Post-Concert Blues

Morning light streams through the blinds, casting golden streaks across the cluttered dorm room. You sit on the edge of his unmade bed, your hands wringing nervously in your lap. Liam paces in front of you, his face a whirlwind of disbelief, horror, and begrudging amusement.

“I don’t even know where to start,” Liam says, stopping mid-step to look at you, his hands thrown up in the air. “You… swallowed? Are you serious?” His voice pitches higher at the end, somewhere between disbelief and an incredulous laugh.

You bury your face in your hands, groaning. “I didn’t want to, okay? That was her.” The words tumble out defensively, and you peek up at him through your fingers, hoping to dodge further judgment.

Liam narrows his eyes with awe, crossing his arms. “Oh, sure. Her. Because you weren’t the one on your knees last night making Marcus think he’s God’s gift to women!”

Heat rushes to your face, the memory of the night before flashing vividly in your mind. _Her _thoughts—Luna’s thoughts—come unbidden: the taste, the texture, the satisfaction she’d felt at bringing Marcus to that moment. It makes your stomach churn. “I didn’t have a choice,” you snap, though your voice lacks conviction.

Liam stares at you, his mouth slightly open, before shaking his head like he’s trying to clear an unpleasant image. “Dude… that’s just—God. I need to bleach my brain.”

You throw a pillow at him, but he dodges it easily. “It wasn’t my idea!” you argue. “She took over, all right? I didn’t even want to… to…” You trail off, unable to say the words again.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. The magical bimbo curse,” Liam mutters, rolling his eyes with a teasing smile, but his expression softens. “Still, you could’ve drawn the line somewhere.”

You glare at him. “What part of ‘I didn’t have a choice’ are you not getting? She’s literally in my head, Liam. I’m a passenger at this point!”

Liam exhales, sitting down heavily in his desk chair. “Okay, okay, I get it. Still…” He winces, rubbing his temples. “Swallowing, though? That’s next-level dedication.”

You groan again, flopping back on the bed. “Can we please not dwell on that?”

For a moment, silence hangs in the room, broken only by the faint sounds of students moving around outside. Then, Liam speaks again, his tone more serious. “But hey, if Marcus went that far, it means something, right?”

You sit up, the reminder cutting through your embarrassment. “Yeah,” you say slowly, the implications sinking in. “It means he either cheated on Victoria or… they’re done. Either way, it’s over between them.”

Liam nods, his brows furrowed in thought. “So, if that’s true, then Aphrodite’s second trial—”

“—is complete,” you finish, relief washing over you. “We actually did it.”

“Well, you did it,” Liam corrects with a smirk.

You shoot him a withering look. “Not helping.”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, but there’s a glint of pride in his eyes. “Hey, I’m just saying. You survived a trial that most guys wouldn’t even dream of attempting.”

You roll your eyes, but his words make you feel slightly better. “Let’s just hope I never have to do anything like that again.”

Liam’s smirk fades, and he looks at you seriously. “You know that’s probably not true. If the first two trials were this insane, what do you think Aphrodite has planned for the next one?”

The thought sends a chill down your spine. You shake your head, trying not to dwell on it. “I don’t even want to think about it.”

Liam leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. “Well, whatever it is, you’ve got this. You’re already halfway there. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Yeah,” you say quietly, though doubt gnaws at you. What if I can’t? What if the next trial is even worse?

But you don’t say it aloud. Instead, you lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the weight of everything pressing down on you.

For now, though, you let the relief of your small victory wash over you. Marcus and Victoria are done, the second trial is complete, and you’re one step closer to getting your life back.

The morning air feels cool against your skin as you shuffle groggily toward the bathroom, the events of last night still gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. You try to push them aside; right now, you need to focus on pulling yourself together. The small mirror above the sink reflects your disheveled state—hair a tousled mess, dark shadows under your eyes, and a faint redness lingering around your lips. Liam really wasn’t kidding about needing brain bleach, you think with a grimace.

Reaching for your toothbrush, you squirt a generous amount of minty toothpaste onto it and start brushing. The rhythmic motion feels oddly satisfying, almost soothing, and you find yourself brushing a bit longer than usual. Weird… You shrug off the thought and rinse, letting the sharp mint flavor linger in your mouth. As you straighten up, your reflection catches your attention again. Your lips, the fuller than they were two months ago and softly pink, look… different somehow. Maybe I bit them in my sleep? you wonder absently, turning away before you can dwell on it.

The shower beckons, and you peel off your clothes, feeling the cool tile floor beneath your feet as you step inside. Warm water cascades over your body, a welcome comfort that washes away the remnants of the previous night. As you lather up, your hands linger a moment too long on your chest. You pause, blinking. _Are they…sensitive? _The thought flits through your mind before you dismiss it. It must be your imagination—or maybe it’s just that you’re more aware of things now.

Once you’re clean, you grab a fluffy towel and step out, the cool air biting against your damp skin. Wrapping the towel around yourself, you pad back to the bedroom. Liam’s still sprawled across his bed, snoring softly, so you tiptoe to your drawers, pulling out your outfit for the day.

The familiar sight of the lingerie drawer still makes you hesitate. You sigh, reaching for a black bra and black panties. You slip the panties on first, the snug fit hugging your hips in a way that feels… wrong and yet strangely natural. As you hook the bra around your chest and adjust the straps, you notice something peculiar. The cups feel tighter than usual, the fabric straining slightly as you adjust the band.

“What the hell?” you mutter under your breath, frowning at your reflection in the mirror. You tug at the straps, trying to figure out why it feels so snug. Did this thing shrink in the dryer? you wonder, annoyed. You twist to the side, eyeing your profile. The bra subtly pushes things up in a way that draws your attention. You shake your head, exasperated. Great. Just great.

Pulling on a light sweater and jeans, you continue your routine, but a strange sensation lingers—a nagging feeling you can’t quite put your finger on. It’s like an itch at the back of your mind, something you want but can’t name. You chew absently on the inside of your cheek as you brush your hair, the soft bristles gliding through the strands. The motion is calming, almost meditative, and you find yourself taking longer than usual, enjoying the repetitive strokes.

“Why do I feel so… restless?” you murmur to yourself, tossing the brush onto the counter. Your gaze lingers on your lips again, and you catch yourself nibbling at the edge of your thumb. You quickly pull your hand away, annoyed. What’s with this weird fidgety feeling?

You finish getting ready and grab a pair of boots, tugging them on with a huff. The sensation hasn’t left, a subtle pull that leaves you oddly dissatisfied, as if you’ve forgotten something important but can’t quite name it. As you tie the laces, your mind drifts back to last night.

It’s probably just nerves, you tell yourself firmly. The second trial is over. I just need to keep moving forward.

Still, as you grab your bag and step out into the hall, the strange need nags at you, a quiet whisper in the back of your mind. You press your lips together and shake your head. Whatever it is, you’ll deal with it later. For now, you focus on the day ahead—and the ever-present countdown to the next trial.

The sun greets you with an unwelcome brightness as you step outside, the crisp morning air brushing against your skin. Campus is already alive with the chatter of students hurrying to classes, coffee cups in hand and bags slung over shoulders. You keep your head down, hands stuffed into your pockets as you walk, the familiar path to your lecture hall somehow feeling heavier today.

Your thoughts drift back to last night, despite your best efforts to keep them at bay. It’s impossible to ignore. Two trials down, four to go, and over two months already gone. Time wasn’t slowing for anyone, least of all you.

What’s she going to do next? you wonder bitterly, your jaw tightening. Aphrodite’s penchant for creativity—and cruelty—had made it clear that each challenge was going to push you further, but what did that even mean now? You try to piece together the logic behind her trials, but it feels like trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. The first was about seduction. The second was about… well, crossing a line you’d never imagined you’d cross. Your stomach twists just thinking about it.

Shaking your head, you focus on the sound of your boots against the pavement. Anything to distract yourself. But no matter how hard you try, there’s this lingering sensation, a restless itch you can’t scratch. Your tongue runs across your teeth absentmindedly, and before you know it, you’re chewing on your bottom lip again. You catch yourself, frowning as you let it go. Why do I keep doing that? It’s like there’s this nagging feeling in the back of your mind, something you want or need but can’t quite name.

Your steps slow as you pass by a group of students gathered near the fountain, one of them—a tall, broad-shouldered guy in a fitted jacket—laughing loudly at something his friend says. For the briefest moment, your gaze lingers on him, your brain noting the sharpness of his jawline, the way his hair falls just right, the confident ease of his posture.

The thought slams into you like a brick wall, and your stomach flips. You blink hard, forcing your gaze away as heat creeps up your neck. _No, no, no. What the hell? _You rub your forehead, your fingers brushing against your hairline as if you can scrub the thought from your mind entirely.

It’s the curse, you tell yourself, your internal voice sharp and defensive. That’s all it is. It’s messing with my head.

But even as you hurry your pace, the fleeting moment lingers, like a whisper you can’t quite shake.

When you finally reach the lecture hall, you slide into a seat near the middle, pulling out your notebook and pen. The professor’s voice hums in the background as they begin the lecture, but your mind isn’t fully there. Your pen taps against the edge of the desk, a steady rhythm that matches the fidgety energy in your chest. It feels like there’s too much going on inside you—anxiety, frustration, and that damned nagging need you can’t put a name to.

You glance around the room, watching your classmates for a moment. A girl in the row ahead flips her hair over her shoulder, the sunlight catching the strands and making them shimmer. Your gaze drifts to her effortlessly, appreciating the way the light plays against her skin. Pretty, you think absently, before snapping your focus back to your notebook.

What the hell is wrong with me today? you scold yourself, gripping your pen tighter. But even as you **** your attention back to the professor’s slides, you can’t quite silence the quiet hum of something foreign beneath the surface.

A few minutes later, the professor makes a joke about the reading, and a ripple of laughter spreads through the room. You manage a weak chuckle, but your thoughts are miles away. The trials, the curse, the timeline—it’s all circling in your head like vultures. Two trials down, but at what cost? How much further was Aphrodite going to push you?

You scribble something in your notebook, only half paying attention to what you’re writing. It’s a question, something vague about the lecture topic, but your handwriting looks different somehow. Smaller. Neater. You frown, staring at the page. Maybe I’m just tired, you reason, leaning back in your chair.

The rest of the lecture passes in a blur, your mind split between trying to follow along and wrestling with your spiraling thoughts. When it’s finally over, you gather your things and head out, the bustling campus swallowing you up again.

The strange need that’s been nagging at you all morning still hasn’t faded. If anything, it feels stronger now, like a whisper growing louder with every step. You chew on your thumb absently as you walk, the pressure against your teeth strangely satisfying. Why does this feel so… normal? you wonder, shaking your head.

Focus, you tell yourself firmly. _Still got trials left. I just have to survive this stupid curse long enough to get through them. _But even as you try to push forward, the faintest hint of doubt lingers in the back of your mind. What if the trials weren’t just about completing tasks? What if they were about changing you—slowly, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of who you used to be?

The thought sends a chill down your spine, but you push it aside. Whatever Aphrodite had planned, you weren’t going to let her win.