Blake dares Weiss to be measured by Jaune and not lash out

The dorm room door clicked shut behind Ruby’s fleeing form, leaving a heavy silence in its wake—broken only by Yang’s ragged breathing and the distant echo of bare feet slapping against Beacon’s marble hallways. Weiss’s hands slowly slid down her face, her cheeks burning as she turned to Blake with wide, horrified eyes.

Blake, still holding Yang’s wrist with catlike reflexes, merely arched a brow. "Well," she said, her voice dripping with quiet amusement, "I suppose it’s my turn now."

Yang whipped her head toward her, still vibrating with barely contained fury.

Yang’s eye twitched violently, her prosthetic fingers flexing like she was imagining throttling someone. "Oh, you think this is funny, Belladonna?" she growled, voice low and dangerous.

Blake’s smirk only deepened as she released Yang’s wrist, her ears twitching at the distant sound of Ruby’s gleeful whooping echoing down the hall. "I never said that," she purred, reaching for the deck of cards with deliberate slowness. "But rules are rules."

Weiss made a strangled noise, still gripping the sides of her face like she was trying to physically hold her composure together.

The cards scattered across the floor as Yang lunged for them, her prosthetic hand sparking with the strain of unspent fury. "Rules? RULES?!" she roared, her voice cracking as another distant "WHEEEEE!" echoed from the courtyard below. Weiss finally unfroze with a full-body shudder, her heels clicking against the hardwood as she bolted for the window—only to recoil with a shriek as she caught a glimpse of pale limbs and wild rose-tinted hair streaking across Beacon’s manicured lawn.

Blake’s ears flattened against her head as Yang’s fist cratered the wall beside her, plaster dust snowing onto her shoulders.

Weiss's face went from flushed to sheet-white as Blake's golden eyes locked onto her with predatory amusement. "My turn," the Faunus murmured, flicking an ear toward the hallway where Jaune's clueless humming was growing louder. "I dare you to let Jaune take your nude measurements—without snarling, threatening, or freezing anything."

Yang's rage evaporated instantly, her remaining eye widening as a slow, wicked grin split her face. Weiss made a noise like a stepped-on Nevermore, her fingers digging into her skirt. "Y-You can't possibly—"

The doorknob turned.

Weiss’s breath hitched as the door creaked open—revealing Jaune, mid-conversation with Nora, blissfully unaware of the chaos he’d just walked into. His expression was one of mild confusion, likely from hearing Yang’s earlier outburst, but the moment his eyes landed on Weiss—her face still burning, her fingers twisted in her skirt—his brow furrowed.

"Uh… everything okay in—?"

Nora, however, took one look at the scene—Yang’s fist embedded in the wall, Blake’s smirk, Weiss’s full-body flush—and promptly grinned, her eyes sparkling with unholy glee. "Ohhhh, this is good," she sing-songed, slinging an arm around Jaune's shoulders before he could retreat. "Don’t mind us, Weiss! We’re just here for the show!"

Weiss’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish, her fingers tightening on her skirt hard enough to tear the fabric. Blake’s tail flicked lazily behind her, the smirk never leaving her lips as she leaned against the ruined wall.

Jaune’s confusion turned to outright panic as Yang’s fingers hooked into the back of Weiss’s dress. His mouth opened—whether to protest or stammer an apology, no one would ever know—but the words died in his throat as Yang yanked with all the reckless strength of a girl who had spent years undressing her sister mid-prank.

Weiss’s shriek pierced the air like a shattered wineglass as fabric and lace surrendered in one brutal motion, pooling around her ankles in a defeated heap. The room froze—even Nora’s grin faltered for half a second—as the heiress stood there, pale as moonlight and just as bare, her arms instinctively crossing over herself.

Jaune’s entire face turned the color of Nora’s skirt as he backpedaled so fast his boots squeaked against the floor. His hands flew up in surrender, fingers splayed like he was trying to ward off an incoming Grimm—or worse, Weiss’s inevitable retribution.

Nora, however, let out a delighted gasp, clapping her hands together. "Ooooh, Weiss, you’re way paler than I expected—"

Weiss’s breath came in short, furious bursts, her entire body trembling with the effort of not summoning a glyph beneath Jaune’s feet and sending him through the ceiling.

Jaune’s hands fluttered uselessly in the air, his mouth working soundlessly like a fish gasping on dry land. Blake’s smirk deepened as she stepped forward, her movements liquid-smooth, the measuring tape coiled neatly in her palm.

"Oh, don’t look so scared," she purred, flicking the tape open with a metallic snap. "Weiss just needs some... accurate measurements. For a project."

Weiss made a noise like a boiling kettle, her hands, whilst behding down, reaching toward her dress—only for Yang’s arm to lock around her waist, hauling her back with a strength that left her toes dangling inches above the floor.

Jaune’s brow furrowed deeper, his hands still raised in surrender even as his gaze flickered between Weiss’s murderous glare and the measuring tape dangling from Blake’s fingers. "Uh… measurements?" he repeated, voice cracking. "For—for what?"

Nora bounced on her heels, barely containing her glee. "For science, obviously!" Weiss’s teeth audibly ground together, her crossed arms doing little to conceal the furious flush creeping down her neck. A bead of sweat slid down Jaune’s temple as Blake stepped closer, pressing the measuring tape into his limp fingers with deliberate slowness.

Jaune’s fingers trembled around the measuring tape as if it were a live wire, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a frantic gulp. Weiss thrashed against Yang’s ironclad grip, her bare heels kicking up splinters from the floorboards. "I will END you, Belladonna—!"

Blake merely tilted her head, tail curling in satisfaction as she nudged Jaune forward with her foot. "Tick-tock, fearless leader. The dare does specify no snarling..."

A strangled whimper escaped Jaune as he inched closer, the measuring tape trembling between them like a divining rod seeking disaster.

Jaune’s brain short-circuited, the measuring tape slipping between his fingers as his gaze—against every screaming instinct of self-preservation—drifted downward. Weiss’s skin was porcelain-pale, her shoulders rigid with tension, the faintest tremble betraying her fury. The scent of frost dust clung to her, sharp and electric, like the air before a blizzard.

Nora’s grin widened to near-superhuman proportions. "Ooooh, Jauney’s thinking," she stage-whispered, elbowing Blake hard enough to make the Faunus grunt.

Jaune sucked in a shuddering breath, his fingers tightening around the measuring tape as if it were the only thing tethering him to sanity. The silence stretched like a noose—broken only by Weiss’s furious panting and the faint tick-tick of Yang’s prosthetic fingers drumming against her bicep.

With the precision of a man walking to the gallows, Jaune looped the tape around Weiss’s upper bust, or lack there of, his knuckles brushing against the chill of her skin. A violent tremor ran through her, her crossed arms tensing like coiled springs.

Jaune’s fingers fumbled slightly as he adjusted the tape, his knuckles ghosting over the curve of her ribs. Weiss’s breath hitched—not from anger this time, but from the absurdity of it all. Her muscles relaxed incrementally, the fight draining out of her as she realized—this was just… measurements. Embarrassing? Absolutely. But compared to what Blake could have dared, it was almost… tame.

Her bare toes uncurled from their ****-grip on the floor, her shoulders dropping a fraction.

Jaune’s exhale was ragged, his fingers tightening just enough to keep the tape from slipping as he murmured the number under his breath—Blake, ever the diligent scribe, jotted it down with a flick of her ears. Weiss’s pulse thrummed under his touch, rapid but steadier now, the initial shock dulled into something closer to resigned irritation.

A creak of floorboards made Jaune flinch—Yang had shifted her grip, her smirk audible even without looking. "Careful there, Vomit Boy. One wrong move and I let her go."

Weiss’s glare could’ve flash-frozen Grimm at twenty paces. "You wouldn’t dare—"

But Yang’s grip loosened just enough for Weiss to twist free—only to freeze mid-step as Jaune’s fingers, still holding the measuring tape, brushed against the dip of her waist. A sharp inhale hissed between her teeth, but she didn’t lash out. The realization settled over her like a fragile truce—this could have been worse.

Jaune’s thumb grazed the curve of her hip, his knuckles skimming the jut of bone as he adjusted the tape with agonizing care.

Weiss’s breath hitched—half a protest, half something else entirely—as the measuring tape skimmed the sensitive dip of her waist. Jaune’s fingers trembled, his knuckles brushing the faint ridge of her hipbone with agonizing hesitation. The silence between them thickened, broken only by Nora’s poorly stifled giggle and the rustle of Blake’s notepad.

Yang’s smirk faltered for a split second, her grip slackening further as she watched Weiss—proud, razor-edged Weiss—stand rigid but not fighting. The realization flickered in her lilac eyes: This wasn’t fury anymore.

Jaune swallowed hard, the measuring tape now hovering just above the flare of Weiss’s hips. His fingers twitched—too hesitant, too aware of the way her breath had steadied, the tension in her frame softening into something almost… patient. The scent of frost dust still clung to her, but the air between them no longer crackled with impending ****.

Weiss exhaled through her nose, her fingers flexing at her sides before settling. "Just—get it over with," she muttered, but there was no bite left in it.

The tape slid around her hips with agonizing slowness, Jaune’s knuckles grazing the curve of her waist as he adjusted it.

Jaune’s pulse hammered in his throat as the measuring tape dipped lower, his grip slick with sweat. Weiss stiffened when his knuckles brushed the inward curve of her hip, her breath hitching as the fabric strip skimmed perilously close to—

Oh gods.

His gaze flickered downward for a split second—just long enough to register the soft thatch of white curls between her thighs—before wrenching back up to the ceiling like a man seeking divine intervention. The numbers on the tape blurred. Weiss’s thighs trembled, not from cold but from the sheer indignity of it, her cheeks burning crimson as she realized exactly where his eyes had darted.

Weiss’s fingers twitched at her sides, torn between covering herself and—against all reason—admitting that she understood. Her pride warred with the traitorous flicker of curiosity: how would Jaune’s body tense under the same clinical scrutiny? Would his freckled skin flush this violently? The thought made her throat tighten.

Jaune’s knuckles whitened around the tape, his breath shallow as he **** himself to focus on the numbers. The silence between them thickened, charged with something far heavier than embarrassment. Weiss could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the salt-and-iron tang of his nervous sweat mingling with her own frost-dust scent.

Jaune’s fingers fumbled, the measuring tape slipping slightly as his breath hitched—his thumb grazed the delicate crease where her thigh met her hip, and Weiss’s sharp inhale was almost lost under Nora’s poorly suppressed squeal.

Yang was lost completely, her eyebrows shooting up as she watched the normally rigid heiress sway ever so slightly toward Jaune’s touch. Blake’s pen hovered over the notepad, her feline ears twitching forward in undisguised fascination.

Weiss’s pulse fluttered visibly at the base of her throat, her lips parting—whether to snap at him or gasp, even she didn’t know.

Jaune’s fingers trembled as he finally—finally—pulled the measuring tape away from the last forbidden curve of Weiss’s body. The numbers swam before his eyes, but he **** them out in a choked whisper, “H-hips… 34 inches.”

Blake’s pen scratched against the notepad, her golden eyes flicking between the two of them with quiet amusement. The silence stretched, thick and syrupy, broken only by Nora’s barely-contained giggle and the faint click of Yang’s jaw unhinging.

Weiss didn’t move.

Blake’s pen paused mid-scratch, her feline pupils dilating as she double-checked the previous notes. "Wait," she murmured, the tip of her tail flicking in quiet intrigue. "Your bust measurement is—different."

Weiss’s head snapped toward her, the motion sharp enough to send a ripple through her loose hair. "Excuse me?"

Blake held up the notepad, revealing the earlier measurements from a prior fitting—ones Weiss herself had provided. "You were a 32B last month."

A beat of silence. Then—

Yang’s smirk was instantaneous.

Weiss’s breath caught in her throat—a razor-sharp inhale that made her bare shoulders hitch. Her nipples tightened against the cool dorm air, but the heat flooding her cheeks burned hotter than any humiliation.

Jaune’s fingers twitched around the crumpled measuring tape, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. The numbers had felt different—the swell of her breasts fuller against the tape, the resistance unmistakable when it had circled her—

Yang’s grin turned wolfish. "Damn, Ice Queen. Growth spurt, or just really into this dare?"

The words hit Weiss like a slap.

Yang's wolfish grin contorted into a strangled wheeze as Weiss' fist connected with brutal precision. The impact sent the brawler crumpling to her knees, her breath escaping in a pained oof as she clutched herself.

"Rules are rules," Weiss hissed, her knuckles stinging from the impact—but the satisfaction of seeing Yang's smugness evaporate was worth it. She smoothed her palms down her bare thighs, acutely aware of Jaune's wide-eyed stare flickering between her and the groaning Yang.

Blake's ears twitched in quiet approval, her pen tapping against the notepad. "Technically correct," she murmured, amber eyes glinting—as that move did earn Weiss her silent respect.

Jaune’s fingers twitched, the crumpled measuring tape slipping from his grasp entirely as Weiss’s glare pinned him in place. The air between them crackled—part fury, part something else entirely—as her bare chest rose with each sharp breath, her nipples pebbled against the chill. Blake’s pen hovered, her smirk hidden behind the notepad as she watched the numbers blur under Jaune’s sweat-slick grip.

Nora’s giggle died in her throat when Weiss turned that glacial stare on her, the heiress’s voice dropping to a razor’s edge. "One more sound," she whispered, "and I freeze your tongue to the ceiling."

Weiss exhaled through her nose, the tension in her shoulders easing just enough for Jaune to notice the shift. "Finish it," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper—not quite permission, not quite resignation.

Jaune's throat clicked as he swallowed, fingers fumbling to unknot the measuring tape from where it had tangled around his wrist. The metal tip glinted as it swayed between them, catching the overhead light like a pendulum counting down the seconds.

Blake's ears perked forward, her pen poised. The tape whispered against Weiss's thigh as Jaune knelt—slow, reverent—to measure the length of her leg from hip to knee.

The tape whispered against Weiss's thigh as Jaune knelt—slow, reverent—to measure the length of her leg from hip to knee. His calloused fingertips skimmed the outer curve of her thigh, barely more than a graze, but enough to send a visible shiver through her. Weiss’s breath hitched, her fingers curling against her palms as the cold metal tip inched downward, tracing the elegant line of muscle beneath her alabaster skin.

Jaune’s pulse roared in his ears, his throat dry as he **** himself to focus on the numbers—22 inches—but the way her flesh dimpled under the barest pressure of his thumb was seared into his mind.

Jaune’s hands trembled as he shifted his focus, the measuring tape gliding up the delicate slope of Weiss’s right arm. The silk of her skin burned against his fingertips as he marked the sleeve length—each inch calculated with painstaking care, his breath shallow against the quiet tension thickening the air.

The moment the tape circled her shoulder, Weiss stiffened—his touch feather-light but impossible to ignore. The metal edge pressed into the curve where her collarbone met the slope of her shoulder, and Jaune’s knuckles brushed the loose strands of her hair, sending an unexpected warmth creeping up her neck.

Blake’s pen scratched against the notepad, the sound deafening in the silence.

Weiss’s breath caught as Jaune’s fingers lingered—just a fraction too long—against the sensitive hollow of her collarbone. The measuring tape curled around her shoulder like a question, its metal edge cool against her flushed skin. His thumb grazed the delicate dip where her pulse fluttered, and for a single, suspended moment, neither of them moved.

Blake’s pen paused mid-stroke, her feline eyes narrowing at the way Weiss’s lashes flickered—not in anger, but something far more dangerous.

Jaune’s exhale shuddered as he withdrew, the tape slithering free with a whisper.

Jaune’s fingers tightened around the measuring tape, his pulse hammering as he shifted his stance. The air between them grew heavier, thick with the scent of Weiss’s shampoo—something crisp and floral, now undercut by the salt of nervous sweat.

His knuckles brushed the dip of her waist, the tape cinching snug as he measured the curve where her ribs flared into the soft swell of her hips. Weiss stiffened, her breath hitching when the metal tip dipped lower, grazing the crest of her pelvis. A tremor ran through her—half dread, half something far warmer—as she realized how close his gaze might stray.

Jaune’s throat went dry.

Jaune’s fingers twitched against the measuring tape, the metal edge trembling as it hovered just above the delicate hollow of Weiss’s hipbone. The air between them was electric—charged with the unspoken weight of every accidental brush, every hitched breath. Weiss’s pulse fluttered visibly beneath her skin, her bare chest rising in shallow increments as the tape slithered lower, tracing the inward curve of her waist.

Jaune’s thumb slipped—just barely—against the warm dip of her navel, and Weiss’s breath stuttered, her thighs tensing. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the faint rustle of fabric as Blake shifted, her golden eyes gleaming with quiet amusement.

The measuring tape caught—just for a heartbeat—on the jut of Weiss’s hipbone, the metal edge digging in enough to make her gasp. Jaune’s fingers froze, his knuckles pressed against the feverish heat of her skin, his breath ragged in the stillness.

Weiss’s lashes fluttered, her lips parting on an unvoiced protest—but the words dissolved as his thumb smoothed over the reddening mark, an apology written in the rough pad of his calloused skin. The touch lingered, burning brighter than the shame that had coiled in her stomach moments before.

Jaune’s fingers steadied as he exhaled slowly, forcing himself to focus solely on the numbers. The measuring tape pressed flush against Weiss’s waist, the cold metal stark against her flushed skin as he noted the precise circumference—narrow, yet taut with coiled tension. His thumb anchored the tape at the dip of her spine, his other hand guiding it around the swell of her hip with deliberate care, each millimeter calculated. Weiss’s breath was shallow, her shoulders rigid, but she held herself still—eyes fixed on the far wall, lips pressed into a thin line.

The silence between them was a live wire, humming with every shift of fabric, every hitch of breath.

Jaune’s fingers trembled as he slid the measuring tape down Weiss’s thigh, tracing the taut line of her calf with agonizing precision. The metal tip caught against the delicate curve of her ankle, his thumb brushing the dip where her pulse fluttered—quick and erratic. Weiss’s breath hitched, her toes curling against the cold dorm floor as the tape cinched snug around the toned muscle, the numbers blurring in Jaune’s sweat-slick grip.

Blake’s pen scratched against the notepad—14 inches—her smirk hidden behind the clipboard as Weiss’s cheeks burned hotter.

The measuring tape slithered up her inner thigh, the metal edge catching on the faint tremor of Weiss’s muscles. Jaune’s breath seared against her knee—unknowingly close, unbearably warm—as he adjusted his grip, his fingers fumbling against the smooth plane of her skin. Weiss bit down on her lower lip, the sting grounding her as the tape curled higher, the numbers blurring in his periphery.

A bead of sweat traced Jaune’s temple, his pulse hammering in his throat as the tape settled just beneath the crease of her thigh.

Jaune’s fingers twitched against the tape, the numbers swimming in his vision as the soft warmth of Weiss’s inner thigh seared into his fingertips. The air between them was thick with the scent of rosewater and nervous sweat, the silence broken only by the ragged edge of Weiss’s exhale as the metal edge of the tape bit ever so slightly into her skin.

His thumb slipped—just a fraction—as he adjusted his grip, the pad of his finger grazing the delicate crease where thigh met hip. Weiss jerked, a sharp inhale catching in her throat, her nails digging into her own palms where they were clenched at her sides.

Jaune’s fingers hesitated before lifting the measuring tape, the ghost of her warmth still clinging to his skin as he shifted position. The air between them crackled as he stepped closer—too close—the scent of her shampoo dizzying as he reached for the slender column of her neck. Weiss stiffened, her pulse fluttering visibly beneath her pale skin as the cold metal settled against her throat.

His breath hitched when she tilted her chin up—unthinking, instinctive—exposing the fragile hollow where her collarbones dipped. The tape pressed snug, his fingertips brushing the delicate wisps of hair at her nape, sending a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the chill of the metal.

Blake’s pen stilled mid-scribble as a faint, unmistakable scent threaded through the air—rosewater tinged with something sharper, something warm. Her golden eyes flicked up, pupils narrowing to slits as she watched Weiss’s throat work around a swallow, the rapid flutter of her pulse betraying what her stiff posture tried to hide. The tape around Weiss’s neck tightened minutely as Jaune’s fingers trembled, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin behind her ear. Weiss inhaled sharply through her nose, her thighs pressing together—just for a second—before she **** them apart again, the movement too deliberate to be casual.

Blake’s pen dashed across the page—19 inches—before Jaune had even lifted the tape from Weiss’s throat. The sharp scribble of graphite tore through the tension, snapping Weiss’s attention to Blake just as the metal edge of the measuring tape dipped lower, skimming the arch of Weiss’s ribcage.

Jaune’s fingers hesitated at the high curve of her hip, his knuckles grazing the taut plane of her abdomen as he adjusted the tape. The contact was fleeting—barely there—but Weiss’s skin burned where he’d touched, her breath hitching as the cold metal followed the inward slope of her waist before settling just above the crest of her hipbone.

The measuring tape clung to Weiss’s skin like a second pulse, the metal edge imprinting a thin red line just above the jut of her hipbone. Jaune’s fingers fumbled as he tried to steady the tape, his knuckles brushing the quivering dip of her navel again—too warm, too rough against her feverish skin. Weiss sucked in a breath through her teeth, her ribs expanding beneath the loop of the tape as it tightened, the numbers blurring in Jaune’s periphery.

Twenty-three inches.

His exhale ghosted over her collarbone, sending a shiver skittering down her spine.

Jaune’s fingers trembled as he unspooled the tape once more, the metal glinting coldly in the dorm’s low light. Weiss’s wrist was delicate beneath his touch—bones like bird’s wings beneath paper-thin skin—and he circled it with agonizing care, his calloused fingertips whispering over the blue veins that mapped her pulse. The tape cinched snug, the numbers burning into his vision: 5.5 inches. Weiss exhaled sharply through her nose, her fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to curl into his palm.

The outseam was worse.

Jaune’s breath caught as he knelt before her, the measuring tape unspooling like a silver thread between his shaking fingers. The hem of Weiss’s sock brushed his wrist as he pressed the cold metal to the outer seam of her thigh, tracing a slow, torturous path down to her ankle. Every inch burned—her skin pebbling beneath the touch, muscles tensing as the tape whispered over the sensitive hollow behind her knee.

Weiss’s toes curled against the floorboards, her weight shifting unconsciously toward him as the tape tightened around her calf. Jaune’s thumb slipped—just once—against the back of her leg, rough and warm, and her gasp was swallowed by the thick silence.

Blake’s amber eyes flicked between her notebook and Weiss’s bare legs, the graphite of her pencil hovering as she double-checked the outseam measurement—twenty-nine inches—before tapping the number twice with deliberate finality.

Jaune’s throat worked as he adjusted his grip on the tape, the metal catching the light as he guided it along the inner seam of Weiss’s thigh. His fingers trembled where they brushed the delicate skin, his touch feather-light yet searing against the vulnerability of her stance. Weiss’s breath stuttered, her pulse fluttering visibly at the base of her throat as the tape inched higher, the cold press of it making her muscles twitch.

Blake’s pen hovered, her ears twitching at the faintest hitch in Weiss’s breathing as the tape pressed higher, the numbers disappearing between trembling fingers. Jaune’s knuckles grazed the soft, forbidden warmth of her inner thigh, and Weiss’s nails bit into her own palms, her entire body rigid.

The tape paused at the crease of her thigh, the metal edge trembling against the heated skin just shy of where modesty demanded it stop. Weiss’s exhale shuddered—too loud in the thick silence—as Jaune’s thumb slipped again, this time catching the edge of her sock where it clung to her knee. His breath hitched, warm against the inside of her leg, and the tape cinched tighter, imprinting the numbers into her flesh before he **** himself to pull away.

–Twenty-six inches.–

Blake’s pencil scratched the measurement down, the sound sharp as a blade in the stillness.

Weiss shuddered, her thighs pressing together reflexively as the tape finally fell away. She knew—knew—Jaune must have seen the slick glint between her legs when he measured her inseam, the way her skin had flushed hot and damp despite the cool metal. Her breath came uneven as she watched Blake's amber eyes flick down to the notebook, the faunus's lips parting slightly as she compared the fresh measurements to previous notes.

Jaune’s fingers curled around the discarded tape, his knuckles white. The silence stretched, thick with the scent of rosewater and something sharper—something ****.

Blake’s fingers traced the edge of her notebook, flipping back a page where earlier measurements—neatly dated—stood in stark contrast to the fresh ink. The graphite smudged slightly as she dragged her thumb across the numbers, comparing the arch of Weiss’s waist (half an inch narrower), the swell of her hips (a fraction fuller). A slow, knowing blink.

“Within margin of error—but you're done nonetheless.” she murmured, snapping the book shut with finality.

The sound jolted Weiss back into herself. Her arms crossed over her chest—too late for modesty, but instinctive—as she took a half-step away from Jaune.

Weiss’s socked foot scuffed against the floorboards as she retreated another half-step, the wood creaking beneath her weight. The measuring tape slithered from Jaune’s slackened grip, coiling like a dead serpent between them. A bead of sweat traced the hollow of his throat before vanishing beneath his collar.

Blake’s ears twitched at the rustle of fabric as Yang finally shifted, her crossed arms tightening. The scent of burnt roses clung to the air—Weiss’s embarrassment, Jaune’s panic—thick enough to taste.

Nora’s knee bounced against the edge of Weiss’s abandoned bed, her fingers drumming a staccato rhythm against her thigh. "Well?" she finally blurted, the word cracking the silence like a whip. "Who's next?"

The measuring tape slithered fully from Jaune’s grip, pooling on the floorboards between his knees. His fingers twitched—still remembering the heat of Weiss’s skin beneath them—before curling into fists. A drop of sweat traced the shell of Weiss’s ear as she stood frozen, the ghost of the tape’s pressure lingering along her inner thigh like a brand.

Nora’s shoulders slumped as Blake’s amber gaze flicked toward her, the faunus’s voice low and deliberate. "Just Weiss today." The words landed like a lead weight, and Nora’s bottom lip jutted out in an exaggerated pout before she flopped backward onto the mattress with a theatrical groan.

"Boooooo," she whined, kicking her legs childishly, the bedsprings squeaking beneath her. "You guys suck at dares."

Yang snorted, finally uncrossing her arms to rake a hand through her hair.

Jaune's head snapped toward Nora at the word dare, his brow furrowing. "Wait—what do you mean dare?" The measuring tape crinkled under his shifting knee as he turned fully toward her, oblivious to the way Weiss's breath hitched beside him.

Yang's fingers froze mid-tug through her hair, golden eyes widening as they darted to Blake. The faunus’s ears pinned back, her notebook slipping slightly in her grip as the implication settled—Jaune hadn’t known.

Weiss’s cheeks burned crimson, her arms tightening over her chest as if she could physically press the truth back inside.

Weiss’s lips parted—then pressed into a thin line. The truth slithered out between clenched teeth. "Blake dared me."

Jaune’s gaze flicked to the measuring tape, still coiled on the floor like an accusation. His throat worked. "...Oh." A beat. Then—"Oh."

Blake’s ears flattened as Yang exhaled through her nose, the sound dangerously close to a laugh. Weiss’s sock dug into the floorboards, her toes curling.

Nora rolled onto her stomach, chin propped on her palms. "Sooo," she sing-songed, "how were the measurements, Jaune?"

Jaune’s mouth opened—then snapped shut, his fingers twitching toward the discarded tape before jerking back as if burned. A dull flush crept up his neck, clashing horribly with the red still smeared across Weiss’s collarbones.

Blake’s pen hovered over her notebook, the nib denting the paper as she watched the pulse jump in Jaune’s wrist.

Yang’s boot scuffed the floorboards as she leaned forward, her grin sharp enough to flay. "Yeah, Jaune," she purred, "how were they?"

Jaune swallowed hard, his fingers flexing uselessly at his sides. "So—so the dare was just... letting me...?" The words tangled in his throat as Weiss's socked foot scuffed another half-inch backward across the floorboards.

Blake's pen finally touched paper with a decisive click, the sound jarring in the thick silence. "Without freezing him solid," she clarified, amber eyes flicking up just in time to catch the way Weiss's pulse fluttered beneath her jaw.

Yang's grin widened, her crossed arms pressing tighter as she leaned into the tension. "And look at that," she drawled, "not a single icicle."

Jaune’s fingers twitched toward the discarded tape again—then froze. His head tilted slightly, lips parting as realization crept in like winter fog. "Wait." The word came out slow, deliberate, syllables thick with dawning comprehension. "The dare was just... to let me take a measurement."

Weiss's breath stuttered.

Yang’s grin faltered.

Blake’s pen stopped mid-stroke, ink bleeding into the paper as her ears swiveled forward.

Jaune swallowed, the sound audible in the sudden silence. "Not... all of them." His gaze flicked to Weiss—just for a heartbeat—before skittering away, but it was enough.

Blake blinked owlishly, her amber eyes widening as the realization struck—the loophole hung in the air like an unspoken taunt. She didn’t think her dare all the way through. Her fingers tightened around the notebook, the leather cover creaking as her claws extended just slightly. Weiss could have stopped after the first measurement. Could have preserved some scrap of dignity. The knowledge settled between them like shattered glass.

Yang's grin froze mid-smirk, her golden eyes darting between them as the implication took root. A slow, dangerous chuckle bubbled up from her chest. "Oh Weiss," she purred, "you overachiever."

Weiss's breath hitched—a tiny, fractured sound—as her bare shoulders tensed. The air between them crackled like static before a storm, thick with the scent of salt and rosewater. Jaune’s fingers twitched toward the tape again, the plastic edge catching the light as if winking.

Yang’s chuckle died mid-breath when Weiss’s heel struck the floorboard—a sharp, deliberate crack—and the room seemed to tilt. Blake’s pen rolled from her grip, leaving a dark slash across the page like a wound.

Blake’s breath caught as Weiss turned—slow, deliberate, the motion liquid and lethal as a honed blade. The air between them thickened, charged with something that made the fine hairs on Jaune’s arms stand on end. Weiss’s lips parted, not to speak, but to exhale—a whisper of frost curling in the space between them.

Blake’s ears flattened. She knew that look. Knew the way Weiss’s fingers flexed at her sides, the way her pulse thrummed visibly at her throat despite the glacial control in her stance. The notebook slipped from Blake’s grip entirely, pages fluttering like wounded birds before hitting the floor.

Yang’s smirk vanished. "Uh oh," she breathed, the words barely more than a whisper as Weiss took a single, deliberate step forward. The temperature in the room dropped sharply, the moisture in the air crystallizing into fine, glittering mist. Jaune’s breath hitched—his exhale visible now, curling white between them.

Blake’s claws dug into the floorboards as she scrambled back, her tail lashing once—twice—before stilling. The silence was absolute, save for the faint creak of the wood beneath Weiss’s bare feet.

Jaune’s fingers twitched toward the measuring tape again, but it was too late.

The measuring tape slipped from Jaune’s fingers, clattering against the floorboards as Weiss’s palm snapped up—a flash of pale fingers, a whisper of glyphs spinning to life in the air. Blake barely had time to yelp before the blast hit her square in the chest, frost exploding outward in jagged fractals. Ice crawled up her legs, her waist, her arms—locking her in place with a crystalline crack that echoed through the suddenly frigid room.

Yang’s chair screeched back as she lurched to her feet, but Weiss was already turning, her bare shoulders heaving with each sharp breath.

Jaune braced himself, shoulders tensing as Weiss’s icy glare swept toward him—only for her to pivot sharply, her fingers flicking toward Nora instead. The hyperactive ginger barely had time to yelp before a jagged spire of ice encased her mid-leap, freezing her in a pose of startled glee, her mouth still open mid-laugh.

The silence was absolute.

Jaune’s breath escaped in a shuddering exhale, his pulse hammering against his ribs. Not me? The thought flickered through him like a spark before sputtering out—because Weiss was already moving again, her bare feet whispering against the frost-rimed floorboards.

Her bare feet left faint, ghostly imprints on the frosted floorboards as she advanced—each step deliberate, each exhale a curl of winter in the air. The ice around Nora creaked ominously, fracturing in hairline splinters as Weiss’s fingers flexed at her sides.

Yang’s throat bobbed, her usual bravado crumbling under the weight of that glacial stare. "Schnee, listen—"

The glyph ignited beneath her boots before she could finish, hoisting Yang airborne in a burst of cerulean light.

Weiss’s fingers closed around the bottle with a quiet click of nails against glass. The label—Extra Strength Itch Powder—Guaranteed to Make You Regret Everything—glowed mockingly under the dorm’s flickering light.

Yang’s breath hitched. "Schnee—wait—"

The cap twisted off with a pop. Weiss didn’t hurry. Didn’t flinch. She tipped the bottle slowly, letting the fine, iridescent powder cascade into the icy basin beneath Yang’s dangling boots. The particles shimmered like cursed snow, dissolving into the water with a hiss.

Blake’s frozen pupils dilated.

Yang’s eyes widened in horrified recognition as the sickly green swirl spread through the water—this wasn’t itch powder. The last time she’d seen that bottle, she’d dumped its contents into Weiss’s shampoo. The memory of Weiss storming through Beacon with emerald-streaked hair for a week flashed through her mind a heartbeat before the glyph beneath her feet flipped.

Her stomach lurched as gravity inverted. The world spun—boots over head, ponytail whipping downward—as the glyph wrenched her upside down with merciless precision. Her scalp prickled, strands of gold already dipping toward the waiting basin.

"Weiss—don’t—!"

Weiss didn’t hesitate.

Yang’s scream tore through the dorm as her head plunged into the neon-green abyss, her flailing arms sending up a violent splash that drenched the floorboards. The water closed over her with a sickening glorp, her golden hair instantly darkening to a slimy emerald as the dye seeped into every strand.

Yang thrashed, her boots kicking wildly in the air, fingers clawing at nothing as she tried to wrench herself free—but the glyph held firm, merciless, keeping her submerged just long enough for the dye to take root.

Weiss released the glyph with a flick of her wrist, and Yang’s body dropped like a stone, crashing onto the soaked floorboards in a gasping, sputtering heap. Emerald rivulets streamed down her face, staining her collar and pooling in the hollow of her throat. Her fingers—already twitching with phantom itches—dug into the wood as she coughed up a mouthful of bitter-tinted water.

Blake’s frozen form shuddered, a crack splitting down her icy prison as her ears flattened against her skull. The ice groaned, but Weiss wasn’t done.

She turned—slow, deliberate—her bare feet leaving damp prints as she stalked toward Jaune.

Jaune braced himself, shoulders tensing as he squeezed his eyes shut. His fingers dug into his palms, expecting ice, a glyph, maybe even Myrtenaster's cold kiss against his throat—

"Jaune."

Her voice cut through the tension like a blade, but the edge was gone. He cracked one eye open to see Weiss's hand extended toward him, palm up, fingers trembling ever so slightly. The fluorescent dorm light caught the lingering frost on her wrist, the delicate blue veins beneath her skin. A droplet of melted ice slid down her forearm, tracing the curve of her elbow before falling to the floorboards with a quiet tap.

Jaune’s breath hitched as Weiss’s fingers curled slightly, beckoning. The air between them hummed with the remnants of her glyphs, the scent of rosewater and damp wool thick in his throat. His pulse hammered against his ribs—not from fear, but from the way her bare shoulders gleamed under the flickering light, the way her damp lashes clung together like frosted spider silk.

A shard of ice cracked from Blake’s prison, skittering across the floor between them. Weiss didn’t flinch.

"Take it," she said, voice low. The command was velvet-wrapped steel. Jaune didn't need to be told twice. His calloused fingers closed around Weiss's delicate wrist, the contrast between their skin stark against the flickering dorm light. The moment his palm met hers, a static charge crackled between them—whether from lingering aura or something else entirely, neither could say.

Weiss's breath hitched as she pulled him up, his weight nearly toppling her forward before he steadied himself, his other hand instinctively flying to her bare waist. The contact burned—her skin still carried the ghost of winter from her semblance, but beneath the chill, he could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse.

A strand of silver hair clung to her parted lips. Weiss jerked back as if scalded, her pale cheeks blooming crimson. Her fingers twitched against Jaune's palm for one breathless moment before she wrenched away, arms crossing over herself in a motion that was half-defensive, half-reflexive shame. The frost-kissed air between them crackled with unspoken tension as she turned her face aside, silver lashes fluttering like trapped moth wings against her flushed skin.

Jaune's hand hovered uselessly in the empty space she'd occupied, his brow furrowing. "W-Weiss? Why are you—?"

Her bare shoulders tensed, the muscles along her collarbone tightening as she drew a sharp breath. When she turned back to face him, her expression had hardened—not with anger, but something far more dangerous: **** understanding.

"Because you didn't know," she bit out, her voice low and edged with a frustration that wasn’t entirely meant for him. A droplet of melted ice slid down the slope of her nose, catching on her lip before she swiped it away with the back of her wrist. "Blake’s dare wasn’t just about letting you measure me. It was about not stopping you—no matter what."

Jaune's throat went dry. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut—the way Weiss's fingers had trembled when he'd measured her hips, the sharp inhale when his knuckles brushed the underside of her—

A muffled groan from Yang's frozen cocoon shattered the moment. Weiss flinched, her bare foot scuffing against the frost-rimed floorboards as she took half a step back. The neon-green dye in Yang's hair dripped onto the ice encasing her, pooling in lurid puddles that reflected the overhead lights.

Jaune's fingers flexed at his sides, still tingling from the memory of her waist beneath his palms.

Jaune’s question hung in the air like a struck bell, the words "Why didn’t you just ask me to stop when we got to the outseam?" slicing through the tension with brutal simplicity.

Weiss’s lips parted—then froze. Her fingers, still curled against her collarbone, twitched. A single drop of melted ice slid down her temple, tracing the delicate shell of her ear before vanishing into the hollow of her throat.

The realization hit her in stages: first a flutter of her lashes, then the slow, horrified parting of her lips. Blake’s dare had been a verbal trap, a carefully laid snare of semantics—"without protesting or freezing anything"—but there had been no rule against asking. No prohibition against simple words.

Weiss's breath left her in a shuddering exhale, her bare shoulders rising and falling with the weight of the epiphany. Her fingers uncurled from her collarbone, hovering in the air between them as if she might reach for something—for him—before her hand dropped limply to her side.

The silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of Weiss’s realization—and the unspoken truth neither dared to voice. Her fingers twitched at her sides, nails grazing the faint pink marks left by Jaune’s measuring tape. The memory of his calloused hands tracing her curves sent an illicit shiver down her spine, one she couldn’t entirely blame on the lingering chill of her semblance.

Jaune’s gaze flickered from the melted ice pooling at their feet to the rapid rise and fall of Weiss’s chest. He swallowed hard, the question burning in his throat—Did she want this?—but the words dissolved as Weiss abruptly turned toward the frost-encased Blake.

The ice encasing Blake shuddered, then splintered with a sound like breaking glass. She stumbled forward, gasping, her breath coming in visible puffs as she rubbed her arms—her black sweater sleeves were stiff with frost, clinging to her skin like a second frozen skin.

Jaune barely had time to register her escape before a sharp crack echoed from Nora’s frozen prison. A hairline fracture split the ice diagonally across her grinning face.

Weiss whirled toward the sound, her bare feet slipping slightly on the frost-slick floor. Before she could react, Jaune lunged forward, pressing both palms against Nora’s frozen form.

Jaune's palms had barely pressed against the fractured ice when Weiss's voice cut through the frigid air—sharp as Myrtenaster's tip.

"Wait."

That single syllable stopped him mid-motion, his shoulders tensing as her bare feet whispered across the frost-glazed floorboards. A shard of ice crunched beneath her heel.

She stood close now—too close—the residual chill of her semblance prickling against his skin. Her breath came in shallow, visible puffs between them, her lips slightly parted as if the words had to be dragged from some guarded place behind her ribs.

Jaune swallowed. A bead of sweat traced his temple despite the cold.

The moment stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring, before Weiss exhaled—a sound barely louder than the creak of settling ice. Her fingers flexed at her sides, nails leaving half-moon indents in her palms.

"Jaune." His name left her lips like a confession, syllables trembling between them. The melted ice at her throat caught the light as she swallowed. "Would you—" A pause, her lashes lowering—not in hesitation, but in deliberate control. "Next month. Would you take them again?"

Her voice didn’t waver. It was a demand wrapped in velvet, every aristocratic inflection intact—yet beneath it, something raw flickered.

Jaune cleared his throat, the sound rough against the fragile silence. His fingers twitched at his sides, still warm from the ghost of her skin beneath them. A slow, uncertain smile curved his lips—the kind that made dimples appear at the corners of his mouth—before he nodded, just once.

Weiss’s breath hitched. The frost at her collarbone glistened as her pulse jumped beneath it.

A sharp crack shattered the moment—Nora’s ice prison split down the middle, chunks of frozen mist spraying outward. Weiss barely flinched, her gaze still locked on Jaune’s face as if memorizing the exact shade of pink staining his ears.

Jaune’s fingers dug into the jagged edges of Nora’s frozen prison, the ice biting into his palms as he heaved it backward with a grunt. The makeshift sled scraped against the floorboards, leaving behind a wet, glistening trail. His breath fogged in the air, shoulders straining—until a flicker of movement made him glance back.

Weiss stood exactly where he’d left her, arms crossed loosely over her chest, the ghost of a smirk playing at her lips. Moonlight caught the melted frost clinging to her collarbone, turning it to liquid silver as she tilted her head—just slightly—watching him.

The corner of her mouth twitched.