He begs for your attention. “Can we do a spooky movie marathon for october? Pleaseeeeee. On Halloween we can watch Saw. I know you like it.” You raise one brow and look at him, thinking about it. His voice goes higher and he pulls out his finishing move, the puppy eyes. “Please please please! I will even bring the snacks everyday. Come on. It will be fun!” You were going to say yes eventually because you love horror movies, especially Saw. But it is always fun to see him pout and whine for something you could easily give.
“Okay, but I better see those snacks everyday, Adrian.” He jumps happily, punching the air. His little laugh is precious.
He begs for your forgiveness. A somehow regular occurrence, him shaking lightly, eyes wide and voice rough, pleading for your comforting words. And you, jaw tight, hands tense. You know he will not do something to outright hurt you, ever, but it still hurts.
“I really really reaaaally didn’t mean it in a bad way. I didn’t say you were not my friend. I will never say that. Believe me, please.”
“You kind of exactly said that, Adrian.” When you say his name in such harsh a tone, it sucks the breath out of him.
“The thing I meant to say was... You are not just my friend.... I kinda see you more than that so... It puts you in a different category than just friend. I don’t exactly know what category that is, but I am sure it means more to me than Peacemaker’s friendship. Aaaand that technically still makes him my number one friend, so you are in a different, single slot category-”
You kiss him to shut him up, and it sucks the breath out of him too. In a good way.
He begs for your touch. Sweaty and red all over, being in his lap gives you a heady rush. He is shaking slightly, his chest is vibrating with shallow breaths. His curls are damp and sticking to his forehead, eyes glossy and glasses foggy. “Please.” he says. “Please touch my fucking dick or I feel like it’s gonna fall off or explode or some shit! Please babe.” You pout and pinch one of his nipples to just be cruel. In response, he downright hisses at you, and his already weeping cock twitches slightly against his stomach, dripping more. “You just did that to tease me!”
“That’s kinda the point of this.” You cannot hold the small laugh that escapes your lips.
“I don’t think this is funny at all! If this was your dick I would be all over it by now, just saying.” He frowns and tries to look at you in a demanding way. When he realizes you are not crumbling, his mouth goes back into a pout and whines. “Do you want me to beg? Because I was already doing that for the last thirty minutes, babe. I will pay it back to you. I will eat you out for hours if you want! You know I will!” Oh, you know he would. He loved making you feel good.
“Tell me I am the only one to get you like this.” You tilt your head and look down on him. He tenses and sucks in a sharp breath, then bites his upper lip. He grabs you by the hips, head already nodding at your words, glasses sliding down.
“You are the only one, babe! You know that, don’t you? You just want to hear me saying it. If that’s the case, I will say it for hours, just fucking touch me. You know I am yours, please. No one else, no one else. Pleaaaaase. I know you want to make me feel good too. Please! Just give me your hand, at least. Come on, babe.”
You interrupt his begging by humoring him and taking his dripping cock into your hand, his hips immediately canting upwards at the feel of your lukewarm fingers. “Well, it is always good to hear it.” Your other hand ruffles his hair. “Good boy.” you say, to soothe him, or to rile him up more, he can’t decide.
“Thank you!” he nearly screams. “Thank you thank you thank you...” You wink at him and start to move your hand slowly. Adrian moans, high-pitched, and starts to curse under his breath, sometimes thanking you again.
A smile takes over your face, when he sees it, Adrian smiles at you too. How sweet. Maybe you can make him beg for your mouth too, huh?
Now broken into separate posts. Please hit the next button (at the bottom) to find the next part OR go to the master post to find links to all parts.
Damian lit the candles on each corner of the pentagram, placed a plate of Alfred’s cookies in the middle and said, “Phantom, I summon you,” in a deadpan voice.
The smoke from the candles swirled together and Danny, in Phantom form, appeared, already munching on the sacrificed cookies. “Hey Damian! I’m surprised you actually summoned me. What’s up?”
“Grayson has been worried about my lack of close relationships with my age-mates, and in the interest of avoiding gruelingly forced social interaction, I would like to introduce you to them.”
Danny swallowed his bite of cookie and smirked, “No way. I agree with that Grayson dude, you need more friends. You Waynes need to keep your sociable facades, and having one or two friends outside of the caped community won’t kill you.
Damian sniffed. “The fools in that torturous institution you people call schools are not good candidates for close relationships.”
“I never said anything about making friends at school, why don’t you go make friends at the dog park or something.”
Damian squinted at him, not sure if he was joking. “The dog park? In Gotham?”
Danny hesitated then nodded conceding the point. “Ok, maybe not the dog park, but you promised when you came here that you’d cement your place with the Waynes before you introduced me. Part of that is making your public identity well connected enough that it would be a pain in the butt if you disappeared.”
“Rest assured, the members of this family are soft hearted enough that a lack of public facing relationships will have no bearing on my place within the family. Grayson’s desire for me to make,” Damian’s nose scrunched up in distaste, “friends stems from their concern for the fulfillment of my so called emotional needs.”
Danny, having eaten all the cookies, blew out the candles and landed softly on the floor as he turned back to his human form. “And you think that introducing them to your twin is going to get them off your back?”
“They will be so busy investigating you and your situation that they won’t concern themselves with my relationships with others for at least a month.”
“Ahh,” Danny nodded in understanding, “drop the occasional worrying tidbit and don’t let slip that I’m aware of their connection to the caped community, got it.”
“I will tell them that our mother secretly got you adopted out when you were 3, so don’t act like you’re aware of the League of Assassins either.”
“And of course, the fact that I’m coming out of your room with no sign of how I got in will just add to the mystery,” Danny grinned, “Sounds like fun! Count me in! Let’s go drive your family crazy!”
Damian nodded seriously opened his door, leading Danny towards the dining room. “Tonight is the weekly family dinner, so this is the optimal time to introduce you to everyone.”
“Sweet! Any night that I don’t have to fight my dinner is a good night in my books!”
In which Remus' favourite jumper is accidentally shrunken, and the Marauders hatch a genius (insane) plan involving your animagus form to restore it to its former glory.
warnings: animagus!reader, fem!reader, the marauders are idiots, one moment of Remus having dirty thoughts because this boy is down bad (sue me), swearing, no use of Y/N | word count: 1886 words
note: wow this was meant to be out like a week ago but Greece smacked me in the face with a lack of wifi that drove me INSANE
“Well, this is new.”
Remus hesitated at the portrait hole of the Gryffindor common room, cloak and hair still damp from the rain that had been drizzling persistently for the last few days, blanketing Hogwarts and the surrounding mountains in a fine layer of damp.
The common room was mostly abandoned, with only a few stragglers at the study tables and the loud and boisterous group he despaired to call friends loitering around the fire. Along with, he noted with a sudden warm jolt in his chest, you.
Well, not you exactly.
The small cat blinked up at him from Sirius’s shoulder, all wide eyes and unrurly fur, unfairly adorable as you dug your claws into the leather of Sirius’s jacket.
It wasn’t your animagus form that was the cause of such bewilderment – lord knew he had seen it often enough during full moon nights or evenings of general mischief that the sight was more than familiar.
What was strange, however, was the old brown jumper that was far too familiar, and far too small, considering it had been human sized when he had worn it the day before.
Remus cleared his throat, catching the attention of the group. “... Is that my jumper?”
James, who had frozen like a deer in headlights – he gave himself a mental high five for that pun – lifted his hands placatingly. His round glasses slid down his nose as he shot Remus a bashful grin.
“Ah. Moony.”
“Uh oh,” Peter mumbled as he hid behind the long scroll that was his Charms essay. Remus could see the bumps in the parchment where his friend had frantically scribbled out sentences – almost the entire essay, by the look of things.
“Sirius.” Remus crossed his arms over his chest, knowing damn well who to was blame, levelling him with his best unamused glare whilst trying to tamp down the amusement steadily rising inside of him.
It wasn’t funny, not really – he didn’t have many jumpers, and that one happened to be one of his favourites – but something about how adorable you looked, blinking innocently up at him, swaddled in his (albeit miniature) jumper, illuminated by the golden glow of the flames slowly dying to embers in the fire, had his heart softening to the point where it was truly impossible to be mad.
He could never be mad at you. It was practically impossible. He hated it. He adored it.
Sirius and James, however? Oh, it was more than possible to be mad at them, and he was incredibly eager to demonstrate if they didn’t start talking soon.
“Explain.”
James winced. “Don’t be mad–”
“When a person starts a sentence with that phrase, it rarely means anything good.”
You meowed in agreement from atop Sirius’s shoulder, and he gently scooped you up to settle you on the arm of the sofa.
“You were better off holding her,” Peter said, not looking up from his essay. “He won’t hit you if you’re holding her.”
Sirius hesitated and then slowly reached down to you again. You batted his hand away and hissed, and Remus was unfairly thrilled at the offended look on Sirius’s face as he cradled his hands against his chest, scowling.
“Oh, so now you won’t let me pick you up? That’s hardly fair.”
“You were trying to use her as a human shield.” James shrugged. “Or feline shield, rather.”
“Says the one who bribed her to do this by promising her ten of your chocolate frog cards and a pack of cauldron cakes!”
You purred as you strided across the arm of the sofa and up to James, rubbing your head against his hand.
Remus cleared his throat, thoroughly agitated. “Excuse me, but would you lot care to tell me why the bloody hell my shrunken jumper is on my girlfriend?”
At the sound of his voice, Sirius and James winced again simultaneously.
“Right. That.” James said tightly. “Well, you see – Sirius can explain.”
“What?!” Sirius exclaimed incredulously. “This was your idea!”
“You’re the one who shrunk it!”
“It was an accident, you pillock!”
“Pete, care to chime in here?” Remus asked, thoroughly exasperated.
Peter shook his head, ears pink. “Not particularly.”
Remus sighed. “Yeah, didn’t think so. Alright,” he said loudly, cutting through the squabble. “If neither of you explains within the next twenty seconds, then James, I’m telling Lily you skirked off prefect duties last week.”
“What?!”
“Hah!” Sirius raised his fist in the air in victory.
“And Sirius,” Remus continued, “I’m telling Janice you were recently at the hospital wing for a horrific rash on your… unmentionables.”
Sirius’s jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t.”
Remus’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Try me.”
There was a moment of tense silence, in which your head swivelled between each Marauder, eyes wide with excitement, before James threw a hand up and pointed at Sirius. “It was his fault!”
“Oi!”
“We were trying to help Pete out with his Charms essay, and we were showing him how to do a shrinking charm, and your girl had brought the jumper down earlier for when she got cold later and Sirius tried to shrink the plant pot and missed and now your jumper is tiny and–”
“We were gonna fix it though!” Sirius said quickly, noting Remus’s expression of pure bewilderment.
“And how, pray tell, is putting the shrunken jumper on a cat fixing it?”
“Well,” James said proudly. “We had an absolutely brilliant idea to set things right.”
“Foolproof, really.” Sirius nodded.
“Yes, but is it you two proof? Because if not, I can’t see it working well.” Remus ran a tired hand over his eyes. Sometimes, more often than not, it felt like he was raising his friends and doing a spectacularly bad job at it.
A gentle pressure against his palm caught his attention, and he glanced down to see that you had moved silently across the sofa, coming to rest at his side. You blinked up at him slowly, and his heart melted in his chest as he bent slightly to scoop you up.
“Hey, dovey,” he said softly, nestling you against his chest.
You purred in response, bumping your little nose against his chin.
James scoffed. “Blatant favouritism. She bit me when I tried to pick her up earlier.”
“Deserved,” Remus said unapologetically, scratching lightly behind your ears. “And none of that explains why she is wearing my jumper.”
“Well, animagi don’t lose their clothes when they turn into animals, right? Like, we turn back with them on, don’t we?”
“Right,” Remus nodded, not even pretending to understand how that little bit of magic worked.
It was a blessing, considering how often his friends ran around the castle in animal form – at least this way they didn’t have to stash clothes everywhere on the off chance one of them would end up wandering around naked.
He felt his cheeks flush at the thought as he ran his fingers soothingly over your fur, trying to banish the idea of you naked from his head. Lord knew that was hardly the time.
“Well, in theory, they shrink with us, correct?” James continued.
Remus squinted, having absolutely no idea where this was going. “Well, you hardly wander around wearing your leather jacket as a dog.”
Sirius was silent for a moment before he turned to James with a grin. “Can we try that? That would be fucking awesome.”
“No, you cannot try that,” Remus snapped before James could answer. “The smell of dog would never come out.”
“I do not smell like dog!”
Peter’s nose wrinkled. “Well…”
Sirius went white. “Oh my god… do I smell like dog?”
“Oi, idiots.” Remus rolled his eyes and gestured to the cat curled up in his arms. “Please?”
“Oh, right.” James looked bashful. “Well, we thought that if the clothes shrink with us then surely they’ll grow with us too, right?”
Remus had a sinking suspicion where this was going, and prayed that he was wrong.
“So, theoretically, if she was wearing your jumper as a cat, when she turned human again, the jumper would grow with her. You know, back to its normal size!”
There was a moment of stunned silence in which Remus questioned every single life decision he had ever made, namely letting the two idiots in front of him sit in his compartment that day in first year on the Hogwarts Express.
“You…” Remus felt his left eye twitch. “You’re joking.”
Sirius crossed his arms. “Give me one reason it wouldn’t work!”
“Hmm, I don’t know, how about I give you a dozen of them, namely the pieces of my favourite jumper that will be all over the floor when the damn thing rips!”
“It won’t rip!” James argued, looking thoroughly offended. “It’ll just grow back to its normal size, and then you would have been none the wiser, except you just had to come back from your walk early and stop us right before the magic happened.”
Remus looked at him incredulously. “Are you even hearing yourself, Prongs? Magic.”
Both James and Sirius stared at him blankly. You made a noise in his arms that sounded an awful lot like a disappointed sigh. Peter lowered his head into his hands.
“Idiots. You’re both idiots. You’re wizards, you twats! Just use Engorgio on it! Or have the last six years at this school been for absolutely nothing?”
More blank stares.
Sirius bashfully rubbed his neck. “Didn’t think of that.”
“Mhm.” James ran a hand over his mouth. “Well. That’s a… perfectly reasonable, rational, sensible solution there, Moony.”
Remus rolled his eyes, feeling the beginnings of a migraine slowly tugging behind his eyes. With a loving scratch behind the ear, he deposited you down on the couch, where you waited patiently, blinking up at him dopily.
“So… we just take it off her? And use magic to regrow it?”
James looked at Sirius blankly. “How the hell did neither of us consider that?”
“You were too excited about putting a jumper on a cat,” Peter chimed in, finally deeming it safe enough to look up from his essay.
“Right. Yes.” Sirius stared down at you and grinned. “Worth it.”
“Oh, for God’s sake–” Remus reached forwards to remove the jumper, but James leapt in front of you protectively, arms outstretched widely.
“Wait!”
“For the love of Merlin, what?”
“You know what else is a great spell?” James asked, eyes bright. “Repairo. You know, the magic fixer of all things broken. Or, in this case, ripped.”
“... You want me to let you try it anyway, don’t you?”
Sirius nodded. “Very much so, yes.”
Remus looked blankly at Peter.
Peter shrugged bashfully. “In the name of science?”
He hated his group of friends. Really, truly he did. If he hadn’t spent six years growing awfully attached to them, he’d insist on finding new ones. As it were, he sighed wearily and stepped back, tucking his wand back into his pocket.
“Fine, fucking hell. But I reserve the right to say I told you so.”
One ripped jumper, a laughing you, and several frantic repair spells later, Remus had his (thankfully intact and normal sized) jumper back, and was content to sit with the knowledge that as usual, he was right, and his friends were complete idiots.
They were his idiots though, he supposed, and his life was better for it.
Here is the list for October this year. Write something short (or long) and tag it with #fictober25 in the first five tags. Let’s see your creativity!
"Just take my hand."
"This is new."
"I don't need a reason."
"Can you hold me?"
"But you promised!"
"This is annoying."
"You'll have to try harder than this."
"I know it sounds impossible."
"They didn't even touch it!"
"I'm here, am I not?"
"Stupider people than us have done this."
"Does this help you?"
"It's a balance."
"Do we have a plan?"
"It's rather complicated."
"I will never forget this."
"You're not alone."
"I think I see it."
"Yes, I missed this."
"Trust me, this will work."
"Just be honest."
"And how did that work out?"
"I believe in us."
"There's not enough time."
"We've done this before."
"It's been a while, hasn't it?"
"Why would they do this?"
"I'm not lost!"
"Where did they go?"
"Do you trust me?"
"I still love you."
This event is open to fanfiction and original fiction.
Start the first of October. You do not have to do the prompts in order. Tag your posts with #fictober25.
Please state at the top if your entry is original fiction or fanfiction and what fandom. State common warnings and triggers at the top and tag accordingly.
No AI generated text or art.
I reserve the right to not reblog fics that I find inappropriate. I will reblog things here on @fictober-event, follow this blog to see all the entries.
Go forth and write!
Chan | Lee Know | Changbin | Han | Felix | Seungmin | Jeongin |
Babysitting is something you've done for a while now as a little side job, ever since you were about twelve you've babysat people younger than you. So when a particularly rich couple ask you to babysit their son you agree, but you didn't think they would have such strict rules. You also didn't expect their "son" to be a literal doll. You're weirded out, but they've given you half of the money already... Three hundred dollars... You could just dip right? No no, that would ruin your reputation in the community, surely. So against your better judgement, you care for the stupid doll. Little did you know, their actual son is in the walls of the very house you're babysitting in. Hyunjin Hwang. He was the only son of the rich Hwang couple when he suddenly disappeared after the house caught on fire, then it was rebuilt. Specifically to keep him in the walls.
You're in the kitchen, making yourself some food when you hear a random noise. Shit. You're not supposed to leave the doll alone in any room. You left him in the bedroom. You quickly go and somehow he's on the floor. You brush it off as him just tipping over and you bring him into the kitchen.
Later when you're getting yourself ready for bed you hear another sound. Unbeknownst to you, you broke another rule. You were supposed to give him a goodnight kiss every night at 8:00. It's 8:04. You're brushing your teeth but you keep hearing sounds. Eventually you leave the bathroom and make your way to the guest bed.
A few minutes later as you're just about to fall asleep you hear a creaking sound. The mirror on the wall is opening... And a man steps out... He quickly makes his way over to you and covers your mouth before you can scream.
"Shh, don't scream, please, I'll be a good boy I promise." He whispers in your ear softly, pinning you to the bed.
"What the hell? Who are you!?" You mumble against his hand.
"I'm Hyunjin, I'm the doll, honey. And you're my new plaything. I like you. So I'm not gonna kill you. I've killed all the others." He says, his voice no longer innocent. He takes the porcelain doll looking mask off showing you his beautiful face... Maybe being his plaything wouldn't be so bad after all. "Can we cuddle? Please? Pretty please? I'll be good I promise." He says, his voice going back to the sweet and innocent, almost childlike voice from before.
You sigh, mad at yourself for giving in so easily. "Fine. We can cuddle." You say as you get under the blanket.
He quickly makes his way under the blanket too, peppering your cheeks with soft little kisses. "Thank you, nanny, what's your name?" He asks.
"It's Y/N." You say quietly, trying to ignore the fact that a serial killer is in bed with you, and trying to ignore the fact that you're very attracted to said serial killer.
"Ooh, Y/N, pretty." He mumbles, on the verge of falling asleep. You wait until he falls asleep to fall asleep yourself, just in case.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The next morning you wake up and roll over only to find out that... He's under the blanket... In between your legs... Eating your pussy. And God if he isn't the best at it-
"Mm, morning, nanny." He mumbles as he licks and sucks your pussy. "Figured I'd wake you up with a surprise." He says softly as he squeezes your thighs with his hands.
"Oh my- fuck-" You moan softly as you feel him sucking on your pussy. "Feels so good." You mumble, still half asleep.
"Yeah? Am I doing a good job? Am I a good boy?" He asks, looking up at you with big eyes as he flattens his tongue against your pussy.
You nod quickly. "So good! So so good." You moan and whine, moving your hips. You reach down and grab his hair, pushing his tongue further into your pussy.
He moans and whines, slurping and licking like he's starving. Which he is. He's wanted to eat you out since you got here. "Are you close? Gonna give me your cum?" He asks, giving you puppy eyes as he brings a finger to your pussy and pushes it inside.
You gasp and arch your back, throwing your head back against the pillows as he curls his finger and licks your clit.
"Cum for me. Please. Please I'm being good like I said, please cum." He begs you softly.
You cry out and cum, but you don't just cum, you squirt. Hard. And he laps it all up immediately. "Mm, so good." He sighs softly, laying his head against your thigh.
Masterlist - Join My Taglist! - Send me a Fictober request!
Written for Fictober 2025! Requested by @auroracalisto - thank you for being so patient while I worked on this! I had a ton of fun writing this one, and I hope you like it :)
Fandom: Bridgerton
Day Twenty Prompt: "Trust me, this will work!"
Summary: Benedict's best friend since childhood has an idea for getting revenge on Anthony after he cheated in pall mall, and she's not about to let Benedict sit out the enacting of the plan.
Word Count: 2,028
Category: Fluff
Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.
"Trust me, this will work!"
I stared straight into the eyes of my best friend, Benedict Bridgerton, willing him to believe what I was saying. He raised an eyebrow, and I could see the doubt in his eyes, but to his credit he was still standing in the small hallway alcove with me.
"...I suppose I've trusted you this long. One more leap of faith isn't too much to ask, with all of that considered."
I grinned at him. "Thank you. And just think about the expression on Anthony's face when my plan goes off without a hitch!"
Benedict shook his head, but he smiled nonetheless. I smiled back, leaning my shoulder into his.
Technically, we were far too close for propriety. But we'd been joined at the hip since we were children, and we were in Aubrey Hall with no one besides his family and the staff. I wasn't about to let my best friend sit out of shenanigans because society had recently decided we weren't allowed to exist within two feet of each other.
In pall mall yesterday, Anthony had completely cheated to prevent me from winning, and I was not about to let that stand. So, I'd come up with a plan to get my revenge, via a bucket full of water balanced over a doorway I knew Anthony would be walking through shortly.
"I hope you have a plan for the moment after the water hits its mark," Benedict muttered, so close to me that I could feel his breath on my neck. I repressed a shiver, and immediately after, repressed any analysis of why I might've felt a shiver coming on.
"The plan is to hide here," I said. "Where we'll see him and he won't see us."
"And if he does see us?"
"Then I'm going to run, at least fast enough to be faster than you."
Benedict scoffed and rolled his eyes, and I responded with a grin. Before either of us could continue our conversation, however, the trapped door swung open with Anthony's typical level of force, sending the perilous bucket of water tipping over and straight onto his head.
He gasped, already scowling, as my hands shot to my face to try to stifle a laugh. Just behind me, Benedict wasn't quite as successful as I had been. A horrible, half-muffled snort escaped him, and Anthony's head whipped instantly in our direction.
All three of us froze for a moment, and then all hell broke loose.
"Run!" I shouted, whirling around and shoving Benedict ahead of me as Anthony bellowed our names, clearly having realized we were to blame.
Just ahead of me, I could see Benedict shaking his head as the two of us sprinted through the hallways of Aubrey Hall, like we had when we were kids. Despite the situation, I couldn't keep a slightly manic smile off my face.
"Come on, Ben! I know you can run faster than that!" I called, putting on just enough speed to pull ahead of Benedict. I heard him huff behind me, and I could tell he wasn't quite as amused as I was.
Of course, to be fair, his brother would probably actually punch him if he caught up to Benedict first. He'd be more likely to pick me up and drag me all the way outside to throw me in the lake in retaliation.
"We need a better plan than just running!" Benedict called, still just a half-step behind me. I hummed. He was right. Luckily for both of us, I'd practically grown up in this house, too, and I'd spent a lot of time exploring these hallways, including after Anthony had to step up and do real work instead of spending time with Benedict and I.
"Just follow me," I huffed, quickly turning a corner and then yanking Benedict after me through a door to a servant's supply cupboard. I knew Anthony had no idea it existed, and honestly, I doubted whether Benedict knew, either.
I tugged the door shut behind us, putting my back to the wall in the small, dark space with Benedict just in front of me. I wished I could pretend that my heart was only racing from the running and the adrenaline.
"What a-"
"Sh!" I hissed, putting a finger to my lips to silence Benedict as quickly as possible. We stood so close to fit both of us in the closet that my finger wasn't far from touching his lips, too.
A moment later, we heard Anthony's footsteps go thundering past outside. Neither of us so much as breathed, staying absolutely still and listening as carefully as we could. Mercifully, it sounded like Anthony had gone right past us without a second thought.
I met Benedict's eyes, huffing a quiet laugh as a small smile of relief pulled onto my face.
"I think we're in the clear," I said, still smiling, although I wasn't totally sure why anymore. It took a concentrated effort to keep my eyes on Benedict's face.
"All thanks to your brilliant quick thinking," he muttered, sounding a little breathless himself, as his eyes roamed my face. My heart kicked up an extra beat, and against the better judgement in the back of my mind, I followed the impulse to let my hands drift up to rest on his arms.
Almost reflexively, like it was the most natural thing in the world, Benedict's hands came up to rest lightly on my waist. Slowly, he leaned forward, until our foreheads pressed together. He'd given me plenty of time to pull back, but I hadn't moved an inch.
"I... am about to say something that will greatly complicate our friendship," he said. I smiled, meeting his eyes as we remained face to face.
"By all means, do so."
He chuckled, a relieved smile growing on his own face. My heart sped up in my chest in anticipation of what I thought Benedict was about to say.
"I have been feeling this way for some time... I've thought about saying this to you for a long time, too. I should be more eloquent, but I'm struggling not to trip over my words..." My smile grew as I huffed a short laugh. Benedict, usually one of the most poetic and well-spoken people I knew, was struggling not to trip over his words. He huffed a little laugh, then continued. "I... have feelings for you. To be more precise, actually, I... I love you. I'm in love with you. And I think I have been for... for longer than I'd realized. You are such a wonderful and important part of my life, and you have been for so long. I can't imagine life without you, I- oh, please tell me I haven't just ruined our relationship."
I laughed, especially at the worried look on his face. He looked slightly more relaxed at my reaction, but not completely. I moved one of my hands from his arm to his chest, just above his heart, and gave him a soft smile.
"You haven't ruined anything, Benedict. I've been feeling the same way for at least as long as you have. I was too scared to ruin our relationship myself, so I never said anything... I'm glad you finally did."
He let out a gigantic sigh, relaxing backwards to rest his head on the opposite closet wall as his shoulders slumped.
"Oh, thank goodness. I can't imagine what I would've done if you hadn't felt the same way."
I giggled a little, leaning into him as he straightened up and pulled me closer. This time, I didn't stop myself from glancing down at his lips, which also meant I didn't miss the way they curved into a mischievous smile.
"...Does this also mean I can finally kiss you?" he asked. My eyes snapped back up to his, and I quickly nodded my head.
"I'll be incredibly disappointed if you don't."
Benedict grinned again, then wasted no time leaning in to close the distance between us. I met him halfway, and fireworks exploded in my chest as soon as our lips met.
I leaned even farther forward, into Benedict, and he pulled me closer as we deepened the kiss. My head spun, my entire world narrowing to the man I loved, who I knew loved me back, who I finally got to kiss. I don't know how far we would've gone before society's hovering rules floated back into our minds, but the door to our hideout swung open before we got the chance to find out.
My stomach swooped, this time with panic rather than butterflies. Benedict and I jerked apart, putting as much distance as possible between us in the tiny space, and I got ready to shove Anthony over if he'd somehow managed to find us. After blinking a few times while my eyes adjusted to the sudden light, however, I found a different Bridgerton sibling staring at the two of us.
Daphne stood framed in the doorway, her hands on her hips and an eyebrow raised. I glanced at Benedict, and found him looking just as shocked and sheepish as I felt.
"I was wondering how long something like this would take the two of you."
Benedict and I both stumbled over a few half-formed words. I had absolutely no idea what to say, and clearly, he didn't either.
"I came to tell the two of you that Anthony gave up. He's due for a visit to one of the neighbors, and he had no choice but to leave a few minutes ago. You two are safe, at least for now."
"...Thank you, Daphne." I managed to choke out. She nodded and then slowly, a grinned pulled onto her face as she glanced between me and Benedict again.
"You know, the two of you are very lucky both Anthony and I have been in similar situations before. And that I'm the one who found you."
"I take that to mean you won't be telling anyone?" Benedict finally managed to ask. Daphne shook her head.
"No. Although I'm sure I speak for everyone when I say I'm relieved the two of you finally realized the feelings you've been ignoring for far too long."
With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving the closet door open behind her. Benedict and I turned to each other slowly, sheepish grins in place as he rubbed at the back of his neck.
"Well..." I started. "I suppose my idea for revenge on Anthony worked out better than imagined."
Benedict snorted, the tension and nerves finally breaking between us. He reached out and pulled me into his side, although with the door wide open, we didn't go farther than that.
"...I'm afraid that if I agree, I'm going to find myself running from my siblings after you've decided to prank them more often than I already do."
I grinned up at him, leaning into his side a little more. "That's a guarantee regardless, Benedict. If we act on these feelings and court, then-"
"There is no if."
I stopped short, the teasing grin falling from my face at the seriousness of Benedict's tone. He met my eyes steadily, absolute sincerity conveyed through his posture, tone, and expression.
"So long as you agree, I intend to marry you. I know we may need to court officially first, and that we can't simply be married tomorrow, but... for me, it's a when, not an if."
I straightened up slightly, smiling at Benedict more earnestly.
"Then you will definitely need to be prepared to run from your siblings with me after I've pranked them, much more frequently as my husband."
Benedict sighed dramatically, throwing his head back and slumping a little. I brought a hand up to my face to hide a laugh, especially as Benedict straightened up again and fixed me with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.
"Well, at least then, we'll be able to do what we want in the closets we hide in without fear of social scandal or violation of propriety."
I laughed, lightly whacking Benedict's shoulder as he grinned. The two of us wandered back into the rest of Aubrey Hall together, lighter and happier than I'd ever felt before.
Not even the looming issue of Anthony's return could change that feeling today.
Summary: The town's survival rests on one rule: never answer the voices outside. But when the voice of your lost sister returns, you break the silence-and invite in something that looks human, smiles too wide, and doesn't want your fear. He wants your surrender.
A/n: THIS IS PURELY FICTIONAL! This was fun writing as I love dark fics. I hope u guys enjoy it.
More from this Anthology: Phantoms & FairyTales
Don’t Say Hi back - The rule wasn’t written on signs or posted on town walls—it lived in the marrow of the place, passed down like breath. Old voices whispered it, new voices carried it, and every child learned to repeat it before they could spell their own names.
When the sun dips too early and the trees shed too fast—go home. Lock the windows. Shut the doors. And above all, never—ever—say hi back.
The words hummed through your head as you walked home, the last orange wash of daylight bleeding into violet. The streets were half-empty now. Stores that stayed open all summer shut early in the fall, owners flipping signs to Closed before the church bell could ring six. Porch lights blinked on like frantic eyes, rows of them glowing down your block.
It was the kind of evening that made your chest ache. The air was sharp—crisp enough to sting when you breathed too fast. The wind lifted brittle leaves and rattled them against pavement, a sound like fingers scraping glass. Somewhere, a dog barked, quick and panicked, then went quiet.
Your town had always been uneasy in the fall, but it wasn’t until last year that it turned unbearable.
Last year, when your sister laughed at the rule.
When she swung the front door open with the ease of someone who thought legends were just bedtime stories.
When she tilted her head at you and said, “What’s the worst that could happen if I just said hi?”
She said it like a joke. Like she was teasing you for the way your knuckles went white around the curtains every evening.
And then she stepped out.
She never came back.
Your mother didn’t speak her name anymore, not when the nights grew long. She checked the doors herself, her hands shaking as she turned every lock. She hovered at your windows, testing each latch twice, then left without meeting your eyes. You could feel it anyway—the weight of her silence, the way it pressed into you, heavy and accusing.
You wanted to scream that it wasn’t your fault. That you hadn’t opened the door, that you hadn’t broken the rule. But guilt didn’t care for reason. It twisted inside your ribs like something alive, whispering, you should’ve stopped her.
So you tried to. You tried to live quietly, obediently. Every evening, you turned the locks yourself, shut the blinds, drew the curtains until no crack of light leaked through.
And tonight was no different.
You moved room to room, checking the way you always did. The air inside felt colder than it should’ve, the kind of chill that clung to your clothes no matter how tight you wrapped your arms around yourself. Your fingers fumbled on the last latch—your bedroom window—and that’s when you heard it.
A sound carried on the wind.
Not a scream. Not a whisper.
A laugh.
Clear. Familiar.
Too familiar.
Morning light had a way of lying. It fell through your blinds like gold, soft and harmless, as though the night before hadn’t existed. As though you hadn’t stood frozen at your window with your heart pounding in your throat, listening to laughter that should’ve been impossible.
You tried to shake it off as you dressed, tugging a sweater over chilled skin. But the silence in the house was louder than your thoughts. Your mom was already gone—she always left early during this season, leaving behind a kitchen that smelled faintly of burnt coffee and the imprint of her absence.
The streets, though, were alive. Too alive.
Vendors propped their stalls open in the square, lining the cracked brick road with baskets of late apples, gourds, and brittle bouquets of corn husks. Children darted between them, laughing, though their mothers kept glancing at the sky, measuring the slant of the light. It wasn’t even noon, but already shadows stretched long against the ground, warning what everyone already knew: the nights were growing quicker.
You tightened your scarf and slipped into the bakery.
The bell over the door chimed, and every head turned. It wasn’t unusual—your family carried a shadow heavier than most—but you still hated the way their eyes lingered before darting away, as if even their curiosity could curse them.
“Morning,” croaked Mrs. Halpern from behind the counter, her voice rough like she’d been up all night. She pushed a tray of bread closer, flour dusting the front of her apron. “Cold one, isn’t it?”
“Colder than last year,” murmured the man at the window table. He didn’t look at you when he spoke. No one really did. “Trees went early this time. That’s never a good sign.”
Another customer—a woman stacking jars of honey—clicked her tongue. “Best to keep your ears shut and your lips tighter. We all know what time it is.”
The room fell still. Even the children outside seemed quieter, as if the warning had slipped through the walls.
You stepped closer to the counter, voice low. “Do you… remember last night?”
Mrs. Halpern froze, her hands hovering over the bread. Slowly, her gaze slid toward you, tired eyes narrowing. “Careful.”
The word was sharper than any knife in the room.
She leaned in, lowering her voice so no one else could hear. “The rule’s the rule for a reason, child. You start asking about voices, and they’ll know you’re listening.”
Your mouth went dry. You hadn’t said anything about a voice. Not out loud.
You turned away, heart pounding, and slipped back into the street.
Outside, a group of teens loitered by the old church steps, tossing a ball between them. Their laughter rang high, but when one boy glanced at you, the ball dropped from his hands.
“You’re her sister, right?” His tone wasn’t cruel, but the silence that followed cut deeper than cruelty.
Another voice hissed: “Don’t say that.”
The boy ducked his head, muttering an apology, and the game ended. The group scattered like crows, leaving the church steps bare.
The air had shifted again—bright with daylight but brittle with warning. And as you walked home, scarf clutched around your throat, you couldn’t shake the echo of your sister’s laugh in your skull. It clung like smoke, too real to be memory, too sharp to forget.
By the time you reached home after walking around town most of the day,the sun was already flirting with the horizon, sinking too quickly for comfort. The sky burned in streaks of crimson and ash, the kind of sunset that felt more like a warning than a gift. Shadows pooled under the trees, long and skeletal, the bare branches clawing at the last of the light.
You went through the ritual automatically: blinds drawn, latches checked, curtains shut. Every window. Every door.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Each lock sliding into place echoed louder than the one before.
Outside, the town was winding itself tighter. You could hear it through the thin glass of your windows: a father calling his kids inside, his voice sharp with urgency; a door slamming across the street, followed by the scrape of three different locks being turned; the faint cry of the church bell, marking the hour before everything went still.
It was the stillness that got to you most.
When the sun fully disappeared, it was as if the entire town stopped breathing at once. No laughter. No footsteps. No late-night cars cruising the roads. Just the hollow sigh of wind dragging dead leaves down the pavement.
You sat by the window anyway. You always did. You told yourself it was to keep watch, to make sure you never missed a latch or a crack in the curtain. But deep down, you knew it was more than that. Some stubborn, aching part of you wanted to see what lay beyond the glass.
The air outside looked colder than it had that morning. Each time the wind shifted, you swore you saw it: a mist curling low to the ground, moving as though it had purpose. It coiled between the fence posts, slithered down the streetlight poles. Your breath fogged the glass when you leaned closer, and for a moment you couldn’t tell if the haze belonged outside or inside.
Then—
A sound.
At first, only the shuffle of leaves skidding across asphalt.
Then a voice, carried thin on the wind.
“Hey…”
Your chest went tight.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even insistent. Just a soft call, like someone testing the waters. The word bent itself into the night like a lure, familiar in its simplicity, but wrong in its timing.
Silence followed.
Then again.
“Hey… you there?”
The voice wasn’t hers. Not exactly. But it wore her rhythm, her way of stretching vowels like she was trying to draw you out of your shell. It was close enough to scrape at your insides, close enough to make your throat ache.
You pressed a hand over your mouth and forced yourself back from the glass.
The rule. Don’t answer. Don’t look. Don’t say hi back.
The knock that came next was light. Gentle. Almost polite.
Tap-tap.
Tap.
“Cold out here,” the voice murmured. Still soft. Still sweet. “Don’t you wanna say hi?”
Your blood ran colder than the air.
Your knees buckled before you realized you were moving. One moment you were at the window, breath fogging the glass, and the next you were stumbling backward, nearly tripping over the rug.
The knock came again.
Tap. Tap.
So delicate, like it didn’t belong to anything dangerous.
You didn’t care.
Your heart pounded so hard it felt like it might split your ribs as you turned and bolted down the hall. The floor creaked under your steps, every sound magnified, as if the house itself were holding its breath. You shoved your door closed behind you, twisting the lock with trembling fingers.
The room was dark, save for the faint glow of your nightstand lamp. Shadows stretched across the walls like reaching arms. You didn’t bother undressing; you dove straight beneath your blankets, curling yourself into a knot, pulling the quilt over your head until the world became nothing but fabric and the sound of your own ragged breathing.
“Cold…” The voice drifted faint through the walls. Not pleading. Not urgent. Just patient. “Just say hi.”
Tears pricked at your eyes. You pressed your palms to your ears, whispering to yourself, half-prayer, half-plea.
Please stop. Please, just let me sleep. Please, God, please—
You tried to drown it out with the rhythm of your breath, but it threaded through anyway. Soft syllables wrapping around the edges of your resolve, tugging at every memory you had of your sister. The late-night talks. The way she used to knock on your door with that same gentle rhythm when she wanted to sneak in.
Your chest tightened. You pulled the blanket tighter, as though fabric alone could shield you.
Don’t answer. Don’t answer. Don’t.
The air grew heavier, colder. Your breath stuttered in clouds beneath the blanket. For a moment you swore the knocking had moved—closer, nearer, as if it were no longer at the front door but at your very walls.
You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing yourself to pray again, words tumbling out like a chant:
Let the night pass. Let the night pass. Let the night pass.
Eventually, exhaustion dulled the edges of fear. Your body betrayed you, dragging you toward sleep even as the voice lingered like a stain in the silence. The last thing you felt was the blanket damp against your cheeks, tears soaking through as the world slipped into black.
The morning came like a bruise. Purple light filtered through your curtains, too weak to chase away the shadows clinging to the corners of your room. Your body ached with the weight of a night half-slept, half-shaken. When you finally dragged yourself out of bed, your reflection in the mirror startled you: eyes ringed dark, lips pale, shoulders slumped as though the night had stolen a piece of your bones.
Downstairs, your mom’s gaze flicked to you once and then away. She didn’t say anything, but her silence spoke volumes. She looked the same—drawn, gray around the edges, eyes that had forgotten rest. Everyone did this time of year.
The cafe was no different.
“Morning,” your boss muttered as you tied on your apron. His smile didn’t reach his eyes, not anymore. The tables filled with the usual faces, all of them hunched over steaming mugs, hands clasped around the heat like they were afraid to let go. Their conversations were low, clipped—about weather, crops, prices. Never about the thing that gnawed at the town’s edges.
“Rough night?” a customer asked when you placed their order. The words carried sympathy but no surprise. Everyone looked rough these days. Everyone moved like they were waiting for something they couldn’t stop.
You forced a tight smile. “Something like that.”
By the time your shift ended, your body was running on fumes. You made your way to the market, each step heavier than the last. The aisles smelled faintly of dust and produce. You passed jars of pickled beets, boxes of cereal, until you found what you were looking for: small bottles of sleeping medication lined neatly on the shelf.
Your hand shook as you reached for one. A woman browsing nearby glanced at you but said nothing. She didn’t need to. Everyone knew what the pills were for.
That evening, your mother lingered by your door as you moved through your routine of shutting latches and pulling curtains.
“Don’t sit by the window too long,” she said. Her voice was thin, stretched like paper. She didn’t look at you when she said it.
You nodded. Of course you nodded.
But you didn’t listen.
The hours dragged, your body heavy but your mind refusing rest. You found yourself back at the window, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, staring into the dark.
And that’s when you saw it.
At first, you thought it was just a trick of the streetlight. A shadow bent the wrong way, a shape that didn’t belong. But then your eyes adjusted, and you realized it was a figure.
Standing directly under the lamp.
Still. Watching.
Your heart stuttered. For one wild second you thought—someone was left outside, someone forgot to come in. But no. No one in town would risk it. No one would be that careless.
The figure didn’t move. Not an inch.
And that was when you knew.
It wasn’t a person. It was the warning.
Your breath hitched. Panic surged hot through your veins as you yanked the curtain shut, the fabric snapping against the glass. You stumbled backward, tripping up the stairs , catching yourself on trembling hands.
The house groaned with every step you took, your body desperate to flee, but deep inside you already knew.
It had seen you.
And now it knew.
You were a target.
Three days passed without a sound.
No laughter. No knocks. No whispers outside your window.
The silence should have been a relief, but it wasn’t. It was the kind of silence that crept under your skin, gnawed at the back of your skull, made you feel like you were being studied from a distance. Even at the cafe, people moved with that brittle, waiting energy, but no one spoke of it aloud.
“Quiet spell,” your boss muttered as he wiped down the counter one afternoon. His voice was low, as if afraid the air itself might overhear. “Don’t trust it. Quiet’s never a blessing this time of year.”
You swallowed hard, forcing a nod.
At the market, a neighbor brushed past you, her arm brushing yours. She flinched like your touch burned, and for the briefest second you swore you saw pity in her eyes. But she didn’t say a word. No one did.
That night, you sat by your window again despite your mother’s warnings. The street was empty, the lamps humming faintly. The branches scraped the glass in the wind, their skeletal shadows twitching along your walls.
You almost let yourself believe it was over. That maybe the figure under the lamp had been the last of it. That maybe, by staying silent, you had survived.
And then—
A sound.
“Hey.”
The word slid through the night like a blade. It was her voice. Your sister’s. Warm, familiar, achingly close.
Your throat tightened. You clutched the curtain in your hand but didn’t close it this time. Against every rule, against your better judgment, you looked.
And saw him.
Standing not at the lamp this time, but at the edge of your yard.
He was young. Skin pale as bone in the glow, so pale it almost shimmered against the dark. His hair was black and messy, falling over his forehead as though he’d been running his fingers through it. From far away, you could have mistaken him for just another boy from town—handsome, even, in a quiet, unpolished way.
But then you saw his eyes.
Wide, innocent at first glance—until the light caught them. Black bled from the edges, swallowing the white, crawling inward like ink in water. They twitched with something feral, something too sharp for any human to hold.
He tilted his head, and the movement was wrong. Too quick. Too precise. Following the exact rhythm of your breath, the shift of your shoulders, as though he were learning you piece by piece.
“Don’t you remember me?” he asked—her voice spilling from his lips. The same cadence, the same tilt of vowels, like your sister had whispered the line into his ear.
But underneath it, beneath the softness, was something else. A second voice bleeding through—cold, unfamiliar, rattling low in his throat. It scraped against her tone, like two wires sparking together, unnatural and jarring.
You staggered, your hand flying to your mouth.
The smile that curled across his face stretched too wide, sharp and unnatural against his otherwise soft features. “It’s me. Just say hi back.”
He took a step closer.
The gravel under his shoes didn’t crunch.
The air didn’t stir.
He simply… arrived.
Closer than he should’ve been.
Your chest seized. You yanked the curtain shut with shaking hands.
On the other side of the glass, silence. Then—
A knock. Gentle. Patient. Right against the pane you had just closed.
“Please,” the voice begged—your sister’s, warm and trembling. And beneath it, that cold undertone, grinning through her grief. “Don’t leave me out here.”
The knock stayed soft, but the voice grew sharper, threading through the walls as though they were paper-thin.
“It’s me…”
Her voice. Bright and familiar, tugging at old memories you had buried deep — nights spent whispering under blankets, laughter echoing down the hall when the world was quiet.
“Remember when you used to sneak into my room? When you cried after that nightmare, and I held you till you slept?”
Your hands shook against your ears. You squeezed them tighter, whispering to yourself: Not real. Not real. Not her.
But the voice didn’t stop.
“You should’ve come with me that night.” The warmth faltered, cracking into something cruel, before softening again. “I’m still here, you know. Right outside. You only have to say hi. Just once.”
Your stomach twisted, your throat raw with unshed sobs. The desperation in her tone was unbearable, gnawing at the guilt you had carried for months.
And then, under her voice, another broke through — low, cold, scraping along your bones.
She was simple. You’re simpler.
Your chest seized.
The two voices overlapped, one pleading, one mocking, until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
“Don’t cry,” it cooed in your sister’s voice, but the undertone bent jagged, gleeful. “You’re so easy, aren’t you? Every twitch, every breath, every tear — I can taste it. You’re fun to play with.”
You clamped your hands over your ears harder, curling into yourself on the floor, but the voices slid right through, weaving into your thoughts.
"Sooner or later, you’ll break."
The words slithered through you like smoke, clinging to your ribs. Your despair was a feast, and he devoured it hungrily, his presence swelling stronger with every whimper you couldn’t hold back.
Yes, the undertone purred, deeper now, vibrating against the walls. That’s it. Feed me. Give me more.
You tried to pray, tried to call on anything beyond the suffocating dark, but even your prayers felt hollow under the weight of his hunger.
On the other side of the curtain, you could feel him. His smile. His stillness. His patience.
“You’ll be mine,” he whispered at last, her voice wrapping around the words like silk, but beneath it, his own bled through — jagged and cold.
And in your bones, you knew he was right.
Morning light bled pale through the curtains, catching on the dust in the air. You dragged yourself downstairs, every step heavier than the last. Your mom was already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to her elbows, scrubbing at a pan like it had done her personal harm.
You lingered at the table, watching her. Words pressed against your teeth until you finally let them out.
“Mom… what’s really out there?”
Her hands stilled. The running faucet gushed into silence. She turned slowly, eyes hollowed by nights without rest.
“Don’t,” she said flatly.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t need answers to.”
You gripped the edge of the chair, heart pounding. “But I hear them. I hear her—”
The pan clattered into the sink. “You think I don’t?!” Her voice cracked sharp, slicing through the room. “You think I don’t hear her too? Every night, I hear my daughter’s laugh, her voice calling me. And do you know why she’s gone?”
Your throat tightened.
“Because she couldn’t leave it alone. Because she was curious. Because she had to push at every damn boundary until one pushed back!”
“It wasn’t me,” you whispered, voice shaking. “You blame me, but it wasn’t my curiosity—”
“It’s in you too,” she snapped. “The same itch, the same questions. That’s what will kill you, not them.”
The silence after burned hotter than her words. You shoved your chair back, storming for the door.
“You don’t get to put this on me,” you spat, and slammed it behind you hard enough that the walls rattled.
The park was a hollow version of itself.
You sat on the bench you and your sister had claimed as yours in summers past. Back then, the world smelled like sunscreen and melting popsicles, her laughter spilling bright as she pushed you on the swings until you begged her to stop.
Now, children filled the space again — shrieking, leaping from swings, daring each other to jump farther. Their joy rang high into the gray sky, sharp against the low whistle of the wind curling through the bare branches. You closed your eyes, hair whipping against your cheeks, and let yourself sink into memory.
You’d never leave me, right? you once asked her.
Never, she laughed. We’re stuck together forever.
The lie burned colder than the wind.
By sunset, you were home. Like clockwork.
The house felt tighter than before. You noticed it immediately — the windows. Every one of them fitted with new metal locks, gleaming in the dim light.
Your mom was at the sink again, hands in suds, dishes clinking gently. She didn’t look at you when she said, “Don’t think I don’t notice the way you linger by the glass. You’re not her. I won’t lose you too.”
You wanted to argue, to scream that it wasn’t fair, that she had no right to lock you in like a prisoner. But you saw the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands shook as she scrubbed at nothing. You understood. She was afraid. She had every reason to be.
Still, understanding didn’t stop the whisper that curled through the walls like smoke.
“Hey…”
Her voice again. Your sister’s. So close it felt like she was just outside the kitchen window.
You froze.
“Hey, it’s me. Don’t let her lock you away from me.”
Your mom kept scrubbing. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t show that she heard. But you knew she did. You both did.
And as the shadows deepened, the undertone seeped through — Jungwon’s voice, colder, hungrier.
"Locked windows won’t stop me. Not when you’re already opening for me here."
Your chest tightened. You pressed your fists against your thighs, but it didn’t stop the shiver crawling up your spine.
Because he was right. He didn’t need the locks. He already had a way in.
Another day passed, same as yesterday and the day before. But Tonight, tonight the shift began rapidly.
The house was so quiet that you swore you could hear your own heartbeat thundering against the walls. Your mom had locked everything, pulled every curtain, and gone to bed early, but the stillness made it worse.
You sat on your bed, knees to your chest, staring at the window. You told yourself you wouldn’t look. But when his voice came, all resolve cracked.
“Don’t act shy now.”
It wasn’t your sister’s laugh, or her gentle teasing. It was him. His voice — smooth, playful, almost sing-song, but with a sharp edge that made your stomach knot. A voice that knew it didn’t need to shout to get what it wanted.
Your body moved before your mind caught up. Slowly, you crept forward, fingers trembling as they pinched the curtain.
“Come on,” he coaxed. “I’ve waited for you. At least give me a peek.”
You tugged the fabric just enough to see outside.
And there he was.
Not at the streetlamp. Not at the gate. He was standing directly beneath your window, head tilted back, staring up at you like he’d been there the whole time.
His pale skin gleamed unnaturally under the light. His hair, dark and messy, hung over his forehead in crooked strands. You already knew his face — sharp, boyish, unsettlingly handsome if not for the wrongness painted into him. His eyes…
All black like before, glistening like oil. They locked on yours, wide and feverish, and when he smiled, your knees almost gave out.
“See? That wasn’t so hard.” His tone was playful, like he was praising a child for finally listening. “I like when you listen.”
Your throat tightened. You tried to back away, but his head followed your every twitch, tilting at a sharp angle, eyes glittering.
“What’s the matter?” His voice dipped lower, more serious under the teasing lilt. “Scared? Or tempted?”
“Stop it,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could swallow them back.
The grin widened instantly, flashing teeth. He laughed — light and amused, but threaded with something dark, dangerous. “Oh, don’t take it back now. You gave me a piece of you. Do you know how sweet that tastes?”
Your breath hitched. Tears stung at your eyes.
“Say more,” he purred, almost sing-song. “Go on. I promise I’ll enjoy every word.” His tone sharpened, the playfulness curling into command. “Feed me again.”
Something in you snapped. Rage, grief, exhaustion — it all burst at once.
“Leave me alone!”
The words echoed into the night, raw and broken.
For one frozen second, everything went still.
Then his smile sharpened into something vicious. He tilted his head too far, the bones in his neck groaning. His voice dropped into a velvet growl.
“There you are,” he murmured, delighted, dominant. “I told you… you’d break. And now?” His eyes gleamed blacker than ever. “Now we can really begin.”
The café had always been noisy in the mornings — the hiss of milk steamers, the scrape of chairs, Mina’s laugh carrying across the counter.
But today, when you tied on your apron, it felt thinner. Like the sound didn’t want to reach you.
“Morning,” Mina said without looking up, already scribbling something on a receipt pad. She usually added a small grin, some little comment about your hair or the weather. This time she didn’t.
“Morning,” you echoed, though your voice felt too small for the room.
Daniel cracked a joke to a customer by the register — something about how their muffin looked like it had survived a storm. The woman laughed, Mina chuckled too. By the time you approached with the next tray, the laughter had already faded.
It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cruel. But it was a door shutting before you reached it.
By mid-shift, Mina finally slid you a cup of coffee across the counter. She still looked at you — her eyes tired, but not unkind. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
You blinked, surprised she’d noticed. “I haven’t, really.”
She nodded once. Not pressing, not teasing, just nodding. Then she turned back to Daniel, asking him to cover the back room.
You stood there with the coffee warming your hands, realizing she was still taking care of you — but not letting you in anymore.
It was the little things that kept catching you:
The way Daniel asked Mina what's the weather, even though you were standing closer.
The way Mina handed you extra tasks without explaining them, like you already knew what to do — like words weren’t worth wasting.
The way customers thank-yous landed softer, quieter, eyes darting away too quickly.
No one said anything wrong. No one snapped. They just… didn’t open the space for you.
And that was worse.
When the rush died down, Mina leaned on the counter, rubbing her temples. “This season’s heavier than last year,” she muttered to Daniel.
Your chest tightened. She didn’t look at you when she said it, but you knew she could feel your eyes.
Daniel murmured something back you didn’t catch, and Mina just sighed. “People don’t bounce back the same. You can only carry so much.”
That’s when you realized — they weren’t scared of you. They were scared of what lingered around you. Of the attention that wasn’t going anywhere. And if they pretended not to see it, maybe it wouldn’t notice them.
You tell yourself not to go to the window. You tell yourself to stare at the ceiling, to count cracks, to memorize the soft pattern of plaster the way you used to memorize vocabulary lists before a test. You tell yourself to breathe on a four-count—in, two, three, four; out, two, three, four—the way your sister taught you when panic braided your lungs into nets.
You last nine minutes.
The house is too quiet. Your mother turned in early again, a soft door-click down the hall that felt like a goodbye you weren’t meant to hear. The new locks glint dull in the lamplight. You run your thumb over one, over and over, until the metal warms against your skin.
Don’t look.
The curtain hems touch your knuckles. Your mouth tastes metallic. Your heart hammers so loud you’re sure it will shake dust from the light fixture.
You open the curtain a thumb-width.
He’s there.
Not at the gate, not at the porch. Directly beneath your window, face tilted up like a flower starving for sun. His skin is marble-pale, almost glowing; his hair is night itself, mussed in soft chaos across his forehead. Those eyes—oil-slick, more black than not now—catch the weak spill of the streetlamp and drink it whole.
He smiles like you’re a secret he’s been allowed to keep.
“Finally,” he says, playful as a coin flipping. The voice is his tonight—low, velvet, almost amused—but there’s steel curled under every syllable. “I was beginning to think you’d fallen asleep on me.”
Your fingers cramp on the fabric. Don’t answer. Don’t—
He hums, as if reading a note only he can hear. “You can, you know. I like your voice. Even when you use it to tell me to leave.” A beat. “Especially then.”
You close the curtain a hair. It’s nothing, barely movement. His head tilts in the exact same degree, mirroring you like he’s tethered to your wrists.
“How was work?” he asks, light. “Did they look through you again? No jokes saved for you, no questions meant for your mouth?” The smile widens, not cruel exactly—too delighted for cruelty. “I do love this town. They make my work so easy.”
Heat bites your eyes. “Stop.”
It slips out, thin as thread. You hear your mother shift in her sleep, her bed frame groaning; you freeze until the house settles, then breathe again, quiet, careful, like stealth will keep the hunger outside from scenting you.
He sighs, dramatic, stage-sad. “There you are. I missed that. Say it again.”
“No.”
“Oh, but you will.” His tone brightens. “Tell me why you didn’t sit with them today.”
“I had tables.”
“You didn’t.” He says it like he’s been standing in the café shadows all morning, counting your steps. Maybe he was. “You waited with a coffee in your hand until the heat bled out of it. I could feel the way your palm stung. I like that you held it anyway.”
The room shrinks. He wasn’t there. He couldn’t have been there. But the words slot into place with a sick click. Cold coffee. The sting. He knows—how does he know—
“Look at me,” he purrs, and the order is silk on the surface, iron underneath. “There’s no point pretending that curtain matters.”
You open it a little more.
“Good. I thought the distance might bore you.” He glances past you, toward the dark slice of the hall beyond your bedroom. “And Mother? Sleeping like a saint?”
“Don’t—” Your throat clamps. You want to spit, don’t talk about her, but you can’t hand him that target.
“Mm.” He smiles without teeth. “I don’t need her. You’re enough.”
You’re not enough for anyone, something poisonous whispers in your ribs. Not for Mina, not for Daniel, not for the customers who won’t meet your eyes. But you’re enough for this.
He rocks forward onto the balls of his feet. It should be a human motion. It isn’t. The night seems to slide forward with him.
“Tell me what hurts,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
“Tell me what hurts,” he repeats, gentle, like he’s asking whether you’d like tea, like he’s asking what book to read to you before bed. Then the smile hooks. “I’ll press on it.”
You laugh, a sound with no humor in it. “No.”
“Then I’ll guess.” His head tilts, cataloging you. “It isn’t guilt tonight. You’ve worn that too often; it’s dull around the edges. It’s… absence. Hollow places where people should be.” He nods once, delighted when your silence sinks. “Yes. That one.”
He steps closer. The glass ghosts with your breath and, for a dizzy moment, you imagine his breath could fog it too. Maybe it does. A faint crescent blooms and fades opposite your mouth like a kiss print left by a ghost.
“Here.” He lifts a hand and, though he doesn’t touch the glass, you pull back. “I can fill those places. Say my name.”
“No,” you rasp. You haven’t learned it. You refuse to.
His eyes gleam. “You don’t have to know it. You already say it every night when you think you’re saying please.”
“I don’t—”
He cuts you off in your sister’s voice, perfect and awful. “Please, please, let the night pass.” The timbre is hers, the breath pattern hers, the little hiccup on please that only she ever teased you for. Then the undertone drags through, cold iron ringing under silk. “I liked that prayer. You sound so small in it.”
You wall your face with your palms. The linen smells like detergent and fear.
“Take your hands down,” he says, playful again. “I want to see. That’s part of the bargain.”
“There is no—” You bite through the word. Do not ask what bargain. Do not offer a door.
“Of course there is,” he says lightly. “You look, you listen, you don’t run. I talk, I stay right here.” He leans closer, grin slicing. “For now.”
The floor seems to pitch. “You’re not coming in.”
He hums, considers you like a problem he’s anticipated the answer to. “No. You are coming out.”
You press your spine to the wall. “No.”
“Eventually.” He says it not as threat but as weather. Fact. “But I’m patient. I’m good with long games. I like long games. They make the final moment taste better.”
The room sways. You imagine the café again—the way Mina slid the coffee to you without meeting your eyes, the way she rubbed her temples and said the season was heavier, the way Daniel shifted his body so you wouldn’t brush his sleeve. All the soft doors closing.
If I open this one, at least something is opening.
You choke a laugh, furious at yourself. “Is that the trick? Starve me and feed me at the same time?”
“Yes,” he says, delighted. “You’re clever when you’re tired.”
Something knocks lightly against the far end of the hallway. You flinch so hard your shoulder hits the glass. It’s nothing—a settling board, a pipe. The house is old and full of its own ghosts. He doesn’t turn. His eyes never leave you.
“Don’t worry.” His voice slips softer, close to a murmur, intimate as breath at a jawline. “If I wanted her, I would have started with her. I want you.”
“Because I’m weak?” It comes out a snarl through your teeth.
“Because you’re sweet,” he corrects, and the playfulness breaks for one second, letting you hear the seriousness underneath like bedrock. “Because you love hard. Because you keep showing up to the glass.”
Your heart stutters. Your palms sweat. He hears both and smiles, satisfied.
“Say hi,” he says gently. The most dangerous thing he’s said all night because it’s so soft, so reasonable, so please just a word.
You clamp your teeth together until your jaw aches.
He laughs, bright. “Fine. Don’t. I like the ache, too. Take it to bed. I’ll take it back from you later.”
He steps away then—the motion is wrong, a slide, a frame flicker—and the yard is empty. The streetlamp hums. The wind lifts a tired leaf and lets it fall.
You stand with your forehead against the glass, shaking, until your legs remember you again. When you finally crawl to bed, you keep your eyes open long after the dark blurs. You can taste his smile. You can hear the ghost of your sister’s voice braided into his until you can’t tell which one you’re grieving.
Don’t say hi back. You hold the words like a rosary. Don’t say hi back, don’t say—
The last thing you hear before sleep punishes you is a whisper so faint you could swear you dreamed it.
“Goodnight.”
You don’t know if it was him or memory. You don’t know which is worse.
The morning does not arrive so much as it loosens its grip on the dark. You lie there and listen to the radiator tick like a nervous metronome and tell yourself two opposite things at once: last night was nothing and last night changed the architecture of the air. You get up when the light on your wall is more gray than black and find that the house already smells like toast you won’t eat.
Your mother is at the sink, sleeves pushed to her elbows, wedding ring turned inward the way she always wears it during this season. She doesn’t look up when you come in. She never looks away, either. Her eyes fix on the window latch as if eye contact is what keeps it closed.
“Take the blue coat,” she says. “Wind’s meaner today.”
You almost tell her you won’t be long—lie to both of you—but instead you stand there, collecting the small things: the spoon she’s using to press crumbs into the drain, the way her shoulder blades make worried peaks beneath her sweater. If you say your sister’s name, she will not answer. This has been the truth of a year.
You take the blue coat. The pockets hold the same lint as yesterday. The front door opens with its old hiss, the kind that used to mean freedom to you as a child and now sounds like a rule’s breath.
Outside, the town wears its late-autumn mask. The park is a geometry of empty benches and swings that creak whether or not the wind earns it. Two kids chase each other up the slide in coats too thin and boots too loud, and a mother calls out without looking at them. She keeps his gaze on the sky, calculating light.
You walk past the church, past the locked gazebo where people used to play chess in the evenings, and into the square where the café sighs steam into the cold. You tell yourself you’re going in only because routine is the string that keeps you tethered to the ground. You tell yourself routine still means what it used to.
Mina looks up when the bell rings. She always has eyes that see first and judge later, and lately the later has sat heavier in her voice than either of you like. Today, she does something you don’t expect: she lifts a mug, fills it, and sets it on the counter before you have to ask.
“You’re early,” she says, and manages to put a smile in it that reaches halfway. “Daniel called out sick. Said it was the weather in his bones.” She rolls her eyes, then lowers her voice. “He’s twenty-four.”
You almost smile. Almost. “Maybe his bones know things.”
“Don’t they all.” She slides the mug closer. “I put extra syrup. You looked like you’d dislike the bitter.”
It is kindness shaped like task. You take it. You say thank you like it’s heavier than the cup.
During the lull, a woman you’ve never seen before asks you where the restroom is and thanks you with a hand on her chest, sincere as a pledge. Another customer holds the door for a family and nods to you as if you share a secret. None of this is miraculous. It is the same architecture of town you used to count on. But when people look away too quickly—when a laugh dies as you pass—you notice it less as insult and more as proof you’ve practiced: they are not scared of you. They are scared of the address he has memorized.
You stack plates. You wipe tables. You learn the shape of Mina’s silences and which ones have a door behind them. Mid-shift, she touches your sleeve to stop you from carrying more than you can hold. “Pace yourself,” she says, and there is a softness to it that used to be common and now feels contraband.
“Do you ever—” you begin, and swallow the end. You do not ask if she hears things. You do not ask if she locks her bathroom window twice. You say, “Never mind,” and she lets you keep the rest.
When you leave, she gives you a second cup in a paper sleeve and says, “For your mom.” You nod as if this is a thing you do all the time, as if one day you didn’t hand over a cup and watch it sit cooling beside a plate set for someone who never used it.
On the walk home, you hear your name and tell yourself it is not your name. It is only the wind’s consonant trick. You do not look. You practice not looking the way other people practice scales.
The house is as you left it. Your mother’s humming has shifted to chopping, small quick beats on the cutting board, an anthem against what can’t be cut. You set the cup by her elbow. She doesn’t turn, but she says, “Thank you,” and you consider this a victory because it is an answer that includes you.
You try to nap in the late afternoon and fail. You drift at the surface of sleep and catch yourself on a hook each time your sister’s voice swims close. You wake with your throat tight and the taste of apology behind your teeth, a reflex from childhood that never needed aiming.
Twilight arrives with its old efficiency. The rule stirs in the walls like heat. Your mother does her tour: latch, latch, latch; touch, whisper, glance; the picture frame straightened; the salt dish nudged an inch left for no reason except tradition demands a choreography. You shadow her like a child and like a guard.
“Don’t sit by the window,” she says, and you nod because nodding is all there is.
She pauses as she is leaving your room. “If you hear anything—” She stops. The sentence has no good ending. “If you hear anything,” she says again, and closes the door with the gentleness of someone who knows any louder would be a break.
You sit on the floor again. The curtain is a wall you can move with two fingers. Your chest feels like you’ve been running the perimeter of something you can’t name.
The first hour of night makes an ordinary case for itself: the neighbor’s porch light pretending to be brave, the dull hum of the streetlamp. You do not open the curtain. You knot your fingers and unknot them and say small unremarkable prayers you do not believe in except as breath-regulation.
When the voice arrives, it wears a smile you can hear.
“Miss me?”
You keep your mouth closed. It burns. It tastes like you bit a penny.
“Rude,” he says, sing-song, but not truly injured. “After last night, I thought we were finally getting along.”
You grip your knees until bone complains. You do not answer. The silence is effort. You imagine it has weight, that you can hold it the way you would hold a door shut against a storm.
He lets the playfulness ride the top of his words for a moment, then he sets it down like a toy and picks up something heavier. “Open the curtain.”
Your name does not appear in that sentence, but it feels stamped on it. The tone is colder. No sing-song. No flirt. It is a temperature drop you feel on your scalp. When you do not move, the next words come trimmed to edge.
“Open. The curtain.”
You open it a sliver. Your hands move before your pride shows up to argue. The air tastes like snow that hasn’t fallen yet.
He is now on the porch roof, level with your window, closer than you can forgive. Tonight, he wears stillness like a pressed shirt; every line of him is exact. The eyes are their wrong black, but quieter, as if their brightness is leashed for the moment.
“Better,” he says, and you want to hate how relief runs through you like heat. The smile returns to his mouth—less teeth than last night, more ease. “See? We can do hard things.”
“Go away,” you say, a small flat stone.
“Mm,” he says, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, a sound that almost means cute, and then the steel again: “Say it properly.”
You know what he wants. You won’t give him the word that runs your town, not while your mother sleeps in a room that has taught you every lullaby. But you also hear that his patience has joints that can lock. You try to thread a safer line.
“Leave.”
“That’s better.” The edge lifts; playfulness slips back like a hand into a familiar glove. “See? We’re learning manners together.” He leans his shoulder toward the glass with fake laziness, his head tilted in that not-quite-human calibration that tracks the tiny tremors in your jaw. “What did you do today?”
You blink. “What?”
“Tell me your nothing.” He smiles as if offering a gift. “It taste tests well.”
“I went to work.”
“Mmm.”
“I brought my mom coffee.”
“Sweet,” he says, like he has put honey under his tongue and found it acceptable. “What else.”
“Walked home.”
He exaggerates a yawn, delighted. “Thrilling. What color coat?”
“Blue.”
“Good girl.” The words land low and private, touch a nerve you don’t like to know you have. You wrap your arms tighter around yourself, you don't know why you're talking to him, obeying him. He watches that and is pleased by his accuracy. “Tell me what Mina said.”
“Nothing.” It is almost true.
“Liar,” he says lightly, approval underneath it, as if lying is a skill he is happy to practice with you. Then the tone switches again, crisp as frost: “Try again.”
“She… made me coffee. Extra syrup,” you admit, because deception never did well in your mouth. “She told me to pace myself.”
“And did you?”
“No.”
He laughs softly. “Of course not. You only pace anything when I make you.” The play shifts to intimacy. “Did you think of me at the sink?”
“No,” you say too fast.
“There’s the liar I like,” he murmurs, and when you go still he drifts closer—not a step, not a sway; the distance between you simply less—until the shape of his mouth would be easy to memorize for a lifetime if you needed to. “Here is what we’ll do,” he says, cheerful as a clerk folding paper. “You will keep telling me your small days. I will keep liking them. You will keep your window closed, and I will keep my hands out of your house. And one night, when you have collected enough little nothings to convince yourself you are safe with me, you will walk out here without me asking.”
“I won’t.” Your voice scratches like a match that won’t strike.
“Of course you will.” The steel hums beneath the velvet again, matter-of-fact, all outcome. “Not because you’re weak. Because you’re loyal. You will come to the voice that stayed.”
You shake your head hard, and it feels like you’re shaking the room. “I hate you.”
“I know,” he says, bright and satisfied. “It reads like love when you’re tired.”
The window fogs faintly. You don’t know if it’s your breath doing the trick or some other part of the night’s inventory. He watches the cloud bloom and disappear, bloom and disappear, and times his next sentence to the moment of clearest glass.
“Give me your hands.”
“No.”
He tilts his head; the playfulness folds neatly and the dominance steps forward with its precise shoes. “Hands.”
You lift them before you’ve decided to. Your palms hover an inch from the glass. He raises his own, mirroring the distance. Your skin prickles like it remembers other winters, other windows, other scenes where no one asked anything dangerous of you.
“Closer,” he says, soft again, as if he’s forgotten he ever has a cold voice. You know he hasn’t. You know he chooses which drawer to pull words from and when.
You set your hands against the pane. It’s colder than you expect, and in the small translation between your heat and the glass’s, you can pretend something touches you back.
He does not push. He does not do anything you can write down later as the moment. He only watches you until your elbows ache. He only smiles when your fingers tremble and your pride refuses to pull them away.
“Do you want this to stop?” His tone is easy. “Say the word that empties a town.”
The air tilts. The rule sits on your tongue like a hot coin. Don’t say hi back. You can carry that line all your life. You can turn it into a fence; you can tie it around your wrists and call it a bracelet.
You do not say it. You swallow until it scrapes.
“Or,” he says, drawing the syllable out like music, “do you want this to end?”
“I want—” You close your mouth. You start again. “I want my sister,” you say, and almost laugh at how small it sounds, like a child in a grocery store looking for a hand that has moved one aisle over.
“Then come,” he says, and the playful tone goes completely flat for the first time tonight, dominance without polish. It is not a shout. It is a sheet of ice laid down on the road. “Come out.”
You stiffen. “No.”
His eyes brighten in the wrong way. “You’re complicated again.” The cold stays. “You’re not allowed to be complicated. You get to be simple—yes or no. I prefer yes.”
“I prefer no.”
He studies you the way a person studies a map when they already know the route, just checking for road work. When he speaks again, the play slides back over the steel like a pretty coat.
“Then let’s play days,” he says lightly, as if he’s offering a card trick. His smile is soft, but underneath it, you feel the weight of something heavy, immovable. “I’ll give you seven. If you win, I’ll go quiet for a season. If I win, you walk out.”
Your breath stumbles. “How is that a game?” you ask, and hate the way your voice sounds like it’s hoping for rules. Hoping rules mean fairness. Hoping rules mean escape.
“You don’t answer me for seven days,” he smiles, tilting his head. “Not a word. Not a sigh. Not even that little tremor your lips do when you’re aching to speak but think better of it.”
“I don’t—”
“Tremor,” he interrupts, delighted, eyes catching yours with a gleam too bright to be human. “You’re doing it now.”
You press your lips together until your jaw aches. You want to spit at him, to tell him he’s wrong, but you can feel it: the twitch, the almost-sound. You give him what he wants without meaning to.
“Ready?” he asks, bright, almost singsong. Then the brightness falls away in an instant, his voice flattening into cold command: “We start now.”
Day One
You keep silent.
He talks.
Through the window, through your walls, through the marrow of your bones. His words slip into your house like smoke under a door. He doesn’t ask you questions; he narrates you.
“You’re chewing the inside of your cheek. I like that—it means you’re listening harder than you want me to think.”
You close your eyes, press your palms over your ears. It doesn’t help.
“You’re counting,” he says softly, pleased. “On a rhythm she taught you, wasn’t it? Four in, four out. You’re not breathing for yourself anymore. You’re breathing for her.”
Tears sting. You hold the silence.
“Day one,” he murmurs after hours that feel like claws. “You’ll break sweeter later.”
Day Two
You last through daylight by distracting yourself—work at the café, scrubbing dishes harder than necessary, taking every customer order with a clipped politeness that feels like armor. Mina gives you a to-go cup without asking and mutters, “For your mom.” When your hands brush, she doesn’t flinch. It should warm you. It doesn’t.
Because you know he’s watching even in daylight.
That night, he comes back with your sister’s voice—gentle, coaxing, exactly as you remember it. “Remember when we sat up all night reading that stupid book by flashlight? You couldn’t stay awake, but I kept going. I never left you behind, did I? Why leave me behind?”
You bite your fist. The urge to whisper her name burns your throat. You don’t.
His own voice slides under hers, low, cold, amused. “Good girl. You learn quickly when you’re desperate.”
Day Three
At work, Daniel drops a spoon when you walk by. Mina scolds him, but you catch the flicker in her eye. They’re not afraid of you. You remind yourself - They’re afraid of what circles you like a shark smelling blood.
By nightfall, you’re shaking before he even speaks.
“You didn’t laugh today,” he croons. “Not once. Mina tried, didn’t she? She gave you something sweet. She wanted to see it in your face. But you saved it for me instead.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. Don’t answer.
“You want to know how I know?” His tone drops, cold, slicing. “Because I was in the café. Because I was standing close enough to see your pulse hammer at your throat when she touched your sleeve. Because you looked for me in the reflection of the glass.”
Your stomach twists. You hadn’t realized you had.
“I’m in your hours now,” he whispers, shifting back into that eerie playfulness. “Not just your nights.”
Day Four
You slip.
Not with words—with looking. You open the curtain just enough to prove he’s not there. But he is. Always. Standing at the gate this time, smiling up at you like you’ve given him a gift.
“There you are,” he murmurs, pleased. “I like when you check. It means you’re thinking of me even when you shouldn’t.”
Your nails dig into your palms until they hurt. You slam the curtain shut, but you already know: you lost.
“Day four,” he says, voice cold. “Closer.”
Day Five
Snow starts falling, slow and patient, as though the sky has decided to take sides. The town grows quieter. At the café, Mina asks if you want to switch shifts—“so you don’t have to walk home near sunset.” You shake your head, because it wouldn’t matter. She looks at you too long, like she knows.
That night, Jungwon laughs softly, delighted. “She’s pulling away, isn’t she? They all are. Good. I don’t like sharing.”
His voice switches to cold dominance, the kind that doesn’t rise, doesn’t need to. “Look at me.”
You don’t. You refuse.
“Complicated,” he mutters, the chill in his words enough to frost the glass. Then, with whiplash ease, he’s playful again. “That’s fine. I enjoy untangling knots.”
Day Six
You dream of your sister. She’s sitting at the foot of your bed, hair messy from wind, smiling like the world hasn’t ended. She opens her mouth to speak—
And his voice comes out.
You wake with a scream caught in your throat.
That night, when you press your hands to the glass, he mirrors you perfectly. His smile is small, soft. Almost kind.
“You miss her,” he whispers. “But it isn’t her you wait for anymore. It’s me.”
Your chest cracks. Tears streak down your face. You stay silent, but the silence tastes like surrender.
Day Seven
You don’t remember deciding to open the curtain. But you do.
He’s on the porch roof, level with you, close enough you can see the faint cracks at the corner of his lips, the near-human softness that makes everything worse.
“Seven days,” he says, tone cold now. Inevitable. Final. “You didn’t win.”
Your body trembles. “I—”
“Don’t,” he cuts in, steel in his voice. Then, with that same sickening lilt, he softens, playful again. “No excuses. No begging. You knew the rules when you started.”
He tilts his head, eyes gleaming black as tar. “Walk.”
You stumble back. “No—”
“Walk.” Cold, commanding, undeniable.
Your heart claws at your ribs. You think of Mina’s coffee, your mother’s quiet prayers, your sister’s laughter. You think of the rule. Don’t say hi back.
And then you hear your own voice, thin and broken: “Hi.”
The word burns like it was waiting in you all along.
The lamp outside pops. Darkness rolls in thick as water. Your feet unconsciously moved you out your room and down the steps.
The front door groaned open, spilling what little warmth remained behind you onto the porch. For a moment, you stood there in the threshold, breath fogging in front of you, your mother’s silence pressing down the hall like a hand you could no longer reach.
Then you stepped out.
The cold hit instantly, biting at your skin, burrowing into your lungs. But it didn’t feel like air. It felt like presence — thick, expectant, alive.
He was waiting at the bottom of the steps. Pale skin glowing in the broken spill of moonlight, hair hanging wild over his forehead, eyes black as tar but gleaming as if something inside them burned. That too-wide smile curled slow, as though he had been smiling for you long before you arrived.
“There you are,” Jungwon said, voice low, velvet. The kind of playful lilt you could almost mistake for gentle—if not for the iron underneath. “I told you you’d come.”
Your knees wavered. Every rule you’d been taught screamed in your chest, clawing to pull you back inside. But the pull toward him was heavier, magnetic, inevitable.
You took another step.
“Good girl,” he murmured, eyes drinking in the tremor in your hands, the salt of your tears. “Sweet and stubborn… but you still walked.” His tone sharpened, cold dominance slicing through the night: “Exactly as I said you would.”
You reached the bottom step. The dark clung tighter here, wrapping you like a second skin. You swore you could feel him before you touched him, something curling around your wrists, slipping into the hollow of your throat.
His smile softened, eerie, almost tender. “See? That wasn’t so hard. You belong to me now.”
The streetlamp hissed, flickered once, and went out.
The town plunged into silence.
And as you stepped off the porch into his waiting shadow, your voice — the same one that had prayed, pleaded, resisted for nights — was gone.
Only his remained.
“Mine.”
The door behind you never opened again.
Happy Fictober! Hope this one hunts you just right! Like, Comment, and Reblog.
OCT. 8 ~ SAU’S FICTOBER ✦ this one makes no sense LMAO !!!
trope: country club member!george x country club member!reader
after checking out the hot, single, padel-playing country club boy, you strive to make him chase you through the sides of pools and romantic style gardens
tw: public sex, deepthroating, face fucking, p in v, very slight anal fingering, cunnilingus/eating out, face sitting, aftercare.
5k words! :)
YOU JOINED the country club because your friends said it would be fun.
Sun, gossip, maybe a tan if you managed to stay long enough.
The greens were gorgeous, the courts were clean and the flowers blossomed like it was eden itself. By the country club various sport apparatus and fields were in top notch condition, they ranged from padel to golf, to the big and fancy shaped pool that lay right smack in the middle.
On the first time you went you spent the entire day just trying to find the restaurant, yet ran into a cafe, a volleyball court and even a spa before finally reaching the place you wanted to go.
Even though there was so much to do– most days you just sat in the sun, trying to read, or sat by the poolside sipping a bottomless cocktail. The air at the club always smelled like sunscreen and something expensive, something that made you feel welcome despite how out of place you really did feel.
When you observed everything from the one sunbed you never changed places from, you thought you had seen everyone– from married couples to overprivileged little kids whose small clutch bags were probably worth more than your apartment.
That was until today, you set foot on the green grass with your beach bag in hand. Only your bikini and a thin sarong was wrapped around your skin and your sunglasses sat on your head.
Your friend, Holly, chatted beside you– “Y’know, ever since you broke up with Jack you never really looked for a new guy. Why is that?”
You blinked, surprised at the bluntness of her question. “Ah.. well I never really see anyone I like.”
She laughed, “Oh sweetie, there's plenty of hot and rich guys out here in the country club! Why don't you try and find a fellow you fancy?”
Her distinct British accent ticked you off nicely with the way she pronounced fancy, which oddly enough made you think harder about her idea. British accents always did the trick for you.
“Hm, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try, but you shouldn't really expect me to find someone. You know how particular my taste in men is.” you proclaimed, swishing your hair behind your back.
She giggled, “Well I tell you what, tomorrow, there's the mixed doubles padel event– y’know, where they assign you to a guy to play padel with against another duo.”
“Mmm.. I'm not so sure. You’ve seen how many old guys play padel!” you laugh, and she giggles back before placing her hand on your shoulder.
“It’ll be great fun anyway. I'll sign us up– but for now, observe the men!” she chuckles and struts off towards the padel hut, leaving you on the paved pathway to the pool alone.
You sigh dramatically– Why was dating so hard?
Strolling down the flower filled walkway to the pool, you glimpsed towards your iconic sunbed, thankfully not occupied by some strange bunch like last week..
As you laid your towel down on the sunbed, beach bag filled with a book and a tub of suntan lotion– you finally stripped to just your cossie and sunglasses perched on your nose.
A few half hours go past as you read your very intriguing book– something about a murder mixed with romance, the cover detailed and beautiful.
You’re overheating as the time ticks by, sun directly in your eyes versus earlier’s relaxing half-shade half-sun situation. Standing up, you place down your book and glasses before heading to the pool side.
You sit on the sopping wet tiles, I mean thank god kiddie hours are over. Slowly, you dip in the cool, blue water cascading over your skin. You lean up against the side, elbows pushed back and squinting at the sky.
The cold water suddenly sloshing up and down in subtle waves as people swimmed around you made you snap out of your haze, remembering you were supposed to be scoping out the hot British boys.
You climbed out of the water, parading over to your spot and wrapping your towel around your soaking body, drying yourself off.
Sitting back down, you observed the people more than usual.
Cute-ish guy. Too short though.
He's good looking.. But he just shouted at the waitress.
Oo, he looks nic– anndddd he kissed the dude next to him.
But when you saw him— a muscular man stretched out beneath the sun, half-asleep, golden.. You forgot how to breathe.
The tan, gorgeous guy with strong features straight out of a fairytale, and beautiful brunette hair that when dripping with pool water like it was now looked straight out of a wet dream you once had.
He looked sleek, like he’d ruin you on the hood of his expensive Mercedes AMG, or better yet— in the car, or like he’d run his hands through his hand while talking to you and lowering his voice just enough to be considered sexy.
He looked like he was sent from heaven, talking to the waitress with such manners in his thick British accent and crossing his arms behind his head to show off his biceps like the little whore he was—
Fuck, you couldnt be thinking these things!
You didnt know if he had a girlfriend.. or a boyfriend, and quite frankly you should never call someone whose name you hadn't even learnt a whore!
…But he was slutting himself out for the whole club to see.
Whatever, Maybe you’d work up the courage to talk to him someday. You thought– even though you knew you probably wouldn’t.
Plus– Perhaps you’d meet a nice lad at the mixed doubles tomorrow.
The sun is high over the country club courts, baking the clay surface into a dull orange glow. Holly practically shoves you onto the padel court, paddle in hand, grinning like this is the most fun she’s ever had in her life. “Come on! You’re going to love this,” she says, tugging you toward your randomly assigned partner. You protest, of course, but it does no good.
But then it's him– the guy you’ve been admiring from afar, from the pool, the café, the tennis courts— and somehow, you didn’t even know his name. Today, you’re partnered together. Your chest tightens.
He’s stretching, sneakers squeaking against the clay, hair damp from warm-up, strands clinging to his forehead. The sun hits his face just right, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the faint pink flush along his cheeks. Your stomach does a tiny flip when your eyes meet briefly.
He looks at you, expression easy, just enough smirk to make your chest tighten. “Hey… I guess we’re partners,” he says. His voice is low, smooth, teasing.
“Yeah…” you say, voice a little higher than intended. “I’m Y/N.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says, grin tugging at his lips. “I’m George.”
Your brain freezes for a second. George. Just knowing his name makes your chest flutter uncontrollably. You try to focus, but it seems imposible.
The whistle blows, and the match starts. Balls zip across the net, sneakers squeaking on warm clay.
Holly shouts at you from across the court playfully, “Come on! My grandma hits harder than that!”
You laugh, throwing some trash talk back to her before scoring a point.
George moves like he owns the court. Lunging, twisting, every muscle working in perfect control. Sweat glistens along his neck and arms, and when he wipes his face with the bottom of his shirt, a flash of abs makes your chest seize. Stop thinking about that. Stop thinking about that. Too late.
You dive for a tricky return, paddle scraping clay, and he’s there in a heartbeat, catching the ball and sending it back effortlessly. The smirk he flashes at you when your shot nearly fails makes your stomach twist painfully. Why is he this perfect?
Holly continues yelling insults at George, who stumbles trying to keep up. “Really? That’s it?”
You’re juggling between keeping up in the match and not losing your mind over George. Every twist of his torso, every small smile, the way sweat glints on his skin, makes your thoughts derail into very interesting scenarios you’ve been imagining for days.
Finally, the winning point. You and George score, and Holly throws her arms in the air like she just lost Wimbledon. Alex groans, brushing sweat off his face.
George jogs over, casually brushing hair off his forehead, still smiling. “Good game,” he says, voice low, teasing.
You nod, chest pounding. “Yeah… thanks… you were amazing at that.”
Holly waves at you from the sidelines– Alex is ready to leave. You step aside to say goodbye. “Nice playing with you, see you around?” you say politely.
“Definitely. I’ll keep an eye out.” he says, winking before jogging to Alex.
Then you turn to Holly, cheeks flaming, stomach still twisting. She grins, eyes sparkling. “Ooohhh, you like him,” she teases.
“Holly! Stop!” you groan, burying your face in your hands, heat spreading through your chest.
“Nope,” she says, nudging you. “So obvious. The way you were staring, the way you stuttered when he said his name… you’re completely toast.”
You slump beside her, mortified, thrilled, and completely unable to calm your racing heart. George. You finally know his name. You’ve played with him. You’ve survived without completely melting. And somehow… you already know you’ll be replaying every second of it in your head for days.
The next few days at the club are… electric, even though nothing actually happens. You catch yourself glancing at him whenever you can– him adjusting his hair by the pool, wiping sweat off after tennis, laughing with friends– and your chest does that annoying flutter every single time.
He probably notices you, too, stealing quick looks when he thinks no one is watching, maybe lingering a second too long when your eyes meet.
You exchange small smiles, brief “hey”s, and awkward little comments, nothing more, but it’s enough to make your thoughts spiral into very interesting scenarios again and again. Every shared glance, every subtle moment of attention is like a tiny spark, building into this slow, unspoken tension that neither of you is brave enough to act on yet.
Holly teases you occasionally, of course, noticing how flustered you get when he’s nearby, and you blush like a fool every time. But neither of you push past the invisible line— for now, it’s just mutual admiration, stolen glances, and that delicious, simmering crush that promises something more… eventually.
But today? You had such a hectic day, your coworkers blaming you for everything– people shouting at you and clients who ‘didn' t feel fulfilled’ .
Speaking of not feeling fulfilled– you hadnt been fucked in a while and hearing your neighbours go at it for 2 hours straight did not help the dry spell you had practicaly put on yourself.
Instead of wallowing in a tub of ice cream and a cheesy romcon, you decide to gym it all out and get your blood pumping.
After that.. random but difficult workout you practically ran to the locker rooms, wanting to get the sweat off your body more than ever.
As you pushed in through the heavy metal doors and set your bag down to the bench, exhaling from finally being able to relax. As the locker room was almost completely empty besides the one other person showering, you thanked the lords and started to strip.
Skirt first, then just before you dragged your panties down, ready to wrap the towel around yourself--
“Lost, pretty girl?” a deep, British voice spoke loudly– one that you would recognize anywhere.
Jumping from the scare, you whipped around, hair swishing and hands stuck in your towel.
“Oh my god!” you shrieked, dropping your towel and lightly putting your hand over your mouth before scanning the person in front of you.
George Russell. The man you had been thirsting over for a few days stood in front of you without nothing but a towel around his stupidly slutty waist and that very clear bulg—
“My eyes are up here love.” he said, tilting his head and leaning one side up against the wall.
“Fuck– fuck okay clearly i went into the wrong locker room–” you laughed very awkwardly.
“I don't think that reasoning consists of undressing me with your eyes.” he confronted in a seductive tone.
You froze, eyes darting between his face and that towel that looked way too low for comfort.
George smirked, the corner of his mouth curling like he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Didn’t really take you for the type to sneak in for a peek.” he laughed.
You swallowed, voice catching. “I didn’t! I swear– I didn’t even realize that– ”
He tilted his head, stepping closer. The smell of his cologne hit you before the steam did– clean, expensive, something unfairly good.
“Mm,” he hummed, pretending to think. “So you accidentally walked in here, got halfway undressed, and only noticed me when I said something?”
Your face burned. “Exactly.”
He chuckled under his breath, that deep sound curling in your stomach. “Cute excuse.”
You turned, blushing and desperate to leave, but his voice stopped you.
“Or…” he said slowly, “you could stay. I don’t bite.”
Your fingers tightened around your towel. “Pretty sure you do.” you muttered softly, avoiding eye contact.
He laughed quietly, low and rough, and you could feel his gaze trace down your spine even without turning around.
“Oh Y/N. I’ve seen the way you look at me, you have no reason to be shy.” he smiled, stepping closer lifting you jaw with a single digit.
The air between you felt heavy now– humid, thick, and humming with something that definitely wasn’t just leftover workout adrenaline.
One more step, and you’d be close enough that breathing the same air would feel like too much.
And then he leaned in— not all at once, just enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath ghost over your mouth. You froze with eyes locked. Neither of you moving for a heartbeat
“Is this okay?” he whispered, you nodded slowly and closed your eyes.
Then he tilted his head a little, just enough to close the gap. His lips brushed yours once, soft and testing, before he drew back half an inch— like he was giving you a chance to say no.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he breathed for consent softly.
You did. You really, really did want to do this.
Nodding, your hand came up to his chest on instinct, and that tiny touch broke whatever was left of his restraint. The next kiss wasn’t hesitant at all. It was slow and heavy, the type of kiss that made your knees go weak.
His hand slid up your arm, settling at the side of your neck, thumb tracing the edge of your jaw.
As the kiss intensified– he let go of your lips and moved down to your jaw, biting and sucking deeply to where there were dark purple marks blossoming on the sensitive skin of your neck.
He moved even lower to your collarbones, nibbling on the skin til you whimpered– that being the only sound besides water dripping and the dizzy rush of blood in your ears.
You kneeled, catching him off guard, “Uh— can I suck you off?”
He nodded, smiling and brushing the hair out of your face first. “Yeah. Please.”
Your hands sliding up his thighs, pushing the towel aside. George's cock sprang free, thick and already hardening, veins pulsing along its length.
“Fuck. You look so gorgeous from here.” he muttered.
You wrapped your fingers around the base, feeling it twitch in your grip, and leaned forward. Your lips parted, tongue flicking out to trace the underside of his dick from his balls to tip, tasting the salty remnants of his sweat. He groaned, one hand tangling in your hair, guiding you closer.
“Shit baby, so good at this.”
You took him into your mouth, sucking hard as you bobbed your head, cheeks hollowing with each pull. You swirled your tongue around the head, teasing the slit where pre-cum beaded, then slid down further, taking more of him until he hit the back of your throat. George thrust shallowly, fucking your mouth with controlled urgency, his breaths coming in ragged bursts.
“Fuck, yeah, just like that,” he muttered, his grip tightening.
Saliva dripped down your chin as you worked him, hollowing your cheeks and humming to send vibrations through his shaft.
“P-Please– shit please can i fuck your throat?” you answered by pushing yourself down on his cock and deepthroating him yourself.
He grabbed a bundle of your hair, pushing and pulling your mouth down him. He tipped his head back, groaning from the pleasure.
Every push made you choke slightly, hands clenched at his hips, nails digging in as his thrusts grew faster, harder.
George was gripping your hair hard, making you open your throat wider, the heat of him pressing into you making your stomach clench.
As he guided his cock into the tighter tunnel he let out a string of moans, making you clench– panties soaked.
“FFuck- you’re so hot– Ohmygod–” he whined out.
His thrusts fastened– then stilled, and you felt him throb against your throat.. A hot rush filled your mouth, and you choked slightly on it, tasting him. The heat of him still pulsing through you.
With a growl, he pulled you off his cock, strings of spit and cum connecting your lips to the glistening tip. He hauled you up by the arms, spinning you around and bending you over the nearest bench.
You braced your hands on the wood, arching your back as he yanked your shorts and panties down in one rough motion, exposing your soaked pussy. The cool air hit your wet folds, making you shiver, but George's hands were hot as he gripped your hips.
“M’gonna make you feel so good baby– ffuck you deserve it.” he said, quivering.
He lined up his cock and thrust in deep, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. You cried out, your walls clenching around his thickness, stretching to accommodate him. He didn't give you time to adjust— pounding into you with relentless force, his hips slapping against your ass.
"Take it all, you dirty girl," he barked at you, spitting on his hand and slathering his saliva on your puckered asshole.
He circled your hole– spitting directly on it which made you clench before pressing his thumb in. making you arch your back deeper and moan.
Each of his thrusts drove deeper, cock dragging along your tight inner walls, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
"So fucking tight," he grunted, one hand sliding up to pinch your nipple through your tank top, the other rubbing your clit in firm circles.
"Thatttt’s it– hnnh– squeeze my cock like the good little whore you are baby.” you clenched and he laughed loudly.
“Oh you like that huh? Yeahhh I bet ya fuckin’ do– fuck– always parading around in that stupid fucking excuse for a swimsuit.” he laughed meanly– making you moan at the degredation.
You pushed back against him, meeting his rhythm, your moans echoing off the lockers. Sweat slicked your skin, the bench creaking under the assault. George's pace quickened.
“Ohh- fuck George– M’gonna cum–” you sobbed out.
His balls smacked your clit with every plunge, until you shattered—your pussy spasming around him, juices coating his shaft as you came hard.
“Fuck, Fuck, Fuck–” he whined almost pathetically, pounding into you with neediness.
“Shit– George– cum inside–” you gasped out, back arched low.
He followed seconds later, slamming in one last time and flooding you with hot cum, ropes of it painting your insides. You stayed like that, panting, uith a wet pop, he pulled out– his seed trickling down your thighs.
But he wasn't done. After catching his breath, he grinned wickedly, grabbing your waist and carried you toward the showers, the tiles slick underfoot. He flicked on the hot water, steam billowing as he pushed you against the wall, dropping to his knees in the spray.
“George? I-I don't think–” you whined just before he cut you off.
He dove in, his tongue lapping at your pussy, cleaning his own cum from your folds before delving deeper. He sucked your clit into his mouth, flicking it while two fingers plunged inside you, curling to stroke your g-spot. Your hands fisted in his wet hair, hips bucking against his face as he ate you out ravenously.
“Oh my God–” you moaned out shakily.
His lips smacked obscenely against your slick skin, tongue thrusting in and out like a mini cock, lapping up every drop.
“Fuck– baby.” you choked out, moaning and grasping at his hair even harder. The water pounded down, mixing with your fresh arousal, and you came again– shuddering, screaming his name as waves of pleasure crashed over you, your juices on his tongue.
George rose slowly, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips, the shower washing you clean.
“Was that okay? I didn't go too far right?” he asked, gasping for air and your reassurance.
You smiled, “Well it was the best fuck I’ve ever had so definitely not.”
You giggled out, still catching your breath, cheeks flushed and hair plastered to your skin. George smirked, his hand brushing against yours as he leaned casually against the shower wall. “Well,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I think we got that tension out of the way.”
You rolled your eyes, laughing despite yourself. “Yeah, I guess we did.”
He glanced around, his smirk softening just slightly. “You shouldn’t walk out like this alone. Let me make sure you get to your car.”
Your stomach fluttered, a mixture of nerves and leftover heat from the shower. “Oh… uh– okay.”
He handed you a fresh towel, draping it gently over your shoulders. His fingers lingered a second too long, and you could feel the warmth of his touch. You wrapped it around yourself, careful not to get the floor wet with your dripping hair.
“Thanks,” you muttered, voice small, almost breathless.
George chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t mention it.” He gestured toward the exit, and you both stepped out into the late afternoon sun. The warm air hit your wet skin, and you shivered slightly. George noticed, draping his arm lightly around your shoulders to shield you from the breeze.
As you walked toward the parking lot, the world felt quiet and intimate, almost like it had shrunk to just the two of you. You stole glances at him, noticing the way his damp hair clung to his forehead, the faint glint of sun on his skin, and the teasing curve of his lips as he looked at you.
“You’ve got a thing for country club showerss, or is that just me?” he asked smoothly, teasing without being crude.
You laughed, trying to hide the blush spreading across your cheeks. “Just… sometimes accidents happen.”
He smirked. “Accidents that end like this aren’t exactly bad.”
You groaned, rolling your eyes, but your stomach did a happy little flip anyway. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he admitted, “but you kind of like it.”
You shook your head, trying not to smile, but failing completely. By the time you reached your car, your heart was still racing. George leaned casually against the hood, crossing his arms. “I’ll text you later?” he asked, almost casually, like he wasn’t aware of the way your knees threatened to buckle at the sound of his voice.
“Yes,” you whispered, voice low and slightly shaky. “Please do.”
He grinned, giving you a small wave before striding back toward the club. You slid into your car, exhaling shakily, a giddy smile plastered across your face. You couldn’t stop replaying every touch, every glance, every teasing word. That night, your mind refused to shut off, and you found yourself wondering exactly what you and George would end up talking about tomorrow.
You arrived at the club, still a little flustered from last night’s events. George was already there, leaning casually against his sleek, black Mercedes AMG, sunglasses perched perfectly on his nose. He grinned when he saw you approaching.
“Morning.” he called, voice smooth and teasing. “Fancy a ride?”
Your heart skipped a beat. “Mm.. Yeah, sure.” you said, your cheeks warming.
He opened the door for you with an exaggerated flourish, and you slid into the leather seat. The smell of leather and his cologne hit you instantly, heady and intoxicating. He smirked at the way you fidgeted, clearly overwhelmed by the luxury.
“Relax,” he murmured, voice low, teasing.
“Don’t worry… the windows are tinted. No one can see us in here.” he chuckled
Your pulse spiked at the words. “Oh–” you whispered, heat pooling low in your belly.
George’s smirk deepened as he leaned back slightly, fingers brushing the edge of the seat. “Hop on,” he said softly, voice teasing.
You hesitated for just a second, letting the tension build, then slowly perched on his lap, straddling him. The proximity made your core thrum with anticipation. He wrapped his arms around your waist instantly, pulling you close, and leaned in to kiss you.
Your lips met his, soft at first, then deepening, tongues exploring. His hands traced down your back, sliding over your sides, tugging you flush against him. You groaned softly, tilting your head as he kissed you with slow, deliberate pressure.
After a few heart-pounding moments, he pulled back slightly, his smirk mischievous. “You’re going to get impatient if I just let you sit there,” he murmured, voice thick. His hands slid to your hips again, tugging lightly. “C’mon… ride me.”
You blinked, heart racing, fingers instinctively reaching for the waistband of his pants. He shook his head with a playful growl. “Nope. Wrong place,” he said, voice low and commanding, pressing a hand against your chest to stop you. Then, with a subtle push of a button, he slowly reclined the seat, tilting it back. “Better view,” he added, darkly amused.
Your breath hitched as you realized exactly what he meant. Slowly, deliberately, you shifted your weight, moving above him before letting yourself lower until your core hovered over his face. His hands braced against the seat, steadying you, and his tongue flicked out to tease you.
A shiver ran through you as your core finally pressed against his face. “Mmm…” you whispered, teasing, letting him get a taste before moving fully.
“Fuck–” George groaned, eyes closing, hands bracing on the seat, feeling you inch down over him. “Just like that.”
You rocked slightly, letting him feel every delicious curve, every subtle movement, teasing him with your control. His tongue flicked and traced along your sensitive skin, and you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair.
“George.. oh god–” you moaned, hips pressing harder, leaning into him, letting him fully taste you. “So good–”
His hands slid to your hips, holding you steady as you moved against him. “Ride me, Y/N. show me how much you like it,” he whispered, voice thick.
You pressed down, rolling your hips slowly, teasing, letting the heat build, letting him savor every inch. His low groans, his slick tongue, the delicious friction– it all sent shivers racing through your body.
Your back arched, hands gripping his shoulders, and your knees trembled. Every flick of his tongue, every suck, every pulse made your chest tighten, every nerve scream.
Finally, your climax hit, body shuddering over him, breath coming in ragged moans. George hummed, licking and flicking, keeping you on the edge until the waves passed, leaving you flushed, slick, and trembling.
When you finally slid off him, catching your breath, he leaned back, smirk still in place. “Fuck, you taste incredible,” he murmured, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face.
You laughed, cheeks flushed, still trembling. “Yeah… that… was…” Words failed you, heat still pooling low.
George tapped the dashboard. “Coffee?” he asked, playful yet casual. “We should act normal for a few minutes before anyone notices we melted the leather seat.”
You giggled, still flushed. “Definitely.”
He offered his arm, and you leaned on him slightly, heart still racing “Let’s be responsible adults.”
Sighing– you realized this mix of heat, teasing, and playful intimacy was exactly the kind of trouble you didn’t mind falling into.
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