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mrsjjongstby · 5 days ago

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P: Vampire!Sunghoon x Time-travel Scientist!Reader

Warnings: Mentions on biting, blood, feeding scenes, mentions of death, dissapearance, time travelling, yearning, kissing, physical touch, possesiveness, soft angst, happy ending!

Synopsis: In 2090, you're sent back in time to study a village that vanished without explanation. There, you met him. You weren't supposed to fall in love with him. But you did, with a vampire. And when time ran out, you left — believing that story had ended. Until one night, back in the future, he finds you. He hasn’t aged. And he never stopped waiting.

Wordcount: 11.8k

June 22, 2090.

The hum of the machines never stopped in sector 7.

Even at 3:27 in the evening, the corridors filled with guards, the bright white light pulsing against the huge glass doors. Surveillance cameras present every nook and crook of the room with security drones flying silently overhead, scanning every face, every badge, every retinal print.

There were no windows in this part of the KRONEX institute- no clocks, no noise from the outside world. Time, here, was studied, twisted, and sometimes... broken.

You adjusted the collar of your lab coat, feeling the slight static charge settling against your skin. Another night. Another sequence calibration.

You were the lead scientist for KRONEX's Temporal Division, and one of only five globally certified operators with direct clearance to manipulate raw time.

Not because you are lucky- but because you are good- really good at what you do.

"You are early." Said a familiar voice.

You turned around to see Taehyun, hands in his lab coat pockets, glasses slightly askew. He always arrived fashionably five minutes late, so this was new.

"So are you," you say smirking.

"Someone write it in the history."

He chuckled, stepping beside you as the biometric scanner opened the reinforced glass doors to Lab room Delta- 12.

Inside, your team was already gathered,

Mira, the chronophysics analyst, stood at her console with her usual lip balm which she applies ever minute, tapping at the interface like it owned her something.

Yuvi, head of atmospheric translation, stayed near the back, mumbling data projections to herself.

Jungwon, the youngest, but sharp as hell, greeted you with the usual, two fingered salute from behind the drone mapping panel.

"Took you long enough." Mira muttered without looking up.

"You're welcome for the coffee I brought you last time." You say as you head to the central table.

Everyone quickly followed you, sitting around the table.

You five are the specialized high qualification scientists who got chosen to be the people handling lab delta- 12. Coming from different backgrounds, having same interests and working in cases together for years made your guys' bond unbreakable.

You five are highly qualified specialists chosen to operate Lab Delta-12. Coming from different backgrounds but sharing the same passion, you've worked on countless cases together over the years — and that’s made your bond unbreakable.

The door opened, interrupting your casual talks.

In walked, Dr. Han Myung-sik— head of KRONAX, the man who'd once published a paper predicting time dilation six years before it was observed in real data. His face, though aged, was unreadable— eyes sharp beneath the thick silver eyebrows.

No one spoke. You all stood up immediately.

"Sit," he said. "This will be quick."

The doors sealed shut behind him. A cold hum flickered through the room as he turned on the internal projector.

Five floating files appeared above the surface. Each labeled, RED CASE.

"Your group— delta 12 is chosen for this matter." Dr.Han said quietly.

You could feel the weight of his words which he's about to say.

"We've uncovered five unresolved incidents. Each linked to potentially an unnatural shift in recorded time."

"These aren't ripples," he continued.

"These are fractures. Events that don't line up with any known temporal logic. People disappeared, memories vanished, objects never aged and yet—"

He tapped the interface. The room dimmed, and each of your profiles synced to a case file.

"You are the only ones qualified to investigate."

He started pacing slowly.

"Yuvi. You're being sent to March 2311, Seoul; right before the blackout that erased six months of global data records. You'll observe the internal tech culture and corporate rivalry."

Yuvi blinked, nodding quietly, already calculating her cover identity.

"Mira."

He turned to her.

"Your case is year 1652, Gyeongju province. A palace scribble who reportedly recorded a 'sky-born woman of light' before his records were seized. The ink used in his account was... not of this earth.”

Mira grinned. "Finally, something fun."

"Jungwon. Taehyun. You'll split into Northern territories. Parallel years, overlapping reports. Two villages with identical names, but only one should exist."

Jungwon raised an eyebrow, "Are we crossing time lines? "

"Just brushing," Dr.Han replied. "Do not stay longer than you have to."

Then, he turned to you.

"And you."

The room stilled.

"Your case is the most weird one."

A red dot expanded above the table.

Satellite data. Korean countryside. Grainy and quiet.

"A village in 2019 – known to exist, documented, populated and functioning." "Then, it disappeared. Not physically or violently. Just... gone. All the databases rewrote themselves. The people who lived there vanished as if they were never even existed— never even born." "Your job is to go there, undercover. Blend in. Find the root event. Identify the root autonomy and leave before it happens."

Your fingers clenched lightly under the table. You stared at the red dot on the map.

2019.

A quiet time. A dangerous one — because it was still close enough to modern history to be familiar. Easy to slip up. Easy to stay too long.

"Do we suspect temporal interference?"

You asked as you shifted your gaze from the red dot to his eyes. Dr.Han meets your eyes. "We suspect something far worse. Something that doesn't belong in any time."

The files flickered red again. "You'll begin calibration tonight. You jump within 750 hours. That is one month. Use your time wisely."

As he turned to leave, he paused just once— right by the door.

"And one more thing," he said without looking back. "Don't fall in love with the timeline. It doesn't love you back."

With that, he was gone. The table darkens. The lights return. Yuvi exhales. Mira cracks her knuckles and Jungwon leans forward.

"2019 huh?" Taehyun mutters beside you. "Better pack your sarcasm and Emo clothes."

You don't respond. You just stare at the red dot again.

The village. Gone from memory. Gone from maps. But waiting for you all the same.

One month.

And only one day to finish prepping, calibrating your minds, bodies, and identities before entering a timeline that wouldn’t even recognize your names. You sat in the Sim Room, surrounded by floating holoscreens of early-2010s Korea. Architecture. Clothing. Language slang. Historical emotional markers. It was all too recent. Too real.

Mira was curled on a bench nearby, watching 1600s scrollwork with a look that said I’d rather wing it. Taehyun was arguing with an AI over inconsistency in his destination’s documentation. Again. Jungwon? Already finished his prep module and was now trying to teach Mira how to drink from a metal bottle while upside down.

“You’re going to the past, not space,” she said, annoyed but smiling. “Still useful if I end up in a well,” Jungwon shrugged. You blinked away the holograms and stood, stretching out your arms.

“This doesn’t feel like prep,” Yuvi murmured, joining you. “It feels like goodbye.”

You didn’t answer.

She studied you, thoughtful. “You okay with your timeline?” “2019 is barely the past,” you said. “Feels like I could bump into my parents if I’m not careful.” “Yeah, but yours is the haunted village,” Mira called. “Mine is just a floating woman in the sky.”

“You’re the floating woman,” Jungwon muttered under his breath. She chucked a protein chip at him while he hid behind you, holding your shoulders as if his body isn't larger than yours.

“Alright,” Taehyun said, glancing around. “Final dinner tonight in the Commons? Before the serious lockdown begins?” “Only if you don’t bring another slide presentation to the table,” Mira groaned.

“I make no promises.” You smiled — small, but genuine

And as the others drifted out of the room, chattering, playfully teasing, you lingered a moment longer — looking up at the blinking red timestamp over the Sim Door.

30:00:00:00 DAYS : HOURS : MINUTES: SECONDS JUMP

You were the first one in the bay. The air smelled sterile, like metal and ionized mist. The chamber was massive — white, cold, humming. Five jump pods lined the back wall, each glowing faint blue with individual temporal calibration.

The boots of your suit clicked softly as you walked, every step echoing louder than your breath. The fabric hugged your body like skin, the material pressure-sealed and embedded with auto-adaptive climate tech. Your mind was a storm beneath the still surface — years of training colliding with something much quieter.

“Couldn’t sleep?” came Taehyun’s voice from behind. You turned. He looked exhausted, but composed — the kind of man who smiled with his mouth but not his eyes. “Didn’t try,” you replied simply.

He nodded, stepping beside you, with his arm around your shoulder. You both looked at the pods in silence.

One for each of you. One jump. One direction. No promises of coming back the same.

Soon after, Yuvi arrived — hair tied, suit zipped, clutching a small, folded piece of paper in her hand. A name, probably. A reminder of something real. Mira strolled in with a grin too bright to be sincere. “Guess it’s finally happening,” she said, snapping her gum, though her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted her suit cuffs.

Jungwon came last, walking like he was on his way to a vacation. Humming. But you saw the tension in his knuckles as he flexed them once, twice. Dr. Han entered from the upper level, flanked by three silent technicians and a console assistant holding the jump sequence tablet.

“Final clearances have been locked in,” he announced, voice loud across the bay. “You have fifteen minutes.”

One by one, your mission drives were inserted into the small ports at your pod stations. The information would sync once you landed in your time period — personalized cover stories, forged credentials, emergency kill phrases.

“I’ll see you all again,” Jungwon said, softer now, eyes scanning the rest of you. “In whatever version of time we land in.

“Bring back something cool,” Mira added. “Like a comet or an alien.” “Or your soul intact,” Yuvi muttered, mostly to herself. You looked around.

These people — their lives had been laced into yours for years. Work. Sleep. Discover. Repeat. The way your names felt normal together. The easy sarcasm. The shared silence in moments like this. You didn’t know what it would be like without them. Maybe you weren’t meant to know. Your pod blinked green. Final sequence activated.

You stood in front of it, heart slamming once, sharply, against your ribs.

“You’ll be inserted at 03:12 AM, August 9th, 2019,” Dr. Han said beside you. “Just outside the village’s boundary. Our records end there. No satellite returns after that date. No digital trails. Just fog.”

You nodded.

“And remember,” he added, “observe, record, don’t interfere.” He paused. “And don’t stay longer than you have to.” You stepped into the pod. The door hissed closed behind you. Inside: darkness. Soft blue lights blinked around your headrest. A countdown began in the corner.

00:00:10 00:00:09 00:00:08... Your breathing slowed. Fingers tight on the seat grips. 00:00:03 00:00:02... You thought of nothing. 00:00:01 ENGAGING TEMPORAL LAUNCH.

Everything went white.

You woke up choking on fog.

Your knees hit grass first, body staggering out of the collapsed time pod buried beneath undergrowth. The pod disintegrated on schedule — technology melted into mist the second your boots touched this era. You stood slowly, the chill biting through your fabricated 2010s-era jacket. A navy hoodie. Worn boots. Phone model synced to local time tech. Fake ID in your pocket. History-approved. And ahead of you — trees. Low mist curling over quiet fields. One winding road in the dark.

“03:14,” you whispered, checking the time. You started walking. It didn’t take long to reach the village. Just a few winding turns along cracked pavement and flickering streetlamps — too dim for a place this small. It looked normal at first glance. Houses with tiled roofs. Wind chimes. A distant dog barking. But the silence? Too heavy. Too complete. Not a single radio. Not one human voice.

You followed the map projection in your eye lens. Your identity here: transfer student, staying with a distant relative for the summer before university. Your cover was clean. “Blend in. Observe. Don’t interfere.” Dr. Han’s words echoed.

You reached the village center. A bakery. A post office. A small clinic. It was beautiful — in a nostalgic, sleepy sort of way. You spotted an inn. Two stories. Wooden steps. A soft yellow porch light still glowing. You knocked once. A moment later, an older woman opened the door, eyes squinting at your unfamiliar face.

“Ah… you must be the niece, right? From Seoul?” You smiled, polite. "Yes, ma’am.” “Room’s upstairs. Already made it up for you.” With that, you leave to your room.

August 10, 2019.

The village was quieter in the morning. Not dead. Just... slow.

You walked past the corner bakery — the one that smelled like burnt sugar and citrus. Past a row of mailboxes that hadn’t been touched in a week. You weren’t sure if people here hated bills or just trusted too easily. Notebook in your jacket. Identity chip syncing your steps to the research log in your neural band.

Day 2. Civilian behavior: consistent. Average activity start time: 6:53 AM No sign of temporal noise. No anomalies.

You smiled and bowed slightly to an old man sweeping the steps outside a shop. He gave you a nod in return. Eyes kind, but faintly puzzled — like he couldn’t remember when you arrived, but accepted you anyway. That was the first pattern you noticed. People here forgot details fast. But nothing big enough to ring alarms. Just enough to feel like déjà vu.

You took a seat on the raised edge of a well in the town center, glancing down at the still water. Your eye-lens scanned your surroundings. Kids biking. A woman hanging sheets in perfect rows. Market stalls setting up.

Everything looked normal. Back at the inn, the old woman handed you a basket.

“Bread for the east field home. The family that lives up near the woods. They get their supplies late.”

“East field?” you asked, trying to remember the map.

“Take the long path. The house is old, but someone’s always there.”

“Someone?”

She nodded. “A quiet boy. Rarely speaks. Keeps to himself. Been around longer than most here.”

You didn’t ask more. Just took the basket and walked. And as you stepped onto the eastern trail, into the trees and shifting light… You didn’t know yet that you were walking toward the beginning. Of the end.

The path to the east house was longer than expected.

Thick trees bent overhead like old, quiet watchers. The air here was different — cooler, touched with something metallic. You adjusted the basket in your hands. You finally reached the gate — rusted iron, half open. A path lined with overgrown grass stretched up to a traditional hanok-style house. Wooden. Quiet. Heavy with stillness.

You stepped through, gently. No animals. No birds. Just that strange silence again. You knocked once. Then twice. No answer. You were about to leave when the door creaked open. And there he was.

He looked like he didn’t belong in 2019. Or any year.

Dressed simply — white cotton shirt, black slacks, sleeves slightly rolled up. But there was something... too elegant about the way he held the door. Something slow and precise. Still. His eyes — dark, unfathomable — landed on yours.

For a full second, he didn’t say a word. Neither did you. “Delivery,” you said softly, lifting the basket.

“Right,” he replied after a pause, voice smooth, almost melodic. “They said you’d be coming.”

You held the basket out, but he didn’t take it immediately. Instead, he studied you. Not rudely. Not even intently. Just... curiously. Like a puzzle he couldn’t quite read. Or a scent he wasn’t supposed to follow. The moment you stepped through the trees, he felt it. The beat beneath your skin. The warmth. Your blood had a scent — not strong, not desperate like others.

Sweet. Calming. Clean. He hadn’t fed in days. But you made the ache stir. “You live here alone?” you asked.

He nodded. “For a while now.”

“It’s beautiful.”

He didn’t smile. But he didn’t look away.

“Most people say it’s empty.”

You tilted your head. “Are you?”

That made something shift in his gaze — not amusement exactly, but the ghost of something near it. “Not today,” he said finally.

He took the basket, fingers brushing yours for just half a second. His skin was cool. Not cold. But noticeably not warm. “Thank you,” he said, stepping back. “Be careful going back. The light fades fast out here.”

You turned to leave, but your instincts tugged once. “What’s your name?” you asked over your shoulder.

A pause.

“Sunghoon,” he said quietly.

You nodded once. “I’m Y/N.” Another pause. “I know,” he said.

And then the door closed. As you walked back down the path, heart steady but hands tingling from where his touched yours, you couldn’t shake one thing: There had been no heartbeat behind that door. Just silence. You don’t notice someone- Sunghoon, watching you from his window as you walk back.

And that, that night few people go missing because Sunghoon, couldn’t handle his hunger for blood. Not when he was reminded of how desperate he was to taste something sweet- something pure like your blood- like you. He can’t bite you, not yet. So, he resorted to his usual way, biting the villagers. One by one.

It was quiete big village when Sunghoon first step foot in there. 2010. The year Sunghoon decided to enter into the huge village, leaving behind memories of his previous life- the one where everyone treated him like the monster he was. He didn’t like it one bit. So? He ended it. Bit and killed everyone who called him a monster.

Leaving behind memories and people wasn’t new to him. He’s been like that since he was turned- since 527 years. It's what he’s best at other than sucking peoples’ blood. Having spent many years on this planet made him discard unwanted memories for good.

And maybe that’s why he never truly loved anyone. It’s not because he isn’t capable of it. It's because he knows that they won't stick around. Not when they find out what he is, not when they leave this world entirely. Also, because, he never truly found someone who made him feel things. Feel things which are foreign to him- Desire.

Desire for blood? Thats more like filling his hunger. Desire is what he felt when he saw you. If you ever told Sunghoon that he’d yearn for a girl he met once, he’d scoff, shaking his head. That can never happen, not when he's been on this earth for more than 500 years. He knows how to control his feelings- it was easy for him because he didn't have any feelings in the first place.

But why is that the moment he saw you, heard you- your hearbeat, your blood pulsing in your throat, smelled the scent of you, he wanted to make you his?

Its funny, really. This whatever weird feeling he has in his stomach is new to him. Perhaps he’s hungry for your blood? No. He’s hungry for you.

You are here to find out how the village disappeared. Maybe you do find out that he’s the reason for the mass disappearance. But will your heart obey to leave behind everything that you've uncovered here? Leave behind someone, who is the sole reason why the disappearance happened in the first place?

Only the future holds the answer. Maybe the present? You truly don't know, not when the time’s twisted and you are spiralling in it.

August 14, 2019.

You weren’t planning to run into him again. You were just taking the trail by the lake. Collecting audio samples. Watching people prep for the lantern festival — all smiles and paper crafts, sunlight catching on water like glass. But then there he was. Standing near the edge of the hill that overlooked the lake. Not moving. Just… watching it. Like the water itself had said something only he could hear.

You almost didn’t say anything. But he turned to you first.

“You walk this path often?”

His voice was still soft. Still slow. Like everything he said had already passed through a hundred filters before reaching you.

“Not really,” you said, stepping closer. “But it’s quiet. Good for thinking.”

“Thinking,” he echoed, like it was a foreign word. “You do that a lot?”

You smiled. “Occupational hazard.”

“Ah,” he said. “Let me guess. You’re a writer.”

“Wrong.”

“A scientist?”

You blinked. A beat too long.

“Why that guess?”

“Your eyes,” he said.

“What about them?”

“They look like they’re always dissecting things. Even me.”

He turned back to the lake after that, leaving your thoughts spiraling slightly behind him. The sun was dipping lower, casting light through the trees. A warm breeze stirred the ends of your hair, and for once, you didn’t feel like recording anything. Just being here.

“Why do you live so far from the village?” you asked.

“They forget me better this way.”

You frowned. “That’s sad.”

“Not really.”

“When people forget you… you stop needing to prove you exist.”

You turned to him then — not just listening but really seeing him. The distance in his eyes. The calm sadness he wore like second skin.

“You don’t want to be remembered?”

“I didn’t say that,” he replied. “I just don’t mind being forgotten.”

A few kids laughed somewhere nearby, running with paper lanterns. You looked down at your shoes. “You’re hard to forget, you know.” It slipped out before you could stop it. He didn’t respond for a moment. Then, so quietly: “So are you.”

Neither of you moved. The wind stilled. The air felt... charged. Like time paused. Just for this.

Then— “You should go,” he said gently.

“It gets colder here after sunset.” He wasn’t pushing you away. But he was. And that strange ache bloomed behind your ribs without warning. You turned to go, steps slow. And as you walked, you felt his eyes on your back the entire time.

August 18, 2019.

It was supposed to be a short walk. You’d been gathering weather data, checking tree patterns near the edge of the forest. The innkeeper said the rain wouldn’t come until morning. But the sky didn’t listen. It started with a single drop. Then another.

Within seconds, it was falling fast — fat, cold drops smacking against your shoulders, soaking through your hoodie in a matter of moments. You pulled the fabric up over your head and turned to head back — but the path was already slick, the trees pressing in closer, and fog began to roll over the field like a breath held too long.

“Seriously?” you muttered, shivering. That’s when you saw him. Standing just under the crooked edge of an old pavilion by the hill — motionless, dry, and completely unbothered by the storm. Sunghoon.

You blinked, surprised. "You're always just… appearing out of nowhere.”

“You're always walking into places you shouldn't be alone,” he replied calmly, eyes tracking the water running down your cheek.

You hesitated. Then stepped under the structure, chest heaving slightly from the sudden cold. Your shoulders were soaked. Hair clinging to your face. Hands trembling. He watched you quietly. “You're freezing.”

You gave a weak smile. “That tends to happen when it rains on humans.”

He didn’t return it. Instead, he removed his outer jacket and handed it over without a word. You stared at it. “I’m already wet. You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

You took it slowly. It was still warm.

You slipped it on. It smelled like night air and something faintly old — like worn books and clean linen. Not the scent of someone who lived alone in a dusty house.

The silence stretched.

Raindrops tapping the roof like a ticking clock.

Your breath fogged the air.

His didn’t.

“Why were you even out here?” you asked.

He didn’t answer immediately.

Then:

“I thought you’d come this way.”

You turned your head sharply. “You were… waiting for me?”

He didn’t flinch.

“Something about the sky felt wrong. I knew you’d ignore it.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know your pattern.”

That shut you up for a moment.

And somehow... warmed you.

More than the jacket did.

Your teeth chattered softly. You turned away, embarrassed.

Suddenly, you felt something.

His fingers — gently, lightly — tucking a strand of wet hair behind your ear.

You froze.

“You should be more careful,” he murmured, voice barely audible over the rain. “This place doesn’t forgive softness.”

You looked up at him then.

And he was already too close.

Not touching.

Not reaching.

Just there.

And for a second, you wondered what it would be like if he leaned in just a little more.

“Do you always talk like that?” you whispered, lips parted. “Like you’re centuries old?”

He gave the faintest smile like he knows something you don’t.

The rain kept falling. The sky stayed grey.

And your heartbeat too loudly in your ears.

You didn’t ask him why his hands were cold even though he felt warm.

You didn’t ask why he never blinked when he looked at you.

The rain kept falling.

And he stood there, completely still, listening to the rhythm of her blood, her breath, her heart...

And all he could think was:

Don’t touch her again. Don’t want her. Don’t let her see the monster inside you.

But it was already too late.

Because for the first time in years, he wanted something enough to lose control.

And it was you.

The rain had stopped, but the night still smelled like it.

You walked slowly.

Beside him.

His jacket still hung over your shoulders, and you hadn’t given it back. He hadn’t asked.

“You didn’t have to walk me home,” you said softly, watching your boots splash through a shallow puddle.

“I know.”

He wasn’t smiling, but his tone was warm. Like he wanted to say, I just wanted more time with you, but didn’t know how.

The village lights shimmered faint in the distance — soft and yellow, like floating lanterns.

It felt like you were the only two people in the world.

“Do you always spend your nights out there?” you asked.

“Sometimes. I like the quiet.”

“Most people don’t,” you said. “Silence makes them uncomfortable.”

He glanced at you.

“What about you?”

You thought about it.

“I think silence is the only time people stop pretending.”

He actually smiled at that. Just a little. The kind that tugged one corner of his mouth — barely visible, but real.

“What do you do all day?” you asked, curious now. “No job? No classes?”

“I read,” he said. “Walk. Watch.”

“That sounds like what I do, too.”

“You watch more than most people,” he replied, side-eying you. “Always observing. Analyzing.”

You raised a brow. “Are you calling me creepy?”

“No,” he said. “Just... different.”

You looked away to hide your smile.

“Is that your way of saying I’m weird?”

“No,” he repeated, slower this time. “It’s my way of saying I see you.”

“Okay, your turn,” you said quickly, trying to recover. “What did you want to be when you were little?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t remember,” he said finally. “It’s been a long time since I was little.”

You turned to him, blinking. “How old are you, Sunghoon?”

He looked at you. Really looked.

Then smiled like he knew he shouldn’t say the next thing — but said it anyway.

“Older than I look.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.”

You reached the inn gate.

The lantern outside flickered faintly in the breeze. Neither of you moved.

The air was warmer now. The clouds had parted just enough for moonlight to wash over the steps.

You stood there — his jacket still on your shoulders, the scent of rain still on your skin, and his eyes fixed gently on you.

“Good night, Sunghoon,” you said finally, stepping up to the door.

“Good night, Y/N.”

You turned the handle.

Just before stepping inside, you hesitated.

“You never told me what you like,” you said over your shoulder.

He tilted his head slightly. “Like?”

“Hobbies. Music. Favorite food. Normal things.”

Another pause.

Then:

“The sound of rain,” he said. “Books with no endings. And people who don’t run away.”

You met his eyes.

And something about the way he said it made your heart ache.

You didn’t know why.

But you didn’t look away.

Not for a long moment.

Then finally, you stepped inside.

And closed the door.

August 20, 2019.

You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal.

Just returning a jacket.

Just a polite gesture.

Just good manners.

So why did your pulse stutter when the house came into view?

The same tall trees. The same crooked path. The same quiet.

You climbed the short stone steps and raised your hand to knock — but before you could, the door opened.

He was already there.

Like he’d been waiting.

Or like he’d heard you coming long before you got close.

“You came back,” he said, voice low, like sunlight through fog.

“Just to return this,” you said quickly, lifting the folded jacket.

“Of course.”

But he didn’t take it.

Instead, he stepped aside.

“Do you want to come in?”

You blinked.

“Is that okay?”

“If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have asked.”

You stepped inside.

The air was cool, but not cold. The interior still had that strange untouched feeling — like a photo frozen in time. Wood floors. A low bookshelf. A kettle on the counter, untouched.

You walked slowly, setting the jacket on the nearest chair.

“You live like a ghost,” you said softly.

He raised a brow. “I’m neat.”

“You’re ancient,” you teased.

He smirked faintly. “So you’ve said.”

You turned toward the bookshelf — rows of old spines and journals, some in languages you didn’t recognize. One looked handwritten. Another... burned around the edges.

“These don’t look like they’re from a village library.”

“They’re not.”

“So what are they?”

“Pieces of me,” he said.

You paused, looking back.

His expression didn’t change, but there was something fragile in his stillness.

You let the question go.

“Tea?” he asked suddenly, already reaching for the kettle.

“You drink tea?”

“No. But you do.”

He made it quietly. Smooth movements. No wasted motion.

He handed you the mug and sat across from you, careful, like he was making sure there was enough distance.

“Do people visit you often?” you asked, wrapping your hands around the cup.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because they forget me,” he said. “Or… I let them.”

“But you didn’t want me to forget you?” you asked quietly.

His eyes met yours.

Dark. Unreadable.

“I didn’t plan on you remembering at all.”

You blinked. “What changed?”

He stared at the steam curling between you.

Then said, without blinking:

“You smiled at me.”

The silence stretched.

The weight of it made your chest feel tight.

Your fingers tightened around the mug.

“Why do you always say things like that?” you whispered.

“Like what?”

“Like it means something. And then you never explain.”

He stood up then, slowly — walking toward the window, looking out at the trees.

“Because I’ve learned that explaining doesn’t stop people from leaving.”

“So you just... stay mysterious?”

“No,” he said, without turning around. “I stay safe.”

You stood too. Quiet steps.

He didn’t move as you stopped beside him, just far enough for the space between your hands to hum.

“What are you so afraid of, Sunghoon?” you asked, not accusing — just soft.

A pause.

Then finally:

“That if you knew the truth about me… you'd stop smiling at all.”

“What are you saying?”

“Nothing. Don’t think too much.” He says.

You didn’t leave.

You just stood beside him.

And for a moment, the silence between you wasn’t heavy.

It was tender.

“You okay?” you asked.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t trust himself to speak.

Because right now, he could feel it rising — that burn behind his eyes, the pressure in his jaw, the ancient ache in his throat.

The want.

Not just to feed.

To claim.

“I think you should go,” he said, voice tight.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No.”

“Then—”

“Please.”

His back was turned now. He couldn’t let her see his face. Not when his eyes were beginning to glow. Not when his fangs had started to edge down.

He bit the inside of his cheek — hard enough to draw blood. Let the pain steady him. Anchor him.

“Sunghoon? Is something wrong? You can trust me- I trust you.”

But all he said was:

“I don’t trust myself.”

You stared at his back for a long moment.

Then quietly… you left.

The door shut behind you with a soft click.

And he stood there in the quiet, eyes still burning, heart raging inside a chest that shouldn’t have had one anymore.

August 21, 2019.

You went to the library to check the village’s records.

To look for any book, any magazine, any piece of information that would help you get a better insight about the village’s roots.

You found a series of census logs tucked into a low cabinet—records of the village’s population numbers and names dating back to the 1900s. Faded, but surprisingly intact.

And that’s when you saw it.

A pattern.

In 2010, the population was 528. In 2012, it dropped to 413. By 2015: 290. 2017: 178.

No official records of why. No mass migration. No natural disaster. No illness outbreak.

Just... names disappearing.

Not all at once. Not dramatically.

But slowly. Like something was taking them. One by one.

You scanned the reports harder now.

Looking for causes. Deaths. Relocations.

But most names just had one word stamped across the last column:

“Unrecorded.”

You slammed the binder shut and sat back.

Your chest felt tight.

You looked around the library. The light felt colder. The silence heavier.

This is getting nowhere. Rather than the doubts clearing, more questions are surfacing. Too many questions. Too less information. You doubt you are even eligible to solve this mystery. Maybe Dr.Han realizes he made a mistake choosing you once you return. You wonder how the others are doing. Are they going through the same difficulties?

You shake your head as if it shakes away the insecure thoughts creeping up. You need to focus. On this village. The people. Everyone here seems normal except... Sunghoon.

He always seemed to appear when no one else was around.

Your fingers curled against the cover of the book.

No. Don’t jump to conclusions. That doesn’t mean anything.

And yet…

Something in your gut whispered otherwise.

Still, when the sun began to set—

You found yourself walking toward the hill.

Toward him.

Carrying questions you couldn’t ask yet.

And a heart that didn’t want answers- the real ones.

The sky was painted in soft blue fading to lavender. The last light of the sun had just dipped behind the mountains, leaving a glow that shimmered across the tall grass.

You stood at the top of the hill, overlooking the village lights far below. Everything was quiet.

Except your thoughts.

Except him.

Sunghoon stood beside you — close, not quite touching. Hands in his pockets. Eyes on the horizon.

“You always find the quietest places,” you said softly.

“I think they find me.”

You turned to him, trying to read that impossible expression on his face.

“You always talk like that. Like there’s a whole world in your head and you’re just… giving me scraps.”

“I don’t mean to,” he said. “I just forget how to be anything else.”

You took a breath.

“Then remind yourself. Just for tonight. Just for me.”

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

And for the first time, he didn’t look away.

“You scare me,” he said quietly.

That made your chest tighten.

“Why?”

“Because you make me want to stay.”

The wind brushed through the grass.

Your heart was too loud. Your breath too soft.

He stepped closer.

His hand, trembling just slightly, reached up and cupped your cheek — gentle, reverent, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he touched too hard.

His thumb brushed under your eye, then trailed down to your jaw.

“Say something,” he whispered.

You didn’t.

You leaned in instead.

And he met you there.

The kiss was nothing like you imagined.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t wild.

It was slow.

Like two people learning what it meant to feel alive again.

His lips were cool at first — like the wind before rain — but they softened against yours. Moved with aching care. Like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth and trying not to fall apart doing it.

You felt his breath catch.

Felt his hand slide into your hair.

Felt your knees go weak when he deepened the kiss — still gentle, still hesitant, but full of something you didn’t have a name for.

And then—

He pulled away.

Fast.

Like he’d caught fire.

His eyes were wide. Not with lust. Not even guilt.

With fear.

“I shouldn’t have—”

“Sunghoon,” you whispered, reaching for him.

He stepped back.

“No. This was a mistake.”

“Why are you doing this again?” “Every time I get close, you push me away. Why?”

He didn’t answer.

Not with words.

But his face…

That expression?

It looked like someone who just tasted something too good. Something too human. Something that made him forget what he was.

“Because I can’t be the reason you get hurt,” he finally said.

And then he turned away.

Leaving you alone with a kiss that still burned on your lips, and a silence that felt heavier than ever.

August 26, 2019.

You ignored him after that. Turned your head away whenever he got into. Looked away first when you both made eye contact. Avoided him when he came to apologize the very next day of your kiss.

Not cause you hate him. You wish you did but no. You remember what Dr.Han said, “Observe. Record. don’t interfere.” You can't risk everything just cause of some stupid, weird feelings that you have. No. You can’t let your emotions get in the way of your case. This isn't right.

Youre altering time, you should do it wisely, not recklessly.

And so, you did what you thought was best. Ignore. Distance. Observe.

Or so, you thought.

You weren’t expecting to run into him.

But of course you did.

He was leaning against the side wall of the bakery, half-hidden in the shade, like always. Silent. Watching.

He didn’t call out.

Didn’t wave.

But you felt it — the shift in air when his gaze hit you. That quiet weight of his presence.

You almost kept walking.

Almost.

But then—

“Y/N.”

His voice was low. Not cold. Just… tired.

You turned after a moment of hesitation.

Met his eyes.

“Are you avoiding me?” he asked.

Simple question.

But it landed sharp.

You didn’t answer right away.

“I’ve just been… busy.”

“You’ve seen me.”

“I didn’t think you wanted to talk.”

“Don’t do that,” he said, stepping forward. “Don’t turn it around like it’s me.”

You blinked. “I’m not—”

“You haven’t looked at me in five days.”

His tone wasn’t angry. It was quiet. Steady. Too steady.

“You smiled at me one night,” he said, “and then the next morning, it’s like I didn’t exist.”

“Sunghoon—”

“And I thought—” He paused. Ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I thought maybe you needed space. But then I saw you with that guy. That tall one from the orchard. And you were laughing. Just… laughing. Like everything’s normal.”

You looked away.

He let the silence settle.

Then finally:

“It hurt.”

That was it. Just that.

Not possessive. Not demanding. Just real.

You didn’t know what to say. So, you said the only truth you had:

“I’m scared, Sunghoon.”

He looked at you for a long time.

“Of me?”

“Of not knowing what’s happening. Of what this village is hiding. Of what you’re hiding.”

You stepped back slightly, instinctively. Not far.

But enough.

His eyes dropped to the space between you. Then back up.

“Do you think I’d ever hurt you?”

You hesitated.

Then, quietly:

“I don’t know.”

That broke something in him.

You saw it. In his eyes.

Not rage.

Just sadness.

“I wouldn’t,” he said softly. “Not even if I wanted to.”

You turned back and left without replying, unable to look into his face or even talk to him.

September 5, 2019.

You shouldn’t have gone looking.

You told yourself you weren’t. That you just needed air. That the trail by the forest was peaceful this time of day.

But really? You missed him.

And you couldn’t stop thinking about what he said.

“I wouldn’t hurt you. Not even if I wanted to.”

It looped in your mind for days. Through sleep. Through silence. Through guilt.

You didn’t give him an answer. So, you were going to.

You were going to find him and say you’re not sure what this is, but you’re willing to try. That you believe he’s good. That you want to believe it, even if you’re scared.

But then—

You saw it.

You heard something first.

A low sound. Guttural. Like a growl tucked beneath a breath.

And then a figure stumbling — just ahead. At the edge of the trees. A man. Drunk? Hurt?

And beside him— Holding him up—

Was Sunghoon.

Or… something that used to be him

His head was tilted. His lips pressed just beneath the man’s jaw. His hands clutched the man’s shoulders too tightly. And his eyes—

They glowed.

Not fully. Just enough for the shadows to catch it.

Red. Dim. Inhuman.

You saw his mouth open. Saw the flash of fang.

And then—

The man sagged.

Like air had left him.

You froze.

Your heart punched against your ribs.

He stared. Still half-shadowed. Blood on his mouth.

He stepped forward.

“Y/N.”

You backed up.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Your eyes wide. Your expression already saying everything your voice couldn’t.

Fear.

The kind that wasn’t subtle.

The kind you couldn’t take back.

“No,” he said quietly. “No, don’t—please don’t look at me like that.”

He wiped at his mouth. Quickly. Clumsily.

“I can explain. It’s not—”

You flinched when he stepped closer.

That did it.

He stopped.

His hands dropped to his sides.

And something in him… wilted.

“So, this is it?” he whispered.

His voice wasn’t cold. Wasn’t sharp. It was just… empty.

You didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

You turned.

And ran.

And behind you, the last thing you heard was him whispering into the night:

“I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

You rushed back home and stumbled in.

You quickly went to your bedroom, opening the drawers and pulled out your logbook.

You sat on the floor beside your bed after grabbing a marker.

The pages were filled with sketches. Maps. Observations. And now?

Scribbled question marks. Shaky handwriting. A timeline you couldn’t look at anymore.

2010 — population: 528 2012 — 413 2015 — 290 2017 — 178 2019 — barely 60 left.

No disease. No evacuation orders. No record of where they went.

But you knew now.

You saw it.

His eyes. His fangs. The man in the forest, half-drained and limp in his arms.

You knew.

And the truth clawed at your throat like it didn’t want to be swallowed.

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he had said.

You remembered his voice. Too quiet. Too pained to be fake.

But it didn’t matter now, did it?

Because while he was giving you flowers and walking you home…

He was feeding on the people who welcomed you with tea and stories.

You closed your eyes.

Your hands were trembling.

You remembered the first time you saw him.

How unreal he looked in the moonlight. How safe you felt beside him.

How stupid that was now.

Was any of it real?

The kiss. The laughter. The jacket he left folded on your bed.

Or were you just the next name on his list?

The next girl to get too close?

Were you just another pawn in his game?

Whatever it was, you shouldn't have gotten close with him. Shouldn't have tried to interfere. You shouldn't have done it and God, you regret it.

And for the first time in years… You cried.

Not from fear. But from heartbreak.

If only you backed down that day on the hill. If only you shouldn't have let him close to you. If only...

September 7, 2019.

After that day, you didn't leave your room.

You didn't go out, the fear of him catching you always haunting your mind whenever you reach for the door handle.

And weirdly enough, you should feel better, you really should but why did you feel... empty?

He’s a monster! He kills innocent people, hes a vampire. But why didn't the fact alone scare you? Why were you craving for his presence? Why were you thinking about the moments you've spent together? This isn't even real. Its past, you weren't even born at this time period. You shouldn't be feeling things you aren't supposed to.

But you can't deny the fact that your heart aches for his presence- for him.

But you don't have time for this. Not when you have two days on your watch. Two days before everything goes back to normal, hopefully. And so, you push aside your feelings saying the time is playing tricks on you and start writing the report.

All of your log entries, now are typed and kept in digital doc by you. You enter the log entries, from day one to the day you discovered the root cause of all of this- the dissapearance. You procrastinated too much while typing them in, thinking about all the wonderful days you’ve spent with locals- with him.

But all of this isn't real, at the end of the day. You don't belong here- you shouldn't. This isn't your timeline. This is not your story. This isn't the reality you are supposed to live in and experience. This is just a case that you've got assigned to. It's your duty. And you fulfilled it by finding out the reason. And this is where you shall end it. End of this chapter, end of this case and end of him.

September 9, 2019.

Today is the day.

You pack your bag, filling it with the things you bought and the things you are taking back to your timeline. The memories, the events and the adventures.

There wasn't a single second you haven't thought about him. But this is it. You have to say your goodbyes.

You can't warn the others, who haven't yet got bitten by Sunghoon. Because as dr.Han said, “Don't interfere.”

Youve already made the mistake of not listening to him and crossed the boundary and faced the consequences. You aren't going to do it again. Because at the end of the day, its fate. It already happened. You can't change it, not even when you go back in time. Because what's written, is written. If changed, you are bound to face the consequences.

History can't be re-written.

And so, with that, you leave.

You stood by the terminal light beam.

Delta 12’s jump pulse flickering through the mist.

Your bag beside you. Your heart heavy with no one in the future world- the real world would understand or know of.

You turned back one last time towards the village.

Thanking it for everything it gave you- thanking it for giving Sunghoon.

Who'll be remembered as the passing wind and the falling of leaves by you.

And when you jumped-

The light swallowed you whole.

And in the same breath,

You were gone.

July 22, 2090.

You opened your eyes.

The jump light was fading. The room around you was cold. White. Familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

You were home.

But it didn’t feel like it.

Not yet.

Your bag was still at your side. Your fingers still trembling. Your body still in two places — the sterile floors of the lab… and the moss-soft grass beneath his feet.

You didn’t even notice the door sliding open until you heard the softest gasp.

“Y/N?”

You turned.

And there she was.

Mira. Her braid was undone, her coat slung over one arm, her eyes red — like she’d either just woken up… or hadn’t slept since the moment she jumped back.

She stared at you.

Then smiled. Weakly.

“God, it’s you.”

You couldn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

She crossed the space between you in three quick steps and pulled you into the kind of hug you didn’t realize you needed until her arms wrapped around you.

You felt her chest shudder.

You were crying too.

Soon, the others trickled in.

Taehyun — still composed, but his eyes softer than usual. Yuvi — who dropped her bag the second she saw you, crashing into the hug with a half-laugh, half-sob. Jungwon — who just stood by the door for a long time, taking all of you in like he didn’t believe you were real until that moment.

No one said much at first.

They just… stood there.

Five people who had faced time itself.

And came back with hearts a little heavier.

Eyes a little older.

It felt nice. Seeing everyone’s familiar faces after being drowned in unfamiliar faces who don't even exist in reality.

Finally, Mira sniffed and said, voice shaking:

“I missed you guys.”

Yuvi let out a teary laugh.

“I didn’t realize how much till now.”

Jungwon gave a small nod, blinking fast.

Taehyun just whispered:

“You’re all here.”

You wiped your face and smiled.

Soft. Quiet. Real.

“Yeah.”

“We’re here.”

You all look at each other. A moment of silence. As if you guys are finally taking in and registering everyone’s presence. And then, you all hugged. A big group hug filled with emotions which arent said loud but felt. And finally, you felt like you are back home.

September 11, 2019.

The room smelled of old circuits and sterile air. The walls glowed faint blue, humming with quiet energy.

You sat where you always had — Same table. Same lights. Same white jackets.

But nothing was the same anymore.

Not the silence. Not the weight in everyone’s eyes.

Not the version of you that existed before.

The door slid open.

Dr. Han stepped in, shoulders straighter than usual, expression unreadable.

“Good morning.”

He stood at the edge of the circular table, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning each of you.

“You’ve all returned safely,” he said. “On record, your missions were successful. But the records don’t matter if we don’t understand why.”

He took a breath.

“So, let’s talk about what really happened.”

Dr. Han looked at Yuvi first.

“Yuvi. March 2311. Seoul. What caused the blackout?”

Yuvi didn’t hesitate. But her voice was softer than usual.

“It wasn’t just data loss,” she said. “It was deliberate. The two largest tech giants—SolarCore and NeuraStream—were engaged in a silent war for memory control. They each tried to overwrite the other’s data… and in doing so, they wiped everyone’s.”

A pause.

“The blackout wasn’t a glitch. It was a battle. One that made the world forget six months — and made the companies forget what humanity was.”

Dr. Han only nodded.

“Mira. 1652. The scribe’s ink.”

Mira folded her hands.

“The man wasn’t mad. The ‘sky-born woman of light’ — she was a time displacer like us. From the future. Possibly one of the early, undocumented tests.”

She met Dr. Han’s eyes.

“The ink? It was our ink. Synthetic. Used in lab reports.”

Silence fell.

Dr. Han blinked slowly. “You’re saying the anomaly… was ours.”

“Yes,” Mira whispered. “We caused the myth.”

“You two. Northern Territories. Duplicated villages.”

Taehyun glanced at Jungwon. Jungwon gave a tiny nod.

“There were two villages,” Jungwon said. “Identical. Same people. Same dogs. Same newspapers.”

“Except,” Taehyun added, “They existed in overlapping timelines. One was five minutes behind the other. A permanent sync lag caused by a failed early prototype of time field testing.”

Jungwon finished it quietly.

“It was human error. A time scar. We tried to erase one. But they both kept living… until one finally collapsed.”

“Y/N,” Dr. Han said, turning to you. “The village of Myeon-ri. The one that vanished without cause.”

Your fingers curled slightly on the edge of the table.

You could still feel the wind there. Still hear his voice.

You slid the chip forward.

“There was no disease. No mass migration. No disaster. It was slow. Intentional.”

You looked up.

“A predator lived there. Not wild. Human-shaped. Possibly centuries old. A vampire, by older terms. He fed carefully, spaced apart. But eventually, the numbers dropped too far.”

The others stared.

You didn’t flinch.

“He didn’t want the village gone. But he couldn’t stop. And no one remembered the ones who vanished. They were erased — from memory, from databases. Like they never existed.”

“Vampire?” Dr.Han questioned.

“Vampire.” You confirmed.

Dr. Han asked, quietly:

“Did he know who you were?”

A pause.

You met his gaze.

“No.”

A beat.

“But I think I knew who he used to be.”

You lied. Of course he knows you. He knows the woman he fell for the first time. He knows the woman who was his first ever kiss.

You didn't tell them. You didn't to protect him and in a way, protect yourself too.

Dr. Han stepped back. He looked at each of you — not as scientists, but as people who had seen too much.

“You all did what centuries of historians couldn’t. You brought back truth.”

He turned toward the exit, then paused.

“Take the week off. Rest. File clean versions by the end of the month. We’ll… figure out what to do with the rest.”

The door hissed closed behind him.

And you all sat in silence. Hearts still somewhere in another time.

The streets are quiet at 2 a.m.

Neon signs buzz in blues and pinks. Artificial rain shimmers above, falling against projection domes that keep your coat dry.

You pass a street musician playing a slow guitar.

The song is unfamiliar. But it feels like him.

Like a song you might’ve danced to on his porch. Or hummed under your breath while he walked you home.

Your throat tightens.

You sit on a bench, ignoring your holopad as it pings with follow-up requests from Dr. Han.

You can’t open the file. You can’t even look at his name on the case label.

Your hand slowly reaches into your coat pocket.

The jacket he gave you is long gone.

But you still have one thing.

A pressed leaf.

Red. From that tree near the hill. Where he waited for you every evening. Where he said nothing — just smiled — like you were his favorite moment of the day.

You hold the leaf to your chest.

And for a second… you close your eyes.

And pretend he’s sitting beside you.

Back in the lab, the report still sits unsaved. You’d written everything except the truth.

“He didn’t follow me back.”

But your chest burns with what you didn’t say.

I think he wanted to. I think I wanted him to. And I think I left the part of me that believed in forever… in his hands.

You missed him. You looked for him in everything. The wind, the leaves, the clouds, the time, everything. And somewhere back in 2019, sunghoon feels the weight of your absence.

Sunghoon didn't really think it'd affect him that much, but it did. He was helpless when he didn't find you. Asked everyone, searched everywhere but there wasn't a trace of you, there wasn't a thing left behind you. And God, did he miss you.

The silence after you was worse than the centuries before you.

You were only here a month — But the air still tasted like you. The breeze still moved like the hem of your coat.

He stood by the river.

The same one you almost slipped near. The one where he caught your hand.

You used to laugh here.

Now it was empty.

And so was he.

His throat burned. The ache that had quieted in your presence — like your scent tamed the storm in his blood — now returned with wildfire in his veins.

He hadn’t fed in days. He didn’t want anyone else.

He wanted you.

"Y/N..." he whispered, though the name felt like poison now.

He tried to hold back. He really, truly did.

But you were gone.

And he had nothing left to prove he was still human.

The next night, they found the baker's house empty. Then the woman who sold herbs. Then the elder by the hill.

No one saw what took them.

And Sunghoon?

He stood in the village center, blood drying at the corner of his mouth, eyes still locked on the road you used to walk down every dusk.

His hands shook.

His mouth trembled.

"You were supposed to stay..." "You promised me forever in your eyes."

But you didn’t answer.

Because you were gone.

And so were the people in the village.

The village lingered with only with him feeding off of everyone and your presence.

Time moved on.

The village eventually collapsed. Records rewritten. Footprints washed away.

But he didn’t vanish.

He moved. Fed. Lingered in shadows.

Years passed. Decades blurred.

He watched the world crawl toward neon skies and cities that blinked like stars.

You were long gone. But he never stopped believing in the possibility that time — the very thing that tore you from him — might one day return you.

“Okay but hear me out,” Taehyun says, typing aggressively while Mira tries to slap his hand off the panel. “If I didn’t reroute the carbon filters that night, we’d all be bald. Fact.”

“Fact?” Mira scoffs. “Fact is you nearly made the algae tank sentient. That thing winked at me.”

“I still miss it,” Jungwon adds quietly, head down in his own files, a faint smile playing at his lips.

Yuvi kicks her chair back dramatically, groaning. “My simulation’s stuck again. If I see one more ‘Data Error: Please Restart,’ I swear I’ll throw myself into the code.”

Your lips curve as you watch them — the way the five of you fit into this space like puzzle pieces. The room hums with soft tech glows and distant rain tapping the glass walls.

It's late. But none of you seem in a hurry to leave.

Mira throws an energy bar at Taehyun. He catches it one-handed, smug. Jungwon’s quietly stealing Yuvi’s half-charged mug again. You just watch — feeling both part of it and… a little removed.

Because they didn’t live what you lived. Not the way you did.

Not with him.

Not with Sunghoon.

“You good?” Yuvi asks you suddenly, turning in her chair.

You blink. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

“Duh,” she says, nudging your arm. “We’re all tired. End of world stuff every Tuesday.”

You laugh. The others join in. And just for a second, it feels normal.

Like the past didn't follow you here. Like he never reached across time.

But the quiet ache in your chest says otherwise.

Later, when the lab empties out one by one — when Yuvi yawns and Mira packs up her files — you linger behind.

Taehyun walks past you, ruffling your hair gently like he always does. Jungwon side hugs you as he exits. And Mira and Yuvi give you a hug before logging off.

Then the lights dim. The labs settle. And you finally move.

It was almost midnight.

Your body was running on caffeine, adrenaline, and a half-shattered mind. The labs were quiet. The halls were colder. Your coat clung to your shoulders, and all you wanted was silence.

You stepped into the elevator.

It was empty. Or— so you thought.

You didn’t even notice him at first.

Not until the doors closed. Not until the world narrowed into this steel box. And not until a voice — low, aching, quiet — cut through the air like a thread snapping in your chest.

“You didn’t even say goodbye.”

You froze.

Slowly, your eyes turned toward the figure standing in the far corner.

And there he was.

Sunghoon.

Pressed against the wall of the elevator, the overhead light casting a cold glow across his skin. His white dress shirt clung perfectly across his chest — sleeves rolled just below his elbows, forearms tense. His black tie was loose, like he’d worn it all day just to see you like this.

His head was tilted slightly down, shadows covering half of his face — but even in the dimness, you saw it.

The red. Faint. Glowing. Watching.

His jaw clenched. His lashes heavy against his cheek. His entire body still, like he was trying not to shake.

Like just standing here, in front of you, took everything he had left.

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

He finally looked up. Right at you.

“You disappeared,” he said softly. A step closer.

“But I didn’t.”

Another step.

“I stayed. I searched.”

His voice trembles.

“And I waited.”

He stops inches away from you. Close enough for you to see that his hands are shaking. That his smile is breaking. That the pain he’s carried all these years hasn’t dulled — only buried deeper.

Your lips part, but no words come.

Because what do you say to a man who waited seventy-one years for a goodbye?

Your body doesn’t move. But he does.

He steps forward — slowly — like if he moves too fast, you’ll vanish all over again.

Then his hand lifts. And he touches you.

Not roughly. Not hungrily.

Just one cold, steady hand cupping your cheek — reverent. Careful. The way he always touched you. Like you were something sacred.

His other hand rests at your waist, pulling you gently toward him.

Your breath hitches.

His eyes flicker down to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“I missed you,” he whispers.

His thumb brushes your skin — and only then, do you exhale.

But your voice barely comes out.

“How… how did you get in here?”

His smile twitches — half amused, half ruined.

“You’re not the only one who learns things in seventy years.”

You stare at him.

“You broke into the lab?”

“No,” he murmurs. “I learned how to become a ghost in systems like these. Took years. But I found my way into every firewall with your name on it. Every door you walked through.”

He leans in just slightly — not threatening. Not desperate.

Just there. Real. Close.

“I wasn’t going to leave without seeing you again.”

No matter how many years it’s been — no matter how far you ran into the future —

he still found you.

He holds you like a memory he never let go of. Like a secret he kept alive for decades.

And when he finally speaks — his voice cracks.

“Tell me you didn’t forget me.”

You blink. Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

Because how do you explain the sleepless nights? The dreams where he touched your hand again? The jacket you almost replicated just to feel close?

He waits.

And when you don’t answer — when silence sits between you like a second goodbye — you hear it again:

“Y/N…” “Tell me you didn’t forget me.”

You look up at him then.

And the glow in his eyes — the faint red warmth — flickers.

Flickers like it’ll die if you lie.

Your throat is tight.

“How did you even find me?” you whisper.

He smiles — not the charming one. The broken one.

“I never stopped looking.”

A beat.

“The village disappeared, but I didn’t. I moved. I adapted. I learned your world. I followed every digital trail you left behind. I memorized your voice. I traced you through five corporate systems and twenty years of noise.”

His forehead leans into yours, almost touching.

“You left without saying goodbye.” “I needed to know… if it meant as much to you as it did to me.”

You’re not breathing.

Because in his voice — beneath the stillness, the eternal youth — is pain.

Not monstrous. Not violent.

Just human. And heartbreakingly yours.

Your hands move without thinking. One rises to his chest — over where his heart used to beat.

It’s quiet now. But yours is loud enough for both of you.

He’s still waiting.

Eyes glowing. Breath held.

“Tell me,” He whispers again. “Tell me you didn’t forget me.”

You swallow.

Tears sting the edges of your eyes — the kind you refused to cry back then. The kind you buried inside lab reports and daily logs.

And finally, your voice breaks.

“I didn’t forget.”

He closes his eyes, just for a second. Like the words hurt. Like they heal.

“I just…” you breathe, “I just didn’t know how to come back.”

There it is.

The truth.

The full, naked truth sitting between you — soft and devastating.

“I didn’t know if I could. If I should. If you were even—”

He kisses you.

Not rushed. Not hungry.

Just… quiet. Desperate. Familiar.

The kind of kiss that says thank you for surviving.

The kind that says don’t leave again.

it feels like time folds in on itself.

Like the wind from the village, the rain on your skin, the jacket on your shoulders, the words you never said — they all return in that one breath.

And this time, you kiss him back.

Hands gripping the front of his coat, your breath catching — like your body finally remembered what safety tasted like.

He pulls you in closer, desperate, like he still doesn’t believe you’re real. Like you’ll vanish again if he lets go.

When your lips part, and you both breathe — barely — your forehead leans into his.

The glow in his eyes softens.

And then—

“You…” your voice cracks, soft and shaking. “You waited? For me?”

His eyes close slowly.

Not like he’s in pain — but like your question alone undid him.

“Of course I did,” he whispers. “How could I not?”

You inhale sharply, because no one’s ever said it like that.

Not with that kind of certainty. Like your existence was never forgettable — just… unforgettable.

“You… waited? For me?”

His eyes flutter shut — like your voice, your doubt, undoes something deep in him.

“Of course I did,” he murmurs, forehead still resting against yours. “How could I not?”

That’s when the tears come.

You didn’t mean to. You weren’t even sure they were still inside you.

But suddenly, your eyes burn.

And your voice falls out in pieces.

“I thought…” your lips tremble. “I thought you moved on.” “Thought you’d forget me.”

His arms tighten around you instantly — like he can feel you breaking and is ready to hold every shattered piece.

“I couldn’t,” he says. “I wouldn’t.”

Your eyes meet again, and he says it like a vow:

“I loved you in 2019. I loved you in every year after. Even the ones where you weren’t there.”

“You… waited? For me?”

His eyes flutter shut — like your voice, your doubt, undoes something deep in him.

“Of course I did,” he murmurs, forehead still resting against yours. “How could I not?”

That’s when the tears come.

You didn’t mean to. You weren’t even sure they were still inside you.

But suddenly, your eyes burn.

And your voice falls out in pieces.

“I thought…” your lips tremble. “I thought you moved on.” “Thought you’d forget me.”

His arms tighten around you instantly — like he can feel you breaking and is ready to hold every shattered piece.

“I couldn’t,” he says. “I wouldn’t.”

Your eyes meet again, and he says it like a vow:

“I loved you in 2019. I loved you in every year after. Even the ones where you weren’t there.”

And just like that— you stepped into him.

Your arms wrapped around his torso tight, face burying into his chest, body trembling from everything you’d held back for too long.

And he—

He didn’t hesitate.

He wrapped his arms around you so firmly, so protectively, it almost hurt. Like if the world tried to take you again, it would have to tear through him first.

One arm locked around your waist. The other curled high around your back, hand cradling the base of your neck — fingers gently gripping, anchoring you like he was afraid you’d disappear again.

“You’re here,” he breathed. “You’re really here.”

He didn’t just hold you.

He claimed you — not with force, but with everything he never got to say.

This wasn’t a soft embrace.

This was the way you hold something sacred. The way you cling to a miracle.

And for the first time after he met in seventy years, he didn’t feel cold anymore.

He held you like you were his whole world — like everything he endured, every year he starved, every time he nearly gave up… was worth it just to feel you in his arms again.

And for a long, still moment — you didn’t speak.

You just breathed. Chest rising against his. The faint, unfamiliar sound of his heartbeat echoing somewhere far beneath.

Then, into the quiet, barely louder than a breath—

“I missed this,” you whispered, cheek pressed against his chest. “I missed you.”

His hand gripped you tighter, almost instinctively. Like your words shattered something inside him he didn’t even know was still breakable.

He didn’t say anything at first.

But you felt it — in the way his thumb moved slowly against your back, in the way his body trembled just slightly against yours.

“Say it again,” he murmured.

You tilted your head just slightly, looked up into those red-flecked eyes that had waited decades for this.

And this time, you didn’t whisper.

“I missed you, Sunghoon.”

He looked at you, cupped your face with both of his hands with so much of care as if you were porcelain and would break if you added any more force.

He kissed your forehead like it was the only language he had left.

Slow. Tender. Devastating.

Your eyes fluttered shut — his lips lingering just a heartbeat longer, like he couldn’t quite let go.

And when he finally pulled back, just far enough to look at you again — his voice cracked through the silence.

“Don’t leave me this time…” A pause. A breath. “Angel.”

The name hit you harder than the kiss.

Because that’s what he used to call you. Back in the village. When your hands were cold from the rain, and he’d wrap his jacket around you like you were something worth saving.

You blinked back the sting in your eyes. But he saw it. Of course he did. His thumb brushed just beneath your eye.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “Just… stay.”

©mrsjjongstby all writing belong to me. do not copy, modify or repost my works.

taglist: @gnarlyhoons @stormlit-pages @himynameisraelynn @see-c @shra-vasti @heesbbygurl @elikajinnie @jwyoceans (lmk if u wanna be added!)

A/N: im backkkkkkkkkk y'allllllllllllll !!!!!!!!! also this thing has been keeping me from watching the outside mv so imma watch it now! ALSO WROTE THIS THING IN 2 DAYS LIKE WTH i cant believe i did tht. anyways enjoy and stay hydrated!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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jinkiezzsstuff · 1 year ago

Text

In Season

alastor x doe! femreader

no but really this is actually so depraved and smutty i cannot believe myself i hope yall enjoy the feast xx

Summary: You were aquatinted with hell for quite some time and you quickly learned as much as you could about mating season to protect yourself from other deer sinners. Although you came across the hotel and neither you nor Alastor could resist each other, and your instincts.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, female anatomy- no pronouns, no descriptions of bodytype/skin colour/hair type, heavy breeding kink, female masturbation briefly, penetration, squirting, creampie, horrorish aspects predator n prey, ‘in heat’ trope, OOC alastor bc y’know sex, general vulgarity, brief mention of blood, swearing, not proofread, LEMME KNOW WHAT I MISSED

Word count: 5K

You’ve been in Hell several years, and at first it was a little jarring. Especially since you now had hooves, a tail, a black scent-sensitive nose, and soft floppy ears. Honestly it was amusing getting used to your new body while dodging sinners hungry for new meat, you reminisced on your first days of hell often, as they were the most exciting.

But now you were more aware, you’d spent a majority of your time in hell assessing and attempting to understand the whole eternal damnation thing- after all you weren’t much of a believer in hell when alive. You kept atop all the sinners that were of note, the different sectors of the pentagram, the overlords as well as their strengths and weaknesses that coincides with their demonic form, you also paid close attention to all the rings of hell and their sins. You’d even grown interested in the hellbors and imps, never imagining how birth and life things that was supposed to be god's gift, ended up breeding in such a foul place like hell.

Most demons spawned into hell with some sort of form be it an object like a television, a prop like a doll, a toy such as a jack in the box, or more commonly an animal. Most humans found themselves attached to animals anyways which made sense as to why many showed up as one, as well as why it wasn't surprising to see many dogs and cats as a common form in hell. During your investigative research, you ran into a few.. hurdles.

Bucks, mating seasons. It seemed like all animal life here was cursed with some sort of violent mating season. Where all that sinners could think about doing was mating. Bucks had been your biggest issue in hell, you found it pretty simple to ignore mating seasons, focusing your mind anywhere but the burning in your pelvis, but the bucks would storm around looking for the smell of the doe near them.

It’s a pain in the ass and you always had your calendars marked, alarms and reminders set, as to not forget that mating season was coming and you needed to take precautions.

Besides the chase the bucks would give you every year, you had it pretty easy in hell, you published on a blog your findings marketing it to new sinners in hell, kind of like a guide to hell, and that kept your bills paid and your mind occupied.

Walking down the road in the pentagram city with the intentions of snapping some pictures of some of the expected violence in hell, you gazed along the different brick walls and shops, shopping with your eye at times. You came by yet another brick wall, this one littered with taped up signs, your paced slowed as your eyes rapidly moved across the words on different pages.

There were varying signs, one for resale value drugs, IMP immediate murder professionals, and Charlie Morningstars Hazbin Hotel. Pausing your stride you went up to the wall getting a closer look at the shitty drawn piece of paper, there was several different… characters, on it very poorly drawn. You recognize Charlie’s name of course, you’d often see her roaming around the pride ring actually, unlike her father who you never saw.

Pulling out your phone you snapped a picture of the sign and decided to take a trip down to that side of the pentagram to check out this hotel. It’s definitely quite the story to be told that’s for sure.

You made left, rights, had to take cover for thirty minutes while some sinners duked it out shooting up a whole block, then you tried to hail down a cab- failed and trudged for the longest time to the hotel. It was so much further than you anticipated but everytime you felt like turning back you told yourself you were almost there which got you to the door of the hotel, by the end of the day however.

Knocking on the giant doors you didn’t know whether to walk in like you would a hotel, or wait for a guide. Tapping your fingers against your thighs you’re suddenly hit with strong arousal that clawed suddenly at your abdomen.

Bringing your phone up from your pocket you checked the date, you knew the season was changing and autumn was here but you didn’t have any issues with buck recently so you didn’t really have to worry. You did confirm mating season was in progress, with the conformations laying within the calendar, but it shouldn’t have been a problem, unless there is a buck inside the hotel.

Suddenly the door flew open and you were pulled away from your contemplation by a high pitched, giddy voice tugging your attention toward it. “Oh my gosh, hi! I’m Charlie! Come in! Are you here for the hotel!” The blonde rambled quickly, tugging you in by your wrist.

The hotel was weirdly homey, you could tell that there were different personalities that occupied the space, different colours of reds decorated, random items littered around the room like stiletto boots by the door, a large pile of needles in a corner, the bar seemed to be its own aesthetic design. It was comfortably warm and smelt like an active fireplace, as well as something so strong and musky it made your legs inadvertently clench.

You attempt to hold your instincts inside but this wasn’t like any other buck you’ve smelt before- it made you ravenous. Pulling yourself together while Charlie spoke about the hotel you pondered what you’d say, you could exactly be like, is there a male buck here because i’m horny as fuck.

No. Smiling to Charlie tiredly, you finally ready yourself to give her the explanation. “This place really is lovely, I didn’t actually come to be a patron but maybe write something about it for the little blog thing i have.” You felt jittering and lightheaded as you spoke, your eyes scanning the room and ears pulled back. “Uhm would it be okay to stay for a night?”

Charlie perked up clasping her hands together nodding eagerly. “Of course to both~!” She sang out happily. “I am so glad some people are interested! Who knows, maybe after a day you’ll wanna stay!” She exclaimed, twirling around happily.

You smiled at her optimism and you were genuinely happy that the princess of hell was such a breath of fresh air in the smog filled hell you all lived in. “Do you want me to show you around? Meet our staff and guests?” Charlie asked, a glimmer of hope and excitement sparkling in her eye. You took a brief moment to ponder before nodding your head. “I think that would be perfect, then though would i be able to rest, the walk fucked my hooves.” You say tapping the tip of your booted hoof against the floor.

Interlocking your elbows Charlie nodded, dragging you toward the bar. “Of course you can, I'll end our tour with your room, but let me begin it with Husk! Our loyal bartender!” Walking toward the bar you’d spotted early on, the cat demon turned his head ever so slightly toward you. “Hi,” The alcoholic said flatly, Charlie laughed nervously, but you didn’t really mind his demeanour you preferred short and to the point.

“Hey Husk, nice to meet you.” The cat grunted at you, and gave you a sorta glare. “Another deer. Course it fuckin is.” Husk muttered to himself bitterly, Charlie scolded him under her breath, before turning to you with a grin and a shrug of the shoulders. “He’s sweet once ya get to know him. Heh, anyways c’mon lets meet Angel!”

After about thirty minutes of running around you met all but one of the members residing within the hotel. As you skipped around the hotel you entirely forgot about the low grade heat buzzing between your legs, you were used to it after all, and you enjoyed yourself a lot, confessing to Charlie that you particularly enjoyed the rambunctious Nifty and flirty Angel.

“Alright, the last person of note is one of the most important. He’s been assisting in the hotel basically since the start, half of it wouldn’t be possible without him.” Charlie explained walking up to a door, on it had two different do not disturb signs. A large wood one nailed right on the door, and a second hanging off the handle.

Charlie picked the sign from its hanging position humming while examining it. “He’s never had these before.” She muttered, voice filled with confusion, however you were lost in a daze. This was the smell you could pick up down stairs, he must’ve been a buck, there wasn’t any other way.

The scent was pungent, nearly knocking you off your heels with arousal, it was musky, something only described as sweaty and primal. The natural hormones of the demon beyond the door were unlike anything you’ve experienced before; it was like he was a starved man, hungrier than ever and more than ready to breed.

It was dirty and you felt embarrassed at the reaction you were having, typically you had a low hum and no real desire to attempt to have sex with one of the many deer demons who came after you so this was a bit of a new experience. And it was nearly painful, you don’t even know the guy and yet it felt like you were being consumed by him.

“Hm, wait here I’ll go ask Nifty! She normally knows the most,” Charlie drifted off tilting her head at you. “You okay there?” She asked nervously, you promptly nod at that, inwardly cursing yourself for not being more controlled. “Yeah,” You quickly clear your throat trying to play off the lust filled tone for a dry throat. “Yes,” You say with more conviction. “Sorry it’s been a long day. Before you head off, would this guy happen to also be a deer?”

Charlie grinned super wide, purely whites on display. “He is! Best for last! I think you two will be happy to have each other haha,” She chuckled a little awkwardly, brushing her hair behind her ear. She shook her head, swiftly bidding you ado and walking off to find Nifty.

You waited a moment listening for anything down the halls, but you didn’t hear anything anywhere, and you couldn’t see anybody around, nor could you see cameras hidden in the corner. Walls crashing down, heart rate naturally kicking up; you unbuttoned your pants, spreading your legs and slipping your hand down your pants.

You whimpered at the contact of your cold fingers to your clit, feeling the sticky sensation of arousal cover the bit of thigh that your underwear didn’t touch. You soaked yourself just by the smell of the deer on the other side of the door. You slipped your middle finger and ring finger down, coating your fingers entirely before slipping them into you, curling them as you did.

You inhaled deeply resting your free arm against the door above your head for you to lean forward on, you didn’t have the intentions of fucking your self in the hall, but one thrust turned into three. Now you’re dripping, gasping for air and trying to keep yourself quiet when all you wanted to do was collapse and beg whoever occupied the other side of the door to please fuck the neediness out of you.

As you quickened your pace, your body quivered from the uncomfortable position, but you halted everything when you heard the unmistakable sound of a radio on the other side of the door. It was a gritty sound, garbled with no real sound coming out of it, just strange static. You tried to catch your breath as you listened closely, checking your left and right speedily ro assure you were still alone.

Suddenly the doorknob shifted the door falling open under your weight. Your legs stuttered attempting to catch your body, hand whipping out from inside you, slick and sticky with your arousal as if you were some whore. Unfortunately you weren’t able to catch yourself fast enough but lessened the brunt of the fall with your knees before your hands came down to finish. You were still in a blitzed out haze, but the room was pitch black, the only sound that could be heard was an ambient sound of nature and the faintest sound of the radio.

The only light that you were blessed with was the hall light from the opened door behind you. You could barely make out deer heads hung on the wall and a red couch before the door snapped shut leaving you alone in the darkness.

You whimpered, clenching your legs and your teeth, you could still hear the radio but it sounded like it was seriously messed up, switching stations, pitches and incorporating sounds you’d never heard from a radio, like growls and deep rumblings.

Your fear mixed with desire and the smell of lust was far more palpable in this room. It was so much harder to ignore the scent and the smell of the buck who was definitely worked up in this room. “What a depraved little doe you are.” You jumped at the voice, nothing like you expected. He sounded wicked, dark, and surprisingly, hornier than you.

You could now hear him in the room with you, his deep pants, the footsteps around, you swear you could’ve heard him accidentally hit his antler against something as well, it was like he just materialised. “What’re you doing out of bed so late? You do know how filthy bucks can be this time of year, don’t you.”

You yelped as two bright red eyes appeared just a few feet in front of you, either this guy was crouched or contorted as you never stood from the floor. As his eyes got closer to you, his being consumed you entirely, as it dawned on you that he was crawling toward you like a goddamn animal.

“Sorry.” You meekly whimpered, tilting your head back ever so slightly, neck on display for him. He let out a baritone chuckle, shocking you slightly, before he replaced that shock with a new-by pouncing on top of you.

He brought his face closer to yours, the crazily dialed eyes of his illuminating your face enough for him to properly see and observe your face. You however only got brief glimpses of a strained yellow smile, and messy red hair that stuck to his face from sweat. You could feel his body heat against you making your own body feel hotter by the second, his right hand sat above your head, his other grabbed ahold of the wrist that moments ago was deep inside you.

One of his knees sat outside of your body by your thigh, while the other knee occupied the inner thigh too close to your core for comfort, or perhaps not close enough. All you knew is this deer was one of the horniest you’ve ever come across, his breath was erratic chest heaving, breath tickling your face and neck, his eyes were blown and obviously a firey red bright enough to add a horror-esque ambience.

You could feel the strain he had against his suit pants, it was hard not to when in the position he took he was straddling one of your thighs. He gripped your hand harder bringing it up to his face, your heart pounding in your ribcage as you watched motionlessly.

He groaned at the sight of your still wet fingers, his smile stretching just slightly as his eyes momentarily closed. Then his mouth opened, as did his eyes, teasingly he opened his mouth bringing your fingers up to him, before he took a hold with his mouth swirling his long tongue around your digits. You whined, closing your eyes at the feeling, the way he did it was not just in an attempt to be pornographic but to properly taste you, coating his taste buds with your arousal. Pulling his mouth away with an exasperated groan, he dragged his sharp teeth along your flesh, leaving tiny cuts that exuded just enough blood to satiate his desire.

He pulled himself away properly, saliva stringing as he did. You peaked your eyes open, as suddenly a feeling of being sucked into the floor consumed you and you felt like screaming. Though it all happened too fast that you weren’t able to squeak anything out; the floor sucked you in and within seconds spit you out. Gently your body bounced against soft velvet comforters on what you assumed was a bed- his bed. Still surrounded by only the blackened room, the buck nowhere you could see, you sat there heart pounding, bewildered, scared and horny, a unique combination to be fair.

“Tell me, my dear doe. When was the last time you gave into such, primal desires?” The man’s voice appeared before he did, sliding up beside you from the shadows. “Never.” You whisper looking into his deepened red eyes. “I am so sorry. I avoid bucks, I came for business- I didn’t- god i’m sorry i couldn’t help myself- you fuckin,” You threw your head back groaning in frustration, feeling embarrassed to admit you were just about willing to do anything he said if it meant he spread you out and bred you.

He chuckled demonically, his hand sticking out to you. “Alastor, sweetheart, pleasure to meet you, quite, the pleasure.” Alastor’s radio voice lowered and he purred to you so sultry that you clenched your thighs together. Grasping his larger clawed hand that he had stuck out, you shook him tightly enjoying the warmth and contact. “YN, pleasure to meet you too.”

Gently pulling his hand away, Alastor inched his way closer to you, leaning over he placed his hand on the other side of your torso seemingly trying to resume the position he held on the floor. “I could smell you enter the hotel, you know. I keep myself away every season and no other passer by, has been an issue. So what is it that you’ve done my dear,” Alastor questioned accusingly while dragging a claw up your neck and getting back to being on top of you.

Alastor felt like he couldn’t help himself, he felt a yearning for sex he’d not felt ever, sure there’s been the occasional session with his hand on a particularly trying mating season, but never real feral need like this. He wanted to leave his mark on you, and keep all those other foul deer demons that may attempt to take their claim on you in the future.

Growling radio admission and static echoed throughout the room, Alastor promptly closed the inches between your bodies, gently collapsing on top of you. Alastor dragged his tongue up your neck from your collar to your jaw line, ending his travel with an opened mouth kiss. You whimpered at the sensation of his body against you clutching his shirt, as he nipped at your neck with his sharp teeth drawing blood.

His thigh was pressed against your core with the way he leant down on you, and you wondered if he could feel how you were pulsing desperately begging him to fill you. Against your will you jerked up grinding yourself into him, causing him to groan at the own pleasure he got from the friction. Alastor then pulled away entirely looking down at you, then a gentle red light flickered on, then another, and finally a third, lighting the room up with a reddish glow.

You weren’t focused on how, or where the light came from, but rather the man in front of you. You had no clue it was Alastor, as in thee overlord Alastor, although you should’ve put it together based on all the radio feedback that sounded from out of him. Of course you knew of him from your research but he’d been gone when you came down so you easily forgot him.

Alastor was dishevelled, without a suit coat, just a button up and his suit pants, his hair was a mess as you briefly saw before, but man oh man did he look a wreck. He was sweaty, his antlers were out on full display, his eyes lidded.

“I had no idea you were a deer.” You say eyeing him up and down, he chuckled at that. “So you know of me?” The question, you might almost say, sounded uncertain, perhaps before with the lights off lended the two of you a comfortable anonymity that you don’t have anymore. Nodding your head you can’t help but attempt to gain some friction between your legs. “Darling if you truly want this as much as I, then I'd be more than happy to satiate the hunger for both of us- so long as we see to a date and several others after. I wouldn’t be able to stand seeing you with another deer after me.”

Although this formal speech was out of place for your current predicament you looked past it because you wouldn’t mind this being more than a one time hook up. “Of course, I hate one night stands.” Smiling at him, his smile softened compared to its harsher one before. Alastor moved in, this time you were able to watch him in the dim light, leaning back fully and off your elbows, you got comfortable on the soft pillow that kept you somewhat propped up.

You wanted your hands free to touch him, and hold him. When his face was inches from you, lips barely touching, your hands came up to play with his hair. You go cautiously hearing rumours about the distaste he has for contact he doesn’t initiate, however the moment your hands connect to his hot neck, he moans, pushing himself down to connect to your lips.

He smiled through, as you expected him to, but it was the best kiss you’ve ever had, purely based on how intense he was once he finally got a taste of you. You just barely opened your mouth before his tongue was escaping his mouth to explore yours, it was a searing kiss one that was unique to anything before. His body once again lowered as he relaxed on top of you, most of his weight rested on you, which you loved the feeling of it was like he was encasing you with him.

You could feel the stiff hard on that ached to be freed, and his uneven breaths that expanded his chest further into yours, like a tide your chests pushed and pulled each other in and out. It was erotic, and as your make out session dragged on the messier it got, teeth scraping tongues fighting, saliva glistening on the perimeter of both of your mouths. Your hands dug into his hair occasionally touching his long antlers that were out, and everytime you did he’d moan statically into your mouth.

Alastor cared little about his poise and instead chased his own pleasure as his mouth entangled with yours, you were receptive and as needy as he was, so he felt no shame when he started to hump himself against your core. He took even more pleasure in hearing you whine for more, bucking up into him. You buttons were still undone from earlier which made him feel a sense of anger he couldn’t explain, he wanted to be the one to make you come undone, he wish he could’ve gotten to you before you fucked yourself against his door.

So with a new goal in the demons mind, he snaked his arm in between your bodies, him needing to lift himself a bit to do so, and snuck his hand down you pants straight to your soaking wet core. Gasping at the contact you jerked up into his hand, his fingers sliding down the length of you leaving no area untouched.

“Impatient?” Alastor mocked pulling away finally, although he was in no place to, as even the simplest word came out jagged and out of breath. “Alastor please,” You begged unable to stop the way you jerked up into the warmth of his hand.

With contemplative hum Alastor halted all movement making you groan. It was unbearable to put up with, perhaps the foreplay of it all would be more enjoyable if it wasn’t such a painful lust you were in. Snapping his fingers, cool washed over your body like freezer air, and soon you realized you were left bare.

You jumped curling into yourself afraid of being so suddenly exposed. Looking up you were surprised to find the overlord himself nude with you, the comforter that once laid flat underneath you now pulled up behind him. Leaning forward blanket following in suit behind him, you simply stared at him, the markings on his body, the fact he had two tone skin, and of course the more obvious aspect of his body, the fact he was hung.

Covering the two of you under the safety of the blanket, Alastor pulled your legs apart gently, body slotting back where it’s supposed to be in between your legs. “You’re devine torture my dear. Attempting to be somewhat gentlemenly in a state like this, when you’re so desperate, is absolute torture.” Alastor grit out, his static gone as he struggled against the animalistic urge to dive into you.

Breathing out a breath you had no clue you were holding, you begged him pressing your body up into his. Thoughtlessly you reached down between you two, wrapping your legs around his torso to nudge him closer, and slowly you wrapped your fingers around him making him almost robotically crackle.

Giving him a few awkward strokes, due to your position, you guided him towards your entrance that needed no prep, with how you pulsed aching, and dripped greedily you weren’t too worried about pain.

Alastor barely took your guidance, as once you stroked him a twig snapped, when you lined him up to your entrance, he jerked forward plunging into you rather harshly causing your body to jolt. A heat shot through your body crawling down your pelvis straight to your toes, while your jaw hung open, unable to make the noise. Alastors radio was popping and crackling as he fucked into you, grinding his body against your own, he was pouring himself into you as fast as he could and for him it still wasn’t fast enough.

Meanwhile you were still attempting to catch up, your brain hazily lagging behind as your body jerked along with every thrust. You could feel yourself dripping down the length of him, the wet slapping of skin was just more indication you were practically a faucet. Reaching upward to grab onto his neck, it was your turn to growl viciously, loving the way his eyes and smile looked in this fucked out haze.

Grinning at him you tilted your head back, eyes closed at the insane pace Alastor was attempting. “Fuck Al, just like that please don’t fuckin stop,” You moan spreading your legs further apart so your clit was more exposed to his flesh that came slapping down.

One of his hands grasped your neck lightly squeezing, you clenched in tandem with his choking, absolutely loving the feeling of him having you at his mercy. “Who knew such a sweet face would be so, filthy.” Alastor said through a toothy smile his radio voice was gone only leaving his strained raw vocals.

You let out wails of pleasure as he fucked you into the mattress, before you roughly pulled Alastors head down forcing him to give you a kiss. Your tongues met before your lips did as neither of you were going in for gentle but rather a greedy taste of one another.

Alastor moaned and whimpered more when kissing you seemingly without hesitation, making you feel closer to the edge then before. Arching your body up you clawed Alastors back begging him, tears threatening to spill and the feeling of need. “Please Alastor, please fuck- so good it’s gonna- i’m gonna cum- Al don’t stop,” You cried loudly stumbling over what you wanted to say as you felt hot all over.

Above you Alastor could barely hold on, his forehead rested against you as you cried, wailing for him to fuck you begging for him to make you cum, and he knew from how you cried for him, ge was gonna. He also knew he wasn’t far himself feeling as you clenched and leaked all over the bed, it was disgusting and he loved it. Your skin stuck to his as his body came crashing down on yours legs too shaky to hold him himself up, but his pace didn’t let up all that much still forcing himself deep into you, marking every inch of you.

You screamed, clawing his back wrapping your arms around him as you convulsed. You whined about how it was so good how hard you were coming but it got mixed up in his mind as he focused on the violent gushes of liquid that rushed out of you. It seemed your orgasm kept being pulled out as you continued to gush around him making him bellow out his own praises of how good you felt, how glad he was you were coming on his cock and making a wet mess of his bed.

Alastor was ravenous as he used your cunt to milk him of everything he had trying hard to get himself as deep as possible in you. Meanwhile you continued to moan and whine at him your orgasm still pushing on gushes is liquid squirting out of you as your sentive mating body wanted more, wanted to be bred and was ready to hold out to do so.

And bred it was, Alastor bit onto you as he came, loving the feeling of filling you to the brim, it wasn’t anything he’d done or felt before. You groaned, smiling wickedly and you hungrily kissed up his neck pulling his ear with your teeth, whispering to him about how badly you wanted to be filled with his cum, eyes rolling back as he stilled in you finally.

Your body ceased a bit before his movement ceased, It was all insanely animalistic. Now as Alastor laid on top of you, still inside you, you felt the post nut clarity truly hit you. You were still in a lustful haze, however you’d never been that much with a man, nevermind one you haven’t properly met. Although you didn’t mind, as you dragged your fingers through his sweaty hair you reminded yourself he wanted to see you more, not just use you.

Taking a deep breath, Alastor enjoyed the smell of your skin and the doe pheromones you naturally let off. In the back of his mind twisted questions that he couldn’t bother trying to answer. His head laid under your chin, face between your breasts dazed and staring off into space. You cautiously traced your fingers up his ears, his antlers fell in size back to little sticks. His ears twitched but he made no remark as you gently played with them.

“Do you regret it?” You broke the silence with the nasty feeling of worry in your gut, worry that you messed up, worried you both made a mistake. Alastor let out a long hum, his radio frequencies back in action as he did. “No dear not at all. Lust or not I was certain about my decision. I had the strength to hold back when I heard you on the other side of the door but I didn’t want to.” Alastor admits still a little coy is his delivery.

Although he did a very good job at assuring you because any doubt you had vanished. It was a vulnerable time for the both of you, during mating season, that having the knowledge that he still could’ve kept control, kept himself on the other side of the door but instead choose to claim you, yeah made your heart and mind content.

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aleksatia · 3 months ago

Text

💗 Rafayel – Five Years Later

The second in a series of stories exploring MC’s return after five years of silence. Others are coming soon — links will be added as they’re published.

Original ask that sparked this continuation.

Sylus | Caleb | Zayne | Xavier (coming soon)

CW/TW: Trauma & PTSD themes, Implied past abduction, Betrayal / emotional manipulation, Poisoning & near-death experience, Violence (including one execution-style kill), Self-sacrifice, Intense emotional conflict, References to grief, guilt, and long-term separation, Complex relationship dynamics, Themes of forgiveness and healing While inspired by the original characters and lore of the game, this is a personal interpretation. Some aspects of character behavior, relationships, or world-building may differ from canon — especially given the five-year time gap and the impact of traumatic events. Consider it an alternate emotional timeline, shaped by growth, grief, and what-ifs.

(He taught himself silence. Learned to paint with absence, to breathe through longing. But when your shadow crossed his path again — living, breaking, real — the stillness inside him remembered how to shatter.)

The thing about disappearing is — if you do it right — no one comes looking.

Not because they don’t care. But because you made it easier to pretend you were never real in the first place.

You left the sea behind. The salt. The songs. The man with sunlight in his laugh and grief in his hands. You traded it all for concrete, steel, smoke. Somewhere between New Madrid and the Eleventh Sector, you stopped being a person and became a profile: Level 3, Tactical Division, Close Range Neutralization. Specializing in high-value body retention.

A shadow with a badge. A ghost on retainer.

It suited you.

You didn’t drink anymore. You didn’t play games. You didn’t say his name.

“Client arrival is in twenty minutes,” crackles the comm in your ear. "Full week assignment. High confidentiality. Zero contact protocol unless engaged."

You glance at your reflection in the elevator’s gold trim.

Eyes colder. Shoulders straighter. Gun holstered under a matte jacket that still smells faintly of last week’s adrenaline. You're not the girl who once cried into coral bedsheets. You're her replacement.

The hotel smells like money. That antiseptic richness meant to distract from the emptiness.

You position yourself in the lobby near the marble fountain — half concealed, half obvious. Just enough to look like part of the architecture. Just enough to see everything.

The concierge nods. The manager paces. The staff adjust flowers no one will notice.

Then: the cars. Black, sleek, ghost-silent.

Doors open.

Two assistants spill out first. Press, probably. One on a tablet, one on comms. Then a manager — with a face oddly familiar, like a half-forgotten memory trying to surface. Then—

Your heart forgets how to be a muscle.

He steps out like the city belongs to him. Like time bent itself around his absence.

Still tall. Still too elegant for the world he’s forced to live in. Purple waves of hair tied back. Sunglasses sliding down a nose built for poetry. He’s wearing that long beige coat he used to throw over your shoulders when nights got too cold, and his cologne hits you like déjà vu dipped in seawater and regret.

Your mouth is dry. Your hands are ice.

He doesn’t look at you.

Not yet.

You do what you were trained to do: you check for threats. Scan exits. Ignore your pulse.

He walks through the lobby as if unaware. As if untouched. But when he passes, just before the elevator closes — he turns his head.

And smiles.

Like sin. Like summer. Like he knew it would be you.

Then—

“Hello again, Ms. Bodyguard.”

***

The suite was silent. Too silent for something this expensive.

No music. No hum of ventilation. Just the hush of carpet under your boots, and the faint, distant rhythm of city breath outside the window.

You stood near the corner, hands behind your back, spine too straight. Default position. Default you.

He was across the room, jacket already off, sleeves rolled. Moving like someone who was used to being observed. Not by the public — by ghosts.

The wine had already been poured. He handed you a glass like it was part of the ritual. You didn’t take it.

He arched an eyebrow.

“I’m working,” you said.

He didn’t insist. Just smiled, faintly.

Of course.

He used to fill every room — all noise and color and heat. But now, somehow, he'd grown quiet. Not in absence — in weight. Like a masterpiece in a gallery. Like the only rose in a field of thorns. You could look away, but you’d still feel him. Like a crosshair you couldn’t shake.

The window beside you looked out over the city — not that you were looking. Your eyes were trained on his reflection in the glass. Even blurred by distance and light, you could tell: he hadn’t broken. But he’d bent.

Harder than most things could survive.

His voice came low, like something remembered instead of spoken.

“You weren’t always stone.”

You didn’t answer.

He crossed the room without hurry. You didn’t move.

His eyes found yours — not searching, just… waiting. Like the question wasn’t whether you’d speak. It was whether you still could.

“And yet here you are,” he murmured, “standing in my suite like you were carved to fit the corner.”

You felt the words land somewhere deep in the ribs. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

He took a slow sip from his glass. The color of the wine caught in the light — the same shade he used to mix on his palette when painting you in shadow.

“I saw the new series,” you said, voice even.

He glanced at you over the rim.

“Did you?”

“Less gold. More... grief.”

A pause. Then a smile — dry, almost kind.

“I ran out of yellow.”

That made your throat tighten. You looked away before it showed.

He studied you. Not your face — your posture. Your silences. You weren’t hiding emotion. You were holding it.

Like a soldier holding a wound closed with one hand.

“And you,” he said, softly. “Still chasing bullets?”

“I don’t chase. I shield.”

“Of course you do.”

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch. But enough that you could feel him again. That impossible warmth, wrapped in restraint.

He looked at you like an old painting. The kind you see once, remember forever, and never find again.

“You followed me,” he said, almost offhand. “Even after you left.”

You didn’t deny it.

“I had to know you were… functioning.”

He laughed — quiet, empty.

“Functioning,” he repeated. “Right.”

You searched his face for anger. You didn’t find it. Only something slower. Older.

Like ash.

“How have you been?” you asked.

It was a mistake. The question hung in the air like smoke from a match — small, stupid, but dangerous.

He stared at you for a long moment.

Then the glass in his hand cracked. A clean, bright sound. Like winter splitting.

The wine didn’t spill. He didn’t move.

“You left,” he said.

Not bitter. Not accusing.

Just: you left.

“And now you want to ask if I’ve been well?”

You shifted. Just enough to register discomfort. Nothing more.

He looked at the flame creeping along his knuckles — Evol, awake and restless. He closed his fist, and the fire vanished like breath from a mirror.

“What did I do?” he asked, quieter now. “What sin did I commit to earn a silent goodbye?”

You drew breath through your nose. Measured.

“I was tired.”

“Of what?”

You looked at him.

“Of being a story you told instead of a person you knew.”

That did it.

Not an explosion. Not a slam. Just a shift. Like something in his chest cracked, and he had no hands free to hold it in place.

He turned. Slowly. Set the broken glass down. No sound. No shatter.

Then he walked to the adjoining door, pressed it open.

“You’ll stay here,” he said.

A simple guest room. Clean, unpersonalized. Quiet.

He didn’t look at you when he added:

“You’re my shadow for the week. No leaving. No exceptions.”

“And if I object?”

He paused at the threshold. Then turned. Finally met your eyes again.

“You won’t,” he said.

Not a command. Just a prophecy.

***

The days blurred.

They stretched long — drawn out by tension and silence — and yet they flew past with the quiet cruelty of something you couldn’t stop. You caught yourself counting minutes. Not until the assignment ended — but until he left again.

You told yourself it was duty. But no. You knew. The closer it got, the more it scared you.

You’d thought you’d buried the past. That five years had been enough to cauterize what you felt. Enough to flatten grief into dull, predictable weight. You’d taught yourself not to cry. Not to ache. Not to wake up reaching for a voice that wasn’t there.

But now—

Now the thought of losing him again bled through you like poison Slow. Sharp. Relentless.

For the first time, you truly wondered — had you made the worst mistake of your life?

You’d always known leaving was cowardice. A reaction. A wound reacting to pressure. You’d told yourself it was necessary — that you couldn’t survive another secret, another lie, another impossible moment in his orbit.

But now, as you stood in his shadow again, you returned to the one truth you kept avoiding. It wasn’t just the secrets. It wasn’t just his careful, curated nonchalance. It wasn’t even the things he didn’t say.

It was that moment — the one you could never forget.

The Nest. The kidnapping. The deal he’d made behind your back.

The betrayal.

The man who once made you feel like a myth had handed you over like a pawn. And you’d left. Because you couldn’t find a version of yourself that could love him and survive it.

But now…

Now you knew. The price you both paid for your fear had been too high.

***

He treated you like a shadow. Professional. Polite. Silent.

He didn’t try to speak. Didn’t joke. Didn’t prod. Whatever playful gleam had once lived in him now belonged to the stage.

You watched him wear charm like a costume — perfectly tailored, easily removed.

The real man?

He wore quieter things now. No more garish brands. No flash. Just silk-lined precision. Weight without noise. Like he’d stopped needing to be seen in order to feel powerful.

And yet — you felt it. The way his gaze burned across rooms. The way silence wrapped around you both like a loaded pause.

Something was coming. You didn’t know what.

Only that it would not be small.

***

Then came the reception.

A charity event. Wealth, power, and politics pretending to like each other in the same room. He handed you your role the night before — not as a request.

You weren’t the bodyguard tonight. You were his date.

No one must suspect otherwise. His reputation demanded it.

And so here you were:

Draped in sea-glass velvet, cut to glide and cling. Your hair swept into soft, impossible waves. Sapphires at your ears, your throat. Everything felt too heavy. Too expensive. Even your heels were a weapon you didn’t know how to use. You hated how they made you move — slow, deliberate. Exposed.

The car slid to a stop. He stepped out first — a vision in black and steel. Then he turned, offered you a hand.

You took it. His skin was cold.

But the touch — the touch burned. Like nothing had ever healed.

Cameras. Screams. Flashing lights.

Your instincts screamed — scan the crowd. Find the threat. Always the threat. But his fingers tightened around yours. Hard.

He leaned in, breath against your ear — warm, familiar, furious.

“Smile, for fuck’s sake.”

You did.

Not for the cameras. Not for the cause.

But because you knew — the storm wasn’t over. It was just beginning.

***

You played the part well.

Neutral. Polished. Cold enough to earn whispers you never heard, but felt just behind your back.

No one dared speak them aloud, of course. They looked at you and said the compliments to him.

“She’s stunning.”

“Such a refined presence.”

“As if she was made to be on your arm.”

As if your face belonged to him. As if your silence was his design.

In some twisted way, maybe it was.

You didn’t remember how you got here. One minute you were cataloguing exits with your eyes, tracking the crowd with practiced ease —

The next —

You were dancing.

His hand on your waist, the other guiding yours. Everything too close, too warm, too practiced.

The chandelier above cast a slow rain of light. The room turned gently, spinning around its own silence.

His touch wasn’t tender. It was intentional.

“Your expression,” he murmured, “is slowly assassinating my reputation.”

You didn’t look at him. “Your reputation as what, exactly?”

He paused. Just a second.Then:

“A man of appetites.”

You tilted your head slightly. “How poetic.”

“I thought so,” he said. “Though the press prefers playboy.”

A beat.

“So you’ve read it,” you said.

“I have someone who clips the good parts.”

“Must be a short list.”

He smiled — not kindly. “Normally, I’m seen with far more… expressive company.”

“Then why break tradition?”

His fingers flexed slightly at your waist.

“I suppose I wanted something quieter.” A beat. “Something that might bite back.”

Your gaze flicked to him. Just once. A sharpened glance.

“And how does this help your image?”

“It doesn’t.” He leaned in, voice a thread. “But it’s not always about image, is it?”

You could feel it — the heat building between syllables. Not passion. Not yet.

Just tension. Waiting.

You moved together like two creatures pretending not to hunt each other. Each step precise. Each breath withheld.

“You used to enjoy this sort of thing,” he said, voice soft now, too close. “Crowds. Light. Being seen.”

“I used to believe in things,” you replied.

He said nothing. But his hand curled tighter against your spine.

For a second, you let the silence say everything.

Then—

You noticed it.

The way his eyes had started slipping away from you. Again and again — to a single shape on the edge of the room. A man. Grey suit. Clean line. Controlled posture.

You knew that look.

The dance ended, but you weren’t let go. He took your arm, like a gentleman.

But you knew better.

***

The garden was colder than it had any right to be. The kind of cold that wasn’t about temperature — it was about distance. About the way stone walls and sculpted hedges swallowed sound and left only the weight of footsteps behind.

You followed him without a word. Because you already knew.

You’d seen his eyes stray to the man in the grey suit half a dozen times during the reception. Not nervous glances — calculated ones. Not curiosity — confirmation.

And now here you were, walking straight into the web.

The man waited by the marble fountain, one hand resting casually in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something expensive and unnecessary. His smile was pleasant. His suit was quiet money. His name was carved into memory from the briefings you used to skim with more detachment.

Elias Varrick. Publicly: philanthropist, investor, art collector, father of four. Privately: suspected ties to high-level biotech experimentation, classified marine acquisitions, and several quiet disappearances.

All rumors, of course. Nothing on paper. Nothing proven.

Still — you knew. Your gut always knew.

But you didn’t know what Rafayel knew. Not yet.

They greeted each other like old acquaintances. A handshake that looked effortless. Painless.

“I thought it best to deliver the piece myself,” Rafayel said. His voice had its old rhythm — slow, warm, dipped in charm.

You watched him as he spoke. Not the words — the tone.

Polite. Polished. Performing.

“That kind of personal art,” he added, “deserves a personal hand.”

Varrick smiled wider. “Very kind of you. My family will love it. We’re planning to hang it in the main lounge — the one where we gather in the evenings. My wife, the children, my mother. It’s where we live.”

And that’s when it happened.

You didn’t freeze. Not outwardly. But something inside you did.

That phrase. The way he said it — we live here.

You didn’t hear a lie. That was the problem. You heard sincerity.

You saw the portrait — Rafayel’s portrait — hanging above a mantel. You saw children playing on a rug beneath it. An old woman sipping tea in a chair nearby. You saw innocence. Unaware. Wrapped around a weapon.

And suddenly, all the scattered images connected. The rumors. The names. The “environmental” fund. The experimental projects tied to Lemurians. The disappearances.

He wasn’t here for charity.

Rafayel was hunting. And you were holding his arm like a lover while he did it.

It wasn’t the lie that made you pull away. It was the memory of all the ones that came before.

You stepped back. A breath lodged in your throat.

“I need a moment,” you murmured.

He turned. “Wait—”

You didn’t let him finish.

“Don’t.”

You turned away.

You needed air. Space. Time. You needed to stop hearing the echo of his voice in your chest, the one that said it’s different now, even when you knew it wasn’t.

But he followed. Of course he followed.

“Let me explain—”

“No,” you snapped, more sharply than intended. “No more explaining. That’s always the beginning of the lie.”

He reached for your arm. You stopped him with a look.

“I want to know one thing,” you said. Your voice was low, barely steady. “That painting… it’s a weapon, isn’t it?”

He hesitated. Just a breath. But it was enough.

“Not here,” he said softly. “Please.”

“There are children in that house, Rafayel. Children. How can you guarantee there won’t be innocent blood?”

His jaw tensed. The silence between you vibrated with unsaid things. Then:

“Come with me,” he said. “I’ll explain everything. But not in public.”

“Answer me.”

“I said not here,” he whispered. Not angry. Not cold. Just—desperate. Controlled. And that — more than anything — told you what you needed to know.

And that’s when it happened. The movement was too fast.

You heard it before you saw it — a hiss of compressed air.

Then the glint of metal. Then the needle, already buried in the side of Rafayel’s neck.

Everything shattered.

Rafayel stumbled, hand flying to the injection point. His eyes widened — not with pain. With realization.

Varrick stepped back with chilling calm, adjusting his cuff.

“I knew it was you,” he said simply. “The moment I saw your face, lemurian. I knew you were the one behind Raymond’s death.”

You didn’t wait for orders. Didn’t need permission.

You drew and fired — one shot. Silent. Precise. Varrick collapsed with a grunt of pain, clutching his leg.

You were on him in three strides. Knee in his chest. Barrel to his throat.

“What was in it?” you growled.

His breath rattled, half from the pain, half from the thrill of it all. He was enjoying this — the game, the brink.

“I’m not—”

You slammed the muzzle harder against his neck.

“Tell me. Or I swear, I’ll have your lungs painting that lovely family room of yours by morning.”

He laughed, blood in his teeth.

“Requiem Coral,” he gasped. “Gen-modified. Synthetic compound. It bonds to Lemurian blood — slow neural degeneration. Burns out the body one nerve at a time. Quite poetic, really.”

You stared at him. Then you fired again.

Between the eyes.

No poetry. Just silence.

***

You found Rafayel still upright. Barely. His pupils were uneven. Sweat glistened on his temple. His balance was shot.

You got under his arm, bore half his weight.

“No hospital,” he muttered.

“I’m not a moron,” you snapped. “We’re going home.”

You drove with one hand clenched around the wheel, the other wrapped tightly around his — clammy now, fingers twitching less and less.

The city blurred past like water through glass, useless. Silent.

He was slumped in the seat beside you, head tilted back, jaw clenched.

“Is this your version of a confession?” he muttered, voice paper-thin. “Waiting ‘til I’m half-dead to finally hold my hand?”

“Shut up,” you hissed.

He smiled — barely. “So harsh. Romance really is dead.”

You tightened your grip on his hand. His skin was cold.

“Don’t do that,” you said. “Don’t talk like you’re not about to die.”

“I mean, statistically—”

“I said shut up.”

Your voice cracked on the last word.

The rest of the ride was agony. You didn’t feel the road. You didn’t feel the turns. You felt him — fading beside you. His breath going shallow. His body heavy.

And all you could do was drive faster.

***

Your home wasn’t built for tenderness. It wasn’t a place to recover. It was a place to survive.

The door slammed behind you, and you half-dragged, half-carried him to the medical bench. He tried to help. He couldn’t.

He collapsed like a broken marionette, breathing hard, sweat cold on his brow.

You moved by instinct.

Antitoxin. Anti-inflammatories. Burn stabilizer. Anything. Everything.

Tubes. IV. Scanners.

Your hands didn’t shake — until you realized that nothing was working. His vitals dipped. Once. Again.

No improvement. And you weren’t a doctor. You weren’t a biotech. You were a weapon.

You could take a man apart in thirty seconds, but this — this—

You couldn’t fix this.

You hovered over him, swallowing panic, shoving down the scream forming in your throat.

He opened his eyes — only halfway. Saw the mess you were making. He lifted one trembling hand, and caught your wrist.

“Stop,” he whispered. “You’ll do more harm than good.”

You shook your head violently. “No. No, I can— I just need time—”

“There is no time.”

His voice was barely there.

“I don’t— I don’t know how to stop it,” you said, broken. “I don’t know how to fight it—how to save you—”

“Then listen.”

His eyes found yours.

“If this is it…” His breath caught. “If I’m not waking up from this—”

“Raf, no—”

“Then I want the truth.”

He looked at you like a man watching his own shadow disappear. Like someone who knew there was no second chance this time.

“No secrets. No lies. Nothing between us.”

You froze. And something inside you cracked.

The words came out on a sob.

“I know.”

He blinked slowly. “Know what?”

“I know you sold me out. N109 Zone. Five years ago.”

The air stopped moving. His lips parted, but no sound came.

You looked down, ashamed and shaking.

“I found the records. I connected the drops, the timing. You handed me over.”

There was a long pause. Then, suddenly — he laughed. A ragged, broken sound that became a cough.

“Oh, you—God.”

His smile was pained. Too pained.

“You wanted to reach Onichynus, remember?”

You looked up.

“There’s no easy road there. No clean path.”

He coughed again, winced, and gripped your hand tighter.

“I was watching. If things had gone wrong, I would’ve stepped in. I wouldn’t have let them break you.”

Your lips trembled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t trust myself not to stop you. I didn’t want you to look at me like you are right now.”

He coughed again — something wet in the sound now.

“I never betrayed you.”

His hand drifted to your chest, barely touching.

“You were always my heart.” He smiled faintly. “And when you left… you took it with you.”

You crumpled. Your hands went to his face, cold and pale, and your voice shattered into pieces.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I thought— I thought you used me. Manipulated me. Like everyone else.”

His eyes stayed on yours.

“I would’ve died for you.”

“I know. I know now.”

Tears streamed down your face.

“I took your heart, Raf, but mine—” You pressed a hand to his chest. “Mine never left you. I… still love you.”

Your voice broke like a body under fire.

“God, I never stopped loving you.”

You leaned down, kissed his lips — dry, cold, still his. Your tears landed on his skin.

“Please,” you whispered. “Fight. Just… fight. Tell me what to do. Anything. Because if you die— if you leave me now— I swear—”

“I’m already leaving,” he said.

A beat. A breath.

“I don’t think anything can stop it.”

You shook your head. “No—”

“But there’s something you can do.”

You stilled.

“Take me to the sea,” he whispered.

His eyes were almost closed.

“If I die… I want the ocean to take my last breath.”

***

You helped him into the water, one arm steady around his waist, the other gripping his wrist as if holding on could somehow hold him here.

The sea was cold, even for nightfall. Each wave climbed higher, tasting skin and memory as it came. Rafayel leaned into you, too light, too quiet. His steps were uncertain, but not from fear. He wasn’t afraid. He was done.

By the time the water reached his chest, he stopped.

His breath caught. Not sharply — softly, like a curtain falling.

For a moment, under the pale gleam of moonlight, he closed his eyes. His features relaxed. And it struck you — how little color remained in his face. How glass-like his skin looked. Almost translucent. Almost not there.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words never found shape.

Because he let go.

He stepped back. And before you could stop him, before you could tighten your grip — he slipped beneath the surface and vanished.

No sound. No splash. Just absence.

“Rafayel.”

Your voice wavered, swallowed instantly by the dark. Then louder—

“RAFAYEL!”

But there was only the sea.

You surged forward, boots stumbling, breath catching in your throat as you threw yourself into the waves.

Cold bit into your spine. Your jacket dragged you down. Salt stung your eyes. None of it mattered.

You dove.

Once, five years ago, it had been the same. Different ocean. Same cold. Same fear.

You remembered that too well — sinking below the surface on a job gone wrong, your lungs seizing, your vision narrowing. And just before the dark closed in, it had been him who pulled you out. His arms, his breath, his voice.

Breathe, cutie. Come on. Breathe.

And now—

Now it was your turn to find him.

You kicked downward, deeper, into the black.

You couldn’t see. The moonlight didn’t reach this far. But you didn’t need to see. You needed to find.

The water grew colder the further you went. Each stroke slower, weaker. The pressure in your chest building, blooming like fire. Your hands swept forward, wide, desperate — fingers searching for fabric, for skin, for anything.

You found nothing.

The panic came slowly. Not like a scream, but like a slow tightening, a noose drawn carefully across your ribs. Your lungs began to burn. Your mind whispered it was too far. Too late. But your body refused to listen.

You kept going.

Until your arms stopped obeying. Until your legs stopped kicking.

Until your last exhale slipped from between your lips, and with it, the only word that still meant anything.

“Rafayel,” you mouthed.

And sank.

Everything stilled.

Time, sensation, thought.

And just as the darkness began to take you—

Something changed.

A pulse. Not from the sea. From inside.

Evol. Dormant until now — roared awake. But not with power. With purpose.

It didn’t surge to protect you. It didn’t scream in defense. It answered something quieter. Deeper.

A wish.

You weren’t trying to save yourself. You weren’t trying to rise.

You were trying to give him your heart back. To pour your strength into his veins. To reignite the spark inside him — even if it meant extinguishing your own.

Let me give it back. Let him live. Let me take the weight.

That was the prayer beneath your ribs, and Evol obeyed.

It moved through you like liquid fire, searing down to your bones, pulling from every corner of your being. It hurt. God, it hurt — not like dying, but like unraveling. You were emptying yourself willingly. Not out of fear. Out of love.

And then — resonance.

Not just from you. From him. Like something in the darkness roared back.

No. Not her. Not this way.

You felt it — a pull in the opposite direction. Not rejection. Not resistance. Reciprocity.

His Evol flared back — instinctive, involuntary, desperate. Refusing the gift. Refusing the cost.

He wouldn’t let you die for him. And you — you couldn’t let him die for you.

And so you were pulled. Not rising. Not flying.

Drawn back. Both of you. Together.

Because even now, even here — at the edge of everything — neither of you could bear to leave the other behind.

***

You came back coughing.

The world hit in pieces — salt on your lips, sand beneath your palms, the weight of your own chest struggling to rise.

And then—

Arms.

Not the ocean’s. His.

He was holding you. Soaked. Shaking. Alive.

His heartbeat thudded beneath your ear, ragged but real. His breath skimmed your temple. His fingers gripped your shoulders like he wasn’t sure whether to anchor you — or himself.

You opened your eyes. The sky swam above you, vast and starless.

And Rafayel’s face was there. Pale with exhaustion, hair clinging wet to his skin, eyes too bright in the dark.

You reached up, touched his cheek with trembling fingers. He leaned into it.

No words passed between you. There was nothing to explain.

“This,” you whispered, voice torn to ribbons, “is exactly where I want to be when I die.”

His mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile breaking through.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured, “next time we die.”

Your breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Raf…”

He hushed you with his thumb against your cheek, his gaze steady and quiet.

“It’s over.”

You shook your head. “But how—”

He didn’t answer right away.

Only looked at you, and for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, you saw it— light. Faint, buried, but alive in him.

“Cutie,” he said softly, “how could I keep dying when you needed me this much?”

The sound you made was broken, wild — grief and love tangled into one. You folded into him, arms tight around his shoulders, burying your face in his neck.

“Then you’ll have to live,” you whispered, choked, “for a long, long time. Because I need you. Every day. Every second. Every stupid heartbeat.”

He laughed — quiet and hoarse, and it felt like sunlight after rain.

“Another eternity, then. Sounds like a curse. Or a blessing. Maybe both.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. Moonlight caught the water on his skin, and you felt like crying again.

“I was such a fool,” you said. “You shouldn’t have brought me back. I ruined everything. I wasted so much—”

“I’m not arguing,” he cut in gently. “But I figured… maybe you’d want to fix your behavior.”

A huff escaped you. Wet, shaky. Almost a smile.

“Will you let me try?” you asked. “Will you—can you forgive me?”

He didn’t even blink.

“Sweetheart,” he said, cupping your face in both hands, “this was never about forgiveness. Not really. Not about second chances or fresh starts.”

His thumbs brushed away the tears you didn’t realize were falling.

“We’re us. Flawed. Messy. Brilliant and brutal in equal measure. We hurt each other. And we heal each other.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“I forgave you a long time ago. I was only angry because I didn’t understand. I thought maybe—if I’d been softer. Or warmer. Or better—maybe you would’ve stayed.”

You closed your eyes, tears slipping free.

“I never left you,” you said. “Not really.”

“I know.”

He leaned forward. And kissed you.

Once — soft and slow, like breathing. Then again — deeper, like memory.

And when you kissed him back, there was no anger left. No questions. Just the weight of five years falling away between your mouths.

You broke away just long enough to murmur, “We almost died.”

He kissed the corner of your mouth.

“We’re always almost dying.”

You laughed, breathless.

“This is a terrible time—”

“There’s no better one,” he said. “You never know which kiss is the last. Which night is the edge.”

He pulled you to him again.

And beneath the moon, on wet sand and shaking limbs, you gave yourselves back — completely. No hesitation. No conditions.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t clean. But it was real.

You loved him like you remembered how. And he held you like he never forgot.

And this time, it didn’t feel like the end.

It felt like the beginning.

***

You woke to the sound of brush against canvas.

Soft, rhythmic. A whisper of motion. It tugged at something in your memory, something half-forgotten.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t even open your eyes.

There was warmth on your skin — sun, blankets, and something else. You inhaled. Salt. Linens. Paint.

And him.

When you finally blinked into the light, it took a moment to understand where you were.

The room was high-ceilinged, the windows cracked open to the hush of waves. The bed was too big, sheets still tangled, your body aching pleasantly in ways that reminded you — yes, it was real.

Last night was real.

And then—

“Don’t move.”

His voice. Low. Focused. Familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

You turned your head slightly, and there he was.

Rafayel. Sitting on a low stool near the foot of the bed, bare feet braced against the floor, shirt half-unbuttoned, canvas before him. A brush in one hand, a palette balanced on his thigh.

You blinked at him. “What… are you doing?”

“I said don’t move.” He didn’t look up. “You’ll ruin the pose.”

“I wasn’t posing,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. “I was sleeping. Possibly drooling.”

He finally glanced at you. A glint in his eyes — amusement.

“You were beautiful. Are. I wanted to keep this one.”

“Raf,” you said, stretching with a grimace, “I probably look like a tangled sea urchin. There’s still sand in places sand should never be. I need a shower.”

“If you let me finish, we’ll shower together.”

Your brows lifted. “Tempting bribe.”

“I know.” He smirked. “Also—note to self: never again sex on sand.”

“The ocean was too cold,” you teased.

“Not in my arms.”

That stopped you for a breath.

You smiled. A small, stunned thing.

And somewhere in the middle of smiling and remembering and wanting to kiss him again, you noticed something on the canvas. You squinted.

“Wait... is that yellow?”

He flinched. The brush stuttered.

And then—he groaned, deep and dramatic. “Dammit. Now I have to start over.”

You sat up on your elbows, eyes wide. “Was that my fault?”

He stood slowly, brush still in hand. “You moved. You talked. You ruined my masterwork.”

You grinned. “Your nude beach goddess masterwork?”

“Yes,” he said solemnly. “It was going to hang in the Met.”

“Well, in that case—” you started.

But before you could escape, he lunged — grabbed your ankle, yanked you toward the edge of the bed with a playfully feral grin.

You shrieked.

“Raf!”

“You destroyed art!”

“I was the art!”

You kicked. He caught your other foot.

Laughter spilled from your throat — loud, full, aching in your ribs. You couldn’t remember the last time you laughed like this.

He climbed over you, breathless with mock outrage, and you tangled together in the blankets, in limbs, in joy.

You were still gasping when you murmured, “I’m sorry I can’t erase the past. Those five years... they’re etched into us. But I swear, I’ll spend every day trying to heal what I broke.”

His expression softened — all teasing gone.

“Cutie,” he said quietly, brushing a thumb over your cheekbone, “you still don’t see it, do you?”

You stilled.

“Last night,” he said, “you were ready to give everything. Your Evol, your life, your soul — for me. Even when you thought I wouldn’t survive.”

He leaned his forehead against yours.

“In that moment, I think even the gods cried.”

You closed your eyes.

“My wounds healed the second you chose to stay,” he whispered. “There’s barely even a scar left.”

Then his voice dropped lower.

“Just promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Never disappear again. Not without giving me the chance to fight for you. Not in this lifetime. Not in any other.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You looked him in the eyes — and felt the weight of every mistake, every mile, every ache that had brought you back here.

And then you said, quietly:

“Even if all the oceans rise, even if this world burns and time eats itself whole — I’ll find you. In every life. I’ll find you, and I’ll stay.”

His lips parted. He didn’t speak.

He just kissed you.

And this time, it wasn’t for survival.

It was for everything else.

#love and deepspace #lads #rafayel love and deepspace #lads rafayel #rafayel x reader #rafayel x mc #rafayel x you #storytelling #fanfic #fanfiction #angst #hurt/comfort #emotional #trauma #conflict #grief #second chances

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mostlysignssomeportents · 8 months ago

Text

Penguin Random House, AI, and writers’ rights

NEXT WEDNESDAY (October 23) at 7PM, I'll be in DECATUR, GEORGIA, presenting my novel THE BEZZLE at EAGLE EYE BOOKS.

My friend Teresa Nielsen Hayden is a wellspring of wise sayings, like "you're not responsible for what you do in other people's dreams," and my all time favorite, from the Napster era: "Just because you're on their side, it doesn't mean they're on your side."

The record labels hated Napster, and so did many musicians, and when those musicians sided with their labels in the legal and public relations campaigns against file-sharing, they lent both legal and public legitimacy to the labels' cause, which ultimately prevailed.

But the labels weren't on musicians' side. The demise of Napster and with it, the idea of a blanket-license system for internet music distribution (similar to the systems for radio, live performance, and canned music at venues and shops) firmly established that new services must obtain permission from the labels in order to operate.

That era is very good for the labels. The three-label cartel – Universal, Warner and Sony – was in a position to dictate terms like Spotify, who handed over billions of dollars worth of stock, and let the Big Three co-design the royalty scheme that Spotify would operate under.

If you know anything about Spotify payments, it's probably this: they are extremely unfavorable to artists. This is true – but that doesn't mean it's unfavorable to the Big Three labels. The Big Three get guaranteed monthly payments (much of which is booked as "unattributable royalties" that the labels can disperse or keep as they see fit), along with free inclusion on key playlists and other valuable services. What's more, the ultra-low payouts to artists increase the value of the labels' stock in Spotify, since the less Spotify has to pay for music, the better it looks to investors.

The Big Three – who own 70% of all music ever recorded, thanks to an orgy of mergers – make up the shortfall from these low per-stream rates with guaranteed payments and promo.

But the indy labels and musicians that account for the remaining 30% are out in the cold. They are locked into the same fractional-penny-per-stream royalty scheme as the Big Three, but they don't get gigantic monthly cash guarantees, and they have to pay the playlist placement the Big Three get for free.

Just because you're on their side, it doesn't mean they're on your side:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/09/12/streaming-doesnt-pay/#stunt-publishing

In a very important, material sense, creative workers – writers, filmmakers, photographers, illustrators, painters and musicians – are not on the same side as the labels, agencies, studios and publishers that bring our work to market. Those companies are not charities; they are driven to maximize profits and an important way to do that is to reduce costs, including and especially the cost of paying us for our work.

It's easy to miss this fact because the workers at these giant entertainment companies are our class allies. The same impulse to constrain payments to writers is in play when entertainment companies think about how much they pay editors, assistants, publicists, and the mail-room staff. These are the people that creative workers deal with on a day to day basis, and they are on our side, by and large, and it's easy to conflate these people with their employers.

This class war need not be the central fact of creative workers' relationship with our publishers, labels, studios, etc. When there are lots of these entertainment companies, they compete with one another for our work (and for the labor of the workers who bring that work to market), which increases our share of the profit our work produces.

But we live in an era of extreme market concentration in every sector, including entertainment, where we deal with five publishers, four studios, three labels, two ad-tech companies and a single company that controls all the ebooks and audiobooks. That concentration makes it much harder for artists to bargain effectively with entertainments companies, and that means that it's possible -likely, even – for entertainment companies to gain market advantages that aren't shared with creative workers. In other words, when your field is dominated by a cartel, you may be on on their side, but they're almost certainly not on your side.

This week, Penguin Random House, the largest publisher in the history of the human race, made headlines when it changed the copyright notice in its books to ban AI training:

https://www.thebookseller.com/news/penguin-random-house-underscores-copyright-protection-in-ai-rebuff

The copyright page now includes this phrase:

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems.

Many writers are celebrating this move as a victory for creative workers' rights over AI companies, who have raised hundreds of billions of dollars in part by promising our bosses that they can fire us and replace us with algorithms.

But these writers are assuming that just because they're on Penguin Random House's side, PRH is on their side. They're assuming that if PRH fights against AI companies training bots on their work for free, that this means PRH won't allow bots to be trained on their work at all.

This is a pretty naive take. What's far more likely is that PRH will use whatever legal rights it has to insist that AI companies pay it for the right to train chatbots on the books we write. It is vanishingly unlikely that PRH will share that license money with the writers whose books are then shoveled into the bot's training-hopper. It's also extremely likely that PRH will try to use the output of chatbots to erode our wages, or fire us altogether and replace our work with AI slop.

This is speculation on my part, but it's informed speculation. Note that PRH did not announce that it would allow authors to assert the contractual right to block their work from being used to train a chatbot, or that it was offering authors a share of any training license fees, or a share of the income from anything produced by bots that are trained on our work.

Indeed, as publishing boiled itself down from the thirty-some mid-sized publishers that flourished when I was a baby writer into the Big Five that dominate the field today, their contracts have gotten notably, materially worse for writers:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/19/reasonable-agreement/

This is completely unsurprising. In any auction, the more serious bidders there are, the higher the final price will be. When there were thirty potential bidders for our work, we got a better deal on average than we do now, when there are at most five bidders.

Though this is self-evident, Penguin Random House insists that it's not true. Back when PRH was trying to buy Simon & Schuster (thereby reducing the Big Five publishers to the Big Four), they insisted that they would continue to bid against themselves, with editors at Simon & Schuster (a division of PRH) bidding against editors at Penguin (a division of PRH) and Random House (a division of PRH).

This is obvious nonsense, as Stephen King said when he testified against the merger (which was subsequently blocked by the court): "You might as well say you’re going to have a husband and wife bidding against each other for the same house. It would be sort of very gentlemanly and sort of, 'After you' and 'After you'":

https://apnews.com/article/stephen-king-government-and-politics-b3ab31d8d8369e7feed7ce454153a03c

Penguin Random House didn't become the largest publisher in history by publishing better books or doing better marketing. They attained their scale by buying out their rivals. The company is actually a kind of colony organism made up of dozens of once-independent publishers. Every one of those acquisitions reduced the bargaining power of writers, even writers who don't write for PRH, because the disappearance of a credible bidder for our work into the PRH corporate portfolio reduces the potential bidders for our work no matter who we're selling it to.

I predict that PRH will not allow its writers to add a clause to their contracts forbidding PRH from using their work to train an AI. That prediction is based on my direct experience with two of the other Big Five publishers, where I know for a fact that they point-blank refused to do this, and told the writer that any insistence on including this contract would lead to the offer being rescinded.

The Big Five have remarkably similar contracting terms. Or rather, unremarkably similar contracts, since concentrated industries tend to converge in their operational behavior. The Big Five are similar enough that it's generally understood that a writer who sues one of the Big Five publishers will likely find themselves blackballed at the rest.

My own agent gave me this advice when one of the Big Five stole more than $10,000 from me – canceled a project that I was part of because another person involved with it pulled out, and then took five figures out of the killfee specified in my contract, just because they could. My agent told me that even though I would certainly win that lawsuit, it would come at the cost of my career, since it would put me in bad odor with all of the Big Five.

The writers who are cheering on Penguin Random House's new copyright notice are operating under the mistaken belief that this will make it less likely that our bosses will buy an AI in hopes of replacing us with it:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/09/ai-monkeys-paw/#bullied-schoolkids

That's not true. Giving Penguin Random House the right to demand license fees for AI training will do nothing to reduce the likelihood that Penguin Random House will choose to buy an AI in hopes of eroding our wages or firing us.

But something else will! The US Copyright Office has issued a series of rulings, upheld by the courts, asserting that nothing made by an AI can be copyrighted. By statute and international treaty, copyright is a right reserved for works of human creativity (that's why the "monkey selfie" can't be copyrighted):

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/20/everything-made-by-an-ai-is-in-the-public-domain/

All other things being equal, entertainment companies would prefer to pay creative workers as little as possible (or nothing at all) for our work. But as strong as their preference for reducing payments to artists is, they are far more committed to being able to control who can copy, sell and distribute the works they release.

In other words, when confronted with a choice of "We don't have to pay artists anymore" and "Anyone can sell or give away our products and we won't get a dime from it," entertainment companies will pay artists all day long.

Remember that dope everyone laughed at because he scammed his way into winning an art contest with some AI slop then got angry because people were copying "his" picture? That guy's insistence that his slop should be entitled to copyright is far more dangerous than the original scam of pretending that he painted the slop in the first place:

https://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2024/10/artist-appeals-copyright-denial-for-prize-winning-ai-generated-work/

If PRH was intervening in these Copyright Office AI copyrightability cases to say AI works can't be copyrighted, that would be an instance where we were on their side and they were on our side. The day they submit an amicus brief or rulemaking comment supporting no-copyright-for-AI, I'll sing their praises to the heavens.

But this change to PRH's copyright notice won't improve writers' bank-balances. Giving writers the ability to control AI training isn't going to stop PRH and other giant entertainment companies from training AIs with our work. They'll just say, "If you don't sign away the right to train an AI with your work, we won't publish you."

The biggest predictor of how much money an artist sees from the exploitation of their work isn't how many exclusive rights we have, it's how much bargaining power we have. When you bargain against five publishers, four studios or three labels, any new rights you get from Congress or the courts is simply transferred to them the next time you negotiate a contract.

As Rebecca Giblin and I write in our 2022 book Chokepoint Capitalism:

Giving a creative worker more copyright is like giving your bullied schoolkid more lunch money. No matter how much you give them, the bullies will take it all. Give your kid enough lunch money and the bullies will be able to bribe the principle to look the other way. Keep giving that kid lunch money and the bullies will be able to launch a global appeal demanding more lunch money for hungry kids!

https://chokepointcapitalism.com/

As creative workers' fortunes have declined through the neoliberal era of mergers and consolidation, we've allowed ourselves to be distracted with campaigns to get us more copyright, rather than more bargaining power.

There are copyright policies that get us more bargaining power. Banning AI works from getting copyright gives us more bargaining power. After all, just because AI can't do our job, it doesn't follow that AI salesmen can't convince our bosses to fire us and replace us with incompetent AI:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/11/robots-stole-my-jerb/#computer-says-no

Then there's "copyright termination." Under the 1976 Copyright Act, creative workers can take back the copyright to their works after 35 years, even if they sign a contract giving up the copyright for its full term:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/09/26/take-it-back/

Creative workers from George Clinton to Stephen King to Stan Lee have converted this right to money – unlike, say, longer terms of copyright, which are simply transferred to entertainment companies through non-negotiable contractual clauses. Rather than joining our publishers in fighting for longer terms of copyright, we could be demanding shorter terms for copyright termination, say, the right to take back a popular book or song or movie or illustration after 14 years (as was the case in the original US copyright system), and resell it for more money as a risk-free, proven success.

Until then, remember, just because you're on their side, it doesn't mean they're on your side. They don't want to prevent AI slop from reducing your wages, they just want to make sure it's their AI slop puts you on the breadline.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/19/gander-sauce/#just-because-youre-on-their-side-it-doesnt-mean-theyre-on-your-side

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #publishing #penguin random house #prh #monopolies #chokepoint capitalism #fair use #AI #training #labor #artificial intelligence #scraping #book scanning #internet archive #reasonable agreements

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