#Shop Drawing Elements

[adaki]

Art of my creepypasta oc I did today :)

[quesoarts]

jawlines for dayyyyyysssss

[adorawasright]

why did i imagine a coffee shop x flower shop bowkyle au 😭😭

[dakusan]

F i r s t W o r s h i p

Vampire!Hwang Hyunjin x Reader | sacred hunger, paint-stained thighs, first bite on the gallery floor

🔞synopsis: You were just a broke barista pulling late-night shifts, trying to make rent and forget how hard life kept fucking you over. Hwang Hyunjin was the mysterious regular with ink-stained fingers and eyes that lingered too long—always showing up at 11:47PM, always watching. Then came the offer: a job at his gallery, a thick envelope, and a contract you weren’t supposed to take seriously. You did. Now? You’re in too deep. You know what he is. And you’ve let him taste you anyway.

💌a/n: WOW. I was genuinely scared I’d have to do two parts like I did for Changbin’s filthy mess of a fic but somehow??? by the grace of horny vampire gods and Hyunjin’s unhinged mouth??? it all FIT in here??? PRAISE BE. WEDNESDAY = WRECKED-NESDAY NOW, YOU'RE WELCOME. Anyway—how’s everyone’s blood pressure? Hydrated? Neck intact? Emotionally ruined by soft aftercare and paint-smudged praise?? Good. That’s the goal. p.s. Reblog if your panties disintegrated p.p.s. The gallery is now closed for renovations (they’re repainting the fuck table) p.p.p.s. If you read this with your legs crossed and still gasped out loud? You’re valid

⚠️ warnings: 18+ / MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | Vampire themes (biting, blood drinking, supernatural elements) | Bloodplay & light blood consumption during sex | Oral sex (f. receiving) | Rough sex, intense dom!Hyunjin energy | Marking (bite marks, paint smearing) | Praise & worship kink vibes | Mild possessiveness | Paint kink (literally. it’s hot) | Slightly feral romantic declarations | Silly contract mentions (yes there are clauses like “mandatory hand-holding”) | Fluff, aftercare, wine, and gallery sex.

📌 Please read responsibly. Stretch. Stay hydrated. Do not let Hyunjin paint unsupervised.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Bite Me — ENHYPEN « 0:58 ─〇───── 2:38 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

You smell like espresso grounds, paint thinner, and the inside of a subway tunnel at 3AM. Your professors would probably call it grit. Your bones would call it exhaustion. Your bank account would call it “survival with milk foam on top.”

You’re twenty-three. An art student at a mid-tier university with a great experimental program but terrible dorm plumbing. Your days are filled with critiques you don’t care about, roommates you barely see, and canvases you can’t afford to replace. Your nights? A hot mess of half-finished homework and part-time shifts at Solstice, the little coffee shop wedged between a dry cleaner and the outer walls of Luxe Health—the infamous, neon-washed medical fortress you’re pretty sure is a tax shelter for emotionally volatile rich people.

But you like Solstice. The machines squeal and the tips are trash, but it smells like cardamom and toasted almonds, and the late shifts are yours alone. No manager hovering. No influencers trying to spell their names in the foam. Just you, your playlist, and the occasional chaos of the espresso machine threatening to explode mid-steam.

You aren’t supposed to sit while on shift, but your manager isn't here and your feet are killing you, so you perch on the stool behind the counter, sketchbook balanced on your knees, the filter coffee from hours ago cold beside you. The sketch you’re working on is barely taking form—just the curve of a shoulder, a flash of a collarbone, the hint of something too tender to finish. You don’t remember who you were drawing. You never do, lately.

You’re halfway through shading a jawline when the bell over the door chimes.

You don’t have to look up. You already know it’s him. The same customer. Always at night. Always when you’re alone. Always... strange.

He’s tall, always dressed like he’s stepped out of a dream filtered through grayscale. Sometimes in loose black knits, sometimes in impossibly tailored coats. His hair changes—sometimes long and silky, sometimes tied back—but the eyes stay the same. Sharp. Curious. Slightly amused. And god, intense. Like he’s seeing things behind your face.

You don’t know his name. You’ve never asked. You just call him 11:47PM, because that’s when he always walks in. Not 11:45. Not 11:50. 11:47. Like clockwork. Like ritual.

And he orders coffee.

Not the kind of coffee someone just likes. No, he orders like it’s a test.

“Oat milk. Two shots of espresso. Honey. A dash of cinnamon. Extra hot. No lid.”

He never takes it to-go. He drinks it slow, eyes flicking over you when he thinks you won’t notice. You always notice. But you pretend you don’t. Because you’re tired. Because your tuition is due. Because you’re not letting some six-foot mystery man with perfect bone structure throw your routine off-balance.

Still, there’s something about him.

Once, he left a napkin behind with a sketch on it. Not a doodle. A sketch. Detailed. Elegant. Sharp. You recognized your hands in it. The way your fingers grip the portafilter when you’re distracted. You stared at it for five minutes, then folded it up and stuck it in your journal like a lunatic.

Another time, he asked you what your favorite pigment was.

Not color. Pigment.

You said burnt sienna. He smiled like that meant something.

It’s stupid. He’s probably some bored rich guy slumming it with overpriced coffee and staring at the help for fun. Maybe he’s one of those Luxe clients—they all give off weird energy anyway. You've heard the rumors. The place treats the ultra-rich. People say it specializes in impossible medicine. Some say it’s for trauma. Some whisper about bond therapy and blood contracts, which sounds like fantasy bullshit. You've always figured it’s just another hush-hush clinic for the elite.

Still, you’ve seen the clients. They don’t blink. And they never order anything but black coffee when they come in.

Except him.

He drinks it sweet. Always sweet.

La Venera is not open to the public.

There’s no street-facing sign, no Instagram account, no QR code by the door. If you know, you know. If you don’t—you’ll walk right past the ivy-covered building tucked behind Luxe Health’s eastern wall, mistaking it for a haunted boutique or the private home of someone obscenely wealthy.

It’s both.

Inside, it smells like centuries-old oil paint and carefully calibrated sandalwood. The ceilings are high. The air hums. There are no labels on the walls. No placards. No prices. Only magic.

Hyunjin stands barefoot in the center of his private studio, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair tied back with an indigo silk ribbon. His fingers are stained with deep violet and dried black—he hasn’t slept, hasn’t spoken, hasn’t done anything except paint her wrist over and over for the last three hours.

Not her whole body. Not her face. Not yet. Just the wrist. The way she presses it to the side of the espresso machine when she’s tired. That little flick of tension like her blood doesn’t want to stay inside.

He can’t get it right.

The angle’s off. The light’s wrong. It’s not singing like it did the first time he saw her. She had cinnamon on her cheek and ink under her nail and a smile so exhausted it almost broke him.

He slams the brush down, muttering curses under his breath, and drops into the cracked leather chair in the corner of the studio. His neck arches over the backrest, and for a moment, he just breathes.

“You’re being weird again.”

Jisung’s voice cuts through the silence like a butter knife sawing a steak. He’s perched upside down on the studio couch like a raccoon. His fangs are just barely visible as he chews on a licorice wand he definitely shoplifted.

Hyunjin doesn’t move. “You broke in again.”

“Wrong. I haunt this gallery. I’m part of the aesthetic.”

“You’re wearing crocs.”

“Vampire crocs.”

Hyunjin sighs. “Get out.”

From the doorway, a new voice adds flatly, “Don’t bother. He’s been here since lunch.”

Seungmin, in a three-piece suit with blood-proof lapels and the world’s most aggressive Excel spreadsheet tucked under his arm, steps into the room with the air of someone who has already filed two lawsuits today and is looking for a third.

“I brought your Luxe contracts. And a cease-and-desist from the Yoon heiress who said your last exhibit gave her ‘emotional vertigo.’”

Hyunjin finally opens his eyes. “That wasn’t me. That was the installation piece by the fledgling from Berlin.”

“She passed out during the opening night, so now you own it. And I had to convince the board that scent-trigger hallucinations are a therapeutic risk, not a war crime.”

Jisung snorts. “God, I love this place.”

Hyunjin sits forward, hands steepled under his chin. His tone shifts—low, measured. The Artist, not the Friend.

“Do either of you remember the girl from the coffee shop?”

Seungmin doesn’t blink. “The one who smells like fig and insomnia? Yes.”

“She’s in one of his paintings,” Jisung offers. “It’s creepy.”

“It’s not creepy,” Hyunjin mutters.

“She’s mortal,” Seungmin says carefully.

“I know.”

“She’s not your doll.”

“I know.”

There’s a long pause. Hyunjin stands. Walks toward the canvas. Looks but doesn’t touch.

“She’s also—”

Jisung groans. “Don’t say the one. If you say ‘the one,’ I’m eating myself out the window.”

Hyunjin just smiles, slow and dangerous. “She’s not the one. She’s the only. And I’m not touching her. I’m not even talking to her. I just…”

He exhales, like it hurts to hold it in. “I like the way she says my name when she doesn’t know it.”

Seungmin’s eyes narrow. “That’s poetic and deeply concerning.”

Hyunjin turns, something glowing in the edges of his gaze. “I’m going to offer her a position at La Venera.”

“No, you’re not,” Seungmin says immediately.

“Yes, he is,” Jisung grins. “And I want to watch her find out.”

Hyunjin walks back to his chair, sits down, and picks up the brush again.

“She’s going to enter my world eventually,” he murmurs, voice steady now. “I’d rather it be with a canvas in front of her… than a collar on her throat.”

Neither Jisung nor Seungmin replies.

Because they know what Hyunjin is. What it means for him to wait. What it would mean for him to take. They know the price of devotion in the hands of an Abnormal.

It’s 2:41PM on a Thursday and everything is going wrong.

The milk steamer is hissing like it wants to die. Your shift lead called in “emotionally unavailable.” You’re running on four hours of sleep and one granola bar. And worst of all—your rent is due in five days and your bank app literally laughed at you this morning.

You’ve been doom-scrolling scholarships in between drink orders. One of them requires a 2,000-word essay and a watercolor portfolio. You haven’t even finished your second sketch. You can’t even afford watercolor paper. You’re down to notebook scraps and hope.

You’re mid-pour on an iced vanilla latte when the bell above the door rings.

You don’t look up.

You’re not ready for another corporate intern with daddy’s credit card and a vague idea of what “oat milk” is.

“Is this place always this dramatic?” “It’s charming, leave it alone.” “No, really—did that espresso machine just growl?”

Your head snaps up.

There are three men walking toward the counter.

One of them is Seungmin, in a beige wool coat so sharp it could sue you. He’s holding a tablet and giving the espresso machine a look like he wants to take it to court. The second is Bang Chan—yes, that Bang Chan, CEO of half the Luxe Health empire and owner of the sleepless, protein-shake-laced aura of someone who hasn’t rested since 1802.

And the third—

The third is him.

Your 11:47PM. But it's not 11:47PM. It’s daylight. And he’s here. With people. Smiling. Laughing softly. Real.

You short-circuit a little. Because Hyunjin looks completely different under sunlight.

No coat. No all-black. Just a loose linen button-up with paint under the cuffs and sunglasses pushed into his hair. His jawline still looks carved from something divine, but now he looks… casual. Devastating. Golden.

You hate him a little for it.

He steps up last, eyes flicking over the pastry case, then to you. “Hi.” His voice is soft. Even. Like a note played low on a cello string.

You don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just stare like an idiot.

Seungmin raises an eyebrow. “This is the barista you’re always—?”

“Seungmin,” Hyunjin says sharply, but there’s color rising in his cheeks. “Shut up.”

Chan smiles like he knows too much. “He’s your biggest fan. We’ve had to adjust entire meetings around your closing shift.”

Hyunjin mutters something under his breath.

You look down quickly, cheeks hot. “Uh. What can I get you?”

They order like it’s a script. Chan goes for something double shot and over-complicated. Seungmin asks for straight black.

And Hyunjin—Hyunjin just watches you for a second too long before murmuring: “The usual. If you remember it.”

You do. Of course you do. You turn away to start the drinks, willing your face to chill out.

They take a seat near the window, just in your periphery. You hear them murmuring, laughing low. Chan mentions something about restructuring Luxe’s trauma unit. Seungmin’s complaining about paperwork. Hyunjin says nothing at all.

But you feel him watching as you work on those damn drinks. Eventually you finish them, one by one, hands steady only because they’ve done this a thousand times. Your mind, though, is chaos.

You’re behind on rent. Your scholarship essay’s still blank. You can’t afford new brushes and your last painting bled through the paper because you used the wrong primer. You’re not sure if your professor hates you or just sees you as another burnout-in-progress. You haven’t called your mom in two weeks. And now—

Now the most unsettlingly beautiful man you’ve ever met is sitting in a sunlit booth, laughing with two men who could easily buy the building you live in without blinking.

And he’s watching you. Still. Always.

The moment the last drink is capped, you straighten the tray and take a slow breath, prepping to walk it over.

But before you can move, he’s there.

Hyunjin.

He’s walked up to the counter without a sound—just appeared like smoke, lean and quiet and sharp around the edges. He reaches for the tray, one elegant hand sliding beneath it.

You blink. “I—I can bring it over.”

He tilts his head slightly, expression unreadable. “Let me.”

The silence is heavy but not uncomfortable. He doesn’t move yet. Doesn’t leave. Just stays there, holding the tray between you, like it’s an excuse.

“You looked stressed.”

His voice is low. Quieter than the steamer. Quieter than the traffic outside.

You laugh, a brittle sound. “That obvious?”

He doesn’t smile. But his gaze softens, just enough to knock the wind out of you. “A little.”

You try not to fidget. You fail. “It’s just... life.”

He nods like he understands more than he should. Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he says: “I’m Hyunjin, by the way.”

Your eyes flick up to his, startled.

“Hwang Hyunjin.” He says it like a brushstroke. Like poetry. Like an invocation.

You stare. You weren’t sure he had a name. He’s always just been 11:47PM, the man who drinks cinnamon-sweet espresso and leaves art behind like breadcrumbs. Now he’s real. Named. Standing inches from you in the broad afternoon light.

You swallow. “...Hi.”

His mouth curves at the corners. “And you?”

It takes you a second to remember your own name. When you say it, he repeats it under his breath, like he’s tasting it. “Mmm. I thought so.”

You blink. “You—what?”

But he’s already turning, lifting the tray with one hand like it weighs nothing. You catch a glimpse of black ink on his wrist—just the edge of something. A sketch? A rune? You don’t know.

He glances back once before walking away, voice barely audible.

“It’s a good name. You wear it well.”

And just like that, he’s gone again—sliding back into the booth beside Chan, the tray set down with a fluid grace you try not to watch. Seungmin mutters something, Chan laughs, and Hyunjin just takes a sip of his drink like nothing happened.

But something did happen.

Your name is sitting in his mouth now. And he gave you his.

And that shouldn't matter. Not when your rent’s due and your life’s falling apart and you’re just a barista with too many side hustles and a sketchbook full of dreams.

But somehow… it does.

With the tray on the table and Hyunjin finally seated, Chan raises na eyebrow, bringing his cup closer and stirring it slowly. Seungmin on the other hand doesn’t even look up from his tablet.

“So,” Seungmin says. “You finally spoke to her. Do we call the Vatican or just update the group chat?”

Hyunjin glares.

Chan grins. “How’d it feel?”

Hyunjin doesn’t answer. Just lifts his drink and stares into the foam like it holds ancient prophecies.

Seungmin closes his tablet with a click and leans forward.

“Be honest. Did your fangs itch? Did your heartbeat stutter? Did your ancient vampire soul hum in recognition when she handed you oat milk?”

Hyunjin gives him a flat look. “You’re incredibly annoying for someone whose job is literally vampire litigation.”

Seungmin smirks. “And you’re incredibly dramatic for someone who’s been simping over a mortal for nine months and counting.”

Chan, as always, tries to keep the peace. “Okay, maybe let’s not say simping. Hyunjin has… a deep artistic interest in her essence.”

Seungmin: “That is so much worse.”

Hyunjin leans back, long fingers tapping against the cup. His voice drops. “She looked tired today.”

That quiet, aching tone has Chan sobering instantly. “Hyunjin—”

“Not just physically. Tired like… like she’s been holding something up too long. Like if she puts it down, the world will fall apart.”

Seungmin sips his coffee. “Sounds like someone who’s one paycheck away from applying to vampire sugar daddy programs.”

Hyunjin doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smile. “I've said it before, Seungmin knows, he was there but I want to offer her a position at La Venera.”

Chan chokes slightly on his drink. “You want to what now?”

“She’s an artist. She doesn’t know it yet, but she is. I’ve seen her sketches.”

Seungmin’s brows lift. “You’ve been stealing her sketches?”

Hyunjin rolls his eyes. “No. She leaves them out while she pours drinks and I have eyes. She drew a shoulder once that made me feel like I’d been stabbed.”

Chan wipes his mouth, trying not to smile. “Okay, but offering her a job is serious.”

“I’m not going to feed from her,” Hyunjin snaps. “I just… I want her close. I want her somewhere she can breathe.”

Seungmin taps a finger against the tabletop. “You say that now. But what happens when she starts leaving fig-scent trails in the gallery halls and you black out mid-curator meeting?”

Hyunjin doesn’t respond. He looks out the window instead, where the afternoon light hits your face behind the counter. You’re wiping down the milk steamer, focused, frowning at something sticky on the side. You bite your lip in concentration and his hand tightens around the cup.

“I won’t touch her,” he says quietly. “Not until she knows what I am. Not until she chooses it.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Chan, gently: “You know if you bond to her, there’s no undoing it. You won’t be able to feed from anyone else. You’ll start dreaming in her voice. Her pain will be your pain.”

Hyunjin nods once, solemn. “Good.”

Seungmin groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my god. He’s already feral. We’re gonna have to put him in an emotional containment unit.”

“Do we have one of those?” Chan mutters.

Seungmin deadpans, “You’re looking at it.”

Across the room, the espresso machine wheezes again. You sigh dramatically and kick it like it personally owes you money.

Hyunjin watches, expression unreadable.

“You’re going to fall in love with her,” Chan says softly.

Hyunjin sips his drink, eyes never leaving you. “I already did.”

It’s past midnight when he shows up again.

You’re halfway through wiping down the counter, hair scraped into a loose bun, sleeves rolled up, brain fogged with exhaustion and numbers you can’t make work. Your rent spreadsheet’s open on your phone, mocking you in soft blue light. You’ve been staring at the same three digits for twenty minutes, trying to figure out what you can sell without risking prison.

The bell above the door chimes.

You don’t look up right away. You already know who it is. Only one man steps into Solstice at this hour like he owns the dusk.

When you finally glance over, he’s standing there with a look you haven’t seen on him before—calm, yes, but layered with something serious. Intentional. Purposeful.

Not 11:47PM anymore. Just Hyunjin.

He doesn’t speak immediately. Just approaches the counter with a strange gentleness in his steps, like he’s afraid he’ll scare you off.

“I have a proposition,” he says.

You blink. “You’re not even gonna order a drink first?”

He gives the smallest twitch of a smile. “No. Because this time, I’m not here for coffee.”

He places something on the counter. An envelope. Heavy paper. Deep navy. Embossed in silver foil with a symbol you vaguely recognize—an abstract flower. No words.

“La Venera,” he says, when you don’t reach for it. “My gallery.”

You look at him. Really look. He’s not dressed for night this time—no tailored coat, no dramatic scarf. Just a soft black sweater, loose at the collar, sleeves pushed up. You can see the veins on his forearms. His fingers ink-stained again.

You blink. “What is this?”

“I want to offer you a job.”

Your body stills.

He continues, quiet but clear. “I need an archival assistant. Someone to help catalogue sensory pieces, assist with restoration, prep gallery spaces. It’s a paid position. Flexible hours. Health benefits. Artistic credit if applicable.”

You stare at the envelope like it might bite you.

Then you laugh. A little wild, a little broken. “Is this because I make good coffee?”

“No.”

“Because I’m broke?”

“No.”

You fold your arms. “Then why?”

He looks at you like that’s the stupidest question in the universe. But when he speaks, it’s soft. Earnest.

“Because you’re an artist. Because your sketches hold more feeling than half the exhibitions I’ve hosted this year. Because you look at color like it breathes. And because you’re wasting your brilliance wiping down countertops at 1AM.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again. “Why now?”

His gaze darkens, just slightly. “Because today, I saw the stress. I saw the anxiety in your eyes. You needed something. And I have something to give.”

You stare at him, heart pounding. “You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

You hesitate. “Don’t you have, like… a board of directors or something?”

Hyunjin lets out a slow exhale, then mutters, “They've already signed off.”

You’re just standing there. Baffled. Shaking a little.

He steps closer. “You can say no,” he says softly. “But I’m hoping you won’t.”

Your hands tremble as you finally reach for the envelope. It’s heavier than you expect. Warm, somehow. You whisper, “You barely know me.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t joke. “I know enough.” And then, quieter, almost reverent. “I know your name.”

You’re still holding the envelope when he speaks again.

“Let me give you my number.”

The words hang in the air, suspended somewhere between polite professionalism and something heavier. Denser. Your fingers curl tighter around the envelope.

He watches you closely, but not like he’s trying to push. If anything, he’s pulling back. Like he knows he’s close to the edge of something sacred.

“I don’t want to pressure you,” he adds, voice softer now. “This isn’t about obligation. It’s not a test. I just… I want to give you space. Time. So if you want to ask questions, or scream at me, or send me your answer at three in the morning… you can.”

He pulls out his phone, unlocks it, and turns it toward you.

Contact Name: Hwang Hyunjin Number: already typed, waiting for you to copy it into yours.

You stare at it for a beat too long.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, voice cracking. “I just. This is a lot. I don’t usually get handed jobs by—by strangers who stare at me like I’m a poem.”

He huffs out a breath. “You’re not a poem.”

You flinch, but before the insecurity can rise, he steps in—fast, quiet, sure.

“You’re not a poem,” he repeats. “You’re the space between them. The silence that makes everything else hit harder.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

He glances at the phone in his hand, then at you.

“I’m not asking you to jump. I’m just—” he breaks off, then exhales, steadier. “I’m offering you a ledge. If you want it.”

You reach for your phone. Not because you’ve decided. Not yet. But because there’s something in his voice that feels like a balm. Like a promise.

You copy the number. You type his name. You don’t save it with a heart. But maybe you will later.

He takes a step back, like he doesn’t trust himself to stay too close. “Text me,” he says. “Whenever. About anything.”

You manage a nod. “Okay.”

He holds your gaze for a breath longer. Then turns. At the door, with one hand on the handle, he glances back. “I’ll see you,” he says quietly. “Soon, maybe.”

And then he’s gone. Out into the night. Leaving behind the smell of cinnamon and ink and something older, deeper, laced with longing.

You don’t open the envelope right away.

You carry it home like it might detonate, like maybe it's enchanted—because something about it feels heavy in the wrong way. Or the right way. Or the way that makes your stomach hurt a little because you haven’t eaten in six hours and now you’re anxious on top of that.

When you finally do open it—after showering, after peeling off your coffee-stained shirt, after sitting in your underwear on your bed with a bag of discount rice crackers—you read the contents three times.

Then you read it a fourth time out loud.

It’s real.

A real offer. A real gallery job. A real salary. A real health plan, for god’s sake.

You flop backwards against your bed and stare at the ceiling.

You stare at the ceiling for a very, very long time.

PROS LIST (scribbled into your sketchbook, messy):

Paid position. Regular hours. Steady income.

Access to a legit gallery?? Your professors would foam at the mouth.

Hands-on restoration work. Archive credits. ARTISTIC. CREDIT.

Actual studio space.

Might finally sleep more than five hours.

Might actually get to use your degree.

Also, Hyunjin.

CONS LIST:

He might be joking.

He might be a sociopath.

He might be a vampire.

He might be a vampire sociopath.

What if you fuck it up?

What if you fall for him?

What if you already are?

You roll over. Groan. Kick your blanket off. Pull it back on. Check the time. 3:14AM.

Your phone is still sitting on your pillow, like it’s watching you. You open your texts. His number is there, unsent to. Quiet. Waiting.

You open the keyboard. You close it. You open it again.

Type:

Hey

Delete.

Hi, it’s me from the café

Delete.

Sorry this is late

Delete.

Is the offer still open?

Delete.

I’m in.

You stare at it. Your heart is going way too fast for someone lying down. You stare at it for so long the screen goes dark. You unlock it again. The message is still there.

You hit send.

Stare at the word Delivered like it might bite you. It doesn’t. You toss the phone aside and bury your face in your pillow.

“Oh my god what did I just do.”

Your phone buzzes immediately. You freeze. Slowly reach for it.

[Hyunjin] I’m smiling like an idiot right now. I’ll send you the onboarding info tomorrow. Sleep well. I’ll see you soon.

You stare at the screen. Then, without thinking, you text back:

[Y/N] okay goodnight (don’t be creepy tomorrow)

Three dots appear. Then vanish. Then appear again.

[Hyunjin] No promises. (but I’ll try) … you’ll look beautiful there

Your heart does something dangerous. You toss the phone again, face burning.

The ceiling stares back at you, smug.

You’ve been at La Venera for a week and a half, and it still doesn’t feel real.

Your shoes still squeak a little when you walk down the main corridor. Your badge doesn’t scan right on the first try. You flinch every time someone in a power suit brushes past you, convinced you’re not supposed to be here.

But nobody kicks you out.

In fact, everyone treats you like you belong. Like you were expected. Like they knew you were coming long before you did.

Which is wild, because just two weeks ago you were trying to figure out if you could stretch one pack of ramen over three days. Now you're—

You're doing archival work. In a vampire-run gallery. Handling paintings that breathe when the lights dim. Sorting sketches that buzz with latent magic. Cataloguing scent-trigger memory pieces so old they predate electricity.

The first week at La Venera feels like walking into a fever dream with a paycheck.

You expected silence. Cold marble. Gallery girls in neutral-toned trench coats clicking their heels in unison. Instead?

You got velvet hallways that hum softly. Canvases that feel warm when you pass. A lighting system that seems to respond to mood, not switches. You don’t know what it’s wired to—but it never makes you flinch. You feel seen here. Calmer, even when you're not.

Your job, officially, is “Archival and Spatial Assistant.” Which is a fancy way of saying:

You help catalogue paintings and installations—some with titles that feel like confessions.

You help log restoration projects—most of which involve materials you've never seen before. (There was one with glass that bled when touched. You didn't ask questions.)

You prep rooms for new showings, usually with exact scent profiles you’re not allowed to adjust. (Hyunjin once asked you to “diffuse the mood of heartbreak, but quietly.” You improvised with vetiver and bergamot. He looked at you like you hung the moon.)

Your first paycheck was more than your rent.

You didn’t cry when you saw the deposit. But you did sit in the back stairwell during lunch and stare at the notification for twenty minutes while your sandwich went cold.

You’re still in school, still dragging yourself to morning lectures, still scribbling in your sketchbook on the subway—but things feel different now. Looser. Brighter. Like some part of you that had been clenched for years has finally started to uncurl.

And then there’s Hyunjin.

The man is always there. Sometimes barefoot. Sometimes covered in paint. Sometimes in clothes that make you feel like an underpaid extra in an art film.

He never tells you what to do. Just asks questions. Gentle ones. Like:

“What does this color feel like to you?” “If this canvas had a heartbeat, where would it echo?” “Would you let me paint your hands?”

You pretend to scoff when he says things like that. But your cheeks always go warm.

You’ve caught him sketching in the margins of his clipboard. You’ve also caught him watching you through the glass of the east exhibit room while you were hanging tags, like you were the art and he was the patron.

He hasn’t touched you. Not once.

But sometimes when you pass by him, your skin buzzes like you walked through a sunbeam that knew your name.

You still don’t know what kind of gallery this is, exactly. You’ve heard whispers. Felt things shift in the air when certain pieces are moved. Watched a visitor break down sobbing in front of an installation that looked like nothing but gold wire and black canvas.

You asked Hyunjin once what the gallery was really for.

He just smiled—soft, tilted, something private burning in his eyes—and said:

“Healing. For people who can’t be healed anywhere else.”

It’s vague. Maybe pretentious. But it stuck. Just like everything about him does.

Now, almost three weeks in, you’ve stopped asking if any of this is real.

Hyunjin sits in his usual seat—third from the end, closest to the windows—legs crossed, one elbow on the table, cheek propped on his ink-stained fingers. He hasn’t spoken in the last ten minutes, which is both expected and deeply suspicious.

Across from him, Seungmin is clicking through projected bond compliance data with all the energy of a man personally offended by color-coded bar graphs.

“To summarize,” Seungmin says dryly, “we’ve had a 12% increase in post-feeding bond instability among Normals, most cases linked to improper scent-regulation. I’d like to remind you all that feeding while emotionally compromised is still illegal under Article VI unless a certified specialist is present.”

Chan sighs into his third protein-enhanced blood pouch. “We know, Seungmin.”

Seungmin doesn’t even blink. “Do we, though? Or are some of us letting post-orgasmic bite patients wander off with unsealed bond marks and no stabilization protocols?”

Felix raises his hand enthusiastically. “I stabilized one with a coloring book yesterday!”

Everyone turns.

Felix beams. “We did a whole page together. She stopped crying after the glitter gel pen!”

Chan rubs his temples. “That’s not in the standard manual, Felix.”

Felix: “Healing isn’t linear.”

Hyunjin, without lifting his head: “Neither is her emotional damage now that she’s bonded to a man who calls himself BloodDaddy27 on private forums.”

Jeongin snorts from where he’s half-sprawled across his chair, spinning a silver bond-ring on one finger. “I told you guys to screen for usernames. I’ve got a list.”

Seungmin narrows his eyes. “Why do you have a list?”

Jeongin shrugs. “Field research. Curiosity. Morbid pleasure.”

Chan turns to Hyunjin, finally. “And you? Anything to report from La Venera?”

Hyunjin shifts, straightens slightly. “We’re holding steady. Emotional stabilization is optimal. I’m running two scent therapy rotations and three dreamscapes for long-term bonded patients.”

Seungmin squints. “Didn’t you onboard a new assistant?”

There’s a beat.

Then: “Yes.”

Chan perks up. “The barista?”

Jeongin grins. “The cute one?”

Felix gasps. “The fig and cinnamon girl?!”

Hyunjin glares. “Don’t call her that.”

Seungmin cocks his head. “Why not? You were calling her ‘wrist girl’ for three months before she knew your name.”

Hyunjin groans and sinks back in his chair. “I hate all of you.”

Felix reaches over and pats his hand. “We love you too, baby bat.”

Chan hides his smile behind his cup. “You gonna tell her what we are?”

Jeongin leans in, conspiratorial. “Or you just gonna wait ‘til she walks in on someone regrowing their femur in the bonding lounge again?”

Seungmin smirks. “Perfect. Add that to the minutes: Director Hwang is still emotionally constipated and in vampire love denial.”

Felix hums. “She’s gonna find out eventually, you know.”

Jeongin: “And when she does, we all get to watch.”

Seungmin exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay,” he deadpans. “That was fun. Now can we please return to the actual agenda—specifically, the surge in unstabilized bonds in non-monogamous feeding clusters—before one of you tries to host a Bachelor-style vampire dating show.”

Felix perks up. “Wait, that’s actually not a bad—”

“Felix, I will file a cease and desist on your existence.”

Chan clears his throat, trying to steer them back. “Right. Yes. Important. Legal. Medical. Bond law things.”

“Thank you,” Seungmin says. “Finally, some maturity.”

“...But,” Chan adds slowly, eyes twinkling, “I am curious how Hyunjin plans to keep his emotional regulation intact when he inevitably bites the girl he’s already spiritually married to.”

Hyunjin makes a strangled noise halfway between a growl and a whimper. “I’m not— she’s not— we’re not—”

Jeongin: “So you are planning to bite her.”

Hyunjin: “No!”

Felix: “You want to.”

Chan: “You need to.”

Jeongin: “You’ve fantasized about it.”

Hyunjin: “I am literally going to erase all of you from my dreamweaving files.”

Seungmin slaps the table. “STOP.” The lights in the room flicker in sync with his tone. Vampiric authority does that sometimes.

He breathes out slowly, resets his composure, and looks directly at Hyunjin.

“Do you have any intention of feeding from her?”

There’s a long pause.

Hyunjin lowers his gaze to the table. His voice is quiet.

“I want to present her with a blood doll contract.”

The room stills.

Jeongin sits up straight. Chan’s brow furrows. Felix’s eyes widen.

Seungmin blinks once. Twice. Then leans forward, tone razor-sharp. “You’re serious?”

Hyunjin nods, gaze still fixed on the grain of the table. “I’ve reviewed the clauses. It’s not about possession. Not even regular feeding. I just… I want her protected. Respected. And compensated. I want her to have everything.”

“And?” Seungmin prompts.

Hyunjin’s jaw tightens.

“And I’m scared she’ll run,” he admits. “I’m scared she’ll look at it and see chains. Or see me as… not human anymore. And I’ve worked so hard to earn her trust without lying. But the second she finds out what I am—what we all are—everything could fall apart.”

Felix frowns, genuinely worried now. “You don’t think she’ll understand?”

“I think she’s brave,” Hyunjin says softly. “But I also think she’s tired. The world’s been cruel to her. And I… I don’t want to be another thing she has to survive.”

A rare hush falls over the room.

Even Jeongin doesn't joke this time.

Chan leans forward, voice gentle now. “Then don’t make it about the contract. Don’t make it about feeding. Make it about choice. About care.”

Seungmin sighs, but it’s not annoyed. It’s thoughtful. “If you’re going to do this,” he says, “run it through me. I’ll help draft it. We’ll keep it clean.”

Hyunjin finally looks up. “You’ll help?”

Seungmin shrugs. “I’m already emotionally invested. Might as well make sure you don’t accidentally traumatize her with clause 14B: ‘Incidental Biting During Emotional Overload.’”

Felix beams. “She’s gonna say yes.”

Jeongin: “And then she’s gonna ruin you.”

Hyunjin exhales, slow and shaky. But he’s smiling now. Just barely. “I hope so.”

Seungmin clears his throat sharply, flipping a page on his legal pad with the precision of someone barely restraining a murder charge. “Okay,” he says, with the forced calm of a man clinging to the last thread of his sanity, “now that we’ve all emotionally waterboarded Hyunjin and collectively destroyed the sanctity of this boardroom—”

“I didn’t destroy anything,” Jeongin mutters.

“Jeongin.”

“What? I’m just saying. I was enhancing the narrative.”

Chan snorts. Felix tries (and fails) to hide his giggle behind his thermos.

Seungmin gives them all a slow, withering look. “Can we please return to the actual issue of bond destabilization among Normals before another one of you suggests forming a blood doll boy band or something?”

Jeongin perks up. “Wait—”

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

Hyunjin leans back in his chair again, mouth twitching. “Can I be the mysterious one with the eye scar?”

“There is no band.”

Felix whispers, “He’d look so good with an eye scar.”

Jeongin: “I’ll do it with makeup. I’ve got a kit in my car.”

Seungmin slaps his folder shut. “I swear to the ancestors, if we don’t get through the next agenda item in the next ten minutes, I’m putting you all on scent suppression for a week.”

A collective gasp echoes around the room.

Hyunjin straightens like someone just threatened his muse.

Felix clutches his throat. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Chan raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay! Back to business. Jeongin, update on the revised stabilization rings?”

Jeongin sighs dramatically, sliding his chair back into place.

“I miss when this job was fun.”

Felix pokes him with a straw. “You mean when no one was watching you lick classified artifacts in the archives?”

“One time!”

Hyunjin snorts.

Seungmin slams the next report down on the table. “Focus. Rings. Reports. Regulation. Go.”

And just like that, the chaos reins itself in—barely.

It’s been almost a month since you started at La Venera.

You’ve stopped checking if the floor hums under your feet. You’ve stopped jumping every time a painting pulses in your periphery. You’ve even stopped questioning why the gallery’s scent diffusers never need refills, even though the rooms always smell exactly right—like rain before thunder, or burnt sugar, or old cedar and something you can’t name.

You’ve adjusted. You've even met Hyunjin's buddies from Luxe Health. But you haven’t stopped watching Hyunjin. And he hasn’t stopped watching you.

Right now, you’re alone in one of the smaller south studios—well, mostly alone. A half-primed canvas leans against the far wall. You’re working on a restoration sketch by request—an old piece with faded floral textures and an underpainting that bleeds through like a ghost. There’s pencil smudged along your cheekbone. A streak of burnt umber on your forearm. Your shoes are off, forgotten near the door.

It’s quiet. Warm. You feel steady.

Until the door creaks open behind you.

You glance up—already knowing who it is.

Hyunjin steps inside, coat slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, jaw set like he’s preparing for emotional war. He pauses when he sees you barefoot, brush between your teeth, squinting at the canvas.

His lips twitch.

“You look like you’ve been painting with your face.”

You take the brush out of your mouth. “It’s called immersive technique.”

He smiles faintly. Then his gaze flicks toward the table in the corner, where a slim leather folder now sits—dark red, worn at the edges. You didn’t notice him set it down.

That… isn’t good.

Hyunjin clears his throat.

“Do you have a minute?” he asks.

You nod slowly, placing your palette down. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t sit immediately. Just stands there, like he’s trying to figure out the least terrifying way to do something obviously terrifying. Finally, with an exhale, he lowers himself onto the edge of the bench across from you, legs long, fingers clasped in his lap.

“I’ve been working on something,” he says. “With Seungmin.”

You glance toward the folder.

“That?”

“Yes.”

You wait. He doesn’t speak. You raise a brow. “Is this the part where you tell me I’m dying?”

“No,” he says quickly. Then, grimacing: “Unless you decide to sprint full-speed out the door after I explain what this is. In which case, I may die. Of humiliation.”

You laugh once, caught off-guard.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Okay. Okay, I need to do this right.”

Then he looks at you—really looks—and the air in the room shifts. Grows heavy. Intent. “I think you’ve noticed by now… that I’m not quite like most people.”

You stare. He waits.

“…Yeah,” you say slowly. “I’ve noticed.”

He doesn’t blink. “What gave it away?”

You tick off your fingers. “You don’t breathe when you’re focused. You appear in rooms I swear you weren’t in two seconds ago. You move like you're made of silk and threat. You smell like rain and blood and something I don’t have words for. Also, Jeongin called you ‘feral batboy’ when he thought I wasn’t listening.”

Hyunjin’s face does something strange—somewhere between resigned and lightly horrified.

“Of course he did.”

You cross your arms, heart suddenly loud in your chest. “So? What are you?”

He leans forward slightly. Doesn’t reach for you. Just lets the silence stretch. “I’m a vampire.”

The words hang in the air like brushstrokes left too wet on canvas. You blink. Wait for your body to panic. It doesn’t.

“…Okay,” you say.

Hyunjin blinks. “Okay?”

“I mean,” you shrug, “I figured. Kinda hard not to. Also, no one human makes eye contact like you without committing a felony.”

He laughs—soft, breathy, almost disbelieving.

You tilt your head. “So what’s in the folder?”

His expression shifts again. Calmer now. Serious. But not cold. “It’s a contract. For a Blood Doll agreement.”

You still.

He rushes to explain—calm, careful, every word deliberate.

“It’s not ownership. It’s not servitude. It’s a choice. A protected, mutually beneficial arrangement. It would allow me to feed from you—with your consent only—and, in return, provide you with access to protection, medical care, housing if you ever need it, and a bond stabilizer on-call.”

You exhale slowly, mind racing.

He holds your gaze. “But I don’t want to pressure you. That’s why I waited. That’s why I’m telling you everything now.”

You look down at the folder. Then back at him. “Why me?” you ask, voice quieter now. “Why me, Hyunjin?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Because your heartbeat was the first sound I wanted to make into art.”

You stare at him for a beat longer, then drop your eyes to the folder in front of you, fingers brushing the cover. It’s warm, like it’s been held too long—like it carries the tension still sitting in his shoulders.

You can feel his eyes on you. Expectant. Bracing.

You sigh.

“…Hyunjin,” you say slowly, “you’re looking at me like I’m supposed to faint or something.”

He stiffens. “You’re not… disturbed?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You drink blood. You run a dream-soaked gallery with haunted walls. I’m pretty sure I saw a man disappear into a painting last Tuesday. Honestly, this is the least weird part.”

He blinks. “You believe me?”

“Yes?”

“You’re not scared?”

“No?”

“You’re not going to, I don’t know—throw holy water at me or ask if I sparkle in the sun?”

You squint. “Do you?”

“No!”

“Then what are you freaking out about?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Stands up suddenly and starts pacing—back and forth like an immortal cat having a meltdown.

“I had a whole speech prepared,” he mutters. “I had metaphors. Emotional imagery. I was going to offer to let you touch my fangs.”

You make a face. “Okay, that’s a weird opening.”

“I thought you’d panic!” he snaps, waving a hand. “Or scream. Or tell me I was insane. I rehearsed how to calm you down for days. I had Felix run empathy drills with me. Jeongin staged a mock-rejection so I’d practice emotional resilience!”

You blink. “He what?”

“He wore a wig and pretended to be you! It was very moving!”

You burst out laughing—actual, full-bodied, shoulders-shaking laughter. “Oh my god.”

Hyunjin stops pacing. Watches you like you’ve grown a second head.

You wipe a tear. “I’m sorry. You’re just… you’re so stressed.”

“Of course I’m stressed,” he groans, dragging a hand through his hair again. “You’re the first person I’ve ever wanted to ask this of. And you’re just—casually accepting it like I invited you to brunch.”

You give him a crooked smile. “Would there be coffee at vampire brunch?”

He groans louder, flopping dramatically onto the studio chaise like he’s ready to die (again). “You’re going to kill me. Emotionally.”

“Not unless you bite me first.”

He stares at you, stunned into silence.

You blink. Then laugh again. “Kidding! Kind of. Jesus.”

There’s a long pause. Then—quiet, strained: “Do you want to read it?” he asks, nodding toward the folder.

You meet his eyes. “Can I ask you something first?”

He nods.

“…Does it hurt?”

That stills him. “No,” he says softly. “Not if it’s done right. Not if it’s wanted.”

You stare at him a moment longer. Then slowly—very slowly—you pull the folder toward you. Your heart’s beating harder now, but not from fear. You’re curious. You’re cautious. But you’re not afraid.

You finally open the folder, and the first page is neat, clinical. Printed on heavy cream stock, sealed with Luxe Health’s red insignia in the top right corner. There’s a faint scent to the page—something like lavender and rain-damp cedar. You’re willing to bet that’s Hyunjin’s idea.

You read aloud, slow and skeptical: “This agreement is formed between the consenting parties, hereinafter referred to as the Donor and the Vampire.”

You look up. “Did you really label yourself ‘the Vampire’?”

Hyunjin, sitting cross-legged across from you, flushes faintly. “Seungmin said it was legally required.”

You turn the page. Clause 2: Consent and Clarity. It’s fine. It’s detailed. It’s normal.

Until you reach the end of the paragraph:

“The Donor is entitled to withdraw consent at any time, with immediate cessation of physical or magical interaction. Unless, per emergency clause 4.6, the Vampire is in feral state or otherwise mentally compromised—see Appendix B: ‘What To Do If I’m Feral.’”

You lower the page slowly.

Hyunjin avoids your eyes. “I didn’t want you to be unprepared.”

You turn to Appendix B. At the top of the page—written in his handwriting: “Step 1: Say my name. Calmly. Softly if you can. If I’m too far gone, step 2 is—”

You squint. “Hyunjin, is this a poem?”

He’s blushing now, full-body. “It’s a… poetic protocol.”

“Who let you write this?”

“Seungmin! But he had a migraine and said ‘do whatever, I don’t care if she thinks you’re a rabid squirrel.’”

You choke on your laugh. Next clause: Feeding Conditions. This one looks more serious—routines, limitations, recovery protocols. But under “mutual comfort rituals,” there’s a handwritten addition: “Options include: warm compress, post-feeding tea, soft hand-holding, forehead kisses (pending approval), playlist exchange, and shared naps.”

You glance up slowly. “Hand-holding?”

“I was trying to make it less scary,” he mumbles.

“Forehead kisses?”

“That one was Felix’s idea.”

“…Shared naps?”

“I get cold.”

You hide a smile behind your hand.

Next clause: Emotional Compatibility. You read the first sentence and immediately choke. “Donor and Vampire acknowledge a pre-existing emotional connection, defined as one or more of the following: mutual attraction, obsession, unspoken yearning, awkward flirting, stolen glances, pining, lowkey soul-bonded tension, or vampire longing of the aesthetic variety.”

You nearly drop the folder. “Hyunjin.”

“I panicked!”

“This isn’t a contract, it’s a Wattpad fic!”

“I panicked with love.”

He reaches over, gently tugs the folder back, flipping a few pages ahead. Then, softly: “This is the real part.”

You glance down. It’s a smaller section. No frills. Just clean, tight script.

“The Vampire will never feed without consent. The Donor’s safety, agency, and peace of mind are paramount. If at any point trust is lost, the bond dissolves immediately. This is not ownership. It’s a promise.”

You’re quiet for a long moment. Hyunjin doesn’t move. Doesn’t push. You glance back at him, and something in his expression—hopeful and scared and bare—makes your throat tighten.

“Is this what you really want?” you ask quietly.

He holds your gaze. Nods. “I want to protect you. Nourish you. Be something soft where life has only been sharp.” A breath. “And, okay, maybe I want to taste your pulse with your name on my tongue. But only if you want me to.”

Your fingers linger on the edge of the folder.

It’s warm now—probably from Hyunjin’s hands, maybe from yours. Maybe from the strange heat that’s bloomed in the space between you since the moment he slid it across the table. A heartbeat stretched thin with nervous laughter, too-honest confessions, and something quiet you can’t name yet.

You flip back through the pages one more time.

There’s the clause about his feeding habits—clinical, respectful, careful. There’s the appendix with emotional safewords (you’ll never let him live down “moonbeam” as an emergency code). There’s even a ridiculous but kind of touching section about post-bond stress baking, apparently encouraged by Jeongin and reluctantly approved by Seungmin, written in blue glitter pen.

There are clauses about sleep cycles, magic regulation, scent imprinting.

But most of all—there’s him. Messy, obsessive, overthought him.

You look up again.

Hyunjin’s gaze is steady, but his fingers twitch slightly in his lap, betraying the nerves. He’s not hiding it—how much this means to him. How much you mean to him.

“I should be freaked out,” you say finally, voice quiet. “Like, terrified. Vampires? Blood contracts? Scent mapping? What even is my life.”

Hyunjin doesn’t say anything. He just watches you—open, vulnerable, waiting. You close the folder gently. “But the truth is… I think I was more afraid before.”

That makes him blink.

You shrug, smiling a little, almost sheepish. “Rent was due. My body was aching from stress. No one looked at me like I mattered. Not really. Not like—like I was someone worth keeping warm. You did. You do.”

His lips part, a soft breath escaping.

“So yeah.” You reach for the pen clipped to the folder. “I’ll do it. I’ll be your donor. If you’ll still have me.”

Hyunjin just stares for a beat—like you’ve knocked the air out of his lungs.

Then: He exhales, almost shakily. And nods. “Yes. God—yes.”

You glance down, pen hovering. “Do I sign in blood? Or…?”

Hyunjin laughs—full and bright, the sound of something uncoiling in his chest. “No. Regular ink is fine. I mean, unless you want to be dramatic.”

You arch a brow. “Is this your way of asking to bite me already?”

“Absolutely not.” He coughs. “Not yet. Not until you’re ready. But… I might bring cookies next time. Or wine. Or that playlist you mentioned.”

You sign your name slowly at the bottom. Set the pen down. Look up. And smile. “Then I guess we’re official.”

Hyunjin’s expression softens—tension gone, replaced with something warm. Like you just gave him the stars.

Being a blood doll for Hwang Hyunjin doesn’t feel like what you expected. No dark castles. No red silk cloaks. No eerie glowing eyes or candlelit rituals with ominous Latin chants in the background. No—being his blood doll feels like…

A slow bloom. A brushstroke dragged gentle across canvas. Because he hasn’t touched you. Not like that. Not even close. He hasn’t bitten you. Hasn’t asked to. Hasn’t so much as brushed your pulse with his mouth.

And yet—your whole body knows he wants to. Knows when he wants to. How? It’s in the way he looks at you over the rim of his coffee cup during late night gallery closings. In the way his pupils dilate the moment you wear anything with an open neckline. In the way his voice dips lower—just a notch—every time you say his name.

Sometimes, when he’s standing too close while reviewing a piece of your work, you can feel the heat of it—his restraint. Razor-edged, aching.

It’s intoxicating. And a little terrifying. And you’re not entirely sure which part of that you like more.

You learn fast.

Vampires are real, yes. But they’re not monsters. Not the way you thought. Some are ancient and still follow strict caste hierarchies. Some are chaotic as hell (see: Jeongin and his constant snack hoarding). Some are gentle. Others are feral.

But all of them? Hungry.

You read the manuals. Talk to Felix, who is sunshine wrapped in fangs. You quiz Seungmin on post-bond regulations (he slides you a spreadsheet at one point, muttering something about “romantic illiterates” and “legal liability”). Jisung drops a bottle of scent stabilizer on your desk one morning and says “Just in case he gets too close and forgets you’re fragile.”

Hyunjin is not pleased about that.

He sends you a bouquet the next day, bigger than your torso. There’s a handwritten note that reads: “You are not fragile. You are divine. But yes, please wear the stabilizer. I might die otherwise.”

You choke. Text him something snarky.

He replies with a playlist titled: For Your Arteries Only.

Dates with Hyunjin are… ridiculous. One night it’s a museum after-hours. He charmed the curator. You wandered between sculptures with his hand on your waist. Another night he brings you to the roof of La Venera where he’s strung up fairy lights, laid out a whole picnic, and painted your name in gold onto a new canvas titled Linger.

He gifts you a bracelet infused with his scent. Not enough to trigger anything—but enough to soothe, to remind. He says it’s so “you don’t forget he’s thinking about you.” You wear it every day.

There’s longing in every glance. Every near-touch. Every pause.

But still—no bite. Not yet. It’s a dance. A dangerous one. And you’re starting to ache for it.

Late nights at La Venera are dangerous things.

Especially when it's just the two of you. Especially when the lights are low, the windows fogged, and there’s red wine breathing open on a side table.

It’s not a date, not officially. You’ve stopped calling them that.

You just show up after hours now, keying in the back entrance like you belong. Sometimes with paints. Sometimes with pastries. Sometimes in your softest clothes, because you know he'll look.

Tonight it’s all three, especially in that baby pink short dress.

Hyunjin's already there when you arrive, barefoot, sleeves rolled, brush between his fingers. There's music playing—something old and low and smoky—and he doesn’t turn around when the door clicks shut behind you.

He just says, without looking, “You’re late.”

You smile. “I brought cake.”

That earns a glance.

His mouth twitches. “You’re forgiven.”

You set the cake down. Pour the wine. Tug on one of the smocks he keeps just for you and take your place beside him, canvas already waiting.

For a while, it’s quiet.

Just brushstrokes and breathing. Paint splattered fingers. The occasional soft hum as he dips into the music.

But tension has a shape.

It slinks into the room sometime around the second glass of wine—wraps itself around your spine, curls beneath your skin. You catch it in the way his eyes keep drifting. The way your knees bump under the table and neither of you pull away.

He’s painting something crimson and abstract. You’re painting with more control, lines deliberate, precise. But your hand slips once—maybe on purpose—and leaves a streak down your arm.

You groan. “Ugh. This is the third shirt I’ve ruined this week.”

Hyunjin glances over. Sees the streak of red.

Still wet. Still gleaming.

His breath catches.

You raise a brow. “What?”

“Nothing.” He looks away too fast. “Just… the color suits you.”

You smirk. “You mean the paint?”

He doesn’t answer. You step closer. There’s wine on your tongue and something slow curling in your gut. “Hyunjin,” you say softly. “You’re staring.”

He turns his head. And fuck. The look he gives you is hungry. Not starved. Not lost. Hungry. Focused. Intent. Like he knows exactly what he wants and exactly where it’s sitting—in a paint-smudged smock, holding a half-empty glass, five inches from his mouth.

You set your brush down. “Say it.”

His voice is rough. “Say what?”

“What you’re thinking.”

There’s a beat. Then: “I want to touch you.”

Your pulse skips.

“I want,” he continues, stepping forward, so close you can feel his breath, “to paint every inch of your skin. Slowly. With my mouth.”

Your hand tightens around your glass.

“I want,” he murmurs, reaching out to gently wipe the paint from your arm with his thumb, “to ruin you the way I ruin canvases. Obsessed. Careful. Covered in color you’ll never quite wash out.”

You swallow. Hard. “…And then?” you whisper.

He smiles. Feral. Tender. Godlike. “Then I’ll ask if I can taste you.”

Your breath catches, tight in your throat, sharp in your chest. There’s a kind of stillness in the air now. The kind that comes just before the thunder hits. It stretches between you like a wire strung too tight, humming with something electric and inevitable.

You whisper, “Then ask.”

Hyunjin doesn’t move right away. Just watches you. Studies you. Like you’re the painting now. The masterpiece. And he’s trying to memorize every brushstroke before he dares touch the canvas. His hand comes up slowly, fingertips ghosting over the curve of your jaw, then settling at your throat—not pressing, just resting. Just feeling. His thumb brushes the column of your neck, slow and reverent, right over the pulse.

You feel the moment he hears it. Feels it. Counts it. His eyes flutter shut, a breath hitching in his throat. Then: “May I taste you?”

You don’t speak. You just set the glass down and tilt your head. Bare your throat like a prayer.

That’s all the answer he needs.

Hyunjin leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

You nod. “I won’t.”

His lips trail down your neck, slow and featherlight, like he’s tracing each vertebrae with intention. You’re trembling—god, you’re trembling—and you don’t even realize your fingers have curled into the front of his shirt until he groans, low and broken, against your skin.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You smell like—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Maybe he can’t. Then, finally, he opens his mouth. You expect fangs. Expect pain. But all you get is heat. His lips press to your neck—not biting, not yet. Just a kiss. A kiss, like he’s falling in love with the shape of you. Then another, just below. Then a third, just where your pulse is fluttering like mad.

Your knees go weak. “Hyunjin—”

“I won’t rush it,” he murmurs. “I want you to want it.”

“I do.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. His pupils are blown wide, lips red and parted, chest rising and falling like he’s struggling to hold himself still. You feel the tension in him—every thread of restraint knotted tight in his shoulders, his hands, the set of his jaw.

You nod again, voice barely above a whisper. “Then do it.”

Hyunjin stills before he finally slips a hand behind your neck, the other splayed warm against your lower back, drawing you into him like he’s already halfway drunk on your scent. His breath stirs against your throat, warm and trembling.

“I’ll be gentle,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “But it won’t be clean. I’ve wanted this for too long.”

You shiver. “Then make it messy.”

He groans low and ruined at those words leaving your pretty lips. And then you feel it. The change in the air. The shift in him. Not dangerous. Just real. The veneer of restraint slipping. Vampire. Lover. Yours. His mouth finds the spot just below your jaw, where your pulse jumps frantic beneath the skin. You feel his tongue first—hot, wet, a slow swipe—and then the sharp drag of fangs.

Not pain. Pressure. And finally, sink.

Your gasp is swallowed by his moan. It’s everything at once: the pierce, the heat, the sudden rush of pleasure that rolls through you like molten silk. You clutch at his shirt, grounding yourself, but you’re already floating—your head tilting back, mouth falling open, a soft whimper escaping without your permission.

Hyunjin groans into your skin, feeding in slow, aching pulls. His grip tightens, but he doesn’t hurt you—just holds you, like you’re something fragile and vital and his.

He’s panting now, breath ragged between each mouthful. “So sweet,” he gasps, pulling back just enough to look at you, mouth stained red. “Fuck, baby. You taste like yes.”

You reach up, touch his face. “You okay?”

He laughs—wrecked, breathless, delirious. “I just tasted you for the first time and you’re asking if I’m okay?”

You smile. “You look high.”

“I am.”

He kisses you then. Hard. Desperate. Deep. And that’s what does it. Your hands fumble at his shirt. His tongue licks into your mouth like he’s trying to memorize you. His hips slot between your legs. He lifts you onto the nearest table—canvas and paint pushed aside—and his hands slide under your thighs, your shirt, your skin.

Everywhere. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fumble. But god, he’s hungry. “Tell me,” he pants against your lips. “Tell me you want more.”

You grab his belt. “I want everything.”

His mouth crashes into yours again and groans deep, broken, like your voice just punched the air from his lungs.

And then his belt hits the floor.

Hyunjin kisses like he paints—messy, obsessive, sacred. His hands drag up your thighs, slow and reverent, thumbs brushing the crease where your legs meet your hips like he’s praying to the altar of your body. You gasp into his mouth, arching when he presses forward, the hard line of his arousal grinding against your clothed core.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re already shaking.”

You are. You don’t care. You tug his shirt over his head, toss it blindly behind you. He’s all lean muscle and inked skin, his body as beautiful and deliberate as one of his gallery pieces—except this one’s pressed against you, flushed and trembling, pupils blown wide with need.

He leans in, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, trailing over the fresh bite like he’s blessing it. “Still good?”

You nod, breath hitching. “More than good.”

He smirks against your skin. “Perfect.”

Then his hand slips between your legs.

You gasp, hips bucking into his palm as he strokes you over your underwear—slow at first, teasing, just enough to make you need. He watches your face the whole time, lips parted, lashes low, expression wrecked with restraint.

“You’re wet through,” he murmurs. “Is this all for me?”

You manage a nod.

Hyunjin presses a kiss to your jaw. “Then let me have you.”

He drops to his knees like it’s instinct. Worship. Pulls your panties aside and buries his face in your cunt like he’s been starving. You moan—loud, unfiltered—as his tongue licks a hot stripe through you, slow and greedy, followed by a groan that vibrates against your clit.

He doesn’t let up. One arm wraps around your thigh, holding you open. The other hand grips your hip like he’s afraid you’ll float away. His mouth is relentless—sucking, licking, tasting every inch of you with single-minded devotion.

Your head falls back with a cry. You barely register the sound of your wine glass tipping, paintbrushes clattering to the floor. None of it matters—not when he’s devouring you like this.

Hyunjin groans again, low and obscene, the sound vibrating straight into your core. His tongue moves in slow, deliberate circles, dragging over your clit with maddening precision. Then he flattens it, sucks gently—then harder—and your entire body jolts.

“Fuck—Hyunjin—” you gasp, fists tangled in his hair, back arching off the table.

He moans into you like your pleasure is his oxygen. His grip tightens on your thigh, fingers digging into your skin as he licks deeper, deeper, like he’s trying to reach the parts of you untouched by anyone else. His nose brushes your mound, his lips slick and flushed, his tongue fucking into you like he’s trying to memorize the taste.

Every time you gasp, every whimper, every broken moan—he reacts. Groaning. Growling. Thrusting his hips against nothing. He’s needy for it, like he’s drunk on you, like the taste of you is something holy and forbidden and addictive all at once.

“Shit—” you choke, thighs trembling, nails dragging down his back. “I’m—I’m gonna—”

Hyunjin doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets hungrier. His arm hooks under your leg, anchoring you in place as he doubles down—his mouth messy, insistent, wet and hot and perfect as he drags another moan from your throat.

Your orgasm hits like a punch. Sharp. Shattering. You cry out, legs clamping around his head, hips grinding into his mouth—and he just takes it, groaning low, tongue still working you through it, slow and reverent, like he lives here now.

You collapse back onto the table, panting, muscles twitching.

Hyunjin finally pulls back, face soaked, lips swollen, eyes feral. He licks his mouth, slow and shameless, and smirks.

“You taste like I imagined,” he says, voice hoarse. “Better, even.”

You stare at him, dazed. “You imagined?”

“All the time,” he confesses. “You think I came to that coffee shop for the espresso?”

You huff a laugh—then gasp when he stands and leans over you again, cock pressing hot and hard against your soaked core. “Hyunjin—”

“I’m not done,” he whispers. “That was just the appetizer.”

Your reply is a whimper. You barely get a breath before he’s kissing you again—deep, wet, slow, like he wants to taste himself on your tongue. It’s messy and needy and addictive, and you moan into his mouth as he grinds down just enough for you to feel the thick press of his cock against your core.

You shiver. “You’re still dressed.”

His lips brush your cheek, your jaw, down your throat. “So are you,” he murmurs. “But not for long.”

You feel his hands on your hips, gentle but certain, sliding under the hem of your baby pink dress. His fingers drag the fabric up, inch by inch—slow, reverent, like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s been dreaming about for centuries.

“You wore this on purpose,” he says against your collarbone. “Didn’t you?”

You hum, teasing. “What if I did?”

He groans, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Not likely,” you smirk. “Vampire, remember?”

“Then you better haunt me if you stop.”

You laugh—but it turns into a gasp when his fingers reach your straps. One slips down your shoulder. Then the other. You’re left breathless, chest rising and falling as he slowly peels the dress down your body—exposing soft skin, curve by curve. He pulls back just enough to look at you. And fuck. The way he looks at you. Like you’re made of starlight and honey and sin. Like he’s never seen anything so utterly divine.

“You’re perfect,” he says, more reverent than cocky now. His voice drops, all velvet and hunger. “So fucking perfect.”

Your dress pools around your waist. Your panties are still ruined, damp and sheer and clinging to your thighs. His hands are warm on your ribs, his mouth back on yours, kissing you slow, deep, possessive.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, tug lightly.

Hyunjin groans, rolling his hips against you. “Don’t tempt me.”

“You’re the one stripping me on a paint-stained table, Hyunjin.”

He laughs into your mouth. “Yeah, well. You started it.”

Then he kisses his way down your body again. Over the tops of your breasts, between them, pausing to look up at you as he presses a kiss to your sternum.

His hands ghost over your waist, your thighs. He kisses your stomach like it’s holy. Then he rests his cheek just above your hipbone. Closes his eyes. And whispers, “Can I have you?” Not hungry. Not demanding. Just honest.

Your voice is soft. “Yes.”

He lifts his head. Smiles. Wrecked. Beautiful. “Good,” he breathes, brushing his lips over your thigh. “Because I want to ruin you slowly.”

You don’t even realize he’s dipped his fingers into the paint until they’re streaking color across your thigh.

A lazy, sensual drag of crimson. Then gold. Then a shade that might’ve been violet once but is now smudged into something deeper—bluer, like bruises left by desire.

You stare down at the mess he’s making of you.

“Hyunjin—” you start, breath hitching.

But he’s already pressing his thumb in, right where the pulse beats strongest in your hip. Smearing paint there too, like a signature.

“I said I’d paint every inch of your skin,” he murmurs, voice gone thick with arousal. “Didn’t say I’d use a brush.”

You whimper as his hands move up, warm and stained, tracing your waist with gentle reverence. Every stroke leaves another streak—colors mixing with heat, desire, devotion. He’s marking you. Not with fangs. Not yet. But with art. With intention.

“You’re my favorite canvas,” he breathes, pressing a soft kiss to the spot where pink meets your ribcage. “And I’ve waited so long to paint you right.”

You’re trembling again, legs spread open over the table, your dress bunched at your hips, panties still pushed aside. And then—

smear.

His paint-slick fingers slide between your thighs.

You moan, body arching at the sensation—cool paint, warm touch. He groans in return, low and ruined, watching the way your body reacts.

“You like that?” he whispers.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Fuck—yes.”

His other hand slides down, the one not covered in paint and his fingers spread you open. Watching your cunt flutter around nothing before sliding two fingers inside without warning. You cry out, back arching, and he curses under his breath.

“So fucking tight,” he pants. “So wet for me already.”

You clench around him at the praise. He’s relentless now—thrusting his fingers deep, curling them just right, hitting that spot again and again until your thighs are shaking. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight, messy circles that make your head fall back, breath caught between sobs and gasps.

“Hyunjin—fuck—please—”

He leans in, paint and sweat smearing across your body, kissing your mouth hard—tongue sliding over yours, desperate and consuming. He’s grinding against you now, cock thick and hard through his pants, and you can feel him—every twitch, every pulse. He’s shaking.

When he finally pulls his fingers from your cunt, he licks them clean. Slowly. Watching you the whole time.

Then he stands, yanks open his belt, shoves his pants and boxers down just enough. His cock springs free—thick, flushed, leaking and so so so fucking pretty.

“Turn around,” he rasps. “Now.”

You scramble to obey, breathless, heart pounding. He bends you over the table, knocking brushes and palettes aside. The edge digs into your hips. He drags your panties all the way down this time, discards them like nothing.

A pause.

Then the blunt head of his cock presses to your entrance, slick with your arousal.

You brace yourself and then he slams in with a growl. You scream. There’s no other word for it. He’s huge, filling you all at once, stretching you wide until you’re trembling, dripping, wrecked from the very first thrust.

“Fuck, fuck—you feel like heaven,” he groans, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “You were made for this.”

He sets a brutal rhythm, hips slamming into yours with relentless force, the sound obscene—wet, loud, raw. You’re gasping, moaning, sobbing his name. Your nails dig into the paint-slick table, searching for purchase as he drives into you over and over and over.

But then there's a shift.

The change in air pressure. The low, guttural noise from his throat. The way his fangs press gently against the back of your neck when he leans down.

“Can I?” he whispers, voice shaking. “Please.”

You nod, eyes wide. “Yes. Please.”

He moves with sudden precision—pulls you up, flush against his chest, one arm wrapped tight across your stomach to hold you still. You feel the tip of his cock grinding deeper, right into that devastating spot and sinks his fangs into the side of your neck.

He feeds like he fucks—deep, desperate, consuming. You feel his tongue lapping against your skin, the pull of your blood as his cock pounds into you, merciless and raw. Hyunjin groans against your skin, breath ragged, blood-slick lips brushing the curve of your neck as he thrusts into you.

“God, you taste like I dreamed,” he pants, voice thick with devotion. “Like every fevered thought I tried to paint away.”

You whimper, head falling back against his shoulder. His arms are locked around you—one firm across your stomach, the other rising to cup your breast. His thumb drags over your nipple, slick from paint and sweat, and you cry out at the sensation. Every inch of you feels claimed.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So beautiful. Letting me have this. Letting me have you.”

Your hips jerk as he finds that devastating angle again, cock hitting deep, grinding into your softest spot. His rhythm stutters, overwhelmed, and he bites down gently—not piercing again, just mouthing over the mark he’s already made like he can’t bear to let it go. His hands are everywhere. Mapping you. Cradling you. Worshiping every curve and tremble.

You turn your head just enough to meet his mouth, and he kisses you like a prayer—open, slow, full of everything he can’t say out loud. His fingers find yours, lacing them together against your belly, holding you there while he fucks you through every wave of pleasure.

“I’ll give you everything,” he whispers, voice cracking, almost reverent. “Every color. Every breath. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep you mine.”

You’re shaking, unraveling, heart slamming against your ribs as pleasure coils hot and heavy in your core. His mouth is still on your neck, licking at the blood he’s already taken, and it’s obscene—how sacred it feels.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice cracked open. “I can feel you—so tight, so close.”

You whimper his name, breathless. “Hyunjin, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“I know.” His hand leaves your breast just long enough to slip between your thighs, fingers finding your clit with devastating precision. “Let go for me. Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”

The wave hits you hard. You break with a cry, clenching around him, trembling so violently you would’ve collapsed if he wasn’t holding you so close. His name tears from your throat as your orgasm rips through you—blinding, wet, all-consuming.

And that’s all it takes.

Hyunjin moans—shattered, holy—and slams into you one last time, cock twitching as he spills inside you, deep and hot, his cum triggered by your body milking him for everything. He clutches you tighter, hips jerking with each pulse as he rides it out, breath ragged in your ear.

The room stills.

Your bodies tremble together, covered in sweat, paint, blood, and each other. He doesn’t pull away. Just holds you, his face buried in your shoulder.

“You okay?” he whispers, voice hoarse.

You nod, barely able to speak. “Yeah. You?”

A pause.

Then he exhales a shaky laugh. “I’ve never felt more alive.”

You lean back enough to look at him, and he kisses you slow, reverent, ruined. A painter still in love with his masterpiece. A vampire utterly undone by your name.

You groan as he gently pulls out, both of you wincing from overstimulation and the messy, perfect aftermath. His hands are still on your hips, like he doesn’t trust the world not to snatch you away if he lets go.

“Don’t move,” he says, voice wrecked but soft.

You blink up at him, flushed and dazed. “Wasn’t planning to. I think my soul just left my body.”

Hyunjin snorts, then immediately leans down to kiss your cheek, your jaw, your temple. “Come back. I’ll bribe you with chocolate strawberries.”

You hum. “Tempting. But I might be a ghost now. Floating forever in post-orgasmic bliss.”

He laughs, full-bodied and beautiful. Then—with ridiculous gentleness—he slips your underwear back into place, finds a paint-smudged blanket from the supply room, and drapes it around your shoulders before lifting you bridal-style off the table.

You yelp. “Hyunjin—!”

“Shhh,” he says dramatically, “you’ve been through a lot. You were viciously attacked by an art-horny vampire.”

You burst into laughter. “Art-horny?!”

He grins as he settles onto the floor with you in his lap, wrapping you both in the blanket. “What would you call it?”

You pretend to think. “Mmm… a tragic case of palette-induced pussy worship?”

He absolutely loses it. His head drops to your shoulder, shaking with laughter. “I hate you. I love you. I hate that I love you. What the fuck.”

You grin, nuzzling his hair. “You’re welcome.”

There’s a beat of comfortable silence—your breathing syncing, his arms warm around you, the room still smelling of paint and sex and something sweeter. He lifts his head, just enough to meet your eyes.

“Was it too much?” he asks, quieter now. “The bite. The… everything.”

You shake your head. “It was perfect. It was you.”

His whole face softens, pupils still wide from feeding but laced now with something gentler. “I didn’t know I could feel this full without dying.”

You press your forehead to his. “You didn’t. You lived.”

He exhales a shaky laugh, nuzzles your nose. “You’re so soft right now. It’s killing me.”

“You literally already bit me.”

“Yeah, but that was sexy soft. This is like... soul-level softness.” He pauses. “Do you want a warm cloth? Tea? A seven-course meal? A small kingdom?”

You giggle, snuggling in. “I want to stay right here for a bit. Maybe cuddle. Maybe nap. Maybe kiss until we’re bored of each other.”

Hyunjin smiles like he’ll never be bored of you. “Cuddle I can do.”

And he fucking does and later? he tries to feed you grapes and accidentally drops them down your shirt.

You smack him with a paintbrush.

He swears it’s part of the aftercare.

🏷️ taglist: @cybergracie , @jupitermarss , @basicginn , @dhvnigvil , @emkvlixsx , @collin-thegreat , @somuchpanicverylittledisco , @emilyywhyy , @rainyjeno , @fawnoverdawn , @pixie-felix , @anniestay , @notmeneo , @lovslixx , @themoonlightfae , @heartwithoutaname , @yourghostneighbor , @princesskrystix , @drilles , @y2kur0mi , @mochi-space , @ivaviavi , @phelans-thoughts , @the-anon-reader , @beans4beans56 , @joyfulchaoslover , @channieismylove , @cherryoatchai , @unimportantweirdo , @seagulljk , @freckles-and-rage , @lonelydarknessblog , @girlsymptoms , @bookswillfindyouaway

[tiredandsapphic]

꩜ PINING, MATTHEWS? PART I

pairing ꩜ lottie matthews x femreader

summary ꩜ lottie finds herself oddly infatuated over the local record shop girl, the feelings mutual

an ꩜ part two wc 1.5k, oh medicated lottie, plz come home, the kids miss u

Who knew Wiskoyak would be cool enough to have a local record store. Thank gods it did, because it was probably one of the best jobs someone could have. Though if it wasn’t for your parents’ connection to the owner, you’d probably not have the job. But here you are, working part time in the perfectly dusty store.

Lottie didn't even know there was a record store so close, not until Van brought it up one day after practice. She practically forced the poor girl to visit claiming that there's more to the music world than just Mazzy Star and The Cranberries.

With her ego half bruised and a newfound curiosity, she searches for this so-called store with Van's shitty directions. She eventually finds it, tucked behind a local cafe and mechanic shop. 

When she enters, she's hit with the smell of incense and cigarettes, walls lined with posters. Faint record playing in the back, something she can't quite recognize, maybe Kate Bush? Her presence surrounded by the rows of cassettes and dusty vinyls, she almost doesn't notice you.

You're at the front counter, legs kicked up on a stool, chewing on a pen cap as you scribble in your notebook. You don't even look up.

Her so-called rich-girl aura doesn't exactly scream grunge record store— she suddenly feels very out of her element. But determined as Lottie is, with a pretty girl and a mission in front of her, she awkwardly approaches the counter.

Her footsteps draw your attention up, expecting some middle-aged guy looking for another Nirvana cassette. Your eyes widen slightly when your gaze travels up a figure in a letterman jacket, to deep brown eyes. Shit.

She smiles at you right away, her discomfort clearly on her face and now you feel the sudden need to make it all better. "Hey," is what you start with, mirroring a warm smile as you look up.

"Hi, I— uhh, to be honest, my friend kind of bullied me into coming here, and I have zero clue what I'm even looking for." She explains in a voice that makes you melt. She's sweet, but god she's fidgety, weirdly nervous. It's like watching a candied tragedy.

Laughing softly, you throw down your notebook, leaning forward on the counter to give her your undivided attention. Lottie's face is now feeling more warm.

"Oh yikes, I see," you raise your brows in a soft teasing way, "well I can help with that. What do you like?" And the question is so genuine, it's like you actually want to know, not just because it's your job.

She fumbles for a moment, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, the smallest crease in her brow. It's adorable. 

"I think Mazzy Star and Fiona Apple— but I also really like The Cranberries before a game." The tall girl admits and you nod along, slightly smitten by her taste. And a wave of realization runs over you.

"A game? Oh wait shit, you play for the Yellowjackets." You exclaim and it takes her back a bit, then an embarrassed smile grows on her face. "I'm guessing that the friend that bullied you into coming here is Van?" 

Lottie laughs and nods, "Mhm, that's her. She speaks highly of this place— and you, apparently you're ‘the girl that knows her shit’. Honestly I didn't know it existed." She admits, her eyes on you the whole time. You just chuckle.

"Yeah, a lot of people say that. It's my little heaven, I really only got the job because I know the owner, and of course, know my shit." You admit and stand up, smoothing down your clothes as if you were trying to look presentable. "Also I can totally work off your taste, it's good." You smile and she flushes, you can't help but flush as well.

"I'll feel less like a lost cause, thanks." Her footsteps trail behind you as you walk towards one of the aisles. "I'm Lottie by the way." She adds, if not a little awkwardly.

You give her a smile and tell her your name, which makes the girl beam just a little more. Lottie eyes you as you flip through some shelves, admiring the determined look on your face.

You start to pull out some albums, making small comments, even little music facts. Lottie's knees suddenly feel so weak.

You stop yourself mid word vomit, painted nails gripping a The Cure vinyl. "Oh my god, I've been rambling for the past 10 minutes on music, I'm sorry, you must think I'm a dweeb." You laugh, your cheeks feeling hot.

"No—" she adds, maybe a touch too quick, "not at all," she laughs softly, "it's cute, please, I don't think I've learnt this much about music before than now." She says as if she wasn't looking at you instead of the vinyls the whole time.

You look at her as if she just proposed— your heart certainly feels like she did. 

"Okay, good, because I haven't even shown you half of it yet." You grin and she just nods, more than happy to watch your fingertips skim the vinyl spines as you talk.

You probably talk for way too long, but the lack of other customers and her personality becoming less nervous just makes something click. She makes small jokes that have you laughing, and your job just becomes much more worth it.

At one point she skims over, standing in front of a small section that's labelled 'staff picks'.

"Careful. That section's dangerous. You might leave with a personality." You say casually with a teasing look.

She just blinks at you then laughs, and you walk over. You grab a vinyl off the wall. "Actually, here, I think you'll really like this."

And you hold out an Alanis Morissette album. "If you don't like it, full refund." You say half jokingly, but you're too confident in your music match making skills. "Perfect before a game too."

Lottie's deep gaze flickers from you to the album for a few moments before she takes it, her fingers brushing yours. Your internal record player skips. 

"I'll take your word for it." She nods, clutching the album like it's holy.

It's not even then that Lottie goes to cash out, she still trails by as you show her more, even sharing your own favourite artists, which she locks in her mental diary.

You eventually walk over to the counter to ring her up, almost saddened to do so. You wanted her to stay longer, so did she. Though her short trip evolved into something much longer.

Lottie keeps glancing at you during checkout. She's got that flustered soft fidgeting, biting her lip, her fingers twitching by her wallet, clearly wanting to say something but chickening out. 

So, while she's distracted digging through her bag, you build up the courage to make a move— sorta. You grab a post-it note, scribbling your number and writing 'Call me if you want more dangerously good taste. Or a date. Whichever.' and tuck it into the sleeve of the album.

You look back up and slide her the album, taking her money, as if you hadn't just did the boldest thing you've ever had the courage to do.

"Thanks, for all this." She says as she grabs the vinyl off the counter.

You just nod, "any time, I know this was your first time here, and I really hope it's not your last." 

Lottie smiles, her internal circuit malfunctioning. "I'll have to make sure you're on shift then, next time." She says softly before whispering a soft goodbye.

Your heart thumps as you watch her leave, blinking like you've just had the rug pulled from underneath you. You immediately bend over the desk like you've been shot in the chest, your hands on your face. You don't know whether to throw up or celebrate.

Later that night, after a long shift haunted by thoughts of the tall athlete, you lie on your bed, sprawled out like a coming-of-age movie.

Then your landline rings, coming from your cluttered desk beside your bed.

Your heart stops, it could be anyone, but your chest knows.

"Hello?" You answer after the second ring, finger fidgeting with the twisted wire.

"Hey, it's— uh. Lottie. From earlier." Her voice is a little shakier on the line.

"Oh. Oh, hi." Suddenly the wire of your landline is very intriguing, acting as if you weren't the one who asked for this.

"So. I found something in my record sleeve." She says, open ended.

"Oh. Yeah. That." Total deer in headlights. "Was that okay?"

She laughs at your tone softly, "More than okay. I was wondering... if maybe I could take you up on the offer." 

"Which part?" You're nearly breathless.

She pauses, "Well, preferably both, but the mostly second part." 

"Good, I was mostly hoping for that part." And suddenly your world flipped, for the better. 

You clutch your pillow tighter, the idea of a date with her no longer just a dream, but now a promise.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Doing Time 10

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, threats, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you try to keep your brother safe in jail but put yourself in danger along the way.

Characters: con/ex-con!Steve Rogers

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You stare at Steve's large hand as you fight the urge to fidget. He rests is on your thigh, fingers curled just along the inside. He rubs the seam of your pants as his warmth radiates through the fabric.

He steers with his other hand. His posture is slack with nonchalance. Everything is going exactly as he planned and you're just trying to keep up. 

He hums as he tickles your leg. His hand sidles closer to your pelvis and he squeezes. He idles at the red light and smirks at you.

"You got me worked up again. I just wanna pull you across the car..." his eyes flick up and down. "You got thighs that make a man a glutton."

You twitch. While he scares you, his words send a tingle through you. He's skilled at twisting your flaws into beauty. You almost believe every word he says.

"Steve," you touch his hand gently. "The light's green."

"Oh, yeah?" He flicks his fingers coyly towards your cunt. 

You blink and point through the windshield. He glances at the traffic light and chuckles. He leans on the gas, keeping his hand in your lap.

"You should wear skirts," his nails graze the thick seam again. "You got the legs for it."

"I... I like pants." You say softly. 

"You got a good shape. Not just from the front," he ignores your protest. "That dress you wore... mmmph. I got buy you some more."

"You don't have to do all that," you clutch his hand to keep it in place.

"I want to, sweetheart. Lots of things I wanna do." He squeezes and you squeak at the spark it lights in your guts. "Firstly..."

He peels his hand away and turns into a lot. He draws up to the storefront and you glance up to read the big gold letters mounted over the shining windows. You rub the warm patch he left on your leg as you stare at the jeweler's shop.

"I thought about a crown but I'm thinking that's a bit much," he snickers. "I think a ring will do."

You look at him, stunned. It shouldn't be a surprise. He's been clear. As straight to the point as you wish you could be. Yet it's all so sudden.

He gets out first and comes around to open your door. He pauses and skims your figure with his eyes. He tuts.

"Definitely needa get you a sweet dress."

You stand and he shuts the door. His hand finds your lower back and he ushers you toward the shop. The world around you is hazy with futility. You know you can't stop him but there's that little human urge that won't go away.

He opens the shop door and lets you through first. He struts in behind you.

"Hello, sir," he greets the man behind the counter. "Lovely day."

The chubby man with the long mustache drooping around his lips winces. He looks up from the board of earrings in front of him and gulps. His brown eyes widen.

"Rogers?" He coughs.

"One and the same, Ahmad," Steve affirms as he nudges you forward. "Long time."

"Yes, sir. Very long. I thought you were in bars." The man nervously taps his fingers on the counter top.

"Behind bars." Steve corrects him. "Did my time. Now I'm out. And my lady needs a ring."

"Your... yes." Ahmad peeks at you and bows his head. "Very beautiful. Lovely lady." He clutches his hands together. "And you are such a handsome man, how could you not have a beauty."

"Yeah, yeah, Ahmad, you don't gotta do all that. Not to say she isn't a stunner." Steve nears and crosses his arms. He leans his elbows on the glass display and peers through. His shoulder round and he looks even bigger.

"Well, sweetheart. You want one diamond. You want a diamond covered in diamonds..." he bends his neck and squints at the selection.

"Oh, er, I'm not picky. Something small is fine."

"Be picky," he insists. "I don't want fine, I want perfect." He beckons you forward with a glance. "Come on."

You sniff and come forward. Ahmad smiles at you, "let me know whatever you like, miss."

"Thanks," you look down. The sparkle is too much to focus.

You're drawn to one in particular. A purple oval surrounded with little diamonds. You stare and chew your lip. You should look for something smaller.

"Which one's got you?" Steve shifts, angling toward you as he leans on one elbow.

"Well, that one's not bad," you point to the plain silver band with a small circle diamond.

He tuts. "You know, I see right through you. Be honest."

You rub your neck. "I don't wanna spend too much--"

"Don't fret about my money," he warns. "Which one?"

You drop your hand and point again. "That er, purple one. Sorry I don't know the stone."

"Amethyst, yes," Ahmad reaches underneath and takes out the entire board. "The stone of clarity and control. You must have a good head on you."

"Oh," you murmur and shrug. Not really. If you knew better, you wouldn't be standing here with this man.

Ahmad pulls free the ring and offers it up. You can only stare. The nicest jewelry you have is a hand-me-down silver chain and locket from tour mom.

Steve takes it then grabs your hand. You flinch as he stands at his full height and slips the band around your finger. You watch him push it down to your knuckle. He runs his thumb over it then cradles your hand in his. He lifts it higher to admire the stones.

"That the one?" He asks.

You stare at the ring. It's gorgeous but too much. You don't say so. You can't. 

You nod. "It's very pretty Steve. We could... wait until we get everything else sorted."

"It's sorted," he insists.

He lifts your hand and kisses your knuckle. You lower your eyes as he lets you go. You clasp your other hand over the ring as he turns to Ahmad.

"How much?" He reaches for his wallet.

The number makes your chest drop. That's more than your rent. A lot more. 

He counts out bills. You've never carried anything more than a couple hundred and that was for a deposit or something. He has a whole bank on him. 

It's another clue. He's not just a man with money, the way he wields it, the way others react to him. He has power.

"Th-thank you," you croak and pinch the ring. Steve stops you.

"Don't take it off. Never." He wraps his hand around yours and pushes it down. "That means you're mine." He puts his wallet away and looks back at the jeweller. "I'll be back for more. She'll need a full set."

"Yes, sir," Ahmad puts away the board of rings.

Steve takes you out. The sunlight is warm and bright, a strange sheen on the grey day. You can only watch as he whittles away the pieces of your life and rebuilds to his liking.

His hand slips off of yours and trails up your forearm as you near the car. A low growl rises in his chest as he lets you ahead of him. He spreads his fingers across your ass and kneads. You yelp on surprise.

He reaches around you and opens the back door of the car. You reach back to clamp down on his wrist. You trip on your toes as he slaps your rear.

"Just a quickie," he snarls. "Seeing you in that ring..."

"Steve. Please. We can go--"

"Get in," he commands and pinches your ass again. "On your stomach."

"Huh?" His sudden shift has you off balance. "Steve--"

"Now," he rasps as he grips the door. "Pants off."

You turn to look at him in horror and catch his hand as he tries to grope your chest. "I don't want to... here."

His eyes narrow and his jaw squares. He scoffs and shakes your hand off of his. He frames your face with his thick fingers and leans in.

"I'm not fucking asking. Let's celebrate." He pushes his nose and forehead against yours. "I waited before. No more."

You wince and pet his knuckles. You whimper and he lets you go. You bat your eyes and slowly sit on the back seat.

He's big enough to block your view of the parking lot. You tremble as you unbutton your fly. Disbelief numbs your touch. You lift yourself and peel off your pants, your underwear twisting down inside them. 

He looms over you and taps his fingers on the roof. You untangle your feet and drop the clothes onto the car floor. Steve sighs and it blows through in an icy wind. 

You shimmy back into the car. You turn over and he growls again. As you spread out on your stomach, he crushes in behind you, a knee between your legs.

He shuts the door as he crams into the back seat. He pushes your left leg over the edge of the seat. You quiver as you're exposed to him.

He bends over you and hooks his arm under your neck. He kisses the back of your head and pets your cheek. He inhales your scent.

"Can't help myself, sweetheart. This is what you do to me."

He slips his hand between your bodies, wriggling over you as he plucks open his fly. He grunts as he shifts his weight, the lack of space as suffocating as he is.

He guides his tip down along your cheeks. The fabric of his slacks tickles your skin. He prods along your entrance. He drags his hand free and hooks it beneath you.

He shoves between your folds and rubs your clit. He puffs into your hair as he teases you. His legs are bent up, cramped against the door as he smothers you. He bows down to nibble at your neck.

You slicken against his touch. He swirls and flicks as you close your eyes and clutch the edge of the seat. Humiliation scalds over you. What if someone sees.

He rubs you from clit to entrance and back again. He teases you until you moan, the soft mewl the final surrender. 

He frames your cunt with his long fingers and spreads your lips. He tilts his hips down and guides his tip between his knuckles. You hold your breath as he delves into you.

He rumbles as he dips into you in a single slow thrust. When he's at his limit, he shudders. He rocks his pelvis and you clench around him. His arm tightens around your neck and he kisses your jawline as he groans.

The wet noise of you clinging to him fills the humid space. He pumps into you, the tempo cloying in your ears. You babble as he grunts, each thrust more eager than the last.

His patience shatters as he hammers into you. You arch your back to ease the blunt force of his intrusion and he plays with your clit as your walls quiver around him. You heave down into the seat as his feet bounce of the window. The cacophony makes you dizzy. 

"Oh, sweetheart, you're so good." He snarls as he pounds you into the seat. "Hm, the way you're made for me."

He rolls his fingers furiously and you bite your lip. A fire-laced tide washes over you and floods your brain. You whine through your orgasm as it drips out around him.

"That's it, doll. You know I'm the best man for you," he pushes himself up, staying inside you as he unloops his arm from your neck. 

He pulls your hips up as he readjusts. You hunch down onto the seat, slack as you hang from his grip. He moves you up and down his length, slamming you back against his pelvis. He moves you to his will, growling and grunting, nails digging into your hip. Your insides twine around him.

He buries himself inside you as he holds you in place. He exhales shakily then starts again. He bucks into you as he gropes one side of your ass. The car shakes with his fury.

"Doll, I feel you clinging to me," he puffs. "Mm, you're so sweet... mmm, I'm gonna marry you and do this every day..." he grunts and bends over your again. "I'm gonna fuck you... til death do us... part."

He ruts until he collapses. He flattens you under him as he spasms and gushes inside you. You shiver as he spills out, his hips rocking slow and uneven as he rides out the aftershock. 

Your breaths are shallow, mingling damply in the closed space with your sweat. He groans and kisses your shoulder. He takes your hand brings it to his lips, kissing the wring on your finger.

"That's why you wear a skirt, baby." He pushes in as deep as he can. "I want access at all times."

[homunculus-argument]

I’m going to preface all of this by saying that sometimes, in my experience, you are just gonna be bored with your look until you find some new clothing item or accessory that inspires you or have the muses visit you in your dreams. That’s ok. This is a natural part of being, it’s what happens when you’re the same for a while and it will pass. The issue really is if you don’t feel like you look like you anymore. That is generally, in my experience, something that can only be fixed by a Big Change TM. If you feel like this look is right for you you’re just bored, the answer may be to just wait it out.

But also tho some tips for in the meantime or to get over it faster

- it may be a good time to add another element you don’t usually have time or energy for. My go to is eyeliner, but this could be any accessory or makeup or a new way of styling your hair.

- you don’t have to fuck with your hair to change how it looks. Headbands, butterfly clips, and if your hair is at all even slightly long then hair bands are all things you can use to drastically change the shape of your hair temporarily.

- it is very possible to change your silhouette in the heat. Mess with different sleeve shapes, if you get a sheer material you can also make fancy long sleeves. If you don’t have sheer material, I made this great bolero top where the sleeves just have enough holes in them that it’s comfortable in like the high 80s (about 30°C). If it’s too hot for ___ then figure out how to make it work. Could you put more holes in it? Could you change the material? Is there a version of this thing meant for extreme heat (ex: uv guard sleeves or clothes designed for hijabis in hot weather)

- go seek inspiration. Pinterest, window shopping, historical fashion pictures, social media in general, thrifting, drawing people with cool clothes, watching movies with cool fashion. Maybe one of them will inspire you.

- completely abandon the cool outfits for a bit. Wear your most low effort comfy clothes with no accessories. Be the most boring you can be for a couple days or a week or however long. Then once you start dressing cool again you won’t be bored about it anymore.

:)

We're going Outside today, and I'm planning to wear a collared shirt that I have in a way that I usually never do (by itself and not as a cover worn open over a t-shrit), and I am tempted to annoy my boyfriend by trying to do A Makeup.

[butterfly-wingss]

Work

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Danny still remembers Jason learning Ghost speak the first time. He wears his heart on his sleeve, quick to Anger, Sadness, Joy. He’s always had a current of Curiosity about him.

But after a while Danny could hear the Hurt, Pain, Suffering, Loathing that seemingly lived under Jason’s skin.

It wasn’t under his skin anymore.

Jason was flipping rapidly between Soft, Safe, Comforted, Love and Hurt, Hurt, Pain, Undeserving, Wrong, Selfish, Greedy. And he feels disgusting now because Jason hates opening up like this.

Danny can’t tell him though.

If Jason knows he’ll figure out how to clamp down on his emotions in a nano second. But if he knows how Jason is feeling he’ll be able to help better.

Danny doesn’t know how to help. Danny doesn’t know what to do here. But he can’t not help. He can’t just leave Jason to deal with this alone. He needs to protect his fraid, even from themselves.

But every time he touches Jason a current of Love shoots through him and it’s like he’s dying all over again.

So he’ll stay. He’ll stay until he’s asked to leave, and he’ll do what he can, and maybe then this gaping void in his core will close up and not eat away at him like the black hole he knows it is.

Danny flops onto Jason, hanging off his back while Jason works at his laptop. “What ya doin’.” All sing songy.

“Working.” He says with that stupid little crooked smirk he does. Fond.

“Why. You’re supposed to be resting.” Suspicion. Ripples off him playfully, it’s hard to tell how much ghost speak Jason can hear/feel right now but talking to him should help even if he doesn’t consciously notice.

“I am resting. It’s just some paperwork.”

“Jay.” He lets the disappointed leak into his normal english.

Jason sighs. “I need to. We’re opening up that nightcare place, keep teens out of crime, give child care to the working girls and goons and whoever else might need it. And tomorrow I need to do Rosa’s shopping and the food bank.”

“Rosa this apartment or is that one of your others?”

“This one. Her son just had another kid recently so I need to check in on her more often right now.”

“Is all that going to be restful?” Accusatory.

Rolling his eyes or rather his whole head, like he does when he’s wearing his helmet. “It will sate my protection obsession while I’m being forbidden from patrol.” FOND pulses between them.

“Okay, I’ll allow it.” Smug, Playful hangs heavy in the air.

————

Watching a hearth core in their element is truly amazing.

Watching anyone in their element is great but there’s Something about watching Jason taking care of his community, playing with kids, and feeding people. It’s special and its so uniquely Jason of him.

He’s got a line of children following him, like little ducks and oh doesn’t that just remind him of Jays Robin cape.

He stops his rounds to talk to a kid about their book. Yelling at his men over his shoulder. Danny wonders what Jason’s position in the Red Hoods gang is, do they know Jason is Red Hood, is he actually in the gang or do they just work together sometimes.

“Oi, Star! Come here.” Calls out standing over some of the kids doing homework at the back tables.

“What up.” Danny walks up hands in the pockets of his NASA hoodie

“You’re a chem nerd yeah?”

“Organic, inorganic,?” trails off.

Jason shakes his head, sighs. “High school?”

“Organic.” The kid pipes in.

“Cool what’re we doing.” Pulls up a chair

“You know Bio too?” another kid asks

“Yeah, anything science or math I’m a much better bet than Jay.”

“Oi! I’m not bad,” Slaps him lightly, oh so offended. “I’m just surrounded by STEM geniuses.” Jason grumbles.

“STEAM. You think I can design half the shit I do without being able to draw it.” Danny corrects.

“What do you do?” one of the younger kids asks, maybe 10, he’s not great at telling ages.

“I’m an engineer.” He happily replies.

“Mad scientist.” Jay corrects.

“Not in Gotham I’m not. I did not spend 4 years editing patents and turning a bunch of government tech non lethal to be thrown in Arkham. No. Thank. you.” Absently reading through the chem work sheet.

Turns out that’s not a normal thing for teenagers to do, even in Gotham. They burst out in questions, the kids, some of the adults, even Jason himself. At least it helps these kids warm up to him.

“Y’know, breaking into government facilities to fuck with their tech and scramble their servers and shit.”

“So that counts as vigi-“ Jason laughs out

“Nope. No, that is being a hooligan, destruction of private property, trespassing, absolutely got me on a few watch lists.”He ticks off on his fingers “But again, in Gotham, I ain’t shit.”

Jason shakes his head. “Gotta introduce you to everyone eventually.”

“Can’t hear you doing math and science.”

“Danny-“ laughs

Danny shoos Jay away from him and the small group of kid surrounding him. “Get your Literature cooties away from me.”

“Rude!”

Danny was posted at the homework tables the rest of the day. The kids keep asking him about Jason.

When Jay comes over to collect Danny the kids absolutely swarm him. “We have to go now. Yes I’ll bring him back at some point. I’m ignoring that. Star you coming?”

Jason starts trying to walk away but there are kids hanging on his legs, one even tries to steal his boot knife.

“Sure thing Birdie.” As soon as the name leaves Danny’s mouth the room goes silent Jason takes two whole steps before he reacts “Shut up and hurry up.” Awkward, Anxious radiates off him.

“What’s for dinner?” Danny asks just to annoy him.

“Nothin’ if you keep asking.” Snark

“Nah. You physically can’t not feed people.”

“Fuck off.” Jason pushes him away but grabs him at the last second and pulls Danny against his side.

[goodbyenorthernlights]

tbf I think one reason that people have trouble Reading A Different Book is because I can't think of many other properties that have fandom consciousness in such a chokehold.

Like the thing about Harry Potter is that everybody knew what Harry Potter was about. Maybe not everybody was familiar with the nuances like the difference between Sirius and Remus or whatever, but everybody knew what a Hogwarts House was.

It was both a really widely usable framework akin to, like. A high school AU or a coffee shop AU, but with more fantastical elements and built in drama potential, and also like. If you wrote or drew Harry Potter stuff, then you could very quickly and easily find a community.

Like I really think a lot of the draw for Harry Potter was and is the massive community that came with it, not so much the books themselves. You can replicate magic schools and whatnot, but that instant level of recognition isn't nearly so common. Communities are a lot harder to leave behind than books.

[banyangulf-if]

PLAY THE DEMO | PATREON | KO-FI

"Feed on life as it feeds on you."

Answering a house sitting advertisement for a wealthy family friend, you make the journey to Southern Florida to fulfill a contract of seven weeks in exchange for enough money to float you comfortably through your final year of university. With keys to a mansion just a few hours from the beach and the promise of solitude under the Florida sun, you’re set for the summer of a lifetime – until you show up to the house and find out your employer is dead. 

Unbeknownst to you, something hidden in the mansion calls for your claim – something many are willing to kill to possess, regardless of if you are caught in the crossfire. Attempt to leave and live ignorantly, blissfully under a veil of paradise, or capture what riches live hidden in secret. 

Banyan Gulf by V. Lovisa @vlovisa

Customize yourself, the Main Character. Choose your name, appearance, gender, pronouns, and a variety of other factors throughout the story. 

Interact with and influence your relationship with a cast of five main romanceable characters and other side characters. 

Form alliances, or work on your own to uncover the secrets that await you. 

Decorate the room you stay in at your employer’s mansion. Choose wall color, bedding, decor, and special personalized elements to help you feel at home during your stay. 

Choose your attire for formal events and other select scenes. 

Determine your motivations – does money, fame, love, or something deeper drive you to find what lies hidden in the mansion? 

Luisa Morales (she/her) – Ambitious as she is brutally honest and determined, Luisa is an entrepreneur at heart. She aims to someday open her own tattoo shop, she’s been practicing tattooing since she turned 18. Her best friend Drew has become her practice canvas, since she’s run out of room for more work on her left arm and can’t tattoo left-handed. Luisa intends to make it big on her dreams, no matter the cost, and desires to create a sturdy and steady life for herself doing what she loves. She is 24 years old and 5’2. Luisa is Mexican, with brown eyes and long wavy hair that she has dyed dark cherry red.

Drew Robins (he/him OR she/her) – When they are not working at their family’s restaurant or deliberately annoying their best friend Luisa, Drew is a recreational hobby addict. From drawing to sports to drink mixing to mountain climbing, Drew has tried just about everything. They aspire to create a life where money isn’t a concern and they can pursue every one of their passions freely. Drew is 23 years old and 6’1. Male Drew has relatively short curly blond hair, and female Drew has long curly blonde hair that reaches the middle of her back. Drew has pale blue eyes and is white.

Lorelei Wildes (she/her) – Once the most popular person in Banyan Gulf due to the extent of her family’s riches but now socially disgraced due to a family scandal, Lorelei is burnt out of the city. Her one aspiration now is to escape, buy herself a house so grand it’s a step short of a vacation resort close to the beach, and live in the most luxurious way possible. Lorelei is drawn to everything beautiful, everything restful, everything perfect. She is 24 years old and 5’8. Lorelei is white, with green eyes and light brown hair that almost reaches her waist.

Oscar Carter (he/him) – An aspiring screenwriter and film director, Oscar has his sights set on becoming the most renowned filmmaker in the world. It’s a sizable ambition, one many have told him is impossible, but through it all Oscar has remained a dreamer, an artist, and is making progress on his aspirations through directing music videos and short films. Oscar is 23 years old and 5’11. He is Black, with dark eyes and black locs that reach just below his collarbones.

Ronan/Ruby Hall (he/him OR she/her)– With their eccentric sense of humor and work as a chef and part-time graphic designer, Hall is known for their individuality and drive to live in their own way. In the back of their mind they hold the goal of being a full-time artist someday when they have the time and focus to give to creating. For now, they’re content to live in their own chaos. Hall is 25 years old and 5’9. They are mixed Thai and white, with light brown eyes and black hair (an overgrown mid fade for Ronan, and hair that reaches just below her collarbones for Ruby). 

POLY ROUTES:

Lorelei & Oscar – The love they once shared has faded, but is not yet lost. Only you might ignite what lies dormant between them, if you so wish. 

Luisa & Ruby/Ronan Hall – Their relationship could never feel complete without the warmth you bring to unite them.

Banyan Gulf is an interactive fiction game that is intended for mature audiences. The game includes many potentially upsetting themes, such as foul language, smoking, drinking and recreational drugs, general violence, weapons (knives, guns, etc), death, murder, suicide and suicidal ideation, cannibalism, gore, and optional romantic and/or sexual content. Please be mindful of these warnings when considering if Banyan Gulf is right for you. 

DEMO — BUY ME A COFFEE WHILE I WRITE — PATREON

asks always welcome :) reblogs and comments appreciated!!!

[flwrkisses]

boyfriend! ni-ki.

HAPPY (late) RIKI DAAAAY!! wishing the happiest and sweetest birthday to our lovely riki. celebrating by writing all my lovely ni-ki stans a little headcannon. enjoy!

genre: fluff. established relationship. idol! x reader. headcannon.

warning: some mentions of arguments and skin ship like kissing and cuddling.

❀˖° heeseung jay jake sunghoon sunoo jungwon ni-ki ..

- you and riki had been introduced to eachother by mutual friends. he for some reason found himself always wanting to impress you each time he saw you. thats how he found out he liked you.

- the weird feeling he would get in his chest when he saw you was actually just the butterflies. even if he didn't want to admit it. so, one day after talking to jake for a really long time about his feelings he finally got the confidence to tell you how he felt.

- he honestly was ready for rejection so when you told him you were also interested in him, took him off guard. he probably would need a moment to register what exactly to do next. but from that day on you guys just assumed you were dating without any proper question. you both admitted feelings for each other.. so you guys just assumed thats how relationships start.

- the first date would probably be to a movie in the park or maybe a shopping run that turned into a cafe and boba date on accident.

- riki is usually very private about his relationships.. however, if someone gets on his nerves he plays the "at least im actually dating someone!" card to rub in their face that he managed to find someone who loves and cares about him.

- he's a mean boyfriend, meaning that he will tease you, poke fun at you and play pranks on you because thats how he shows his love. however, you must retaliate in return if not its not fun.

- sometimes when you're walking down the street while holding hands he purposefully trips you and chuckles when you stumble only for you to try and trip him back. this usually leads to you guys almost tackling eachother in the middle of the sidewalk.

- he also finds it funny when he holds his hand out against your head to stop you from getting closer to him. he's tall and has long arms so he thinks its funny but after a while he gives in and pulls you close.

- you know he loves to mess around and tease you however, no matter how much he playfully bullies you he's actually very protective of you. lots of his jokes come from a place of love. however, if someone else were to make fun of you the way he did he couldn't find it funny at all.

- despite how playful he is. he would die for your touch. he loves melting into your arms and holding you. believe it or not he's a lot clinger than you'd imagine.

- in private he's putty in your hands but around his hyungs or anyone else he tries to play it cool.

- he draws you things on any serface if you give him enough time and a writing utensil. they're usually cute drawings of a couple that he says are the two of you. he leaves these little doodles on your shopping lists, notebooks, sticky notes, white boards.

- when you visit him while he's at practice he gets so excited because he loves seeing you when he's in his element. he shows off just for you and asks you if you thought he looked cool while dancing.

- riki finds your height difference to be extremely cute. he loves pointing out how short you are compared to him. he loves feeling tall around you. please ask him to get things off the top shelf.

- he's going to ask to borrow your hair tie, and never give it back so he can wear it around his wrist or keep it on his nightstand as evidence he's with someone.

- something you noticed is that he'd "accidentally" leave his shirts or hoodies at your place in hopes that you'd wear it. and when you do he melts a little inside.

- when shopping he usually likes to take you with him so you can tell him what you think about clothes. he wont buy something you don't like. if you're not with him expect pictures of clothes on him or facetime calls for your opinion.

- riki loves hearing your voice so even when he's sleepy from a long day working, he'll call you just to hear you talk about your day. his deep raspy voice usually just humming along to your words to let you know he's listening.

- most times he ends up falling asleep with you on call, regardless of if it's a video chat or regular phone call. he feels comfortable enough to do that with you so it's sweet. plus he works so hard you can't possibly be upset.

- he gets a lot if his dating and relationship advice from jake because in his eyes he thinks he's the most romantic. so most big romantic gestures from riki is usually something jake told him to do for you.

- pda is a big no for him, maybe simple hand holding or a quick hug would be okay. but he gets way too shy to actually kiss you or be overly touchy with you in public.

-but, he does like to see you wearing his clothes or matching shoes with him. its a little cheesy but he can't get enough of it. it's a little nod that you belong to each other.

- on his phone your contact would be something like "my loser." or "nerd." something not too romantic incase someone takes his phone and makes fun of him for having such a lovey dovey name for you.

- his home screen is a picture of you though. you're not looking at the camera and it's kinda blurry but he knows it's you and he loves looking at the candid pictures he's taken of you. loves it so much that it makes one of them his hime screen.

- riki loves thrill especially thrill rides so even if you don't like them he would drag you to ride rollercoasters or fast rides with him.

- he does love to kiss you though. after the first kiss he was addicted and is always looking forward the next kiss. however he would die inside if anyone every caught you both kissing.

- arguments are something unavoidable. especially when riki can be a little bit of a hot-head about things and prideful. he kinda sucks at apologizing or talking things out so space from each other usually helps you both cool down.

- after a couple days you both realize how much you miss each other and end up forgetting why you were upset with each other in the first place.

- a fault in him is saying yes to anything you want to do or ask for. sometimes he doesn't realize what exactly he's agreeing to. this has gotten him into a lot of very interesting situations with you. like ending up in the salon next to you getting his nails and toes done, or taste testing weird herbal teas, or even getting his hair dyed to slightly match yours.

- after a long day, you both just melt into the sofa and scroll on your phones for hours. just watching tiktoks or something similar. occasionally reaching over to show each other something funny.

- if you're not doing your weekly tiktok scroll with him on the sofa, you're probably cuddling and watching an anime. you guys take turns picking which one to watch. its also a nice way to spend time together since he loves to order food and make a date night out of it.

- when going out with you to a place where theres music and dancing involved. regardless on if you can or can't dance he would pull you to dance floor to dance with him. a big smile on his face as he watches you move and enjoy yourself.

- he is so supportive of you no matter what. he would promote your projects you choose to do regardless of what it is. he always has your back, and encourages you to do what you love.

- just expect impromptu dance parties while listening to music. you guys could be chilling and having music in the background when he pulls you up and just playfully dances with you.

- when watching a romance movie and they do something cool, like kiss under stars, or set up a romantic camp site, or something of that nature he can't help but look at you and say "lets do that."

- he would never tell you, but praise goes such a long way with him. he wants to hear that he's doing well and that you're proud of him. so when you vocalize it he loves it.

- in the beginning of the relationship he says things like. "saying 'i love you' is so cheesy." only to be the one who says it over and over later in your relationship. when you wake up, when you part ways for the day, when you go to bed. all the time.

- riki would also have a polaroid of you on the back of his clear phone case because he thinks it's cute. and regardless of how old the photo is he wont change it.

- overall, riki's a sweet but, mischievous type boyfriend. he lives and breathes for you and wont let you forget it with how much he playfully annoys you. there is nothing he wont do to make you happy or to hear your laugh that he loves so much.

©flwrkisses ; please do not copy, translate, repost and/or reuse my work without my permission. (2023)

masterlist. — requests are open!

[astra-ravana]

Collecting And Utilizing Magick Charms

My personal charm collection.

Magick charms are small, enchanted objects used for protection, luck, attraction, and spiritual power. Witches, shamans, and mystics have used charms for centuries to enhance spells, manifest intentions, and guard against negative forces. This comprehensive guide will help you collect, store, and use charms effectively in your witchcraft.

What is a Magick Charm?

A magick charm is any object infused with energy or intention to create a desired effect. Unlike talismans (which attract energy) or amulets (which repel energy), charms can do both, depending on their purpose.

Uses of Magick Charms in Witchcraft:

• Protection – Shields against negative energy, hexes, and harm.

• Luck & Prosperity – Draws fortune, money, and success.

• Love & Attraction – Enhances self-love, relationships, and passion.

• Healing & Wellness – Promotes emotional, physical, and spiritual health.

• Psychic Abilities & Divination – Strengthens intuition, dreamwork, and spirit communication.

• Manifestation & Goal Achievement – Focuses energy on specific desires.

Collecting Magick Charms

Magick charms can be found, crafted, or gifted. The key is choosing objects that resonate with your energy and intention.

Where to Find Charms:

• Nature – Stones, feathers, shells, acorns, bones, dried herbs.

• Thrift Shops & Antique Stores – Old jewelry, keys, trinkets, coins.

• Personal Objects – Lockets, rings, buttons, meaningful tokens.

• Handmade Charms – Sigil-carved wood, cloth pouches filled with herbs, inscribed coins.

• Cultural or Spiritual Items – Religious symbols, runes, lucky talismans.

A List of Magick Charms & Their Meanings

Protection Symbols & Charms:

• Pentacle/Pentagram – A five-pointed star within a circle, symbolizing protection, balance, and the elements.

• Hamsa Hand – A hand-shaped amulet with an eye in the center, used to ward off the evil eye and negative energy.

• Ankh – An Egyptian symbol of life, protection, and divine energy.

• Eye of Horus (Wadjet) – Offers protection, health, and wisdom.

• Algiz (ᛉ) – A rune of protection and higher guidance.

• Triquetra – A three-interwoven loop symbol representing the triple goddess (maiden, mother, crone) and protection.

• Bindrunes – Custom symbols made from Norse runes for specific protective purposes.

• Hexagram (Seal of Solomon) – Used for divine wisdom and spiritual protection.

• Blackthorn (Saining Rod) – A charm in Celtic magic for warding off evil spirits.

Love & Attraction Charms:

• Heart Symbol – Represents love, passion, and emotional connection.

• Venus Symbol (♀) – Associated with love, beauty, and feminine energy.

• Claddagh Ring – An Irish symbol of love, loyalty, and friendship.

• Red String – A Kabbalistic charm for protection and attracting love.

• Rose Quartz – A stone of love, harmony, and emotional healing.

• Apple (Sacred Fruit) – Used in love spells and fertility rites.

Wealth & Prosperity Charms:

• Coin – Standard charm of wealth, success, and prosperity.

• Maneki-Neko (Lucky Cat) – A Japanese charm for attracting fortune and prosperity.

• Four-Leaf Clover – Brings luck, success, and good fortune.

• Fehu (ᚠ) – Manifests wealth, prosperity, and abundance.

• Cornucopia (Horn of Plenty) – A symbol of abundance and wealth.

• Chinese Coins (Tied with Red String) – A feng shui charm for prosperity.

• Citrine (Merchant’s Stone) – Attracts wealth and financial success.

• Elephant with Trunk Up – A charm for good luck and financial stability.

Power & Strength Symbols:

• Thor’s Hammer (Mjölnir) – A Norse symbol for protection and personal power.

• Dragon Symbol – Represents strength, wisdom, and magickal power.

• The Lion (Solar Power) – Represents courage, dominance, and royalty.

• Oak Leaf & Acorn – Strength, endurance, and longevity.

• Sowilo Rune (ᛋ) – Represents the sun’s power, success, and victory.

• Phoenix – A symbol of resilience, transformation, and rebirth.

Wisdom & Knowledge Symbols:

• Key – Unlocks new opportunities, wisdom, and secrets.

• Ouroboros (Serpent Eating Its Tail) – Represents infinite wisdom and cycles of renewal.

• The Owl – A symbol of wisdom, intuition, and the unknown.

• Merkaba (Star Tetrahedron) – Represents spiritual ascension and higher consciousness.

• Celtic Awen – Three rays representing divine inspiration, wisdom, and creativity.

• Feather – A symbol of knowledge, communication with spirits, and travel.

• Shell – Connection to water energy, emotions, intuition.

• The Labyrinth – A journey of self-discovery and enlightenment.

• Spider Web Charm – Symbolic of creativity, patience, weaving fate.

• The Book (Grimoire Symbol) – Represents arcane knowledge and magickal wisdom.

Healing & Health Symbols:

• Caduceus (Staff of Hermes) – Often confused with the Rod of Asclepius, it symbolizes healing and balance.

• Rod of Asclepius – A staff with a serpent, representing medicine and healing.

• Chalice/Grail – A symbol of spiritual nourishment and healing.

• Dove Symbol – Represents peace, purity, and emotional healing.

• Green Aventurine – A crystal associated with heart healing and vitality.

• Healing Hand (Reiki Symbol) – Used in energy healing practices.

Magick & Spiritual Symbols:

• Triple Moon (Waxing, Full, Waning) – Represents the triple goddess and the phases of magick.

• Yin-Yang – Balancing opposing energies, duality, and harmony.

• Infinity Symbol (∞) – Represents limitless potential and eternal cycles.

• Spiral (Sacred Geometry) – Represents cosmic forces, spiritual growth, and energy flow.

• Alchemical Symbols – Such as Sulfur (fire), Mercury (transformation), and Salt (earthly existence).

• The Sigil – A personal or created magical symbol for manifesting desires.

• The Triskelion (Triple Spiral) – A Celtic symbol of motion, progress, and spiritual evolution.

Death & Afterlife Symbols:

• The Scythe – Symbol of death, transformation, and the cycle of life.

• Anubis (Jackal-Headed Deity) – Egyptian guide of the dead and protector of souls.

• Raven & Crow – Messengers of the spirit world, associated with death and prophecy.

• The Skull – Represents mortality, spiritual protection, and wisdom.

• The Black Rose – A symbol of endings, transformation, and mourning.

Storing & Carrying Magick Charms

Proper storage keeps charms energetically charged and ready for use. Here are some ideas for how to store your charms:

• Charm Bracelet – Wear daily for constant energy.

• Key Ring – Carry for protection, luck, or travel safety.

• Necklace or Amulet Pouch – Close to the heart for emotional or psychic work.

• Pocket Charm Bag – Small pouches with multiple charms inside.

• Altar Bowl or Plate – Keeps charms cleansed and charged.

• Wooden Box – A sacred space for unused or rotating charms.

• Glass Jars – Store charms by category (protection, love, luck).

• Hanging Charms – Over doorways, windows, or in cars for protection.

Activating & Charging Your Charms

Once stored, activate your charms to align them with your energy and purpose. Here are some methods for charging charms:

• Full Moon Light – Best for charms related to psychic abilities, intuition, and love.

• Sunlight – Increases vitality, confidence, and empowerment.

• Fire Energy – Hold over a candle flame to strengthen power (use fire-safe materials).

• Earth Energy – Bury in soil or place on a crystal for grounding.

• Anointing Oils – Rub with essential oils that match the intention (e.g., rose oil for love, peppermint for clarity).

• Breath & Spoken Word – Whisper affirmations or spells into the charm.

Example Activation Spell:

"By earth, air, fire, and sea,

A charm of power this shall be.

Blessed with magic, strong and bright,

Guided by love, luck, and light."

Using Magick Charms in Witchcraft

Protection Magick:

• Wear as Jewelry – Carry protective charms like pentacles, hamsas, or evil eye symbols as rings, necklaces, or bracelets.

• Hang Above Doorways – Place charms like iron horseshoes, pentagrams, witch bells, or bindrunes on doors to keep negative energy away.

• Pocket or Pouch Carrying – Keep a small charm (such as a rune, hexagram, or protective sigil) in your pocket or mojo bag.

• Car Charm for Safe Travel – Hang protective symbols like an Eye of Horus, hag stone, or hamsa in your car.

• Candle Spell with Protective Symbols – Carve protective sigils or runes onto candles and burn them for shielding energy.

Love & Attraction Magick:

• Charm Bags for Love – Create a sachet filled with rose petals, cinnamon, and love-drawing charms to carry with you.

• Embedding in Jewelry – Enchant a piece of jewelry with attraction energy and wear it to enhance romantic appeal.

• Love Candles – Use pink or red candles and tie love charms to them for love spells.

• Bath Ritual with Love Charms – Place rose quartz or heart charms in bathwater to charge yourself with loving energy.

• Knot Magick with Charms – Tie a ribbon around a love-attracting charm while focusing on your desire.

Prosperity & Success Magick:

• Prosperity Jar – Fill a jar with green aventurine, bay leaves, wealth charms and coins to attract wealth.

• Keep Money-Drawing Charms in Wallet – Carry a citrine crystal, Chinese coin, or prosperity sigil inside your wallet.

• Tie Wealth Symbols to Candles – Use green or gold candles and adorn them with symbols for financial success.

• Charm Your Work Desk – Place a charged prosperity charm on your workspace to attract career success.

• Bury a Charm for Long-Term Growth – Plant a coin or lucky charm in the soil with a new plant to manifest sustained wealth.

Healing & Well-being Magick:

• Crystal Healing Charms – Wear or carry stones like amethyst, jade, or lapis lazuli for mental and physical healing.

• Drink Infused Herbal Water – Charge a charm with healing energy and place it beside a cup of herbal tea.

• Create a Healing Amulet – Anoint a small token with essential oils like lavender or rosemary and carry it for health.

• Under-Pillow Charms for Rest – Place a dream charm or amethyst under your pillow to promote restful sleep.

Divination & Psychic Enhancement:

• Pendulum Work – Use a small charm as a pendulum for dowsing and spiritual guidance.

• Charms with Tarot Cards – Keep psychic-enhancing charms with your tarot deck for clearer readings.

• Crystal Ball or Scrying Mirror with Charms – Keep a pentagram, labradorite, or a third-eye charm near scrying tools.

• Create an Intuition Talisman – Carry a charm or rune (such as Algiz or Ansuz) to strengthen intuition.

• Anointing the Third Eye – Use a charm to draw anointing oil onto the third eye for spiritual awareness.

Spirit Communication & Ancestral Work:

• Ancestral Altar Offerings – Place a charm representing your ancestors on your altar to honor and connect with them.

• Use Spirit Keys – Enchant an old key as a tool to unlock communication with spirits.

• Bone or Shell Divination – Keep a charm or marked bones for spirit-based divination.

• Spirit Sigils - Use name sigils or symbols of spirits to connect with them.

• Carve Names on Candles – Inscribe an ancestor’s name on a candle along with a symbolic charm for guidance.

• Use a Spirit Bottle – Fill a small bottle with herbs, salt, and charms to aid in contacting spirits.

Shadow Work & Personal Growth:

• Shadow Work Charm Pouch – Keep black tourmaline or obsidian, a moon, a skull, etc. charm in it for deep introspection.

• Mirror Work – Put a shadow work charm on a mirror and use it for self-reflection rituals.

• Create a Personal Power Amulet – Enchant an item with affirmations for self-empowerment.

Warding & Banishing Negativity:

• Black Salt & Charm Mix – Combine black salt with a protective charm and sprinkle it around your home.

• Smoke Cleansing with Charms – Pass a protective charm through incense smoke to empower it.

• Candle Banishing Ritual – Carve a banishing sigil onto a black candle and burn it while focusing on removing negativity.

• Mirror Magick for Reflection & Deflection – Charge a small mirror charm to send negativity back to its source.

Elemental Magick Uses:

• Earth Charms – Bury a stone charm in soil to manifest long-term goals.

• Air Charms – Hang charms in trees or use feathers to enhance communication and wisdom.

• Fire Charms – Burn symbols in fire to release intentions or perform fire scrying.

• Water Charms – Place charms in a bowl of water under the moonlight for cleansing and intuition.

Dream Magick & Astral Travel:

• Dream Charm Under Pillow – Use an amethyst, moonstone, or dreamcatcher to encourage prophetic dreams.

• Charm on Bed Frame – Put a charm under your bed or mattress to enhance dream recall and astral travel.

• Silver Cord Charm – Carry or wear a silver cord for protection during astral projection.

• Anointing with Mugwort Oil – Use mugwort-infused oil on a charm to enhance dream visions.

Retiring or Disposing of Old Charms

If a charm loses its energy, becomes damaged, or is no longer needed:

• Bury It – Returns energy to the earth.

• Burn It – Safely burn wooden or biodegradable charms.

• Release It into Water – If eco-friendly (e.g., shells, stones).

• Gift It – Pass it to someone who may need its magic.

Magick charms are versatile, powerful tools that enhance spells, offer protection, and bring luck. Whether worn, carried, or placed in a sacred space, they infuse your life with magick while keeping your intentions aligned.

[40kmps]

LUCID

sleep paralysis demon x reader | 18+ | 3k

you're a chronic insomniac desperately searching for relief. your best friend and neurologist makes a suggestion to participate in a sleep study utilizing a new drug still in the testing phase. without any other options, you agree, and the first night of the study, you awaken in the middle of the night thinking it didn't work....

warnings; dark content, dubcon, hair pulling, "invisible hands", some choking, somnophilia, alcoholism, some cultural elements, medical ethics ambiguity, atmospheric + horror elements, detail + prose heavy, inaccurate medical elements (I know that sleep docs are pulmonologists lemme alone 😤)

proofread by @hantaslittlearsonist ty as always my lovely friend!

this was partially inspired by being an insomniac myself for most of my life + a strange sleep paralysis encounter of my own

if you want to see more of my work posted, please reblog + leave feedback.

Children at your daycare liked to draw you fanciful pictures of the other lives they lived in their dreams during afternoon nap time. You were shown orange tabby cats with green eyes garbed in full-plates of knight’s armor, brandishing a fish sword against a foe to save the world.

Most often, they dreamed of their families and drew bright, brave versions of themselves holding hands with a parent, a sibling, a bipedal family dog with an electric collar.

A few of the children never smiled in their self-portraits.

The proportions of everything were always silly: gigantic tree trunks with tiny, green bundles sitting atop of them, three enormous fruits supported by brittle vines and growth in bushes, cats and dogs with ears as tall as their bodies, Mom with purple skin instead of brown, Big Sis looking particularly volatile with a theratrically large snarl. Despite this, the children beamed in pride whenever yesterday's drawings would come down off the wall to be replaced with the new.

For some of these kids, this was their own equivalent of having art hung on a refrigerator; to you, it evoked dull, thready jealousy because they were in possession so simple, so biologically normal to them and everyone else around them that to be incapable of the same thing was, surely, a major defect.

Sleep was already a treasure you were seldom allotted the pleasure of greedily surrendering to, but to dream sounded like a terrifying experience to you altogether. It took work; a stringent routine of warm showers (hot and scalding water was forbidden), with an array of chalky, dissolvable tabs and shower gels and shampoos and moisturizers and essential oil dehumidifiers and soy candles and hot tea and special pillow sleep spray you’d seen in an online ad while thumbing through socials.

It took pajamas that were loose, soft but not silky, it took a satin bonnet and a satin eye covering (the kind with pockets for your eyelashes to move), comforters soused in lavender spray meant to magically work out the tightness in your shoulders and calves without the need of paying for a masseuse’s bony elbow. It took purchasing a battery-operated alarm clock to wake yourself for work so you could shut off your phone and leave it plugged into the wall downstairs.

You'd nearly forgotten—you couldn't have sugar after half past six, you had to stagger your water consumption after that time as well because the urge to piss would keep you awake for hours after the fact. The television needed to be off once you finished putting away dishes after dinner.

If you were lucky, this would work and you'd sleep a total of two or three hours uninterrupted—never fully tipping over the edge of wakefulness into deep sleep, but enough to keep yourself going during the day, grocery shop, wrangle the small children, scrape at a bar, get dicked down into your mattress every now and then, and visit Sujay for your usual appointments.

“How do you feel about trying something different?” he always gestured to one of the modern-looking armchairs upholstered in teal polyester before bringing you a tea of some sort. Today was a floral white tea with a spoonful of honey. “Ah, my friend, I worry for you. We've done so many studies, we've tried so many different things. Does none of it help? At all?”

“Not really.” you admitted after a sip, singing your tongue once and placing aside the cup and saucer pair. “I don't know if I can keep doing this until the day I die, Sujay. What do you recommend next?”

Dr. Sujay Patel was your neurologist, an utterly brilliant man, and a close friend from your early university days. Despite the rest of your friend group falling apart, pulled in separate directions by the strings of fate and temptation of money, you'd managed to stay in contact with Sujay throughout grad school. There'd been an intermission, probably a period of two years, where you'd forgotten he even existed.

You were out making a disaster of your life on sleepless, drunken benders because you hoped enough alcohol would either knock you out or kill you. The normal distractions came with it: your entire family dynamic corroding and combusting, an ex getting too big for their britches, and a roommate suspiciously eager to rally behind that ex.

Sujay came back into the picture following a nasty incident of alcohol poisoning that left you bedridden in the hospital for a week. You had decided then, in that uncomfortable bed with their starchy, crunchy white sheets and the bathroom being too far away to simply get up and walk to, that you'd abstain from alcohol forevermore.

He'd seen you in a state of soul-weary disarray not long after you were discharged and had decided to take you on as a patient.

“Now, you have a choice here, just remember that.” Sujay sat adjacent to you in the exact chair you were in. He wasn't daunted by the heat from his tea and took some time with it, whether to savor the subtle notes of it or to consider his words, you weren't sure. “But, a colleague of mine at a… pharmaceutical company has been working to get an experimental sedative into some studies. Testing periods, I guess you could say.”

You're convinced by his dedication to his tea to pick up yours again. “Does it work?”

“As of now, one-hundred percent of those who have participated have reported high-efficacy, or at least have claimed it to be effective in some manner.” His mustache moved as he sipped. You drank as well. “I think you should submit to the study and if you're accepted into one of the control groups—commit to it. We're running out of options otherwise. I don't want you to start mixing up your own cocktail of things. All it takes is the wrong thing once, y'know?”

The chair groaned while you adjusted your weight in it. You sighed. “Would that once be such a bad thing, though? At least I could sleep.”

“I'm a doctor,” Sujay looked over his square-rimmed glasses at you, forehead wrinkles enormous, whites of his eyes showing more than the hazel of his irises. “Behave yourself.”

“Fine.” Mesmerized by the stray tea leaves that had managed to escape the metal ball steeper, you said, “tell me what I need to do.”

Sujay had sent you away that day with a whole host of follow-up appointments and a glowing review to his colleague in hopes of skipping the line as much as possible. Sometimes, it was beneficial to have friends in high places, especially when that means you get a call two days later for preliminary, formal interviews and an offer to participate in said study once clearances came through and your blood work came back as desired.

A month to the day when Sujay first mentioned the possibility of a magical cure all to your relentless insomnia, you were brought into a minimally furnished room—the standard, bland cookie cutter type that hadn't an ounce of personality—dotted from head-to-toe in stickers for neuromonitoring, heart rhythm, and whatever else they fancied, you supposed.

It was only after you had changed into your soft, but not too soft, pajamas and covered in wires that you were handed a tiny purple pill. The color of it was obviously a dissolvable casing and food coloring, but what amazed you was the fact a drug this small was meant to induce the best sleep of your life.

“Take the pill, drink at least four ounces of water, and lie supine.” The technologists outside your room, speaking into an intercom, elaborated afterward that they wanted you to stay on your back while you slept. You didn't bother to point out that you weren't stupid—just tired. “We understand that not everyone finds this position comfortable, but to receive adequate results and to measure your vitals at all times, we ask that you try your best.”

You weren't going to hassle them about this and did precisely as they instructed. Shoved the pill down the back of your throat, drank the bottled water, and tried to get comfortable on your back.

You closed your eyes.

A part of you wondered why you had assented to Sujay’s suggestion so easily, especially where everything else had failed. He was one hell of a friend, and had always been that way for you, but as a doctor, you wondered if two years of cheating through medical school, so as to not royally piss off his parents and be disowned for failing, was finally catching up with him somewhat.

You recalled being startled when he told you he hadn’t married yet and didn't intend to as some deep-rooted act of spite against his family and the traditions they had held over his head all his life. Traditions that had been weaponized against him, rather than supplement his life as an extension of his history, of the things he loved, of a chance to explore more of himself.

You had listened wordlessly the entire time he spoke about it, still sipping on his tea, the results from your latest brain scan clamped to a clipboard on his lap—

This wasn't working.

This was so stupid.

You opened your eyes and sat up in the stiff bed, carefully maneuvering your fingers around your orbital bone to force away the puffiness and exhaustion still lingering behind them. It was only as you rubbed your eyes that you noticed your face was empty of cold stickers and a thousand wires. You didn't hear distant blips in the machine measuring your heart rate, nor track the voices of anyone outside your door.

The room was still the same—the outdated, bulky dresser with claw feet, a few gray chairs you could buy on display in a window somewhere, a low oval table, a bedside table for your glass of water and a crisp, neatly folded change of clothes for the next day.

It was only unusual that you were bare of the technologist’s monitoring equipment and sitting amid an unfaltering, deep silence that amplified the sounds of your very existence. Your slow breaths with a quickening heartbeat, blood pumping in your ears, and the coarse rustle of bedsheets as you shifted around the mattress to bring some sense to what was going on.

Would the technologists have come into the room and removed everything from your body without waking you? More miraculously, without you rousing and throwing your hands on them for touching you first?

“Maybe the drug worked?” you had to consider the possibility, even though it still felt as far-fetched as the holistic medicine practitioners online telling you that an herbal cleansing juice could regenerate organs entirely. “Did I actually sleep? I don't remember dreaming, though. Aren't I supposed to dream?”

You looked to the one, single-paned window across the bedroom to spy how far along the morning had progressed, but found yourself sucking in and holding in a breath instead.

There, standing in your view of the outside, was the silhouette of a tall man. Everything about him was indistinguishable aside from the depth of darkness that made him up. Within the confines of the dim room, alight by a single lamp with an amber bulb that seemed to weaken by the second, this man stood apart from the shadows as something deeper, blacker, but corporeal.

He was every bit a part of the dark as much as he wasn't. And you couldn't tell if he was fading you or turned to look out the window at the parking lot two stories below.

“Hi—hello. Are—are you one of the techs?” you had finally let out that breath, now focusing on gauging the guy’s level of sociability, and by extension, his friendliness and the likelihood of him lunging at you. “I, uh, just would've really appreciated it if someone had woken me up before taking off the stickers.”

You were able to see out the window from the gaps around his body, taking note that it was still dark. Very dark. Beyond that, nothing else was discernible from where you sat and what he blocked.

The study wouldn't have finished yet.

Those techs would've taken precaution to wake you up if something had happened.

“Am I asleep?” you asked the wordlese man. “Am I dreaming now? Are you a dream? Is that what it's like?

You never imagined that there could be so much lucidity within a dream, a level of consciousness so similar to a state of wakefulness. When you thought about moving, you could perfectly flex your fingers, curl your toes into the high-pile carpet underfoot, touch the airy fabric covering your body and feel it touching you in turn.

How normal was this really, though? No one had ever told you about dreams like this. Theirs were always fragmented and discombobulated, just like the kids in daycare who drew pictures of pig astronauts and flame extinguishing spatulas. You knew of a rare few in the population capable of controlling their dreams, steering the outcome in the direction they pleased, but even those people were overrode by their own brains.

This was something completely different.

You became especially convinced of this when you thought the stifled air suddenly shifted with a light breeze, a soft whoosh in your ear. A chill erupted over you, making your skin burst with goose flesh, your brain chasing a shiver down your spine as if cold fingers stroked you all the way down the length of it. Those same fingers stayed low, hovering across your lower back before pushing into you, arching you down onto the mattress.

That freedom you thought you had only moments ago was gone, stolen by this invisible hand on your body that was rounding to you and reaching for your chest. Until now, you thought this had simply been a part of the dream—something you had believed to be in control in when the reality was much different—but, as the buttons on your sleep shirt unfastened before your eyes, the thin layers opening you to the cold, inky air, you weren't sure what to think, to do.

Another hand joined the first with long, heavy fingers to knead at your body and take your pants off of your hips until you were fully exposed to the darkness and the thing still dwelling within the room. It hadn't moved an inch since you'd noticed it a while ago; it never became any clearer, any more defined in the clothes or wore, and trying to look upon its face only filled you with puzzlement and dread.

The large hands were so cold despite all their movement on your hot skin, all of the work they did to start riling you up and making you moan. One of them groped your chest, felt your throat, squeezed your jaw as though to force your gaze at one point in particular (the ceiling), pushed apart your lips to dip into your mouth and wet its fingers on your tongue.

You did so as it was the only thing you could do freely right now.

Those fingers, covered in your spit, caressed you between your legs, stroking you in motions neither gentle or harsh. The muscles in your thighs flinched, stomach tightening, your throat vibrating to produce a moan smothered by the second hand circling your throat, gripping firmly enough where you could breathe, but just barely.

The thing couldn’t stop your thoughts, as much as it seemed to try, so it took to interrupting them—distracting you but squeezing your neck, yanking your head back into the pillow by your hair, adjusting itself to thrust multiple fingers into your body, burying them to the knuckle.

You tried to win this war of willpower by thinking about Sujay and his mustache and his stupid glasses. They were green, sometimes blue; seldom did he like the tortoiseshell look.

The thing lunged at your neck again, this time taking you underside the jaw and forced your head back into the pillow while it fucked you deeper on three fingers.

You wanted to make a sound; a moan, a scream, a torturous whimper or pleasure for the way your body was rocked on the bed, creaking with the weight of a pair combined and not just how it appeared. Your nostrils flared, heart rate at an uneasy high, breaths stuck in the column of your throat behind the hand holding it.

The pressure continued to stack higher and higher, building to such a point where you knew you were about to lose it, unravel, praying that this thing would grant you the kindness of fucking you out of your orgasm.

Your abdomen was wound tight, your groin ached terribly, and your thighs started to shake. Behind your eyes, the kaleidoscopic wheels of color intermingled with the darkness and it all slowly burned to white.

And then—

“Good morning!” you were being shaken awake by one of the technologists, a middle-aged woman with blue eyeliner. She didn't expect for you to jolt upright, ramrod straight, and launch the covers off of your body like you expected horrors underneath. “Oh—hey, honey, you alright? We’re done until tonight. How do you feel?”

You were slow to respond to her, occupied by the morning light filtering in through the window across the bedroom. She gave you some time to gather your bearings and took her time removing the stickers and wires from your skin, suggesting you spend some time really scrubbing in the shower later to get off all the adhesive.

“How about now, honey?” she pulled the last of the stickers and wires off of your shoulder. “You with us?”

You didn't know how to answer that, especially not with how damp you felt inside your thighs.

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

𖦹 ࣪˖ ◂ To The Future⊹ ˖ ࣪✦

WHAT IF!! | Diana Prince, The Wonder Woman, and her wife had a baby? But the problem is...how?

Synopsis; Diana loved you, and in her love, there was everything you needed: an infinite calm in her arms, a refuge in her words, and a future full of promises they didn’t yet know how to write. Together, without haste, without fear, only with the whisper of a love that grew day by day, building a home that needed no words, just shared glances and fleeting smiles.

Pairing ── Diana Prince x Wife! Reader.

Content. MDNI ── Fluff, Mentions of pregnancy, babys, elements of experimentation, mild angst, themes of family, and emotional vulnerability.

A/N ── English is not my first language—Spanish— A flood of posts is coming. Honestly, I've always wanted to write about Wonder Woman x reader (my inner lesbian speaking U.U) — she's my true "Hear me out" moment.

There always comes that inevitable point in relationships when the conversation turns to family. But in your case, we’re not talking about just any relationship. No, you’ve been happily married for three years to none other than Wonder Woman herself. The impossible dream of any average mortal, and here you are, sharing your morning coffee with the Amazon princess while debating whether the coffee should have sugar or not.

Then, one day, you notice it. At first, it’s small, subtle gestures. Maybe she takes you to the park on any random Saturday, and suddenly her eyes shine a little too brightly when a couple with a stroller walks by. “Isn’t it adorable?” she says, pointing to the baby who’s sleeping like it’s dreaming of cotton clouds. Or maybe, while shopping at some store, she stops in front of a mannequin wearing a tiny Wonder Woman costume, complete with a miniature tiara. “Look at this,” she says, holding it up with a smile. “Don’t you think someone in our family would look perfect in this someday?”

And then there’s the direct talk, as only Diana could do it. Straightforward, but with that sweetness that disarms you. “I’ve been thinking,” she says one night while you both watch the stars from the terrace, her hair gently waving in the breeze. “You and I… we could be wonderful parents.” And even though she says it seriously, there’s a playful gleam in her eyes.

But of course, this is Diana, Wonder Woman. For every serious conversation, there’s an avalanche of charmingly chaotic moments. Like that time she taught you how to hold a baby using a sack of rice because, according to her, “a warrior must be prepared for any situation.” Or that other time, during dinner with Clark and Lois, she launched into a philosophical debate about whether their baby should have an Amazonian, human, or Kryptonian name “just in case”—leaving you with your face completely red.

The problem came later, when you both looked at each other one afternoon in the Batcave, in front of a whiteboard full of equations, diagrams, and something that looked like a drawing of a baby with a cape, made by you in a burst of nerves. Yes, that was the tricky part: how.

The conversation with Batman was, in short, awkward.

“Let me see if I understand,” Bruce said, massaging the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “You want me to use my resources, technology, and—oh, I don’t know—my few hours of sleep, to figure out how an Amazonian and a human can have a biological child.”

“Exactly,” Diana replied, crossing her arms with the naturalness of someone who had already defeated gods. “Why are you making that face? You’ve done more complicated things.”

“Not with babies involved.”

Meanwhile, you tried not to make eye contact. After all, how do you explain to a man who spent his life as a dark knight that you now needed him for something so… personal?

Despite his reluctance, Bruce agreed to help. But not without conditions. “This doesn’t leave the circle. Not a word to Clark or Barry. Ever.” His look was so severe that even Diana raised an eyebrow, amused.

J’onn J’onzz, on the other hand, was a little more kind when consulted. “It’s a fascinating topic from a scientific perspective,” he said with that alien calm that seemed to come from centuries of Martian patience. “Though I must warn you, interdimensional hybrids aren’t a widely explored field.”

“Thanks for the optimism, J’onn,” you replied, glancing sideways at how Bruce and Diana argued about whether Amazonian genes could overpower normal humans.

The following weeks were a whirlwind of experiments, consultations, and technology that seemed straight out of a science fiction movie. J’onn led the genetic analysis, while Bruce applied his methodical obsession to create a viable procedure. Every night, Diana came home with a detailed report and summarized it for you with a mix of enthusiasm and seriousness.

“Bruce says we might need a Kryptonian catalyst,” she said one day, as if she were talking about what to have for dinner. “Do you think Clark will mind if we ask him for a hair sample?”

By the time everything was ready, you were already used to the strangest conversations of your life. But when the time came, when Diana held your hand while J’onn and Bruce confirmed that their plan would work, you couldn’t help but smile. They had achieved the impossible.

And so, with the help of a grumpy dark knight and a Martian with infinite patience, your dream of starting a family with Diana began to take shape. Because, in the end, if there’s one thing that heroes understand better than anyone, it’s that no challenge is too great when it comes to love.

The months flew by, and with each one, the Batcave became a second home for you and Diana. Every week, you would enter the dark, cold sanctuary of Gotham, where Batman, or more specifically Bruce, waited with an air of seriousness and a look that made you feel like you were participating in a high-risk operation. And in a way, you were.

Diana, although more than capable of facing the universe’s greatest threats, couldn’t help but show a completely human vulnerability when it came to her baby. At first, she tried to hide it, but every time Bruce, J'onn, or worse, Tim, began to review the baby’s growth with that scientific look, her face would tense. Tim, the Robin at that time, was so meticulous that he seemed to enjoy measuring every aspect of the baby’s development more than anyone else, as if he were calculating the exact moment a future superhero might crawl out of the crib and start kicking butt.

“Everything seems to be in order,” Tim said, again and again, checking the monitors as if it were a game. Diana smiled, but you could see her fingers interlacing with Bruce’s, looking for some sign of support. Bruce, meanwhile, kept observing in silence, calculating every possible scenario with a sharp mind, but also a little bit of affection hidden between his words.

“If Tim tells you it’s fine, it probably is,” he said with his voice tone that left no room for doubt, but that, to you, sounded strangely reassuring. He wasn’t used to showing many emotions, but when Diana couldn’t help but bite her lip, he noticed.

Every time Bruce and Tim gathered to review the baby’s growth, she would remain still, as if waiting for a verdict. “Is everything okay? Is this all we hoped for?” she would ask from time to time, even though the answers were already quite clear.

And then, the day came.

It all happened in the blink of an eye: a quick trip to the Batcave, followed by a torrent of emotions that no one could have anticipated. Diana, calmer than you expected, held the baby with a softness that only she could have. And there it was, the little being that had been the center of so many scientific consultations, now wrapped in the warmth of the woman who had carried it in her womb.

“It’s a girl,” Bruce murmured, his deep voice but with a rare warmth. “Welcome to the world.”

Diana’s smile was as bright as the sun. Her eyes, always so firm, were now filled with infinite sweetness as she looked at her daughter, who slept peacefully in her arms.

If it was a girl, things were simple. She could grow up on Themyscira, surrounded by the peace of the island, with the ancient warriors and her grandmother, Hippolyta, to guide her. The aunts would also be there, and they could teach her the secrets of her lineage, as well as her mother’s story. Diana could freely take her to the island and watch her grow in an environment of love and power.

But if it was a boy… the rules were different. Although Diana’s love, yours, and her grandmother’s would be endless, they couldn’t take the little one to Themyscira for now. The island, a place of ancient traditions and mystical protections, wasn’t the best place for a human child at the moment. There were too many dangers and secrets still to be understood, and Diana knew the boy would need a larger, more complicated world before he could be part of that sacred refuge.

When J'onn confirmed the gender, Diana's relief was palpable, and although the joy of holding her daughter was absolute, there was also a slight shadow of concern at the thought of what might have been if it had been a boy.

But as the hours passed and the little being with bright eyes and a peaceful smile woke up, Diana leaned over her, whispering with unconditional love, “Everything will be fine. The world will be ours to give her.”

And as the little girl snuggled against her mother, both knew that no matter what the future held, their family had already begun to take shape. With Diana’s love, yours, and the support of all the heroes around them, the little being would grow up in a world full of protection, love, and adventures that would undoubtedly surpass any challenge.

A/N ── Since I was little, when I lived in a messed-up country, Wonder Woman has always been one of my favorite heroes. I have other heroes I love too, but with Diana, I kneel and pray, no kidding! She’s so gorgeous, especially in those fanarts of Buff! Wonder Woman… God, she drives me crazy, I adore her to the core. It’s like my heart is a suit of armor about to crumble because of her!

[short-honey-badger]

An Unexpected Guest

SPOILER ALERT for newest chapter of One Piece!

Can't stop thinking about this beautiful man. I hope you guys enjoy my characterization for Shamrock! Also again. I just can't take his name seriously, but we gotta do what we gotta do.

Pairing! Figarland Shamrock x Female Reader

Warnings! Heavy petting, viginal fingering, non-con elements, and trickery

Masterlist for Shamrock -> HERE Part 2 -> HERE

You arrive home from the market to find the door to your home ajar. You know that you closed and locked it before you left to get your shopping done, so seeing this made a strange mix of fear and excitement shoot down your spine. There was only one person who had the key to your home, and that was a red-haired menace of a man who you'd come to love. You lick your lips and draw up the courage you're able to muster, and then step inside your home.

There isn't anything out of the ordinary at first, though the sight of tall black boots and a long, hooded black cloak throws you off a bit. As far as you knew, Shanks had always worn sandals and had a bad habit of not taking them off at the door. Feeling unease sweep through you, you continued on to the kitchen where you began to put away your groceries. If your lover was here, he could at least wait a second.

You're putting away a tin of coffee when you feel a hand land on your hip. You jump, and try to turn around, but the grip stalls you. A nervous smile paints your lips before a sigh of pleasure leaves you when you feel that hand slide up your side, sweeping your hair to the side, and then the touch of soft lips upon your neck.

They paint a trail along your flesh, up the side of your throat to gently nip the sensitive skin just below your ear. Your eyes shutter, a hum leaving you as you lean back against the solid form of your lover behind you.

“I didn't think you would be back so soon, love,” you murmur, but your answer is just a soft hum before that hand slides back down your ribs to land on your hip. It squeezes gently before inching towards your front, devious fingers playing with the tie of your pants and plucking it loose. You shuffle a bit, parting your legs and biting your bottom lip when those long fingers snake down your pants, the pads of his middle and pointer gently rubbing you through your underwear.

It's a teasing stroke, and pleasure builds as your lover works you up. His lips finds your neck again, teeth nipping and tongue flicking out to sooth the hurts lefts behind. His fingers draw up your mound, and then they are delving under the thin material, fingers sliding past your aching clit to stroke through your folds, soaking his hand with your greedy cunt.

He crooks his hand, middle finger finding your entrance and working his was in slowly, and you grind yourself against the heel of his palm, a whine building in your throat when your lover bites down just a bit harder at the juncture of your neck and shoulder.

“Shanks,” his name falls from your lips like a prayer, and it's then that your world shatters.

“Not quite, darling.”

This voice is Shanks’ but there is a slight accent that you know you've never heard in your lovers voice before. You freeze in this man's hold, eyes blowing wide when a second hand grips your waist, pulling you back against a lean body.

“Then who-,” you break off with a gasp when you are reminded that there are a pair of thick fingers stuffed inside your leaking pussy. Your face floods with shame, tears making your eyes burn and you grab at the wrist that is shoved down your pants, “Ahh -no!”

The man behind you laughs, something deep and dangerous that sends shivers of fear tearing up your spine. His free hand trails up your side to grip your jaw, and he turns your face to the side and up, so that you can meet his gaze.

This man who stares down at you looks so much like Shanks but nothing like your dear lover at the same time. His hair is longer, pulled up in a half updo though some has escaped to dangled in front of his face. His face is clear if any scaring, and while this man shares the same red eyes, they are shaded with a distinct look, making you feel tiny and vulnerable. He smirks down at you, lips curling into a mean smile when he crooks his fingers and you gasp.

“Oh, yes, darling. I see why my younger brother keeps coming back to you. You make such delightful sounds,” He murmurs, and your mind short circuits at this new information. Brother?

You don't get the chance to process much else after that. This Shanks imposter, twin?, curls his fingers again, shoving them deeper inside of you, grinding the heel of his palm against your clit and making you go cross eyed with pleasure. He works you back up to that edge, and you hate yourself and your body in that moment for allowing it. But this man feels so much like your lover that your body can't seem to tell the difference.

Pleas and denials spill from your lips the closer you get, tears falling from your lashes to spill down your cheeks. The hand along your jaw is like steel, keeping up looking up at the man who is doing this to you.

“Are you close, darling? Good, I'll need you nice a wet for what I have planned for you. I'm not usually a jealous man, but my dear twin chose well when he found you. I might just have to steal you away, wouldn't that be nice?”

His fingers brush against that spot that makes you see stars, and you watch him grin as he bullies that spot. That tension snaps within seconds, slick coating his hand as you clench around his fingers. He strokes you through the orgasm, eyes alight with deadly interest as he slows to a stop. Any hope of being released is dashed when he leans in close, lips pressing against your brow in a sweet gesture that just makes you deep more.

He slips his hand from your fluttering cunt, admiring the sticky cream that still clings to his fingers before slipping them into his mouth with a soft hum. You watch him lick them clean before he drops his hand, thay smirk wicked and full of dark promises.

“Now, darling. I want you to say my name when I fuck you. None of this Shanks business, and I won't take you away from your lovely home. Think you can do that?”

His tone is condescending, as if he is talking to a child. You want to refuse. To fight and thrash, but you know that you would be no match against this man posing as your lover. So you do the only thing you can think to do, and dip your head in a nod, lips trembling.

“What is your name?”

The redhead hums in satisfaction, and leans down, lips brushing against yours, and the motion makes you feel sick. He catches your eyes, gaze going hooded.

“You may call me, Shamrock.”