Not hostile. Not cold.

Worse because it’s warm. Lived-in. Real.

Paintings everywhere—bold strokes, impossible color. The air smells like bread and ink and the faint sweetness of citrus. A wooden toy dragon sits abandoned beneath a table. Tiny fingerprints smudge a low windowpane.

A place built by people who assumed they had time.

Her chest tightens so hard she nearly laughs.

For a heartbeat, she stands in the entryway like an intruder in someone else’s happiness. Like the walls might ask her politely to leave before she ruins the mood.

Rhys is beside her immediately—too close, hovering without knowing he’s doing it. His hands half-lift, then drop, then lift again, as if his body keeps trying to reach for her and his mind keeps remembering she might flinch.

He keeps looking at her. Checking her face like it might be a mirage.

She tries to keep her expression unimpressed. Because if she lets herself look as wrecked as she feels, the whole house will hear it.

Feyre guides Nyx into the sitting room, where he climbs onto the couch with all the authority of someone born into power and declares, “I want snacks.”

Rhys blinks, watery and exhausted in equal measure. “We’re about to have dinner.”

Nyx squints. “Snack first.”

Feyre sighs like this is a battle she has already fought ten times today. “We can do a small snack.”

Nyx nods, satisfied. “Good.”

Her mouth betrays her, a twitch at the corner, almost a smile.

Rhys sees it.

His eyes soften like that tiny curve of her lips is a miracle. Like he wants to reach out and hold it in his hands.

He looks like he wants to speak. To ask. To demand. To beg.

Instead, he says, very carefully, “Are you… hungry?”

She lifts one brow. “Do I look like I’ve been photosynthesizing for a century?”

A shaky laugh escapes him—half relief, half grief. “You’re still you.”

“Unfortunately,” she murmurs, but the word doesn’t quite carry the bite she intends.

Her gaze drifts, involuntarily, to the mantel—a painting of Feyre and Rhys with Nyx between them, the kind of domestic softness that looks like a fairy tale someone else got to live.

Her chest tightens again.

Not jealousy.

Not exactly.

Just the sharp, uncharitable thought: You learned how to be whole without me.

She swallows it down before it can become a weapon.

The front doors open again—fast footsteps, heavier, like thunder deciding to be a person.

Cassian barrels in and skids to a stop so abruptly the air practically jolts.

His face goes blank with shock for half a second.

Then it cracks.

“Oh,” he breathes, and the sound is too raw for a male who prides himself on being unbreakable. “You’re—”

He crosses the room in three strides and hauls her into a hug so crushing her ribs protest.

For a heartbeat she wheezes, arms pinned, caught in the sheer force of him.

“Put—” she tries.

Cassian doesn’t let her finish.

“I thought you were gone,” he says into her hair, voice rough around the edges. “We all— we—”

His arms tighten like he’s trying to weld her back into existence.

Something in her, stubborn and armored, wants to shove him off.

Something older just… sags.

Because Cassian smells the way he always did—leather and wind and sweat and stupid loyalty—and it hits her like the memory of training rings and laughter and being young enough to believe in forever.

She presses her face briefly to his shoulder before anyone can see the way her eyes burn.

Cassian pulls back like he can’t help himself—hands on her shoulders, looking her over as if cataloging proof. His eyes are bright.

“You look…” he starts.

She bares her teeth in the closest thing she has to a smile. “Handsome?”

Cassian lets out a broken laugh. “Mouthy.”

“Still allergic to personal space,” she grunts, and finally wedges a hand between them to create breathing room.

Cassian laughs again, wet and bright. “I missed you,” he says simply, like it’s the only truth he trusts.

The honesty lands harder than any hug.

She forces lightness. “Try to control yourself.”

“I cannot and I will not,” he declares, voice thick, and then his grin falters as his gaze catches something—her too-still posture, the way her hand drifts toward her wrist and stops as if it’s trained to obey.

Cassian’s brow furrows. “You—”

“Don’t,” she snaps, too quick.

Cassian’s mouth closes. A muscle in his jaw jumps.

Then he nods once, very carefully, like he’s putting his hands down around a wild animal. “Okay,” he manages, voice gentler than she expects. “Okay. Not yet.”

Not ever, she thinks, and hates herself for it.

Mor arrives like sunrise with teeth—bright, fierce, and already breaking.

She stops in the doorway and just stares at her as if she can’t decide whether to laugh or sob.

Then Mor crosses the room in a rush and cups her face in both hands, thumbs brushing beneath her eyes like she’s checking for tears she’s pretending not to have.

“Gods,” Mor whispers, voice wrecked. “Look at you.”

She tries for sharp. “Don’t.”

Mor’s smile wobbles anyway, fierce and shaky. “I am,” she says, and the word is a vow. “I am, because you’re here and you’re—”

Mor’s throat works hard. She swallows down a sound that might have been a sob.

Then she hugs her—tight, desperate, like Mor is trying to make up for a hundred years of absence with the strength of her arms.

“You’re home,” Mor whispers into her hair, and it’s the same word Feyre used and it hurts the same way.

She stiffens—and then, to her own surprise, her arms wrap around Mor.

Brief. Fierce.

Like she’s borrowing warmth and refusing to admit she needs it.

When Mor pulls back, her eyes are shining and furious all at once. “I’m going to drag you to every bakery in Velaris,” she says, voice trembling. “And then Rita’s. And you are going to let me.”

“And I’m going to pretend I’m not enjoying any of it,” she answers, because it’s easier than saying I didn’t know if I’d ever see your face again.

Mor laughs through wet lashes. “Good.”

Amren appears without fanfare, as if she has always been in the room and simply decided she’s had enough of invisibility.

Her silver eyes rake over her with clinical precision—every line of posture, every flicker of restraint.

Amren’s gaze pauses, just once, at her wrist.

Brief.

Cutting.

Enough to make her skin prickle like a warning.

Amren’s mouth curls, not quite a smile. “You look less dead than expected.”

“Disappointing, I’m sure,” she replies, because sarcasm is a familiar weapon and she needs something sharp in her hand.

Amren’s eyes gleam. “Mildly.”

Then, softer—so subtle you could pretend it didn’t happen—Amren’s gaze lifts to her face.

“And you came back anyway,” Amren adds.

It isn’t praise.

It’s acknowledgement.

It lands like a stone in her palm: heavy, real.

She nods once. “Apparently I’m stubborn.”

Amren’s expression flickers. “Always were.”

Footsteps follow—lighter but deliberate.

A woman enters who radiates cold steel and contained fire. Tall. Beautiful in a way that looks like it might cut you if you stare too long. Grey eyes sharp enough to strip lies from bone.

She doesn’t smile.

She doesn’t soften.

But the room subtly shifts around her, as if everyone has learned how to breathe with her edges.

Cassian’s entire body changes when he sees her.

Softens.

Centers.

Belongs.

“Nesta,” Cassian says, voice going low and reverent in a way it never used to.

Rhys gestures, a faint smile trembling on his mouth like he’s afraid it will break. “My sister,” he says, still sounding like he’s trying not to cry again. “This is Nesta Archeron.”

Feyre’s sister.

Nesta’s gaze lands on her and doesn’t flinch.

Not curious. Not cautious.

Just… seeing, in that brutal way Nesta does.

Her instincts whisper the word before anyone says it aloud.

Mate.

Not a bond she can sense—not like that—but the way Cassian watches Nesta like she’s the axis of his world is its own kind of magic.

Her mouth quirks, because if she doesn’t make it a joke it might become grief. “So,” she says, nodding at Nesta, “you’re his mate.”

Cassian beams like he’s been handed a trophy. “Yes!”

Nesta’s stare turns glacial. “Unfortunately.”

A laugh bursts out of her—genuine, surprised, almost shocked into existence. It’s so rare she feels it like a crack in her armor.

Cassian howls with delight like he’s won something.

Rhys’s smile wobbles, relief flashing across his face at the sound of her laughter.

Nesta studies her, head tilting slightly—predatory, precise. Taking in the too-careful stillness, the sarcasm used like a shield, the old pain held like a blade she refuses to drop.

Finally, Nesta says quietly, without theatrics, “I’m glad you’re back.”

No prettiness. No performance.

Just truth.

It lands heavier than any hug.

Her throat tightens.

She nods once, because she isn’t sure she’s capable of anything else. “Thank you.”

Cassian’s hand brushes Nesta’s back, gentle.

She watches that with a strange, sudden pang.

Because she wasn’t here for it.

Wasn’t here for Cassian to find a mate. Wasn’t here for Mor to find new scars. Wasn’t here for Rhys to build a family and a house full of light.

A century stolen—and they have lived anyway.

The bitterness in her chest stirs. Quiet. Hot.

Mor’s gaze lingers on her face like she’s memorizing. Feyre watches with that soft, open warmth that makes her want to turn away. Amren’s eyes keep returning to her wrist as if her body is a puzzle she can’t stop trying to solve.

Rhys is still hovering at her side, as if his proximity can keep the world from stealing her again.

And in the middle of all that warmth—of all that loud love and sharp concern—she feels it.

An absence.

A precise space in the room where someone should have been standing.

It tugs at her attention like a hook.

Her gaze flicks, once, to the doorway.

Nothing.

No quiet figure at the edge. No shadow slipping along the wall. No dark eyes watching from a safe distance.

Her chest tightens with something she hates.

Relief, maybe.

Disappointment.

Both.

She tampers it down ruthlessly. Pushes the desire to see him into the same locked place she’s kept it for a century.

Because wanting is how you lose.

Because names become handles. Because love becomes leverage. Because she learned—painfully, thoroughly—how easily longing can be turned vicious.

Still, her eyes keep straying to the doorway like an old wound keeps testing whether it’s allowed to ache.

Cassian claps his hands, loud and too bright. “All right,” he declares, forcing momentum like he always does when a room is bleeding. “We’re doing dinner. We’re not having a collective breakdown in the foyer.”

Mor snorts, swiping at her cheek. “Speak for yourself.”

Nyx toddles back in with a biscuit in his hand and announces, mouth full, “Dinner!”

They all laugh—too relieved, too grateful.

She laughs too, softer, like she’s borrowing the sound.

And behind it all, under the warmth and the welcome, the bitterness shifts again—quiet, persistent.

A century.

A century and no one was waiting at the doorstep.

She lets Rhys guide her deeper into the house anyway.

Because she is here now.

Because she can’t undo what was done.

Because, despite everything, her heart keeps doing the humiliating thing it has always done in this place:

It keeps trying to come home.

And she hates herself a little for how hard she wants to walk into that missing doorway and find him there.

Because she expected the place inside her that used to be a girl—stupid and hopeful—to wake up and reach.

She will not let it.

⸻

Dinner is a performance made of warmth and careful knives.

They feed her like she might vanish if she isn’t anchored to the table—bread, soup, roast, fruit. Rhys keeps reaching for her plate, refilling her glass, asking if she’s cold, if she needs anything, if she—

Feyre squeezes his knee under the table once, subtle and firm.

Let her breathe.

Rhys tries. Fails. Tries again.

Cassian fills the silences with stories—half of them true, half of them embellished into legend. Mor watches her like she’s cataloging all the ways she’s changed. Amren barely eats, eyes sharp. Nesta speaks only when she wants to, and when she does, the room listens.

Nyx toddles between laps like a prince making rounds.

He climbs onto Rhys’s chair, then Cassian’s, then Mor’s. He attempts Amren’s lap and is repelled by a single, devastating look that could stop a war.

Nyx recoils, scandalized, then swivels and fixes her with the dramatic gravity of someone delivering judgment.

He climbs into her lap as if it is his right.

She stiffens. Nyx frowns up at her, offended by the concept of resistance.

“Sit,” he orders.

Feyre hides a smile in her wine.

She exhales through her nose and lets Nyx settle, small and warm, stealing a piece of bread off her plate like tribute.

“You’re raising a thief,” she tells Rhys.

Rhys beams like she’s handed him a star. “He gets it from me.”

Nyx chews loudly, then pats her forearm with sticky fingers. “Good.”

Her throat tightens.

She reaches up, very carefully, and taps Nyx’s nose. “You’re sticky.”

Nyx grins. “Yes.”

For a heartbeat, the table feels like a real thing.

Not a stage. Not a trap.

Just… home.

Then the wards shiver.

Not alarm—recognition.

The candle flames dip as if the air itself has been pulled taut. The room cools by a degree. Shadows along the corners deepen, pooling like ink.

Her spine goes very still.

She hates that it does.

Because he is there before she sees him.

Azriel doesn’t step into the dining room so much as he arrives—soundless, inevitable, a presence that reshapes the space around it. Dark leathers dusted with night. Siphons catching the candlelight like quiet stars.

His hair is slightly mussed, as if he’s come straight from something he didn’t want to leave. His face is composed—too composed—but his eyes—

His eyes find her like a hand closing around a throat.

Not cruel.

Not possessive.

Just… sudden. Unguarded for the smallest heartbeat, before he reins it back in.

He stops at the edge of the table.

Doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t look anywhere else first.

Just her.

And in that thin stretch of silence, she takes him in with an unwilling precision—every line, every shadowed angle of him. The familiar cut of his mouth. The quiet strength in his shoulders. The faint scar at his throat she remembers from a hundred lifetimes ago.

He looks the same.

He looks older.

Like the century did not spare him either.

Something old and reckless in her wants to lurch toward him like a starving thing.

She clamps down hard enough it hurts.

It’s not longing, she tells herself immediately, viciously. Not anymore. It’s… habit. Ghost-pain. An old ache that lives in the same drawer as childhood dreams and stupid hope.

She does not look away first.

For a breath, he just… looks. Like he’s trying to line the woman in front of him up with a memory that never stopped haunting the edges of his mind.

Then his eyes dip—brief, telling—toward the inside of her wrist.

And back to her face.

She smiles sweetly.

It is the kind of smile that has teeth.

“If you’re checking for a leash,” she says, voice light as smoke, “you’ll be disappointed. I left it in my other century.”

Rhys goes rigid beside her so fast it’s almost a flinch.

Feyre stills, fork suspended.

Even Nesta’s gaze sharpens, interested despite herself.

Azriel doesn’t move.

But something tightens in his jaw, a minute shift like he’s swallowed a blade.

“I wasn’t—” he starts.

“Oh, you were,” she interrupts, pleasant as poison. “Everyone’s eyes have been going there all night. You’re just the only one brave enough to be obvious about it.”

Cassian, bless him, tries to bulldoze the moment before it can crack anyone open.

“Az finally decided to grace us with his social skills,” he announces, far too loudly. “Did you trip and fall into the dining room?”

Mor shoots him a look. “Cassian.”

Azriel’s gaze stays on her. Steady. Intent. Too careful.

“You still talk like that,” he says.

She tilts her head. “Like what?”

“Like you’re about to bite someone,” Azriel answers, tone mild. Deadly in its calm.

Rhys’s shoulders tense as if preparing to lunge between them.

She smiles—bright and thin. A blade disguised as charm. “Only when I’m hungry.”

Cassian points his fork at her like he’s caught her in a lie. “You’re always hungry.”

“For peace,” she says. “For quiet. For people minding their business.”

Mor snorts. “Good luck.”

Azriel’s eyes don’t leave her. “You used to say it like a joke.”

Her fingers still for a heartbeat.

She keeps her smile. Keeps it polished. Keeps it safe. “Maybe I’ve matured.”

Cassian laughs loudly. “No.”

Even Nesta’s mouth twitches.

Azriel’s gaze narrows slightly—as if he’s hearing something under her words he doesn’t like. “And yet,” he says, quiet, “you’re still here.”

There it is again—those simple statements that feel too close to truth.

Her chest tightens.

She lifts her glass in a small salute. “Try not to sound so disappointed.”

“I’m not,” Azriel says immediately.

Too immediate.

Too certain.

The candlelight catches his siphons. His wings shift, a controlled adjustment that still reads as restless.

Her mind, traitorous and sharp, takes inventory anyway—how he’s filled out, the way his leathers fit like he was poured into them, the faint shadows beneath his eyes that weren’t there when she last saw him. Like sleep has been optional for him for a long time.

Azriel’s throat works once. His gaze flicks to the wall, then back to her, as if anchoring himself to the present so he doesn’t say the wrong thing.

Nyx entirely unimpressed with the conversation light lights up like someone has just arrived who belongs to him.

“UNCLE AZ IS HERE!” he yells, nearly launching himself out of her lap.

“Hello, Nyx,” Azriel says, voice gentler, and he lifts a hand. Nyx scrambles across the table edge like a tiny warrior and grabs Azriel’s fingers with both sticky hands.

“Shiny!” Nyx announces, pointing at Azriel’s siphons.

Azriel’s mouth twitches. “Yes.”

Nyx squints up at him, solemn. “You late.”

Cassian coughs to hide a laugh.

Azriel’s mouth twitches, the smallest betrayal. “I am,” he agrees gravely. “That’s on me.”

Nyx nods, satisfied with the apology, then leans closer to her, stage-whispering, “Uncle Az is quiet.”

A startled snort escapes her.

Azriel’s gaze flicks—just once—to her mouth at the sound, like it matters.

She hates herself for noticing.

Hates herself for the split-second thought—ridiculous, unwanted—that maybe he changed too. That maybe he has a secret mate waiting in some corner of the world the way Cassian did, the way Rhys did.

The thought lands sour and sharp, and she crushes it immediately.

Not jealousy.

Not longing.

Just… old reflex. Old hurt.

She takes a slow sip of wine to drown it.

Azriel watches her drink like he’s learning how she hides.

Then he says, softer—almost careful—“Welcome home.”

The words hit her harder than they should.

Not because they’re dramatic.

Because they aren’t.

Because they don’t ask for anything. Don’t accuse. Don’t pry. Don’t soften the edges.

Because for a century she’s told herself home is a myth she no longer qualifies for—and he says it like it’s a fact.

She keeps her expression steady through sheer spite.

“You’re late,” she tells him, echoing Nyx with a knife’s smile.

Cassian chokes. Mor’s eyes widen. Feyre’s lips press together like she’s trying not to react. Rhys’s gaze snaps to Azriel, warning.

Azriel doesn’t flinch.

If anything, something in his eyes goes darker—older.

“I know,” he says.

Two words.

A lifetime inside them.

She feels the old ache stir—stupid and familiar, the ghost of a girl who once waited for wings in the dark.

She shoves it back down with the same ruthless discipline she’s used to survive everything else.

Nyx looks at Mor next. “Auntie Mor is loud.”

Mor snorts. “Rude.”

Nyx nods, delighted by truth. “Yes.”

Cassian coughs to hide a laugh. “He’s got your personality, Feyre.”

Feyre glares. “Excuse you.”

Rhys mutters, “He has all our personalities, apparently,” like it’s a problem he’s going to have to solve with bribery.

Azriel’s gaze flicks to Rhys at that—brief, and something passes between them. A silent exchange: don’t push. not yet.

And then Mor—gentle, careful—tries anyway.

“So,” she says, voice soft as velvet, “where were you?”

The room stills in that subtle way it does when everyone pretends they aren’t holding their breath.

Rhys’s hand tightens on his fork.

Azriel’s eyes fix on her face, suddenly too intent.

Cassian tries to make it sound casual. “Yeah—like, did you get up to anything fun? Any parties? Any… politics-ish things?”

She keeps her smile. “Somewhere with terrible architecture.”

Cassian chuckles, grateful. “That tells us nothing.”

“Correct.”

Rhys’s voice is too soft. “Were you safe?”

Nesta doesn’t ask. She watches. Like she’s waiting to see what the question does to her.

Azriel says nothing.

But his attention snags on her like a hook.

She smiles.

A flash of memory strikes—unwanted, involuntary.

A room with velvet drapes. A sleeping mind open like a throat. A polite voice behind her: Just soften him. He’ll thank you later.

Her stomach turns.

She blinks once, hard.

Back to candlelight. Back to bread.

She forces her voice steady. “Define safe.”

“Don’t do that” Rhys says sharply.

“Don’t do what?” she asks, too light. “Answer honestly?”

Mor reaches across the table as if she’s going to touch her hand, then thinks better of it and stops halfway.

Azriel’s shadows gather closer to his boots, listening.

Mor leans forward slightly, eyes shining. “You can tell us. Now.”

She lifts her glass. “To your optimism.”

Rhys’s fingers tighten around his fork.

Feyre’s gaze is gentle, but it doesn’t look away. “We don’t need details,” Feyre says softly. “Just… you.”

You. As if she is still the same shape.

As if a century didn’t carve her into something sharper.

Her own throat tight with nausea. Her hands clenched so hard her nails cut her palms.

A soft, almost bored voice: You’ll learn. Or you’ll burn.

She blinks hard, once.

She forces the smile wider.

“I’m here,” she says, too bright. “Isn’t that what matters?”

Rhys’s expression cracks at the edges, like he knows there’s a storm behind her teeth.

“It matters,” he says, hoarse. “But—”

“But what?” she snaps, sharper than she means to.

Silence.

Nyx pauses mid-chew.

Cassian’s grin falters. Mor’s eyes soften. Feyre’s hand goes still on her wineglass. Amren’s gaze sharpens like a blade being drawn.

Azriel’s shadows ripple.

She can feel it—her control fraying, the weight of all the unsaid pressing at the inside of her ribs.

If she stays here, with their eyes on her, with their warmth and their worry and their need—she will either break open—

—or she will start screaming.

And she refuses to give them that.

Not tonight.

Not on the first day home.

Not when she can still taste old orders on the back of her tongue.

She sets her fork down with care. Too much care.

“I’m tired,” she says lightly, voice trembling at the edges despite her best efforts.

Rhys stands too fast, chair scraping. “Wait—”

She looks at him.

There is a plea in his face he doesn’t try to hide.

As if if she leaves the room, she might leave the house.

Leave the city.

Leave him.

“I need a moment,” she says quietly. “Alone.”

Rhys swallows. His hands flex at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach for her again. “Please,” he says, softer. “Just—don’t—”

Don’t disappear.

The words sit between them, unspoken and devastating.

She softens, just a fraction.

Not enough to make her vulnerable. Just enough to make her human.

“I’m upstairs,” she murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

Rhys nods once—jerky, like he’s forcing himself to accept it. “All right.”

She turns before she can change her mind.

Behind her, she feels Azriel’s gaze follow her out like the brush of shadow at her back.

And for a terrifying heartbeat, she swears she can feel—hear—the unsaid thing in it:

I’m here too.

She doesn’t look back.

Because if she does, she might remember how she once waited for him to come—how she held onto the idea of wings in the dark like it was a rope—

And the part of her that survived by turning hope into something smaller and safer will start screaming that she is not allowed to want anything again.

⸻

Azriel knew before the wards finished singing.

Before the sentry’s frantic pulse of magic hit the hill. Before Rhys’s power snapped outward like a net thrown too fast. Before anyone in the River House had time to look up and feel that shift in the air that meant something impossible just happened.

His shadows told him.

They didn’t speak in words, not exactly. They never had. But they gathered at his shoulders with a sudden, giddy urgency, tugging him toward the city as if they’d caught a scent they’d been missing for a century.

Her.

The knowledge landed in his bones with the force of a blade thrown true.

He went still on the rooftop, hands half-wrapped around a dagger he hadn’t realized he’d drawn. The Sidra below glittered with late-day light. The city hummed. The world kept turning.

And somewhere, in the span of a single breath, the past stopped being a sealed room.

He should have gone immediately.

He didn’t.

Not because he didn’t want to see her. Gods.

Because Rhys deserved the first sight of her—Rhys deserved to fall to his knees if that’s what his body needed, deserved to have those first seconds unobserved by the male who had once been the quiet orbit at the edge of her childhood.

Because Azriel… had no right to be the first face she saw.

Not after a century of silence.

Not after the way her eyes used to track the sky for him, young and hopeless. Not after the way she’d waited for something that never came.

His shadows stirred, impatient, almost affronted by his stillness.

Go, they seemed to say, tugging at his shoulders, curling around his wrists.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe.

In. Hold. Out.

Center.

The way he’d learned to do when rage threatened to spill. When fear tried to make him move too fast. When the world shifted and he had to decide whether he would be weapon or man.

He told himself he was staying away because Rhys needed that moment.

He told himself he was staying away because she needed space.

He told himself he was staying away because a century changes people, and barging in like a claim—like he belonged in her first breath of home—would be unforgivable.

All of those things were true.

And none of them touched the simplest truth:

He was afraid of what he would feel when he saw her.

Afraid she would look back and see… nothing worth returning for.

So he waited.

He let Rhys have the yard. The knees in the dirt. The name—little star—like a prayer.

Azriel stayed where the shadows could hold him in place while the city below absorbed the impossible.

By the time he moved, twilight had turned the river to dark glass.

He took the long way. He used alleys and rooftops, not because he needed stealth in his own city, but because he needed the minutes. Needed the slow walk of his feet to make his mind match his body.

His shadows skittered ahead, then returned, then wound around his forearms as if bracing him.

When he reached the River House, he paused outside the wards and listened.

Laughter. A child’s voice. The clink of plates.

Home, his shadows whispered, and the word tasted strange in his mouth tonight.

He stepped inside.

Warmth hit him like a wall.

And then he saw her.

Not the myth. Not the memory.

Her.

Seated at the table with Nyx in her lap like she’d always belonged there and never belonged there at all.

It was the stillness that struck him first. The way she held herself like the world was always on the verge of becoming dangerous. Like she’d learned to take up as little space as possible while still daring anyone to try and move her.

Her smile was sharp. Polished. Practiced.

A blade disguised as humor.

It shook him more than he was prepared for.

Because he remembered her laughter—loud, fearless. He remembered the way she used to sprawl on the training ring’s edge and heckle Cassian until he chased her. He remembered her storming into rooms like she owned the air.

This woman sat like she was choosing her movements.

Like she had learned that bodies could be punished for the wrong kind of honesty.

And when he spoke—Welcome home—he meant it with a sincerity that nearly cracked his own ribs open. He meant it the way you mean a vow you don’t know how to offer without begging.

When Mor asked where she’d been, Azriel felt something shift in the shadows near her wrist—so faint he almost thought he imagined it. A flinch that didn’t belong to muscle.

It made his hands curl into fists under the table.

He didn’t know what had been done to her.

He knew what could be done to someone.

And the not knowing clawed at him like an old debt.

When she stood to leave, he did not move.

Every part of him wanted to follow.

To stand outside her door like Rhys had, to knock, to say something useless and true like I’m sorry and I’m here and I should have—

But he didn’t.

Because she’d asked for a moment alone.

Because the look on her face as she rose wasn’t just exhaustion.

It was restraint—thin, fraying.

It was the kind of restraint that meant if one more person reached for her, she might finally break… or finally bite.

So he stayed seated while her footsteps faded up the stairs.

His shadows drifted toward the hallway anyway, restless, grieving in their own strange way.

Azriel stared at the empty doorway she’d disappeared through and realized, with a quiet brutality, that he had been training for the wrong kind of pain.

He had prepared himself for her absence.

He had not prepared himself for her return.

⸻

The guest room—guest, the word tastes wrong—closes behind her with a soft click that feels too final.

She leans against the door for a moment, breathing through the rush in her blood.

The River House hums with sleeping minds as the house settles.

So many dreams. So many soft, unguarded places.

She could feel them if she let herself. She does not.

She crosses to the window and stares at the Sidra glittering under moonlight. The city sprawls beneath her like fallen stars.

Her wrist aches—phantom pressure, phantom heat—like an old shackle remembering the shape of her bones.

She presses her fingers there until the sensation fades.

“Not now,” she whispers to the ceiling, to the dark, to whatever part of her past still thinks it has the right to speak. “Not here.”

Silence answers.

But when she lies back and stares up at the ceiling, the air feels… thin.

She doesn’t move.

She doesn’t reach.

She only lies very still until her heartbeat slows.

Home should not feel like a trap.

And yet.

⸻

Rhys doesn’t sleep.

He tries—Mother, he tries.

He walks the halls twice, just to make sure the house still holds her. That she hasn’t vanished like morning mist. He stands outside her door once and doesn’t knock, because he knows what that would do to her.

He returns to his study instead and sinks into the chair behind his desk like his body has finally remembered it has weight.

His hands shake as he pours a drink he doesn’t touch.

Joy keeps crashing into him in waves so hard it makes him dizzy.

She’s here.

She’s alive.

He sees it again and again: her on the path, hood falling back, eyes sharp as ever. The way her mouth trembled when he said little star like the name found an old crack and slid straight through. The way she stood while he broke, because she always had—because she was always stubborn like that, always furious and bright and impossible.

He presses a hand to his face, laughs once under his breath, and feels tears spill again—quiet, stupid, uncontrollable.

“You’re home,” he whispers to the empty room, like saying it enough times will make it true.

A memory tries to rise.

Chalk on black stone. Salt on the wind. His father’s voice, low and certain, saying something about necessity and debt.

Rhys clamps down on the thought so hard it hurts.

Not tonight.

Tonight is hers.

Tonight is—miracle, relief, pain braided together so tightly he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

He should be grateful. He is grateful. He is grateful enough it feels like it might kill him.

And yet all he can think is—

I sent her.

Not with his hands. Not with a shove. Not with cruelty.

Worse: with his silence in the wrong moment. With his fear of what would happen if he fought harder. With his belief—cowardly, desperate—that there might still be time to fix it later.

A faint scrape sounds at the balcony door.

Rhys goes still.

His magic unfurls in a silent sweep.

Nothing.

No intruder. No scent of blood.

Only a folded strip of dark parchment resting on the outer sill like it has always been there.

His stomach drops.

He crosses the room in two strides, opens the door, and snatches it up.

No crest. No signature.

A seal pressed into bruised-purple wax that makes something old in his bones recoil.

His hands go cold as he breaks it.

Two lines, written in an elegant hand that feels like a smile you shouldn’t trust:

The term is complete. Do not mistake that for freedom.

Rhys’s vision tunnels.

For a heartbeat he hears his father again—not as a memory, but as if the man is in the room with him, speaking over a circle of chalk and salt and blood.

This is the price.

This is how we keep her alive.

This is how we keep Night breathing.

This is how we get what we are owed.

Rhys’s lungs seize.

He grips the railing until the wood creaks.

His eyes squeeze shut as if he can crush the past back into place with sheer force.

A voice cracking with sheer desperation for the first time, terror shredding pride, her hands in his, her eyes wide enough to drown in.

Please Rhys, Please.

The words echo in his skull like a curse.

Like a vow he failed.

Part 2 ->

A/N: ITS SUPER LONG I KNOWWW IM SORRY, next ch will be shorter haha, any theories on what the bargain was for? lmk if you wanna b tagged <3

⌘ Taglist ⌘

@xadenswhore @jasmineee05 @griffincorn @immortaliaslane @alelapulema

[freakcircuswives]

The Caged Beast

Pairing: Harlequin x Reader

Words: 1.6k

Warnings: Blood, blood drinking, flesh wound, biting, eluding to venom

A/n: This is for @p0isonsnake’s Caged Beast event! Just thought I’d whip a lil something up. I hope you all enjoy this. It’s kinda rushed so it may be bad. ~Fox🦊

You know you shouldn’t be here.

The deeper parts of the circus feel wrong in a way you can’t quite explain, like the laughter and color around are just a mask stretched thin over something darker. The further you walk, the quieter it gets. No music. No chatter. Just the faint creak of canvas and something…heavier lingering in the air.

You almost turn back. Almost. But then you see it, the cage.

It’s not just a cage, it’s reinforced. Layered iron, bent and twisted in deliberate ways, like it was designed to hold something that doesn’t follow the normal rules of nature. The bars are too thick, too close together, etched with faint marks you don’t recognize.

And inside—him, Harlequin.

At first, you don’t move, you just stare because he doesn’t look like himself. Not entirely at least.

His body is larger, warped into something more monstrous—limbs elongated, posture coiled like he’s always on the edge of movement. His skin looks almost wrong under the dim light, textured and shadowed in ways that don’t belong to anything human. Black tendrils curl and shift behind him slowly, like they have a mind of their own.

And his eyes they find you instantly. There’s no delay, no confusion, like he knew you were coming.

“Well,” he says, voice low, roughened in a way that makes it drag slightly. “Look what wandered in.”

Your breath catches, “You’re…locked up.”

He tilts his head, slow and deliberate.

“Punished,” he corrects lightly, “Jester does so enjoy theatrics.”

There’s a faint rattle as he shifts, something in his form brushing the bars. You don’t miss the way they hold. You don’t miss the way he doesn’t try to break them.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he continues, softer now. “This version of me is a little less…restrained.”

You should listen. But you won’t. Not when it involves him.

“I came to help,” you say instead.

There’s a pause. Not long—but it stretches. Just enough for something to shift. At first, it’s almost imperceptible. The easy amusement on his face doesn’t disappear, it tightens. Like a thread being pulled just a little too taut. The curve of his smile lingers, but it sharpens at the edges, losing that playful looseness and settling into something more deliberate.

His eyes change first. They don’t widen. Don’t narrow. They focus. What was once a passing glance becomes intent, steady, unblinking, dragging slowly over you like he’s reassessing something he thought he already understood. Like your words have given him new information, and he’s recalculating in real time.

There’s interest there now. Not casual. Not idle. Something deeper…

Hungrier.

His head tilts slightly, just enough to study you from a different angle, and the silence between you feels heavier than before, like it’s no longer empty, but filled with something unspoken. When he smiles again, it’s slower. More controlled. Less like a reaction..

And more like a decision.

“Did you, Kitten?” he murmurs.

You step closer.

The air feels heavier near the cage. Warmer. Thicker. Like stepping into something that’s already alive.

“Careful,” he says, voice almost teasing now. “You’re getting very close.”

You stop just within reach.

Too close.

You know it the moment his gaze drops to your arm. Your wrist—tracking.

“You’re not afraid?” he asks quietly.

You hesitate.

“…No, I’m never afraid of you.”

That makes him smile, slow, predatory.

“That’s unfortunate.”

It happens too fast. One second you’re standing there, the next—his hand snaps through the bars. It wraps around your wrist instantly, fingers long and firm, grip unyielding as he yanks you forward. Your body hits the cage with a sharp jolt, breath knocked from your lungs as cold iron presses against you.

“Harle—”

“Shh.”

His voice is right there now.

Close.

Too close.

Your arm is trapped between the bars, his grip tight but not crushing, just enough to make it clear you’re not pulling away unless he lets you.

“There you are,” he murmurs.

His face is inches from your skin. You can feel his breath: Warm, uneven, hungry. His other hand slides up your arm slowly, fingers dragging along your skin with deliberate care, like he’s reacquainting himself with something he’s missed.

“Such a kind thing,” he says softly. “Coming all this way… just for me.”

You swallow, “I said I’d help you—”

“You already are,” his lips barely brush your arm. Just enough to make you still.

The contact is slow, so slow it feels deliberate in a way that makes it impossible to ignore. He doesn’t rush it, doesn’t take more than that first press of his lips, lingering there like he’s memorizing the warmth of your skin before anything else begins. You can feel the shape of his mouth against you, the faint shift of his breath as it steadies, as if he’s savoring the moment before indulging in it.

Then his tongue follows, dragging along your arm in a single, unbroken line, unhurried and intentional, the warmth of it sharp enough to make your breath hitch. It’s not just the sensation, it’s the focus behind it, the way he pays attention to every reaction, the way his grip tightens just slightly as you tense, like he’s noting it, storing it, enjoying it.

The heat lingers where he’s touched you, spreading outward, and the contrast between the cold bars at your front makes it worse, makes everything sharper. When he pulls back just enough to look at you again, his eyes are darker, heavier, like he’s already decided something, and the faintest hint of a smile curves at his mouth, knowing, patient, and just a little too pleased with the way your breathing has changed.

“Still warm,” he murmurs against you. “Still alive.”

Your fingers curl against the bars.

“Harlequin—”

“I’ve been good,” he interrupts, quieter now. “Locked away. Restrained,” his grip tightens just slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind, “I’ve been very patient.”

There’s something dangerous in the way he says it.

“And patience…” he continues softly, lips brushing your skin again, “deserves to be rewarded.”

You barely have time to react before his teeth sink into your arm—sharp and precise, the initial sting stealing the breath from your lungs as your body jolts instinctively against the cage. His grip tightens, anchoring you there, not cruel but absolute, keeping you exactly where he wants you. For a moment, it’s just pain—clean, bright, undeniable—until it shifts. The pressure eases, not releasing, just…adjusting, his mouth still pressed to your skin, breath warm against you. Then something else follows.

A slow, spreading heat blooms from where he bit you, curling outward through your arm in a way that makes your muscles go weak instead of tense. It’s disorienting—wrong, but not unpleasant—your breath catching again, this time softer, uneven. He feels it immediately. You know he does by the way he pauses, the faintest hum vibrating against your skin as he continues, drawing from you in slow, measured pulls. Not rushed. Not desperate. Controlled. Intentional. Like he’s savoring both the taste and the reaction, the subtle shift in your breathing, the way your body leans just slightly into his hold instead of away.

His tongue traces over the wound again, slower now, almost indulgent, and the warmth lingers, heavier this time, sinking deeper beneath your skin as his eyes flick up to meet yours: dark, knowing, and quietly pleased with what he’s done to you.

“There it is,” he exhales softly.

Your breath comes uneven now, catching and stuttering in a way you can’t quite control, your free hand tightening around the bars as your knees threaten to give beneath you. It’s not just the bite—it’s what follows. The slow, deliberate way he lingers, refusing to rush, taking only what he wants and nothing more.

His tongue drags over the wound again, unhurried, catching what spills with a careful precision that feels almost indulgent. The warmth from before hasn’t faded, it’s deepened, spreading through your arm in slow waves that make your body feel heavier, softer, like you’re sinking into the sensation rather than pulling away from it. He watches you the entire time, eyes half-lidded but sharp with focus, tracking every shift in your expression, every uneven breath, every small sound you try(and fail) to suppress.

His grip adjusts subtly, steadying you when you falter, not letting you fall, not letting you escape either. There’s something almost fascinated in the way he studies you, like your reactions are just as important as the act itself, his attention fixed and unwavering as the space between pain and something far more dangerous begins to blur.

“You came to feed me,” he murmurs, voice low and almost thoughtful, like he’s testing the shape of the idea rather than asking it. There’s no real question in it—only quiet certainty. His grip shifts on your wrist, loosening just enough that you feel the choice in it, the control behind how easily he could tighten it again. His thumb drags slowly along your pulse, not restraining, reminding.

“You walked all the way down here,” he continues softly, eyes lifting to meet yours, dark and intent, “came right up to the cage… stood exactly where I could reach you.” A faint smile curves at his lips, slower this time, more deliberate. “And you didn’t pull away.” He tilts his head just slightly, studying you like he already knows the answer. “…So tell me,” he adds, quieter now, voice brushing against something dangerously close to gentle, “what else was I supposed to think?”

You can’t tell if you’re supposed to answer.

You’re not sure you can.

He leans in just a little closer, lips brushing your skin again—this time softer, almost thoughtful.

But his eyes—

Still dark.

Still focused.

Still hungry.

And despite everything—

He hasn’t let you go.

[nwervous]

݁₊ ⊹ 𐔌 I CAN SEE YOU, I CAN FEEL YOU’RE ALONE .ᐟ

꩜ summary. in a reality where satoru gojo was never sealed, he comes home after being on the edge of madness, and there you are.

꩜ pairing(s). satoru gojo x reader

꩜ content. unprotected sex, choking, MDNI, cream, groping, somnophilia,

꩜ word count. 2.5k

꩜ a/n. insane gojo >>

You knew you shouldn’t let the worry consume you like this. Life with a man constantly devoured by duty was always destined to be this way. The way the meals you had prepped were refrigerated once again, not to mention the cold nights you had spent alone, were the most difficult to endure. Each was shadowed by the silent doubt of whether he would even return.

Such thoughts did nothing but shatter your heart, time and time again, each time duty called. You were left to remain in the home he had rented for the time being. A man of his wealth took the liberty to clutch onto you whenever and wherever he desired. Having knowledge of your whereabouts was the only thing that would settle him. Selfish, perhaps, it only had to be under his very own roof.

You tightened your throat in an effort to rid yourself of the knot slowly swelling within you, the warmth of the water trickling down as you took a step out of the shower. The steam clung to your skin like an embrace, offering a sweet sense of comfort. Your face felt weighted by the sorrow etched into it, not being able to bring yourself to meet your reflection in the eyes.

You took hold of your glaucous-colored designer garment, its lace brushing gently against your forearm. Satoru had purchased it for you many months ago, yet only now have you considered wearing it. You convinced yourself that your intentions were only to appear presentable for him, a quiet means of coping with the unavoidability of waking to an empty pillow.

Fingers glided over the delicate lace, savoring its silk texture, before slipping the short gown over your head. Lifting your hair gently, letting it tumble—brushing against the back of your neck. The fabric draping over your body in effortless grace, needing only a gentle tug at the hems to settle it in place to embrace your form perfectly. You misted a sweet, subtle fragrance onto your neck and wrists, gently pressing them together before stepping out of the bathroom.

Each step you took stirred a quiet creak from the hardwood beneath you—a gentle sigh that broke the silence only you endured. You moved towards the master bedroom, quietly closing the door behind you, as if sealing yourself from the world beyond.

You approached the thick bedding and lifted one leg at a time as you eased right into the cushions, wishing they might swallow you whole in that very moment. Nestling between the pillows, molding the emptiness into the shape of a missing body—then drew a light blanket over yourself, hoping it might hold you the same way he would.

A tightness gripped your chest as you fought to steady your breath, determined to keep the tears at bay. With your eyes tightly shut, you shifted into a fetal position, seeking solace within your own arms. In time, your mind began to settle, the world dissolving into complete darkness, granting you to drift deeply into a quiet, thoughtless rest.

Your chest rose and fell in a calm, steady rhythm, hour after hour. Raindrops tapped softly against the windowpane, their delicate pattern clinging. The gentle murmur of the drizzle wrapped around you, filling the silence with a quiet warmth.

Suddenly, the sound of wet, heavy footsteps approached the door. It swung open with abrupt force, cutting through the stillness. And there he stood—Satoru Gojo, drenched and disheveled, stripped of the polished image he so carefully kept from the world.

The drizzle intensified into a steady downpour, rain cascading over his midnight-blue zip-up, darkening the fabric as it clung to him. His white hair, usually untamed, was slicked down against his face—sharp features highlighted beneath the weight of the rain.

He advanced in slowly, each sharp clack of his dress shoes sliced through the stillness. His baby-blue pupils were locked ahead, pierced and unblinking as if he were bracing for something he was not able to put a finger on. His muscles tensed, nothing—not in the room nor the storm could pull his gaze away.

Each stride he took was slow and heavy, his frame curled inward as if shielding himself. Gojo’s head hung low, his pearl-soaked hair clung to his forehead, dripping down his cheekbones as they veiled his eyes. Despite it not being seen, the way he carried himself spoke more than anything else.

He paused for a moment, his large hand resting on the door knob where you resided. For a long, breathless moment, he stood there, motionless. Suspended in a place between overwhelming emotion and pure emptiness.

The door creaked open, his eyes finding you instantly—sharp and unmoving. His lids slowly widened, studying you with a gaze that held no fear or rage, something far more consuming. An endless, dark, and unspoken hunger. Equal obsession and an enticing sight that lulled him closer.

His heartbeat was frantic, though not a trace reflected on his expression nor body. Shifting closer, inch by inch—eyes sweeping over you from head to toe, measured and lingering. Each burning glance threaded with a gruesome yearning he was not letting show.

Your body was sunken deep into the cushions, the gentle lace of your gown slipping just enough to bare your one supple breast. Gown ridden up, gathering loosely at your waist—exposing the under of your plump ass, accented with a coordinated thong that hugged you gorgeously.

Your face was the vision of quiet beauty, so serene and achingly beautiful. Untouched and free from the worry, purely lost in the peace and softness deep sleep offered you. To say this would unravel Satoru would barely scratch the surface. The urge consumed him in a way words could hardly ever capture.

Gojo’s expression remained stilled, eye faintly widened, pupils dark, enlarged, dilated—reflecting a blend between madness and deep unrest. Drawn by pure instinct, he inched closer—his large frame looming over yours, casting a cold shadow. Observing the way your tits rose up and down beneath him, a quiet tension built within him, his trousers growing uncomfortably tight.

He lowered his upper body, strong arms bracing his weight as he closed the distance. Satoru’s lips hovered an inch above your soft, warm nipple. Each silent breath you drew caused your chest to rise, your nipple softly grazing his glistening bottom lip. It brushed his lips three times more, each touch savored—drinking the moment away.

Cool raindrops slipped between your chest, slightly anchoring your consciousness to the world around you. It wasn’t enough quite yet. His damp hair grazed you as if it were a whisper—delicate, sensual. Gojo’s lips parted, heated breath expelling from his chest, tickling your smooth skin.

A large, veined hand cupped your left breast, slow and possessive as if it belonged to him. His enormous tongue easily glided over your nipple, sweltering and covered in his slick. Satoru’s left arm raised, feeding attention to your other tit, groping and squeezing it within his hold. He worked your skin with unrelenting fervor, the tension unravelling from his back and shoulders.

A deep, rugged exhale tore from his lungs, feral and raw—like a predator finally sinking its teeth into its prize. When he would release you, his cheeks would hollow with a slow pull, ending in a deep, intentional pop! that echoed throughout the room—feeding the sound that pleased him deeply. Your tit bounced from his doing, your body writhed beneath him, overcome by the sensations knocking at your nerves. You moaned breathlessly, though lost in deep sleep, the subtle, involuntary responses your body twitched to.

Gojo loosened his hold onto you, his fingers trailing down to the buckle of his uniform trousers. His thumb hooked the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down in one motion, forcing his cock to spring—free, thick, and heavy with need.

A deep groan fled from his chest. The sensation of relief washed over his being, pent-up tension from battle finally breaking loose. His head dipped down once more, adjusting his stance to part his legs slightly. A hand reached towards your laced, soaked cunt, his finger tracing the slit between your lips. Your slick completely drenching his index.

Satoru gently urged your legs apart, his touch firm but unhurried until one was pressed upward, folding toward your chest under his steady hand. He drove his hips forward, claiming the moment without hesitation. His thick cock slid in between you, his rose-dusted mushroom tip kissing your clit sweetly.

His hand clamped down around the back of your thigh, nails barely digging—enough to leave the promise of a mark. Etching himself onto you; you weren’t going anywhere, and he would let everyone know who you belonged to.

The bed emitted a soft creak with each of his movements. Gojo’s hips grinding forward in a controlled, rhythmic pattern. The sharp thrust in his hips made your plush ass spring up and down onto his pelvis—your breasts tracing a similar circular rhythm.

A sudden breeze swept over your form, awakening an uneasiness within, yet your eyes stayed sealed, and your body was attempting to move from its motionlessness. Your brows tensed, lips parting with breathy murmurs as your hands moved instinctively on their own, seeking the warmth that held, craving the contact that began grounding you.

“Sa—toru?” You exhaled softly, the breath catching in your throat as your eyes struggled to even muster open. Fingertips brushing against the drenched fabric of his jacket—cold, heavy, clinging to him. In response, he deliberately removed his black compressed top, the fabric falling away to reveal his toned torso, before lifting one of your legs and draping it over his shoulder with poised control.

Gojo rose to his full height, his commanding presence now towering over you with ease, a stark contrast to his former, hunched posture. His piercing gaze fixed intently upon every subtle expression and motion your body revealed in response to his touch. He proceeded to squeeze the fat of your thigh, stealing a glance at your puffed-up pussy lips begging to be abused and fucked raw.

“Hey.” You spoke with evident concern, your mind tangled in the confusion wrought by just awakening a few moments ago and Gojo’s perplexing behavior.

Immediately, an overwhelming weight pressed into you. You found yourself being gradually hoisted up inch by inch, by nothing other than Satoru sliding his thick length into you, both hands with a firm grip—planted on your hips, drawing you farther down onto him, your cunt swallowing his cock entirely with no intentions of letting go.

“There you go, right where I want you.”

His gaze bore down into yours, pupils dilated and dark, fixed with an intensity that seemed to press into your very breath. Gojo drove his hips forward with a sudden, unbreakable force. Forcing you to slam down onto his cock mercilessly. The sudden jolt elicited a wince, your hands reaching out to grab onto the nearest surface in an effort to bring stability.

“T—oru? H-Hold on.” You pleaded with quiet desperation. Curious as to why Satoru was pounding your cute, needy, sopping cunt as you were resting. The vision of you sleeping with such fragile innocence ignited a fierce and possessive spark within him, stirring emotions both tender and on the border of obsessive.

With deliberate urgency, he drew the top of your gown down, as if seeing your tits were his lifeline—each movement charged with restrained urge and ache. Never before had you witnessed him so overcome with desperation, his desire laid bare in a way that was both animalistic and deeply consuming.

With a stilled, tense posture, Gojo lowered his head to rest against the curve of your ankle, a gesture as casual as it was claiming. Ironic it was, appearing as nonchalant while dragging you down, tearing your pussy from the inside. His cock attentively seeking the exact place he would push you beyond your limits.

You whined helplessly, your gummed walls massaging his cock, begging for his milk to fill you. Your slick seeps from your cunt, trickling in frequent amounts onto the bed sheets, not to mention Satoru’s thighs glistening, thoroughly soaked from your attempts to swallow his cock greedily. His momentum built swiftly, with an insatiable desire to watch you writhe, cream on him. The sight of it awakened something fierce, a grueling, possessive craving no one has ever come close to stirring.

He took in the faint, involuntary shiver that passed through your legs. The ceaseless slaps he would unleash onto your pretty, creamed-out pussy was nothing unlike before. Drawing both legs back against the headboard, the weight of his built chest settled against the back of your legs—contorting you into a close resemblance of a lawn chair.

“That’s it, gooood girl. Don’t hold back now.” Deep, throaty moans poured from you. His lips curled into a sinister smile, framed by eyes of vivid sky blue, wide and sick. Something was unusual. This wasn’t like him—his pace surged fiercely, every forceful thrust pinning you further into the mattress. A force clutching your body tightly, as if suffocating you.

Pale, ghostly lashes fluttered above his captivating irises, resting his cold, dampened forehead against yours.

“That’s it, gooood girl. Don’t hold back now.” He purred. Fully ascending back before slamming his pelvis against your cunt until a warm red spread across his ivory complexion. A trickle of slick cast across both your bodies in scattered bursts. Satoru’s large puce-tinted balls, striking the back of your sopping pussy; coating him in cream.

“M’ god, Toru. Please, please. I need you.” Emitting a trembled whisper, while your breasts were being ravaged and struck by his hands. The speed escalated abruptly, lips curling into a wider, animalistic, predatory smile. The dewy slap of your little puffed pussy carrying along the very room.

A slow dance of fingertips ghosted along your neck, clenching it with careful force. Ramming into you raw, his cock beginning to become swollen with pressure from your pretty cunt.

“You trying to make me fall harder, huh sweetheart?” A curved grin hovering near your skin as your walls flutter and clamped along his pulsing cock, molding perfectly to fit him and only him—becoming narrower and narrower.

“Right there, p—lease. I’m gon.” Waves of euphoria coursed through you, tightening steadily around him in short notice. A deep arch ran through your back, allowing Gojo to effortlessly lean into you, crushing the insides of your cunt. His breath warmed the very hollow of your soft neck, the muscles along his back tightened, his core pulled taut.

You gathered your resolve, squeezing your eyes shut as you arched your legs further backward. A guttural growl escaped him as his hand settled firmly against your lower abdomen, exerting steady pressure as he continuously pounded in and out of you.

Alas, completely pouring ropes and ropes of his seed in your already swollen, abused cunt he adored. Filling you to the fullest extent he can manage. Your skin flushed a deep wine from the strain he held onto you, while the glass surrounding the bedroom gave way, shattering into fragments.

His gaze grew heavy-lidded as his head dropped, his full weight surrendering onto you—unable to further hold himself. Your breasts cushioned him from his abrupt fall.

There he stood, finally free from the shadows of battle haunting him. His porcelain lashes glided faintly across your skin with delicate softness, his serene, angelic face bathed in quiet relief, now surrendered to the quiet comfort of your arms. All that remained was the sound and touch of rain, pouring in and enveloping you completely.

[synity]

THE LANGUAGE OF LINES

(Xu Minghao x Reader)

*Slice Of Life, Fluff, Established relationship, Comfort Fiction, Cozy Fiction, Mutual appreciation, Unconditional love, Domestic romance, Relationship fiction, Artist's Tale Creative fiction, artistic mediums, technical terms*

-1.4k word counts-

The morning sun, still soft and golden, kissed the vibrant petals in their garden, turning dewdrops into shimmering jewels. This was Y/N's sanctuary, a lush explosion of color and fragrance behind their converted loft, and increasingly, it was becoming Xu Minghao's as well not just a place of quiet contemplation, but a wellspring of inspiration for his own art.

Their home, a testament to their shared love for art, was a living canvas in itself. While the interior was a beautifully curated blend of industrial chic and bohemian comfort, the garden was pure, unadulterated passion. Cascading wisteria draped over a rustic pergola, a riot of roses climbed brick walls, and in a dedicated, sun-drenched patch, stood a magnificent bed of Calla Lilies. Their elegant, trumpet-like blooms, in shades of creamy white and deep purple, stood tall and proud, a favored subject for Y/N’s oil paintings.

Minghao, ever the multidisciplinary artist, moved between digital illustration, intricate ink painting, and bold abstract canvases. But he had a particular fondness for figure drawing and capturing the subtle beauty of everyday moments. Y/N, an oil painter through and through, loved the rich textures and vibrant depth that her chosen medium offered. Lately, their artistic paths had intertwined even more closely, as Y/N had started learning oil painting with him, sharing techniques and brushes, their respective styles slowly influencing each other in delightful ways.

This particular morning, Y/N was completely lost in her world. Dressed in paint-splattered overalls, her hair tied loosely back, she was perched on a low, weathered wooden stool in front of an easel. Her brush danced across the canvas, already alive with the beginnings of a new piece: the elegant curves of the Calla Lilies, their pristine forms rendered with her characteristic blend of realism and soft, almost dreamlike atmosphere. A Common Blue butterfly, its delicate wings a vibrant sapphire, had alighted on one of the lily’s pristine white spathes, a fleeting moment of natural grace that Y/N was striving to immortalize.

Minghao had emerged with a steaming mug of jasmine tea, intending to read in the dappled shade of the pergola. But the sight of Y/N, so utterly absorbed, her brow furrowed in concentration, the sunlight catching the gold flecks in her hair, stopped him in his tracks. He watched her for a long moment, a soft smile playing on his lips. It wasn't just the butterfly or the lilies that captivated him; it was her. Her passion, her quiet dedication, the way her entire being seemed to pour into the canvas.

He retreated silently, not wanting to disturb her flow, and returned with his phone. From a discreet distance, he began to take pictures. He captured her profile, the intense focus in her eyes, the gentle arc of her hand as she mixed colors on her palette. He zoomed in on the butterfly, a tiny jewel against the lily’s purity, then pulled back to encompass the entire scene: Y/N, her easel, the vibrant garden, all bathed in the tender morning light. It wasn’t just a reference photo for a future drawing; it was a deep, personal moment he wanted to etch into his memory, a silent tribute to his muse.

Back in his studio, Minghao couldn't shake the image of Y/N. The digital tablets and complex software felt too cold, too impersonal for the warmth he felt. Instead, he pulled out his well-worn sketch pad, the one with slightly yellowed pages, and a handful of his favorite graphite pencils from the soft, smudgy 6B to the precise, sharp 2H.

He began to sketch. His initial strokes were quick, capturing the essence of the garden’s light and shadow. But soon, his focus narrowed. He drew Y/N first, not as a static figure, but as an embodiment of artistic grace. He sketched the delicate curve of her neck, the way her hair fell across her shoulder, the subtle tension in her hand as she held the brush. He spent time on the details: the smudges of paint on her clothes, the focused wrinkle between her brows, the gentle curve of her back as she leaned into her work.

Next, he meticulously rendered the Common Blue butterfly, its intricate wing patterns, its fragile antennae, perched on the elegant Calla Lily, its form both robust and ethereal. He found himself sketching multiple versions: one close-up of the butterfly, another of Y/N’s hand nearing the canvas, a third of the entire tableau, capturing the serenity of the moment. He even added Milo, curled up lazily under a rose bush in the background, a subtle, humorous nod to their shared life.

Each pencil stroke was infused with affection. He wasn't just drawing a scene; he was drawing his love for Y/N, his admiration for her dedication, and the profound beauty she brought into their world, both as a person and as an artist. He loved that she was learning oil painting with him, opening another avenue for their shared passion. The sketches were raw, honest, and filled with a quiet joy, a different kind of masterpiece than Y/N’s vibrant oils, but no less heartfelt.

Later that evening, as Y/N cleaned her brushes, Minghao approached her, a gentle smile on his face, holding out his sketch pad. "Look what you made me do," he teased softly, his eyes twinkling. Y/N took the pad, her eyes widening as she flipped through the pages. There she was, in countless tenderly observed details, surrounded by the garden, the butterfly, and the lilies a muse, immortalized not just on her canvas, but on his, through his loving gaze. A warmth bloomed in her chest, as vibrant and beautiful as the lilies in their garden.

Y/N took the sketch pad from Minghao, her fingers deliberately brushing his hand, a small, electric signal passing between them. She held the pad with the reverence usually reserved for a fragile ancient text. As she slowly turned the thick, slightly textured pages, her initial gasp of surprise gave way to a wave of deep, quiet awe that settled heavily in her chest.

She moved through the sketches with focused intensity, absorbing the intricate detail Minghao had poured into each graphite line. He hadn't just used his camera for reference; he had used his deepest empathy, rendering her not just as a figure, but as the embodiment of her creative soul. The curve of her back, the precise, minute tension in the muscles of her forearm, the furrowed brow that mirrored the challenge of translating the butterfly's wings it was all there, honest and beautifully observed.

A profound, almost overwhelming feeling of shyness and humility washed over her. It wasn't the shyness of being embarrassed, but the deep, quiet vulnerability that comes from being seen, truly seen, with such unambiguous love and admiration. His artistic gaze had stripped away her professional front and captured her pure dedication.

The emotional weight of the moment felt too vast, too precious for the clumsiness of language. She closed the pad slowly, the soft thud of the cover sounding loud in the spacious studio, and held the art close to her chest like a shield and a treasure. She looked up at Minghao, her eyes shining with gratitude, offering him a small, perfectly sincere smile that communicated the volumes of emotion she couldn't articulate.

Taking a decisive step toward him, she dropped the sketch pad slightly, freeing her arms to encircle his waist. She pulled him into a tight, secure embrace, burying her face against his chest. The hug was long and silent, a powerful conduit for the gratitude, the shyness, and the deep affection she felt. She squeezed him gently, savoring the comforting solidity of his presence the silent communication far more eloquent than any sentence could have been.

After a deep, shared breath, she leaned back just enough to reach his face, pressing a soft, lingering kiss directly onto his cheek, right where the faint shadow of his stubble met the smooth skin. It was her most sincere form of thanks for the unexpected, intimate gift of seeing her own soul through his loving eyes.

Releasing him, Y/N walked a few steps away. She didn't want the sketches to be put away or tucked into a drawer; they felt too vital for that. She moved to the wide, arched doorway that framed the transition between the working studio and the domestic warmth of the living area. With careful, almost ritualistic hands, she propped the open sketch pad against the doorframe, angling it slightly so the latest, most detailed drawing of her painting the butterfly was clearly visible to anyone entering or leaving the studio.

It was a conscious decision: placing his affectionate tribute to her at the very threshold of their shared life. It served as a permanent, physical reminder of their deep, interwoven support and the profound beauty of their shared creative journey, a constant foundation as they navigated their days. She finally turned back to Minghao, her expression soft and resolute, letting him know that his inspiration was now permanently integrated into the heart of their home.

[ttabacco]

Faux Colors

chapter 17

the R and M protocol

Synopsis; one lives in a world under the weight of shadows the other lives in a world that screams.

"The sky is blue like Sacrifice by Elton John"

warnings; swearing, heavy themes pairing; jeongguk × female reader genre; angst, slowburn, smut, fwb word count; 12.2k

a/n: rather lengthy chapter but it was needed. thank me later.

—

The botanical reserve didn't need color to demand your attention. Even stripped down to a world of absolute monochrome, the sheer, staggering scale of the place felt like a physical weight pressing against your chest.

Towering glass biomes rose out of the landscape like massive, crystalline ribcases, their frosted panes trapping a dense, heavy fog that blurred the silhouettes of prehistoric-looking ferns inside. Walking beside Jeongguk along the winding, gravel path, you kept your eyes moving, captivated by the rich tapestry of deep charcoal shadows, bright, silver-veined leaves, and the pale, chalky mist hanging over the soil. It was breathtaking. A hyper-textured labyrinth where every surface seemed to possess its own distinct grain, making the lack of pigment feel less like a sensory deficit and more like an intentional, high-contrast photograph.

The silence between you had shifted since you stepped out of the car. The suffocating, high-voltage tension of the radio dial had settled into a quiet, observant truce.

Jeongguk walked with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his heavy leather jacket, his combat boots crunching rhythmically against the loose stones. He wasn't rushing you. He kept his stride loose and measured, his eyes occasionally flicking sideways to track the way you stared at the overhanging canopy, watching you process the landscape.

"See anything you recognize, Void?" he asked, his voice low and raspy, cutting through the quiet rustle of the wind in the branches.

"Just that it's massive," you murmured, pulling your arms a little tighter around yourself as a damp, cool breeze swept through the path. "And it's... remarkably loud for a place with no music."

"It's the architecture," he replied, tilting his head back to look at the sweeping curve of a nearby greenhouse frame. "It forces the sound to pool. Every drop of condensation hitting a leaf echoes."

You kept walking, searching the perimeter for a place to finally anchor yourselves. The gravel path split, leading toward a secluded grove where the dense foliage parted to reveal a small, cleared sanctuary. Right in the center, tucked beneath the weeping, silver-grey branches of an ancient willow, sat a weathered stone bench. The surface was rough, mapped with dark moss and deep, fractured grooves that practically screamed with physical texture.

"There," you said, gesturing toward the clearing. "Let's find a spot before my legs give out."

Jeongguk let out a faint, amused huff, the corner of his mouth twitching as he followed your lead into the quiet, isolated shade.

You brushed a few stray, brittle leaves off the weathered stone bench before sitting down, pulling your bag onto your lap. Jeongguk settled beside you, his heavy leather jacket creaking softly as he leaned back, one long leg stretching out while the other braced against the gravel path.

From this angle, a massive bed of dense, intricately layered flowers spread out before you. Even without their pigment, they were spectacular—the petals looked like shaved velvet, catching the muted light in crisp gradients of silver, charcoal, and brilliant, stark white. You leaned forward slightly, completely captivated by the way the morning condensation still clung to the edges of the blooms, turning them into thousands of tiny, glistening beads.

But you couldn't fully lose yourself in the view.

The air between you felt thick, vibrating with a quiet intensity that had nothing to do with the botanical surroundings. Out of the corner of your eye, you could feel it—the heavy, unblinking weight of Jeongguk's gaze. He wasn't looking at the high-texture sanctuary. He wasn't tracking the architecture of the biomes. He was looking entirely at you.

The scrutiny was intense, a warm press against the side of your face that made your skin prickle under your guarded exterior. You tried to ignore it for a few beats, staring resolutely at a cluster of silver ferns, but your pulse was already starting to skip.

Finally, you cracked. You turned your head, your chin lifting defensively as you met his eyes.

"You're staring."

"I am."

"Why are you staring?" you asked, your voice a reserved, quiet murmur in the isolated clearing

Jeongguk didn't blink, nor did he pull back into his usual mocking posture. His gaze softened, tracking the lines of your face with a genuine, quiet curiosity that caught you completely off guard.

"How did you do... your makeup?" he asked softly, gesturing vaguely toward your face.

You blinked, a little thrown by the question. "With my hands?"

"No, but like—I mean," he cleared his throat, a rare, slight hesitation breaking through his usual fluid cadence. "How could you tell the colors?"

"Oh." The defensive tension in your shoulders dissipated a fraction, your fingers loosening their white-knuckle grip on your bag. You looked back toward the flowers, a muted, practical note entering your voice. "Sora helps sometimes. She organizes the pallets for me or labels the tubes. I grew accustomed to which one is basic black eyeliner, though. The weight of the tube and the texture of the product usually give it away."

When you turned back to look at him, the retort you had been mentally preparing died instantly on your tongue.

Jeongguk was smiling.

It wasn't the lazy, arrogant smirk he used as a shield against the world. It wasn't the big, flashing grin he deployed to rattle your composure or coax you into a corner. It was entirely pure—a quiet, untethered curve of his lips that reached all the way to his dark eyes, crinkling the corners with absolute sincerity. It didn't carry the weight of an ulterior motive. It didn't try to fill the space of your silence. It was just a sweet, honest smile. 

"That's nice, Void," he murmured, his baritone dropping into a low, gentle register that felt entirely too safe against the cold.

The sweet, unfiltered sincerity of his voice lingered in the cool air between you, a soft contrast to the heavy concrete world you'd left behind. Jeongguk shifted slightly, his leather jacket rustling as he turned his torso toward the vast, monochrome flower bed stretching out from the base of the stone bench.

"You see those clusters right at the front?" he asked, pointing a long, ink-mapped finger toward a patch of tightly packed, bell-shaped blooms. "The ones that look like heavy, thick wax?"

You followed the line of his hand, nodding silently as you tracked the deep, dramatic shadows cutting through the petals.

"Those are hyacinths," he said, his voice dropping into that rhythmic, deeply focused cadence he usually reserved for his studio gear. "They smell incredibly heavy—almost sweet enough to make your head spin if you stand over them too long. If that scent were an audio track, it wouldn't be digital. It's the exact, low-frequency hum of a live cello bow being drawn too hard across a C-string. It's warm, dense, and it has this slight, textured vibration at the very tail end that stays stuck in the back of your throat. They're pink."

A small, fascinated breath escaped your lips. You couldn't see the pigment, but the hyper-specific way he mapped the scent and color onto sound made the waxy textures before you suddenly feel incredibly loud.

"And those over there," Jeongguk continued, his finger shifting toward a taller, wilder stalk with delicate, paper-thin blossoms that caught the mist like spun glass. "The ones that look completely weightless compared to the stone."

"The ones shivering in the breeze?" you murmured, leaning in a fraction closer.

"Yeah. Those are white freesia," he said, a faint, reflective look softening his dark eyes. "They smell sharp, crisp, and clean. Like a sudden burst of cold air in a room that's been closed up for months. In the mix, that's the sound of a perfectly mic'd acoustic guitar finger-style intro—specifically the bright, crystalline snap of a brand-new steel E-string being plucked in an empty, high-ceilinged room. No reverb, no delay. Just pure, high-mid clarity that cuts right through the center of any background noise."

He paused, his gaze drifting from the delicate petals back to your face, tracking the way your eyes moved across the garden as you listened to his narration. The clinical, detached shield he usually wore like a second skin was entirely missing. For the first time, he wasn't using his synesthesia to build a wall or hide behind layers of engineered noise; he was using it to pull you right into the center of his world, letting you hear the colors you couldn't see.

"You know a lot about flowers," you murmured, your eyes tracing the rich, silver-grey outlines of the garden bed.

"I do," Jeongguk agreed easily. He didn't offer his usual arrogant defense or turn it into a joke. He just sat there, his large frame relaxed against the weathered stone, accepting the fact as a simple, quiet truth.

You adjusted the strap of your bag, your fingers smoothing over the textured leather. "I don't have a favorite flower," you admitted, the confession slipping out before you could fully censor yourself. "Minho used to get them for me sometimes, but... I never really thought much about it."

The mention of your ex's name hung in the cool air for a split second, a tiny fracture in the peaceful, isolated clearing. Jeongguk's head turned slightly, his dark, hyper-observant eyes locking onto your profile.

"What kind of flowers?" he asked. His voice wasn't sharp or demanding, but it carried a distinct, focused weight. "All flowers have a symbolism. Every single one. I know that much."

You let out a dry, quiet breath, looking down at your hands. "Tulips," you said. "Sometimes roses. That's pretty much how far Minho's bouquets stretched."

Jeongguk let out a low, drawn-out hum. He didn't reply right away, his gaze drifting over the garden as if he were deep in thought. Slowly, he poked his tongue into the inside of his cheek—a familiar, unconscious habit of his—stretching the skin for a beat before he unlocked his jaw to speak.

"Tulips and roses," he murmured, his voice dropping into that smooth, authoritative instructor tone he used for your color lessons. "It's standard. Red roses are just a loud, aggressive declaration of love—the kind of noise people make when they don't know how to say it quietly. But tulips are different. Tulips are about a perfect, deep-rooted attachment. They bloom early, they're resilient, but they're also entirely dependent on a consistent structure to survive the frost."

He paused, his eyes flicking back to yours with absolute calculation. "If he was just throwing them at you because they were at the front of the shop, he missed the mechanics of what he was actually handing over."

You sat in silence, the weight of his words settling deep into your chest.

If you were being completely honest with yourself, you were in absolute awe. Sitting next to him under the weeping willow, you realized Jeongguk had so many more complex, hidden layers than you had ever cared to notice before. Everyone at the university saw the starched, untouchable producer—the arrogant, calculating asshole who wore black ink like armor and built loud, aggressive electronic fortresses specifically to keep people out. No one would have ever looked at him and thought he knew the delicate, poetic meanings hidden behind flower petals.

But sometimes, at just the right angle, those hidden layers bled right through his armor. He noticed things. He cataloged textures, sounds, and symbols with a terrifyingly precise efficiency. He knew so much more than he ever let on, hiding his gravity behind a mask of bratty banter and cold transactions.

You were realizing in real time just how deep his labyrinth actually ran.

"I never thought about it like that," you muttered softly, your eyes lingering on the silver-grey silhouettes of the garden bed. The realization that even a careless bouquet carried a structural weight felt strange, especially coming from him. You shifted on the stone bench, turning your head slightly to look at his sharp profile. "Do you have a favorite flower?"

Jeongguk didn't answer right away. The silence stretched between you, but it didn't carry the hostile, defensive edge from the road. He just waited, his eyes locked onto yours for a long, unblinking beat, as if evaluating the question itself. Then, slowly, his gaze drifted away. He looked up at the pale, washed-out sky framed by the weeping willow, then down at the intricate dark ink coiling around his hands, and finally at the tips of his heavy combat boots braced against the gravel.

"No," he said quietly.

You blinked. "Why?"

"Every flower is beautiful," he murmured, his voice level and entirely devoid of his usual mocking armor. He looked back toward the dense texture of the blooms. "You just need to know when it's fitting. Different flowers, different colors, different meanings. They're all good. All needed at some point."

You let out a soft hum, absorbing the sheer, unexpected depth of the answer. It was another one of those hidden layers bleeding through the cracks of his cold, clinical exterior—a quiet, surprisingly tender philosophy from a guy who spent his nights destroying acoustic guitar tracks with heavy, industrial distortion.

The quiet settled comfortably around the stone bench, the mist from the biomes dampening the air. You leaned back, your curiosity officially piqued by the fluid, color-mapped landscape of his mind.

"What's your favorite color then?" you asked.

Jeongguk didn't hesitate this time. His jaw relaxed, his voice dropping a smooth, definitive word. "Ultramarine."

A tiny, instinctive coo escaped your lips before you could catch it, your shoulders shaking with a faint, amused smile. "Ultramarine," you repeated, tasting the heavy, poetic syllable. "What's the sound equivalent for that one?"

Jeongguk didn't give you a clinical breakdown of frequencies or map it to a specific instrument this time. Instead, his eyes flicked back to yours, holding your gaze with a profound, quiet intensity that made your pulse hitch against your ribs. The sweet, rare smile from earlier was gone, replaced by something deep and unanchored.

"When I hear it myself," he whispered, his voice a low, raspy cadence that vibrated right through the small space between you, "I will let you know."

You almost frowned at that, your eyebrows drawing together just a fraction as you tried to decode the sudden, cryptic shift in his tone. It felt like another one of his boundaries—a locked door in a room he had just invited you into. But looking at the quiet intensity in his eyes, you decided not to push.

"Okay," you murmured softly, letting the question drop.

To pull the conversation back to safer, more familiar ground, you gestured vaguely toward the surrounding landscape. "What about other things? What color is... the wind rustling through these leaves right now?"

Jeongguk tilted his head, his ears tracking the soft, sweeping hiss of the willow branches overhead. "That's a pale, scratched jade," he said, his voice regaining its steady, clinical familiarity. "It's a clean sound, but it has too many loose, frictioned edges to be solid. Like a low-pass filter cutting off the bass, leaving only the dry air at the top of the mix."

"And water dripping?" you asked, pointing toward a condensation leak over the glass pane of a nearby biome, the steady tap, tap, tap echoing against the silence.

"Strictly chrome," he replied without hesitation, his eyes tracking the falling droplets. "It's a cold, metallic silver. It hits with a sharp, high-frequency spike—like a single, isolated note struck on a glockenspiel in an empty room. Precise. Piercing. It leaves a tiny ring in the ear after it dies."

You absorbed the explanation, fascinated by the mechanical blueprint of his mind. "What about something aggressive? Like... ripping a piece of paper?"

A low, amused huff escaped his nose, the corners of his lips twitching slightly. "That's a violent, tearing orange," he murmured, his fingers flexing against his thigh as if mapping the physical sensation. "It's the exact sound of a white-noise burst clipping through a distorted speaker dial. It's sudden, it shreds right through the middle of the frequency block, and it leaves a jagged, static-heavy edge behind it. It's an untidy sound."

You nodded slowly, a quiet, observant reserve settling over you as you listened to him dismantle the ordinary world and rebuild it in a symphony of textures and tones. Every comparison was so sharp, so effortlessly calculated, making you realize just how loudly the quietest spaces spoke to him.

"What about the actual colors though?" you asked, leaning your chin onto your hand, your elbow resting on your knee as you watched him. "Not just the sounds around us. What about the well-known colors? Like... what is purple?"

The shift in his posture was instantaneous.

The clinical, detached instructor routine he'd been using to break down the water droplets and the paper vanished into thin air. Jeongguk paused, and then a wicked, incredibly sharp, flirty smile spread slowly across his face. It was the kind of expression that made your stomach instantly drop to your ass—a dark, knowing curve of his lips that had his eyes sparkling with absolute, dangerous amusement.

"Purple?" he repeated, his voice dropping an octave, sliding into a low, raspy murmur that vibrated right through the heavy air between you. "You wanna know purple?"

You blinked, a sudden wave of confusion washing over you as you stared back at him. Your chest tightened under his sudden, intense scrutiny, your pulse jumping against your ribs because of the predatory way he was suddenly looking at you.

"Yes," you said, your voice sounding a little smaller, a little more breathless than you intended. "Why are you looking at me like that? What's so funny?"

Jeongguk didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned in just an inch closer, his leather jacket creaking in the quiet clearing as his dark eyes locked onto your mouth with total calculation.

"Your moans are purple," he whispered flatly.

The raw, unfiltered words hung in the dead air of the botanical sanctuary, completely shattering the peaceful truce you had built. He didn't say it with a smirk anymore; he said it with a low, deep gravity, his gaze tracing the immediate, violent flush that rushed up your neck and stained your cheeks crimson.

"When you fell apart under me, and the noise finally slipped out of your throat," he murmured, his thumb casually tracing a slow, heavy line over the leather of his own console as his eyes held yours hostage. "That's purple. It's a dense, suffocating velvet. It's the exact sound of a heavy sub-bass frequency tearing through a clean room, completely drowning out the static. It's the only sound that actually makes my head stop hurting."

You gasped, the air catching sharply in your lungs as you almost choked on your own breath. The heat that rushed into your face was instantaneous and blinding, a violent, full-body blush that painted your cheeks completely red under his gaze. You instinctively tried to pull back, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag as you looked anywhere but at his lips.

Jeongguk let out a low, deeply amused chuckle, his eyes tracking the crimson stain on your skin with a sort of satisfaction.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice a smooth, teasing whisper that barely carried over the rustle of the willow branches. "The color you're rocking on your cheeks right now? It doesn't have a sharp edge to it. It sounds like a soft hum."

Before you could offer a single, biting retort to save your dignity, Jeongguk uncrossed his arms and reached out. His large, ink-mapped hand closed around your wrist. His touch was warm and firm, a steady anchor that left no room for hesitation as he pulled your hand away from your bag.

You froze, your heart taking a violent, erratic leap against your ribs as he guided your hand toward his chest, lifting it until the flat of your palm was pressed directly against the center of his throat.

The skin beneath your fingers was smooth and hot, the heavy collar of his black t-shirt riding just below your knuckles. You could feel the rigid structure of his jawline, the steady, rhythmic pulse beating against his artery, and the sheer, radiating heat of his body cutting through the cool air of the reserve.

"Feel that?" Jeongguk whispered, his dark eyes locking onto yours, trapping you completely under his spell.

Then, he closed his mouth and let out a long, deep, resonant hum from the back of his throat.

The vibration was instantaneous. It ripped straight through the cartilage of his larynx, transferring directly into the sensitive skin of your palm and traveling like a low-voltage electric shock up your forearm. It was dense, heavy, and perfectly steady—the tactile blueprint of a frequency he controlled entirely.

He kept your hand pinned there, forcing you to sit with the physical weight of the sound as his lips parted into another slow, wicked smile.

"Purple moans and red cheeks," he murmured against your palms, his voice dropping into a raspy, dangerous cadence that made your stomach knot with an unbearable ache. "That's the layout today, Void. Tell me you don't feel the structure in that."

You jerked your hand back as if his skin had suddenly scorched your fingers, tucking your palm securely against your chest to stop the lingering, low-voltage tingling. The violent blush was still burning hot across your cheeks.

"You are an absolute horn dog," you muttered, your voice a sharp, flustered snap as you tried to piece the ragged edges of your dignity back together.

Jeongguk didn't care about the insult at all. He threw his head back and let out a loud, genuine laugh—a bright, unbothered sound that echoed beautifully against the frosted glass panes of the nearby biome. The wicked, flirty shadow in his dark eyes softened back into something lighter, thoroughly entertained by how effortlessly he could drive your nervous system into total chaos.

As the remnants of his laughter settled into the quiet clearing, a sudden, bizarre sensation bloomed in the pit of your stomach.

You wanted strawberries.

The craving hit you out of nowhere, sharp and entirely unexpected, making your tongue instantly ache for something cold, juicy, and intensely sweet. It was weird. You weren't even particularly fond of strawberries; usually, you could take them or leave them. But right now, sitting in the damp, high-texture mist of the reserve with the heavy scent of crushed vegetation around you, the phantom taste of a ripe berry felt like a physical necessity. It was a completely random, unhinged craving, and it left you blinking in confusion.

Deciding that the suffocating atmosphere of the stone bench was getting entirely too dangerous for your sanity, you abruptly slung the strap of your bag over your shoulder and stood up.

"Okay, that's enough for today," you said flatly, gesturing between the two of you to draw a hard, definitive line over the color curriculum. You cleared your throat, forcing your voice to sound steady and businesslike again. "We should go. I'm hungry."

Jeongguk didn't move immediately, his eyes tracking the sudden, rigid line of your posture as you stood up. He let out a low, breathy chuckle, sliding his hands back into the pockets of his leather jacket as he stood at his full height.

"Lead the way, Void," he murmured, his voice dropping into that lazy, unbothered cadence. "I'm right behind you."

You didn't wait for him to match your stride. You turned on your heel and headed straight back toward the winding gravel path, your soles cutting sharply through the loose stones. You needed to get back to the car. You knew you should. The structured boundaries of the botanical reserve were officially collapsing, and the safest place for both of you was behind the clinical, metal partition of his Mercedes, driving back to campus where the rules made sense. You had to get out of this clearing.

But as you walked, the space between your shoulder blades began to prickle.

You could feel his eyes on you. Obviously, you were walking in front, so it was completely natural for him to look ahead, but it didn't feel natural at all. It felt heavy. It felt like a warm, localized pressure burning right through the fabric of your clothes, tracking the precise rhythm of your steps.

Worse, he was walking slow. Entirely too slow. Every time you took two steps, you could hear the heavy, deliberate crunch of his combat boots lagging a fraction of a beat behind yours, forcing you to maintain a frustratingly stretched pace. And the distraction wasn't working—the random, intense craving for strawberries was still pulsing in the back of your mouth, making your tongue ache for something sweet and cold.

You clenched your jaw, deliberately shoving the bizarre craving and the memory of his vibrating throat into the back burner of your mind. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. You just needed to hit the concrete lot, get in the passenger seat, and go back to your respective, separate lives.

But the crunch of his boots stayed lagging. The burning weight of his gaze stayed anchored.

Frustration flared hot behind your ribs, cutting right through your brittle defense mechanism. You stopped abruptly on the path and spun around, your bag swinging against your hip as you opened your mouth to demand what the hell he was doing.

The words died instantly in your throat.

Jeongguk wasn't looking at your face. His eyes weren't even tracking the upper part of your body. No. His head was tilted slightly downward, his unblinking grey-dark gaze fixed entirely low, grazing with absolute, shameless calculation down south. He was actively cataloging the movement of your hips, the dip of your waist, and the layout of your stride from behind.

Caught red-handed, he didn't even have the decency to look flustered. He just blinked slowly, his jaw shifting as his eyes lazily dragged themselves all the way back up to meet your furious, flushed face.

"Huh?" he asked smoothly, his voice a picture of completely unbothered, blank innocence.

"Move along faster," you snapped, your voice tight as you crossed your arms over your chest, trying to retroactively block his view. The crimson on your cheeks was burning all over again, fueled by the sheer audacity of his unbothered expression.

Jeongguk didn't adjust his posture by a single inch. He kept his hands shoved deep into his leather jacket pockets, his shoulders relaxed as he looked down at you, completely ruling the narrow gravel path.

"No," he said smoothly, a tiny, infuriating glimmer of amusement returning to his dark eyes. "I'm staying where I am. Walking how I am."

"Jeongguk, you're literally lagging three paces behind me just to—"

"To map the acoustics of the path, Void," he interrupted, his voice dropping into a deadpan baritone. He took one slow, deliberate step forward, his heavy combat boot crunching against the stones with agonizing slowness. "The gravel changes density near the exit. It requires a measured cadence. I'm maintaining structure."

"You're maintaining a view, you absolute menace," you muttered, turning back around because staring at his shameless face was only making your head spin faster.

"That's just a fringe benefit of the geography," he murmured from behind you, his voice a low, teasing vibration that drifted over your shoulder.

You started walking again, forcing your legs into a quick, decisive rhythm, but the heat of his gaze was a physical weight. It felt like he was tracing the outline of your hips with a marker, cataloging the friction of your clothes with the same clinical precision he used to mix a track in the studio. It was maddening. You were trying so hard to keep this transaction cold and clinical, to push every messy, unraveled thought to the back burner, but he kept pulling the rug out from under your feet.

And to make matters worse, that weird, sudden craving for strawberries was getting sharper. Your mouth tasted dry, your mind completely hyper-focused on the phantom sweetness of a ripe fruit while your body was hyper-focused on the heavy, predatory footsteps tracking you from behind.

Two broken pieces making a complete mess of a simple walk to the parking lot.

"You're rushing, Void," Jeongguk's voice cut through the quiet rustle of the trees, closer this time. "Your tempo is completely off. Slow down before you trip over the architecture."

"You're an asshole," you muttered over your shoulder, refusing to slow down your pace as the gravel shifted beneath your shoes.

A low, rich chuckle vibrated from behind you, closer than it had been a second ago. "I wouldn't do this if you weren't so easy to rattle up, Void."

"I'm not easy to rattle up," you snapped, finally spinning around to face him, your hands balling into fists at your sides. "You're just a prick."

Jeongguk stopped walking. His eyes narrowed just a fraction, a slow, dangerously playful glint overtaking his features. "Oh, yeah?"

Before the words could fully leave your mouth, he closed the distance between you. It wasn't a casual step forward; it was a sudden, predatory glide that completely breached your perimeter. He kept coming until he was infinitely closer—so close that there was barely a single inch of dead air remaining between your faces.

You froze, your breath completely hitching in your throat as the towering glass biomes and the winding gravel paths dissolved into a total blur. He lowered his head slightly, his jawline tilting as his warm, steady breath ghosted across the sensitive skin of your cheek and lips. His scent—that heavy, intoxicating, musky cologne—rushed over you, thick and suffocating. He was just there. Large, unyielding, and occupying every square centimeter of your vision.

Deep behind your ribs, your heart began beating like a bunny running from a predator, slamming a frantic, erratic rhythm against your chest.

Time stopped for a second. The entire botanical reserve fell completely silent, the low hum of the environment vanishing as you stared at the dark intensity swirling in his gaze. Your eyes instinctively dipped to his mouth, your body tightening as you braced yourself, completely waiting for the inevitable collision of his lips against yours.

It never fucking came.

Instead of leaning that final, excruciating inch forward, Jeongguk's large hand lifted smoothly. His tatted fingers slid past your ear, the coarse texture of his skin brushing against your cheek as he gently buried his hand in your hair. His knuckles grazed your scalp for a fleeting, agonizing second before he pulled his hand back.

Pinched between his thumb and forefinger was a small, brittle willow leaf.

"Relax," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, raspy cadence that was entirely too smooth for the absolute havoc he had just wrecked on your nervous system. He held the silver-grey leaf up between your faces, a lazy, satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "It's just a leaf. It was messing up your hair, Void."

You let out a ragged, heavy breath you hadn't even realized you were holding, your shoulders visibly dropping as the sudden drop in pressure hit your lungs. The realization of what you had been expecting—what you had practically been begging for with your eyes—sent an immediate, violent wave of heat rushing straight up your neck. You began blushing all over again, a deep, furious red staining your cheeks as you glared at the leaf in his hand.

Jeongguk's smirk widened into a sharp, knowing grin, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with absolute triumph. He tossed the leaf onto the gravel and stepped back just an inch, crossing his arms over his leather jacket.

"See?" he whispered, his eyes tracking the bright flush on your skin with a maddening sort of satisfaction. "Easy to rattle up."

You practically threw yourself toward the Mercedes, the gravel crunching violently beneath your soles as you finally reached the safety of the lot.

When you had left the car earlier, the parking lot had been a busy, washed-out expanse of concrete. But now, as you stood by the passenger door, you noticed that the lot had emptied out completely. The rows of polished chrome were gone, leaving nothing but an isolated, open grid of asphalt. Not only that, but the sun's gradual movement across the sky during the day had granted a strange blessing—the angle had shifted just enough that the heavy, towering oak trees lined up perfectly to keep the car in complete, unyielding shadow.

Jeongguk hit the unlock button, the sharp beep echoing loudly against the barren concrete.

You yanked the door open and slid inside, and the relief was instantaneous. The heavily tinted windows of his car had acted as a flawless barrier against the radiating afternoon heat, allowing the compact interior to remain almost entirely cold and dark. It felt like stepping directly into a private, climate-controlled vault—a stark, refreshing contrast to the thick, humid mist of the biomes and the suffocating tension that had followed you down the path.

You pulled your legs in and let the heavy passenger door click shut, effectively locking out the rest of the world. The darkness inside the cabin immediately softened the stinging behind your eyes, but it did nothing to slow the frantic, bunny-like rhythm still thumping away inside your chest.

Beside you, the driver's door opened, and Jeongguk slid his large frame into the seat. The cool, dark air of the cabin immediately filled with the familiar, heavy rustle of his leather jacket and the sharp, intoxicating trace of his musky cologne. He didn't reach for the keys right away. He just rested his hands on the leather steering wheel, his eyes adjusting to the dimness as he cut a slow, calculated look sideways to check on you.

"Where to, Void?" he asked.

His voice didn't carry its usual lazy, mocking edge. It was lower now—a deep, gravelly baritone that vibrated straight through the floorboards and settled deep in the pit of your stomach. It wasn't a casual question about directions. It was an invitation, a challenge, a slow-burning fuse.

You swallowed hard, your throat feeling completely dry. The random, intense craving for strawberries you'd felt on the path was suddenly gone, replaced entirely by the suffocating awareness of just how isolated you were. The parking lot was empty. The car was buried in total shadow. The tinted windows cut off the outside world completely, making this dark cabin feel like the only room left on the planet.

"Campus," you managed to say, but the word came out smaller than you wanted, the rhythm of your voice completely derailed by the way his gaze was tracking the movement of your lips. "Take me back to the dorms."

Jeongguk didn't move. He didn't even reach for the ignition. A slow, dark, incredibly calculated look pulled at the corner of his mouth, his jaw shifting as he poked his tongue into the inside of his cheek.

"Weren't you hungry?" he asked, his voice cutting through the thick silence like a low-frequency hum, challenging the weak excuse you had given him just minutes before.

"I should go back to campus anyway," you insisted, desperately trying to maintain some semblance of control over a situation that was rapidly slipping through your fingers.

Needing to do something with your hands to break the static paralyzing your limbs, you moved to take off your bag. You hitched the strap up, aiming to set it down by your feet, but the motion was too hasty, too clumsy in the dark cabin. The heavy leather caught the collar of your top, dragging it downward. The material gave way with the weight, sliding smoothly off your shoulder to expose a stark patch of bare skin to the dim, chilled air of the car.

Jeongguk noticed instantly.

Before you could even register the slip, his hand shot across the space dividing the seats. His fingers caught the edge of the stray fabric. But he didn't just pull it back up; his wide palm pressed firmly against your bare skin, smoothing the material deliberately over the curve of your shoulder.

The exact point where your skin collided with his burned fiercely. It was a scorching, high-voltage heat that sent an immediate, violent shiver straight down your spine. His calloused hand lingered for a beat too long, pressing into you, anchoring you to the leather seat as if proving how easily he could touch you whenever he pleased.

Maybe you are easy to rattle up.

He leaned in just a bit further, his gaze dropping to watch his own  fingers resting against your shoulder before his eyes slowly dragged back up to lock onto yours.

"I don't think you want to go back to the dorms, Void," he murmured, his thumb catching the edge of your collarbone, tracing a slow, heavy line that made your breath stutter completely. "I think you like the seclusion of the car."

"What do you want, Jeongguk?" you whispered, your voice trembling slightly under the weight of his proximity.

He didn't pull away. Instead, his  eyes softened, a rare, unshielded shadow passing over his features that had nothing to do with his usual calculations. His jaw tightened, the heavy ring of his breath hitting your lips.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, raspy cadence that felt entirely too intimate. "I'm sorry I left like that last time. Left you like that."

The apology slammed into your chest, instantly violently dragging your mind backward.

Last time.

The memory flared hot and vivid in the dark of the car. It had been just like this—the cabin dim, isolated, and completely cut off from the rest of the world. You remembered the heavy, suffocating rush of adrenaline as you had climbed over the center console, shifting until you were completely on top of him, straddling his lap in the tight space. You could still feel the ghost of his hands gripping your waist, and worse, the agonizingly vivid memory of his literal dick hardening to a rigid, unyielding stone right under you, pressing directly against your center through the thin barrier of your clothes. And then, right when the frequency had reached its absolute breaking point, he had pulled back.

Now, sitting in the exact same shadow-drenched seats, the ghost of that friction felt entirely too loud.

The phantom friction of that memory seemed to physically tighten the dark cabin, making your skin tingle exactly where the leather seats pressed into your thighs. You stared back into his deep, unblinking eyes, your heart continuing its frantic, bunny-like sprint.

"Your father called back then," you reminded him, your voice a breathless, thready whisper against his lips as you reached for the one logical anchor that had broken the spell last time. "That's why you walked away."

"Well," he murmured, his raspy voice dropping into a  quiet, heavy register that sent a violent tremor straight down your spine. "Now he isn't."

To back up his words, his other hand reached blindly into the dark pocket of his leather jacket. He pulled out his phone, his eyes never breaking contact with yours for a single millisecond. With a swift, aggressive flick of his thumb, he didn't just silence it—he held down the power button until the screen went entirely black, killing the device completely. He tossed the dead metal carelessly onto the dashboard, where it slid across the plastic with a sharp clatter before stopping.

"No interruptions," he whispered, his hot breath ghosting over your lips as he leaned in that final, agonizing inch. "The signal's completely dead. It's just us."

The dead silence of the phone on the dashboard felt absolute, a final, definitive severing of the outside world. The only structure left was the dark, frozen interior of the car, and the suffocating heat radiating between your bodies.

Jeongguk's large hand slid down, his palm tracing the burning column of your neck before trailing lower. He didn't rush. He moved with a heavy, agonizingly deliberate calculation, his knuckles dragging over your exposed shoulder before his arm extended down to find your lap.

His hand settled flat against your thigh.

The friction of his palm against the fabric of your clothes made you gasp, your hips instinctively twitching beneath his touch. He squeezed, his fingers digging into the soft meat of your thigh with a firm, possessive pressure that anchored you completely.

"Do you want this, Void?" he rasped, his  eyes dilated, tracking the sudden, violent shudder that went through your entire frame. His breath was hot and uneven against your lips. "Do you want me?"

You were visibly into it, your head tilting back slightly against the headrest as your fingers tightly curled into the leather of the passenger seat. Your breath was coming in shallow, ragged hitched gasps, your body completely betraying how desperate you were for the exact friction you had been denied last time. But the stubborn, defensive walls inside your chest made you hold back the confession. You didn't give him the easy answer.

Instead, you forced your eyes open, meeting the intense, ravenous gaze of the producer hovering inches from your face.

"Do you want this?" you whispered back, your voice trembling but defiant as you threw the frequency right back at him. Your hand came up, your fingers tentatively brushing against the rough leather of his jacket. "Do you want me?"

He didn't hesitate. There was no arrogant deflection, no transactional armor, and no clinical mask to hide behind this time. His jaw locked, his grip on your thigh tightening until it was practically bruising.

"Yes," he said.

Just like that. A flat, heavy declaration that completely shattered the final boundary between you. It was a simple, unfiltered truth, delivered with the absolute certainty of a man who had already mapped out the exact collision of your frequencies and had no intention of stopping the noise.

You nodded slowly, a small, ragged breath slipping past your lips. The simple weight of his honesty hit you right in the chest, soothing a raw, hollow ache you hadn't even realized was there. It was good. It felt intoxicatingly good to feel wanted like this, to feel completely desired by someone who usually kept his world so locked away and clinical. For a second, the dark, transactional edges of your dynamic blurred into something purely instinctive.

Jeongguk didn't waste another beat of the silence.

"C'mere," he commanded softly, his voice a low, raspy rumble that left absolutely no room for argument.

With his free hand, he reached down to the side of his seat, flicking the mechanical lever. With a loud, metallic click and the heavy groan of leather, his driver's seat slid backward, retreating into the rear floorboards to create an open, shadowed expanse of space in the front cabin.

The invitation was set.

Moving on pure instinct, you let go of the passenger seat. Once again, just like last time, you shifted your weight and climbed over the bulky plastic of the center console. The tight, shadow-drenched space of the car felt entirely different now, compressed and electric as you swung your leg over his lap, straddling him completely.

The moment your weight settled onto his thighs, the friction was blinding. You could feel his large, solid frame bracing beneath you, his heavy combat boots planted firmly against the floorboards to hold your weight. Your hips pressed directly against the center of his lap, and the agonizingly vivid reality of his cock—already hardening and straining fiercely against the thin fabric of his pants—hit you with a jolt of pure heat.

Jeongguk's hands immediately shot out, large palms gripping the sides of your waist with a bruising, desperate intensity. He pulled you down flush against him, his gaze burning up at you through the dim light of the cabin, waiting for the first purple sound to break from your throat.

This time, the frantic, hesitant edge that had paralyzed you weeks ago was entirely gone. A sharp, unyielding confidence bloomed deep behind your ribs, replacing the bunny-like panic with a calculated, heavy warmth. You didn't wait for him to set the tempo, and you didn't wait for him to bridge the remaining distance.

This time wasn't about Minho. No.

This wasn't an act of emotional retaliation, or a chaotic breakdown meant to drown out someone else's name. This was a prize to take back. This was about finishing something you had already started in these exact shadow-drenched seats—a definitive, dark pact sealed in the isolation of the lot. This was about having sex in the car with Jeongguk, on your own terms, completely hijacking his frequency.

So you leaned down and kissed him first.

Jeongguk let out a low, rough growl against your mouth, the sudden impact of your lips knocking the air straight out of his lungs. If he was surprised, he didn't let you see it.

His hands clamped down harder on your waist, his fingers burying into your skin through your clothes as he immediately kissed you back.

It was hungry. It was sloppy. It was completely stripped of any  composure.

The collision of your mouths was a chaotic, wet friction, his tongue instantly sliding past your teeth to claim yours with a desperate, heavy rhythm. The intoxicating taste of him—sharp, dark, and utterly consuming—flooded your senses as his lips crushed against yours, tilting your head back to deepen the angle. He was pulling you down so hard your hips mashed directly into the unmoving stone of his groin, the raw heat of his arousal burning through the fabric dividing you. There was no calculation left in the cabin, no structured boundaries to hide behind; there was only the loud, ragged sound of your combined breathing echoing against the dark, tinted glass.

Jeongguk broke the sloppy, ravenous contact of your mouths, his breath hot and entirely unraveled as his lips slid down to your jaw, then deeper into the sensitive hollow of your neck. He didn't hold back. He rained heavy, open-mouthed kisses along your skin, leaving a wet, glistening trail of saliva that cooled instantly against the dark, chilled air of the cabin.

While his mouth was wrecking total havoc on your throat, his hands traveled up your back. His fingers moved with lightning speed, finding the clasp of your bra and unhooking it with a single, practiced flick.

He didn't care about being neat. He yanked the straps down your arms and threw the bra somewhere into the dark abyss of the back seat, the material landing with a soft thud against the upholstery.

Before you could even catch your breath, his heavy palms slid directly under the hem of your shirt. The rough, calloused texture of his skin against your bare breasts made you gasp, your chest heaving as his hands closed around your boobs, squeezing them with a firm, possessive pressure.

A high, breathless whimper ripped from your throat, the sharp sound echoing beautifully against the tinted glass of the Mercedes.

The pure, concentrated friction of his hands and the hardness of his groin beneath you triggered something entirely feral. Without even realizing it, driven by pure reflex, your body took over. You started mindlessly rotating your hips down against him, grinding your center directly over the stiff, rigid length of his dick straining against his pants.

Jeongguk let out a  guttural sound, his grip on your waist tightening until his knuckles turned white.

"Fuck, Void," he growled against your skin.

He gripped the hem of your shirt and bunched it up, shoving the material all the way up to your armpits to fully expose your chest to the dim shadows. He didn't hesitate for a single second. Jeongguk leaned down and latched his mouth directly onto one of your aching nipples.

He was relentless—sucking heavily, his tongue circling the sensitive, swollen area before his teeth clamped down in a sharp, teasing bite that sent a violent jolt of electricity straight to your core. The sheer intensity of your weight grinding into his lap and the taste of you on his tongue completely broke him. He buried his face deeper into the soft flesh of your boobs, letting out a low, vibration-heavy groan that muffled right against your skin, his chest heaving as he completely lost himself in your rhythm.

The heavy, muffled sound of his groan vibrating against your chest shattered the last of your restraint. You grew bolder now, the confidence from earlier surging through your veins like wildfire as you realized exactly how much power you held over his rhythm. You weren't just receiving his touch anymore; you were taking what was yours.

You reached up, your fingers tangling into the thick, dark strands at the nape of his neck. You tightened your grip, intentionally pulling by the hair to force his head back, exposing the sharp column of his throat—the precise patch of skin you intended to attack.

It was filthy. The absolute lack of hesitation, the raw friction of your skin mashing together, and the wet heat of the dark cabin made the air feel entirely toxic. You leaned down, burying your face in the crook of his neck, and bit him. You pressed your lips hard against his pulse point, sucking and leaving a fierce, wet mark right over the ink wrapping around his throat.

Jeongguk let out a sharp, ragged moan the exact second your fingers tugged tightly at his hair.

The sound was music to your ears—dense, low, and entirely unraveled. Mentally noting that he thoroughly enjoyed that specific brand of violence, a small, wicked smirk pulled at your lips against his skin. You didn't give him time to recover; you immediately started kissing him there, your mouth moving hungrily over his jawline, tracking the erratic jump of his pulse.

He let out a deep, gravelly groan, his hands gripping your hips with a white-knuckled intensity. He let you have your way with him for a long, agonizingly hot moment, his chest heaving under your weight as he allowed you to completely dictate the tempo.

But Jeongguk wasn't a man to stay pinned down for long.

Suddenly, his large hands shifted from your waist to your shoulders. With a sudden, firm burst of strength, he pushed you back, breaking the wet contact of your mouth against his neck.

You gasped, blinking through the shadows as you tried to steady your balance while straddling his lap. His  eyes were completely pitch-black now, his pupils dilated to the absolute edge, and his jaw was clenched so hard the bone looked sharp enough to cut. His breathing was heavy, ragged, and completely stripped of the clinical producer persona.

He didn't say a word as his hands slid down to grip your waist again, not to pull you close, but to lift you slightly off his hardened groin.

"Backseat," he ordered, his voice a low, raspy command that brooked absolutely no argument. He glared up at you through the dim light of the cabin, his tone dropping into a heavy, demanding tone. "Get in the backseat. Now."

You didn't hesitate. The raw authority in his voice sent a sharp thrill straight down your spine, wiping away any lingering impulse to argue. You clambered over the center console, your bare skin shivering slightly as it left the intense heat of his lap and met the cooler air of the cabin. Tumbling into the spacious, shadow-drenched backseat, you sat back against the leather, your breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches as you waited for him.

Jeongguk didn't make you wait long. He moved with a heavy, efficient grace and maneuvering his large frame into the back with you. But before he leaned in, he paused. His chest heaved as he shrugged his heavy leather jacket off his broad shoulders. Instead of tossing it aside, he laid it out flat across the wide expanse of the leather seats, smoothing it down like a makeshift blanket.

Your eyes tracked his movements through the dim light, confusion temporarily cutting through the haze of desire.

He just hovered over you, eyes pitch-black in the shadows as his hands immediately reached for the hem of your bunched-up shirt, starting to undress you.

"Why did you put the jacket down?" you asked, your voice a breathless, thready whisper against the quiet of the car. "We're not gonna fuck on it."

Jeongguk's jaw shifted, a dark, dangerously wicked glint flashing in his eyes as he looked up from your collarbone to lock his gaze onto yours.

"Oh, yes we will," he murmured, voice dropping into a low, uncompromising rasp. "The leather is cold, Void. And I'm not letting your skin rub against the bare seats."

With a swift, dominant tug, he pulled your top completely over your head and discarded it into the front footwell. His hands didn't stop moving; they slid down to the waistband of your pants, unbuttoning them and dragging the denim down your legs until you were completely stripped down to your underwear.

Jeongguk froze. His breath hitched hard in his throat, and his gaze anchored fiercely on the delicate fabric covering your hips. He bit his lower lip, his sharp jawline tightening as his eyes slowly mapped the visual texture.

"Fuck," he muttered, letting out a low, gravelly breath. "I didn't know you had lace ones."

A sudden spark of that newfound confidence flared back up inside you. You looked down at him, refusing to let him think he held all the cards in this dark, hidden vault.

"I'm not wearing them for you," you snapped softly, your voice steady despite the frantic racing of your heart.

And you weren't lying. You hadn't planned for this when you got dressed this morning; sometimes a good pair of underwear just makes you feel better—more confident, more put-together from the inside out. It was a shield for your own dignity, not an invitation for him.

Jeongguk's eyes snapped up from your hips to meet your defensive stare, a slow smirk spreading across his lips at your defiance. "Doesn't matter who you wore them for," he whispered, his calloused fingers grazing the delicate edge of the lace, burning your skin. "They're mine now."

He rose slightly onto his knees, his broad shoulders blocking out the faint light from the tinted windows as he reached for the hem of his own black shirt. In one swift, fluid motion, he ripped it over his head and tossed it blindly into the front seat. The darkness of the cabin seemed to swallow the stark expanse of his chest, emphasizing the heavy ink that spilled down his arms and met the sharp contour of his ribs. His chest was heaving, his skin radiating a fierce heat into the tight space.

Without breaking eye contact, his hand dropped to his waist. He unbuckled his heavy belt with a metallic click, loosening the denim and leaving it exactly like that, low on his hips, completely unbothered by the lack of neatness.

Then, he leaned down and claimed your mouth again.

This time, the kiss was entirely different—darker, heavier, and far more hungry than before. There was no teasing hesitation left. He crushed his lips against yours, his tongue driving deep with a desperate, heavy rhythm that completely stole the air from your lungs.

As the sheer force of his weight pressed you back into the leather jacket, Jeongguk's instincts took over. His left hand shot upward, his wide palm sliding behind the nape of your neck to cradle your skull, effectively shielding your head so you wouldn't hit the hard plastic of the door panel or the glass of the window. He anchored you gently but firmly against him, protecting you even while his body demanded total surrender.

At the same time, his other hand traveled down.

His palm slid over the curve of your hip, burning through the cool air before his fingers slipped between your thighs. He didn't pull the lace aside yet. Instead, his fingertips pressed directly against the delicate, stretched fabric of your underwear, finding the exact, hyper-sensitive knot of your clit.

He paused for a fraction of a second, letting you feel the immense, heavy pressure of his hand, before his fingers began to move. He started tracing circles—agonizingly slow, deliberate circles that ground the lace right against your bare, aching skin.

The concentrated friction was too much. Your hips bolted upward against his hand, your fingers violently digging into the solid muscle of his bare shoulders as a breathless, fractured sound ripped from the back of your throat.

"Oh my god," you whimpered against his mouth, your voice completely unraveled by the agonizing tempo of his touch.

Jeongguk didn't break the heavy rhythm of his mouth, his tongue continuing to claim yours with a dark, wet intensity while his fingers kept tracing those infuriating slow circles against your lace underwear. He was prepping you, deliberately building the pressure, mapping out your responses with the clinical patience of a producer setting a foundation.

But the incredible slow tempo was driving you completely out of your mind.

The heat inside the shadow-drenched backseat was suffocating, and your body was screaming for a faster cadence. You started getting needy, your hips bucking up against his wide palm in a desperate bid for more friction. Your hands shifted from his shoulders to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling into his dark hair, coaxing him down, silently begging him to abandon the structure and just move faster.

Jeongguk felt the shift instantly. He broke the sloppy contact of the kiss by just a fraction of an inch, a low, breathy smile tugging at his lips as his hot breath fanned across your mouth.

"What do you want, Void?" he murmured against your lips, his deep baritone dripping with absolute, teasing satisfaction. His hand didn't speed up; he kept the circles maddeningly slow, intentionally torturing you. "Tell me."

"Move faster," you choked out, your voice unraveled and breathless as you glared up at him through the dim light of the cabin. You locked your fingers tighter into his hair, pulling him down. "I'm not made of glass, Jeongguk."

A dark, sharp chuckle vibrated in his chest.

"Impatient," he whispered, the word carrying a low, rough edge of approval.

But he obeyed.

Without breaking eye contact, his fingers hooked beneath the delicate edge of your lace underwear. He slid the wet fabric aggressively to the side, completely exposing your bare, hyper-sensitive center to the cool air of the car before his calloused fingers pressed directly against your slick skin. He didn't waste another second. Abandoning the agonizingly slow prep, he began tracing faster, firmer circles right against your clit, his touch slick and demanding as he plunged the backseat into absolute chaos.

Your head fell back against his leather jacket, a loud, broken gasp echoing in the dark vault of the cabin. It wasn't enough. The pressure building behind your ribs was mutating into something ravenous, and you were completely losing your mind in the quiet of the empty lot.

"Jeongguk," you begged, your voice a fractured, thready whisper as your fingers violently clawed at his bare shoulders. "Please. I want more. I want it now."

Suddenly, the rapid friction stopped.

Jeongguk didn't pull away completely, but he paused, his chest heaving as he stared down at you through the heavy shadows. His pupils were completely blown out, his jaw clenched to a sharp, dangerous edge.

"R or both R and M?" he asked, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated right through your skin.

You blinked up at him, your unraveled brain entirely confused by the sudden, cryptic sequence of letters. "What...?"

Jeongguk didn't explain with words. Instead, he slowly rose his hand between your faces, exposing the dark, intricate ink wrapping around his knuckles. In the dim light filtering through the tinted windows, you tracked the letters permanently etched into his skin—the R and the M staring right back at you. He was asking how many fingers you wanted inside you.

Your throat went completely dry. You gulped down hard, an immediate, violent wave of heat rushing to your center as your pussy instinctively clenched around absolutely nothing just at the raw, filthy thought of his hand stretching you open.

"Both," you choked out, the word carrying a desperate, needy weight.

Jeongguk's lips twitched into a sharp, knowing smirk, and he got to work.

He didn't hesitate. His fingers slid smoothly into your slick, aching heat, burying themselves deep inside you in one heavy, authoritative stroke. You let out a high, breathless cry, your hips instinctively lifting off the seat as he began pumping them in you. He didn't rush the tempo; he kept a controlled, agonizingly steady pace, his knuckles rubbing firmly against your opening with every deep, deliberate thrust.

"You're making a mess on my fingers. So tight."

The intense fullness was overwhelming, the thick friction inside you completely tearing down your final defenses. You couldn't hold it back anymore. A loud, raw, unedited sound ripped from the back of your throat, echoing beautifully against the glass.

Jeongguk let out a deep, satisfied groan at the sound, his thumb finding the hyper-sensitive knot of your clit as his fingers continued their steady, rhythmic stretch.

"There are your pretty violet moans, Void," he murmured, his deep baritone dripping with absolute triumph.

Before you could even process the words, he leaned his large frame down, his broad shoulders blocking out what little light was left in the backseat. His mouth latched directly onto your slick clit while he kept pumping his fingers inside you. He was relentless, gently sucking the swollen nodule into his mouth, circling it with a hot, wet tongue in a rhythm that matched the deep, controlled thrusts of his hand.

The dual stimulation was entirely too much. The structural frequencies he always talked about completely collapsed into absolute chaos. Your entire body locked up, your fingers burying into his dark hair as a violent, blinding wave of pleasure crashed over you. You came hard right on his fingers and tongue, your hips bucking frantically against his face as a loud, unraveled moan shattered the quiet cabin.

Jeongguk didn't stop. Even as your walls clamped down around his hand in a desperate, pulsing rhythm, he kept a steady pressure, his tongue tracing wet, soothing circles against your sensitive skin. He was coaxing you through the shattering peak of your orgasm, his deep voice a low, raspy rumble against your thigh.

"That's it, Void," he whispered, his hot breath ghosting over your wet skin as he swallowed your high whimpers. "That's it. Good."

Slowly, the heavy pulsing of your orgasm began to subside, leaving your legs trembling and your skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat against the interior of  his jacket.

Jeongguk took his fingers out of you, the wet, sliding sound incredibly loud in the quiet aftermath of the cabin. He didn't reach for a tissue or try to clean himself up. Instead, he sat back on his knees, broad chest heaving as he brought his hand up between your faces. His dilated eyes locked onto yours as he deliberately slid his fingers into his own mouth.

He swallowed your whole taste, his throat bobbing heavily as his tongue swiped over his knuckles to catch every single drop of your slickness. A deep, guttural groan vibrated from the very bottom of his chest at the taste—a raw, completely unedited sound of pure, masculine satisfaction that proved just how deeply your frequency had wrecked his composure.

Before you could even process the sheer dirtiness of it, he leaned his large frame right back down over you.

He gripped the sides of your face with his large hands, his palms burning against your cheeks, and then he kissed you.

It was a deep, possessive, and bruising collision of your lips. The second his tongue drove past your teeth, a sharp jolt of heat went straight to your core—you were tasting yourself on his tongue. The intoxicating blend of his musky cologne, his hot breath, and the heavy, sweet taste of your own arousal flooded your senses, blurring the lines between you until it felt like the dark vault of the car was completely consuming you both.

It was so nasty. You've never experienced this before.

Jeongguk broke the bruising contact of the kiss with a heavy, ragged sigh. He slid his frame off your body, shifting through the cramped, shadow-drenched space until he sat right next to you on the leather jacket. The air in the backseat was suffocatingly hot, thick with the scent of your combined arousal and his musky cologne.

Reaching blindly over the console, he hit the master control button, and his side's window cracked open an inch with a soft, mechanical hiss. The sudden intrusion of the crisp, biting air cut through the stagnant heat of the cabin, making your bare skin shiver instantly.

He leaned his head back against the headrest, his chest heaving as he fished in the front pocket of his loosened denim pants. His ink-mapped fingers pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a metallic lighter. With a practiced, fluid flick of his thumb, the small flame flared to life, casting sharp, amber shadows across the hollows of his cheeks. He lit one, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs before exhaling a thick, gray cloud that drifted lazily toward the open sliver of the window.

You blinked through the dimness, your body still humming from the remnants of your orgasm, your mind completely derailed by the sudden halt in the rhythm. You looked from the glowing cherry of his cigarette to his blank, staring profile.

"What?" you breathed out, your voice a confused, fractured whisper. "What is this?"

Jeongguk didn't look at you right away. He took another slow drag, the embers illuminating the sharp, rigid line of his jaw before he let the smoke roll past his lips.

"I didn't bring a condom, Void," he said. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp, stripped of any playful edge.

You froze, the confession instantly hardening the air between you.

He turned his head slowly, eyes locking onto yours through the shadows of the backseat. A faint, self-deprecating pull tugged at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes remained entirely serious. "Believe it or not, I didn't leave the house thinking I was gonna fuck you."

"So what, we just stop?" you asked, the words tumbling out in a breathless, frustrated blur.

Jeongguk didn't answer immediately. He took a long, slow drag of his cigarette, the tip glowing a fierce, angry white in the dimness of the backseat. He leaned his head back, letting the smoke roll lazily past his lips. The thick, acrid cloud drifted across the small space, the scent dancing in your nose and mixing with the heavy, sweet trace of your own arousal still lingering in the air.

"Yeah," he murmured, his gravelly baritone vibrating in the quiet vault of the car. "It'd be advised."

You let out a soft hum, shifting your weight slightly against the rough texture of his leather jacket. A bitter spike of reality pricked at your brain as you remembered his strict rules. He didn't do raw. It didn't matter that you were on birth control; Jeongguk operated on absolute structure and flawless damage control. He wouldn't cross that boundary, no matter how loud the friction between you got.

Didn't leave hickies if he's not romantically involved. Didn't have raw sex.

A set of rules you followed.

But looking at him now—bare-chested, ink-mapped skin gleaming in the shadows, visible tent in his pants, his breathing still ragged—the sheer unfairness of it made a reckless confidence flare up inside you.

"So what, you're just going to remain like that?" you asked, tilting your chin down as you gestured explicitly toward the heavy, undeniable tent straining against the fabric of his unbuckled denim. "You don't get anything?"

Jeongguk's jaw shifted, his tongue poking into the inside of his cheek as a dark, unreadable look pulled at his mouth. He didn't look down at himself. Instead, his pitch-black eyes slowly darted lower, his gaze anchoring firmly between your parted thighs, locking onto your bare pussy—still glistening, flushed, and raw from the absolute wreck his fingers and tongue had just made of you.

"I got plenty, Void," he rasped, his voice dropping into that dangerously low register that made your skin burn. He took another drag, his eyes dragging back up to meet your stare with a possessive, predatory certainty. "Hearing you unravel like that is more than enough to keep the signal running."

You shifted slightly, the cool air from the cracked window hitting your bare chest and reminding you of just how exposed you were. Your eyes scanned the dim floorboards, looking to cover up and reclaim some semblance of armor.

You positioned your panties to cover you back, hissing at the moist material touching you.

Noticing your movement, Jeongguk didn't say a word. He just leaned forward, his bare torso flexing in the shadows as he snatched your discarded top from the front footwell. He handed it over to you, his touch surprisingly gentle against your fingers. Once you took it, he sank back against the seat and lazily draped his heavy, solid arm across your bare thighs, anchoring you close to his side while he held his cigarette in his other hand.

The heat of his palm against your skin was a stark contrast to the crisp air drifting through the car.

"You coming to the gala on Saturday?" he asked, his voice a low, raspy rumble that sounded incredibly intimate in the quiet space. He took a slow drag, the cherry of the cigarette illuminating his profile.

You pulled your shirt over your head, settling the fabric over your skin before leaning back against his leather jacket. "Yeah," you murmured, adjusting the hem. "It's kinda rude not to attend. Everyone from the department is going to be there."

Jeongguk exhaled a thin stream of gray smoke toward the open sliver of the window. "I'm the mixer at the gala."

"I know," you replied simply, looking out at the dark, empty lot.

He paused, the cigarette hovering an inch from his lips as he turned his head to look at you, eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity. "How do you know?"

A small, faint smile tugged at your lips at his rare surprise. "My project mates found out. They said it was leaked that Amaranth will DJ, or something like that. Word travels fast when it comes to you."

Jeongguk let out a low, humorless chuckle, the sound vibrating right through the heavy arm draped lazily across your thighs. He took another slow drag of his cigarette, his eyes staring fixately at the smoke as it swirled toward the cracked window.

"Everyone will be there," he murmured, his gravelly baritone taking on a sharper, more deliberate edge. He turned his head slightly, his piercing gaze locking back onto your face. "Including a special someone. Probably with a woman around his arm."

The reminder hit a raw nerve, instantly throwing a cold blanket over the lingering warmth in your veins. Your lips pulled into a small, defensive pout as you looked away, your chest tightening. "Yeah," you muttered, your voice small against the quiet of the car. "I guess it was implied."

Jeongguk watched the subtle shift in your expression, his thumb tracing a slow, grounding line over your skin. "You gonna be okay?"

"I don't know," you confessed honestly, the vulnerability slipping out before you could stop it. The thought of seeing him out in the open, playing the part with someone else while you stood on the sidelines, felt like an anchor dragging you down.

Jeongguk flicked the ash from his cigarette out the window his jaw clenching tightly. He shifted closer, the heat of his bare chest pressing against your shoulder as he leveled you with an unyielding look.

"I'll be there anyway," he said, his voice dropping into a firm, protective register. "Just in case."

Before you could process the weight of that promise, he leaned in a fraction closer, the scent of tobacco completely filling your senses.

"But don't let him see you're affected," Jeongguk warned, his pitch-black eyes burning with a cold, calculated intensity. "Giving him a reaction just gives him power, Void. Keep your frequency locked down."

next chapter | previous

[qwbikio]

Your art is sososososososo yummy!!😫💕

Do you have any rendering tips? Yours just look SO good. I can't stop looking.

thank you so much :D 💙💙💙

hmmm tbh i start with basic shapes to separate the shadow/light area and then just overuse the blur/blend brush to blend the sketch and the color layers then i add details/texture with my normal brushes on top of it where i feel its needed. i try to keep things loose/not overrender so some of my brushstrokes or lasso tool selections are still visible.

i really like how artists on xiaohongshu have artstyles that seem really effortless/the rendering is mainly properly placed brushstrokes n i try to replucate that in my art too

have a bunch of speedpaints on my socials (probably too fast to notice things but maybe it helps) but i kinda forget to upload them here too

[forkshighschooler]

What do you think life in Forks would be like if Bella had an (reader) older twin with a livelier personality who, unlike her, lived with Charlie and Bella with Rene? And maybe she would have a disability, like blindness

Life in Forks with Y/N (Bella’s Older Blind Twin)

Y/N is everything Bella isn’t at first glance — outspoken, quick-witted, and full of a warmth that lights up their home on Hemlock Drive. Despite being blind, Y/N moves through the world with an unshakable confidence, using her other senses and sharp intuition to understand people and surroundings better than most.

Charlie deeply respects Y/N’s independence and resilience. She helps him around the house in her own ways and has a way of making the household feel alive — whether it’s teasing Rene or cracking jokes to make Bella smile. Rene, growing up with two sisters, adores Y/N’s humor and protective nature over Bella, sometimes getting into playful sibling rivalries.

At school, Y/N is known for her vivacious spirit — she never lets her blindness define her or hold her back. People underestimate her at first, but her quick humor and kindness quickly win them over. She often acts as Bella’s social anchor, gently pushing Bella to come out of her shell and meet new people.

⸻

Y/N and Bella’s Relationship

Y/N sees the world differently, not just because she’s blind but because she has a lived experience of overcoming challenges. Bella admires that strength and sometimes wishes she had the same boldness. Y/N, in turn, has a deep empathy for Bella’s quiet nature and fears, always ready to support her without judgment.

Their twin bond is a foundation of comfort and courage for both. Y/N’s blindness also teaches Bella to “see” people beyond appearances, a lesson that will matter more and more as the supernatural secrets of Forks unfold.

!1!Short fic below the break!!!

Light Beyond Sight

Pairing: Bella Swan x Reader (Y/N) (older twin)

Summary: Bella’s blind older twin Y/N brings laughter and fierce love to their quiet, rainy town. When the mysterious Cullens arrive, Y/N’s fearless heart and unshakable faith in what she can feel rather than see challenges Bella to open her eyes — and her heart — to the unknown.

Warnings: Mentions of blindness, family bonds, mild supernatural hints, emotional warmth.

⸻

The rain was a steady hum outside the small house on Hemlock Drive. Inside, Y/N sat at the kitchen table, fingers brushing over the pages of a Braille book, while Bella moved quietly between rooms. Charlie’s deep voice rumbled from the living room, talking softly to Rene, who laughed.

Y/N smiled — the house was a symphony of sounds and scents she loved. The faint smell of pine from the open window mixed with the scent of coffee and wet earth. Her world was painted in textures and vibrations; colors didn’t matter to her, but feelings did.

“Bella, you ready for school?” Y/N called, her voice teasing as always.

Bella poked her head in the kitchen, eyes flickering with hesitation. “I think so.”

Y/N stood, tapping her white cane on the floor as she moved toward the door. “Come on, slowpoke. The world’s waiting.”

Outside, the damp forest air wrapped around them. Y/N led the way, the cane tapping rhythmically on the gravel path. Bella followed, trusting her sister’s sure footsteps.

At school, whispers followed them like shadows. The new Cullens had arrived, and something about them buzzed beneath the surface — an electric charge Y/N could almost feel on her skin.

One afternoon, as the twins walked home along the empty streets, a figure stepped from the edge of the trees. Y/N’s hand shot out, gripping Bella’s with fierce protectiveness.

“Who’s there?” Y/N demanded.

The man smiled gently. “I’m Carlisle Cullen. We’ve just moved here.”

Y/N’s face softened, sensing no threat. “You sound… different.”

Carlisle nodded. “And sometimes different is exactly what you need.”

Bella looked up at her sister, who gave a small, confident smile. “Sometimes,” Y/N said softly, “seeing isn’t believing — feeling is.”

In that moment, Bella understood that with Y/N by her side, the unknown wasn’t so frightening anymore.

Disclaimer:

I do now own Twilight or any of its characters. All rights belong to Stephenie Meyer. This is a work of fanfiction written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended.