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ghost-proofbaby · 4 months

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IT WILL COME BACK (E.M.)

"honey, don't feed me - i will come back."

summary: when eddie came back from the upside down, he was different. and you finally come to realize just how different the man you saved truly is one night, when push comes to shove.

pairings: kas!eddie munson x reader

warnings: mentions of BLOOD (in sexual manner), mentions of BITING (in sexual manner), allusions to possible coercion (consent is still explicitly stated - trust me), mentions of death and trauma, mentions of eddie's canon death, taking a lot of creative liberty with expansive vampire lore across all media, mentions of murderous dreams? (eddie dreamt about killing reader idk), oral (f receiving), smut. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT - 18+ ONLY.

wc: 7.7k+

a/n: i told y'all i'd write a serious biting/blood kink fic one day - today is the day. very lazily edited so beware.

When Eddie came back from the Upside Down, he was different.

There were subtle changes at first. Small, minute details that were easy to ignore. Everyone could turn a blind eye to them — everyone figured they would fade once the boy healed. His healing was first priority, and whatever lingered after could be dealt with.

Get Eddie better. Then question all that lingers.

A simple plan. A genius plan. A torturous plan.

The two of you had been friends, if you could even call it that, prior to it all. Teasing in the hallways, working on school projects here and there when in shared classes, he was your favorite (and only) dealer when you craved something to make sleep come just a little bit easier. He had been familiar — an old ghost you'd grown comfortable with, long before you’d seen those large and wet eyes looking back up at you in the boathouse.

Long before he’d pieced together the puzzle pieces as to why you’d needed the weed to cancel out the nightmares. Long before he’d processed exactly what those nightmares entailed.

But then, you’d fought for him. You’d fought with him. And most importantly, you’d bled with him.

God, you had bled for him.

Something admirable had blossomed in that short time. Eddie’s entire life had fallen apart, thread by frayed thread, and that new planted emotion had been the only solid thing to emerge for him to absolutely cling to. You were more than a fellow classmate to pass by in the hallways. You were more than his favorite customer, always weaponizing fluttering lashes and puckered lips for a discount he’d have given you regardless.

You were a force to be reckoned with, and had ignited a hunger in him like no other.

That’s all he had thought it was when he’d awoken in his living room — not the distorted version but the real one — to you screaming for the others to help you as you’d sealed his wounds. That’s all he had thought it was when you’d come to visit him as wounds turned to scars, and stabbing pains turned to hungering pangs. So he had tried to bury it, listen to Harrington and Wheeler and Buckley when they told him to take time to readjust. He’d locked away that hunger and focused on his healing, just as everyone else had, and told himself it was just residual feelings.

Residual feelings had been bound to happen after seeing someone bloody their hands, with your own blood, for your survival.

And in his burial, he’d never considered a similar hunger igniting somewhere deep within you.

You visited far more often than you should have. Returning time and time again to change his bandages, taking on one too many shifts at the hospital during his unconscious spells and baring your teeth for anyone who got too close. The sweet blood on your hands hadn’t washed away in that first shower; you swore, if you looked closer, you could still see the stain of nearly losing him across your knuckles.

Physical wounds were easier to heal than the internal ones. It was easier to lather on antibiotic lotion than it was to sleep soundly at night. Both of you came to realize that quickly in the weeks that followed Eddie’s return from the dead.

His nights were plagued with bad dreams, with thirst and cravings he couldn’t quite name. He’d wake up, burning up from the inside out with a fever that never existed. Tearing skin. Puncture wounds. Blood spilling across floors and his lips alike. He could never tell if the shivers that traced his spine had been from the cruel visions that had become his nightly visitors or if it was due to his perpetual drop in temperature that had worried Nancy since the very first night home from the hospital, that had concerned the nurses who piled blankets atop him during his week long sleep of recovery.

Your nights were even less kind. Horrific memories were the demons that haunted you — remembering the way you had watched Eddie cut that sheet rope, remembering finding him bloodied on the ground, remembering the warmth of his blood seeping across your palms and how when your ear had turned just as heated with it as you pressed it to his chest. Only to hear nothing. Emptiness.

His heart had stopped for minutes. Plural.

It had been your steady rhythm, your desperate hands and your gasping breaths breathing into his lungs. You’d sunk your claws into him, caught them right between his ribs and had decided he couldn’t leave you.

Some nights, when you wake up screaming, you can still taste his blood on your lips. You sometimes still swore that when you’d checked for a pulse after that, you hadn’t heard anything. Still worried that Eddie Munson’s heart never really restarted and resumed beating.

The worst was when you’d stare through the faded grey of mornings plastering across your room’s walls, and could still remember that initial look in his blown out pupils, once honey brown swallowed in pure black as he’d taken his first breath on his own.

Hunger.

You’d felt it, too. Shame riddled you on the nights you’d come down from the nightmares and remember it; it was as though the Universe had snapped back into place the moment you’d watched his chest first rise. A need so ardent to remain at his side. A chain clicking into place, binding both yourself and Eddie to one another, unaware of just what price had been paid to keep the boy that had laid under you in this world. Unaware of the hunger you had struck the match too that would become both your downfalls.

And so it had been buried. Something alive, even with your doubts of Eddie’s liveliness, and choking on dirt while six feet under. You and Eddie, two sides of the same coin, had decided to not speak of it. He never told you how he had come to be able to pinpoint your heartbeat in every shared room he entered, throat burning as his gaze always settled on you, and you never told him of the matching aches that had shamefully sparked within your chest and between your hips for him.

A hunger to be near one another. A hunger to devour. Neither of you really understood the heaviness.

“How are you feeling today, Eddie?” Steve asks as he sits on the edge of the new bed in the new apartment in the new part of town the Munson men now occupy.

Government money could go a Hell of a long way. Especially after your home had been devastated by the aftermath of alternate dimensions and unheard of evil being defeated.

“Fine,” is the only response Eddie can muster.

In reality, every time anyone came near him now, he burned. His throat tightened till it was surely raw, he swore his teeth sharpened until a mere slip of his tongue against his canines could bring the taste of metallic blood to his mouth. His entire body would tense with every person that walked through his door.

Control. Whatever was happening to him, Eddie needed to exercise control.

“Just fine?” Steve continues on, not catching the drift as he puts down the bag of things he’d bought at Eddie’s request. Basic things — painkillers, packs of cigarettes, a 6-pack. Some habits die harder and can’t be controlled, “You look like shit, Munson.”

“Gee, thanks, Stevie.”

Everyone had assumed the dark shadows beneath Eddie’s eyes would fade. They assumed his cheeks would eventually fill back out. They assumed he could wash away the ashen shade his hair now flatly flowed in. It was as if the life had been drained from Eddie since that day, and they had all assumed it would eventually flow back into him.

It never did. Just as his new hunger lingered, so did the look of Death.

“Sorry, man,” Steve throws his hands up, shrugging a bit before he stands, “Just being honest. It’s the best policy.”

“Is it? Is it really?”

If honesty was the best policy, Eddie could have filled the room with it. He could admit about the nightmarish wants, needs, he’d been keeping at bay. He could admit the way his irritation had been growing this last week every time another body, another friend, walked through his doorway and it wasn’t you. You, who had begun to plague the night terrors. You, who Eddie was beginning to crave far more than he had before he’d stared the afterlife down the barrel of the gun.

Steve just looks at Hawkins’ newest zombie boy, sighing, “Look, I don’t know what’s got you pissed off-“

“The whole dying thing, for starters.”

“-or why you’ve insisted on being an asshole to all of us these last few weeks-“

“Again, I died.”

“-but you’ve got everyone but me scared to visit you. We’re all scared of you biting our heads off, dude,” Steve finally finishes with a scowl.

Everyone. It’s unspoken that you’re included in the generalization.

It occurs to Eddie that maybe, just maybe, he should be kinder if he ever wants the ache of yearning to see you again to fade. If that’s what he could call this ache.

By the time Steve has left, Eddie’s still thinking about his warning. About the way he had been unusually cruel since coming back to life, since waking up handcuffed to a hospital bed. It made sense initially. But he wasn’t handcuffed to a hospital bed anymore — he was home, or as close to home as he could get, and he was technically safe.

The issue was that he’d accepted his safety. Everyone who had wanted Eddie Munson dead was now six feet under themselves. No, the bigger issue at hand was everyone else’s safety.

Your safety.

Once he’d realized you were the staring lead in his violent fantasies, he had stopped calling. Half of your absence last week had been his fault.

No one really bothered to look deeper into it. Steve didn’t press as to why Eddie’s fridge had remained empty, Nancy didn’t take second glances at the odd books on vampire tales that were now littering all the free real estate of Eddie’s room, and you hadn’t questioned the coldness of his tone whenever he spoke to you. The chill of his words had grown icier than his own palms, desperate to keep you at arm’s length until he figured out what had changed in him that day he came back to life.

He wanted you near. He wanted to rip your throat out. He wanted your blood to stain his mouth and neck just as his had stained your hands. That was an issue. That wasn’t normal.

Something had changed in Eddie Munson, and it had terrified him to his twisted core, and no one had cared enough to notice. Not yet.

–

It took you two weeks to be fed up with the radio silence.

Eddie stopped calling even Jonathan (the only one of the group he found he didn’t want to devour whole, as it turns out). When everyone had mentioned it in passing, it had only reminded you of the sleepless nights you’d be enduring. That small voice in the back of your head that had called out to you in the dead of night, the whisper of come to me that echoed all the way across a broken town.

Come to me.

Sometimes you swore it was Eddie’s voice calling to you. Sometimes, you nearly left your own new apartment in the dead of night, and let your legs guide you to the undead boy you had single-handedly revived.

Tonight was one of those nights. Your stomach was twisting, your head was pounding, your bones were aching. Every single inch of you hurt as it listened to that soft calling, and at some point, you gave in.

Hunger. You were insatiable with the need and drive to be at Eddie’s side. Warnings from the others be damned.

One thing leads to another. You find your coat, you find your car keys. You find yourself driving the deserted streets of Hawkins in the middle of the night. You find yourself on the Munson doorstep, knuckles shaking and aching with the knowledge that just beyond the wood of the door, he was there. You don’t have to see him to feel him; his thrumming presence, his anchoring existence.

Come to me.

The door swings open before you get the chance to knock. This string tying your two souls together is not a one-way channel, it seems.

“Why are you here?”

You watch him wince as the harsh words leave him. Immediately, you know that the abrasiveness is on instinct. Just as something claws inside of you to be near him, there is something within him howling to keep you far from him.

The polarity of two magnets. Some nights, surely, his twists in a way that would draw him to you, just as yours will twirl with the sensibility that whatever has changed within him should give you cause to run as far away from him as possible.

But tonight, your magnetism only yanks you closer to him. He doesn’t even invite you in, and yet, you find yourself stepping over the threshold of the new apartment.

“You’ve gone quiet,” you whisper as an answer. It’s not what he wants to hear, grimace deepening, nearly a scowl now, “I just… It’s been weeks. I…”

I missed you. I needed you. I heard you in my dreams and I’ve never had much self-control when it comes to you.

Magnets are a useless metaphor for whatever is happening here between you. A better comparison would be the cliche image of a moth to a flame; he’s dangerous, threatening to burn you alive, and you still find your heart fluttering after him hopelessly. You’re going to get scorned, and you’ll still never learn. You’ve fallen victim to a tired narrative that you’d rolled your eyes at in a plethora of books. How many times had you sworn that wouldn’t be you? Just how many eye rolls had you exhausted at the mere idea?

And now, here you were, on his doorstep. Grasping for something you’re not sure either of you can give.

“I’ve been dealing with a few things,” he mutters as he shuts the door behind you, shielding you both from the chill of the night. The room is still cold, especially in his radius, “Didn’t think it would make much of a difference.”

“You didn’t think I’d care if you just stopped calling?” you turn slowly, taking in the state of the living room. Wayne was clearly gone for the night, work most probably, and several books littered the coffee table. Eddie had been the one reading them, lounging on the couch.

The last time you had seen him, he couldn’t even sit up in bed on his own.

He’s keeping an unusual distance, nearly leaning back out of your vicinity, “Figured you were busy.”

He’s never been this short with you. His words are choked up, his body tense with pain. You assume it’s just his injuries bothering him.

You couldn’t be more wrong, but you’re completely unaware.

“I brought you back from the dead, and you think I’d still be too busy for you,” you laugh humorlessly, fully in disbelief at his pitiful excuse, “Eddie, we could find out Vecna didn’t really die, those damn cracks in the Earth could open right back up, and the first person I’d care about finding is you.”

The animal inside that had been yearning for his presence is satiated for now, but you can still feel it lurking in the darkest depths of your mind, ready to call out a new request at any moment. It’s the distraction that has you spilling pathetic truths.

The only response he offers you is a dead stare. With eyes wide, pupils nearly swallowed up by darkness.

“You could have called,” your voice cracks, body shaking with the effort not to take a step closer to him, “You could have just let me know you were still alive.”

“I-”

He cuts himself off when he’s the one taking a step closer. His entire face twists with pain, and you give up keeping your distance. In an instant, you’re at his side as your hand reaches out for his bicep.

He flinches away. Something inside of you burns.

Your hand is hovering in the air between the two of you, and in this lighting, you swear the skin is still stained with the blood that won’t wash away.

“Please don’t,” he begs, “I’m fine, but… please.”

You don’t know what he’s begging for. Distance, for you to pull your hand away, time – you don’t know what he needs.

“We should sit down,” you insist, finally pulling your hand as far from him as possible but making no move to put the space back between you two, “Has anyone helped you with your bandages? If your wounds got infected-”

“They didn’t.”

“If you didn’t change the bandages, they definitely could have-”

“They’re not infected,” he grits out, but he’s still walking over to the couch regardless, “They’re healed.”

Healed.

Mere weeks ago, those wounds were still deep enough to keep you from ever achieving a full night's rest. Deep enough to worry you to the core that you would wake up to them finally having consumed him. Deep enough that you all assumed it would take him months, not weeks, to recover.

“What do you mean they healed, Eddie?” you whisper, almost reaching out for him as he sits down.

Your hand twitches, but the echoes of his begging and his flinching keep it at bay as you stand before him.

“I mean, they healed,” he huffs, nostrils flaring as he takes deep breaths. He’s looking anywhere in the room but at you, his gaze subverting you with purpose. As though the mere sight of you, the mere proximity, is painful to him, “Don’t know how, don’t know why – they just did.”

“So why are you still in pain?”

A sharper intake of breath. A hush of silence falling over the apartment. Even the buzz of the building’s AC unit has faded from all your senses. It’s just you and him, and a heavy quietude like no other.

Until he finally breaks the surface tension, breathing out, “You.”

Your heart drops. That tug inside your chest, the one taut as you look at him right within your reach yet still so far away, almost snaps.

“Me?”

He nods with a harsh swallow, “I- Look, I can’t explain it, but when I came back, I came back…”

“Different?”

He doesn’t have to explain it. You’d felt it.

The moment his eyes had opened, just moments after what should have been blissful victory. The taste of his blood heavy on your tongue, a terrible sweetness that had choked you rather than its initial metallic twang. The whispers of his voice in your mind.

He wasn’t the only one changed from whatever had occurred that night.

“Different is a good way of putting it,” he nods, looking up with apologetic eyes, “It’s not you. It’s cliche as fuck, but it really isn’t – it’s me. I died, and you brought me back, but I don’t think either of us knew the cost.”

The yearning. The nightmares. The unmanageable needs. The hunger.

“What was the cost?”

He almost doesn’t hear you. Your voice is a whisper, tone weighed down with the curse of knowing.

You might not have known the cost when you were pressing your palms into his chest through your wretched sobs, functioning as his heart and lungs for nearly a minute, but you think you might have a clue now.

All that had been tethering you to him since he’d come back to you, all those webs and strings that had formed their knots around both of your necks. He’d changed, and you had plummeted right into the chasm of the unknown with him.

His blood on your tongue, sweet as honey.

Blood shouldn’t be sweet.

He grabs one of the books off the coffee table, motioning for you to join him on the couch. Under the weight of your realization, you’re nearly under a trance. All he has to do is wave a hand, and you follow.

You’re at his beck and call. Just like you had been when he’d been calling out for you, yearning for you.

“Don’t make me say it,” he mutters under his breath, tossing the book into your lap the moment you’ve sat down. This time, you’re mindful to keep your distance.

This time, you’re painfully aware of the compromising situation the two of you have found yourselves in.

The book is older, leather-bound and worn from years of readers’ careless hands breaking the spine. The corners of every page are weather, close to disintegration. The entire thing could easily pass for a Halloween decoration.

It’s not. You flip open to the title page, and if Eddie didn’t appear so deathly serious at your side, you would have scoffed.

“Dracula?” you question carefully, running a finger over the delicate script of the title, “Eddie, I don’t-”

“I’m not insane,” he interrupts you, “I’m not fucking- I swear to you. I’ve gathered up every goddamn book about it that I can. Fictional, nonfictional. Just- there’s obviously a Hell of a lot more fictional material to work with, okay?”

A vampire. He’s convinced he’s a vampire.

And even worse – you’re convinced right along with him.

You turn your head to look at him, trying to find the right words, but all you find is Eddie burying his face in his hands, head nearly hung between his knees.

“I can’t eat normal food anymore,” his voice is muffled, “That was the first sign. Couldn’t stomach it, made me throw up for hours when I tried. And then all those nurses kept talking about how I was healing faster than they expected. Most of my smaller cuts – those healed in under a day,” he finally lifts his face just enough to turn and peer at you through all the stray curls that fall into his vision, “My vision and hearing were the next things I noticed. Remember how I had a nonstop migraine those first few days?”

He doesn’t need to convince you, but the argument is compelling, “It… wasn’t a migraine.”

He shakes his head. “Not even close. Just turns out that it’s a killer to get used to fucking superhuman night vision and impeccable hearing. I still can’t handle being out in the sun very long. I don’t… burn up or any of that shit, but… it just…” he trails off, shoulders falling in defeat before he throws himself back against the couch. When he continues, his tone is flat, devoid of all emotion, “I keep having these dreams about you, too. Bad dreams. Terrible dreams.”

You shut the book, toss it back onto the coffee table, and decide to Hell with keeping your distance.

You need it. Even if he’ll only allow you to get an inch closer to him, you need it.

“What do you mean by terrible dreams?” you ask, breath catching at the end of your question as you scoot yourself closer on the couch. Even with such a small movement, Eddie is quick to notice, eyes flicking to you quickly with a sense of urgency flashing behind them.

“Don’t,” he lowly warns.

“What’s happening in your dreams, Eddie?”

Another inch closer. His jaw clenches.

“Sweetheart, do not-”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Your knee bumps into his thigh, and you watch him go rigid. Hands turning to fists, eyes pinching shut and face twisting with the same pain he’d worn the ghost of when you first arrived at the apartment.

The moment you touch him, you see it. The flashes of his nightmares, all those terrible actions haunting him every time he closed his eyes. You. Your blood. That hunger.

Like a blackhole in the center of your stomach, it burns viciously as it sucks the air out of your lungs. It threatens to cave your entire being into itself until there’s nothing left. Not even a crumb of who you once were.

But it's not yours. It’s Eddie’s.

That pain on his face is only exhibiting a fraction of what he was feeling. That dizzying craving that he’d miraculously been keeping at bay since you’d simply entered the building, not even yet knocking on his door. You hadn’t even been in the same room as him yet, and he had still known. Had smelt you, had felt you.

He could almost taste you.

“You…” you have to shift your knee away from him, break the touch, break the connection, “You haven’t fed since you woke up.”

“I haven’t fed, period.”

With the connection severed, he somehow finds it in himself to open his eyes once more. You don’t know how – if he’s feeling what you’d just been privy to, you’d be an incoherent mess on the floor. Something feral and unrecognizable.

Although, maybe he was nearly there. You couldn’t see his pupils. That same look when he’d first woken up – a man swallowed whole by hunger.

“You’ve been dreaming about ripping my throat out,” you say it as a matter of fact, not a lick of judgment in your tone.

It wasn’t you scrutinizing him. It was what you had seen, with one simple touch.

His voice is hoarse as he echoes in confirmation, “I’ve been dreaming about ripping your throat out.”

You should probably be afraid. All your survival instincts should be kicking in, your feet should be carrying you towards the door, you shouldn’t be leaning in closer.

“You know what really sealed the whole vampire ordeal though, sweetheart?” he breathes out, your eyes fluttering shut at the lull in his hushed tone.

Just as you’ve been leaning in, he’s been slowly turning his body to face yours, hands twitching at his sides. He’s no longer retreating from your presence, sucking down breaths in harsh gulps the closer you grow to him.

He’s losing control. You’re losing control.

That thread, vibrant red as it draws you near him, is clear as day now. A noose around your neck. A road to your damnation.

A road to your hunger.

You hardly hum in response, completely entranced now. Had he ever been capable of this before? Of holding you beneath such an inescapable spell with such ease?

Probably.

He doesn’t use his words to answer. Instead, he finally takes the plunge.

His head ducks down towards your neck just as his hands lose the war, grabbing onto your hips, dragging you dangerously close to him until his lips hovered just over your pulse point. And by some strength that you certainly don’t possess, he stops there. Letting his lips barely brush against your soft skin, breath coming out in pants for you to feel, to relish, to get lost in. And just as soon as those pants, those waves, become a comfortable pattern to succumb to, you feel them.

His fangs.

Grazing over your sensitive skin. Sharp tips nipping at a surface they could so easily break, pierce with one wrong move. Your pulse is thrumming beneath the surface, heart racing painfully as Eddie’s grip turns bruising.

Come to me.

“Please.”

You’re the one begging now. It goes against every rule you’ve ever seen applied in fiction. If a vampire is baring their fangs against your neck, you should be reaching for a stake. The only noise escaping you should be a scream for help, not the pathetic whimpers beginning to slip out.

“I can’t,” you feel his gasp more than you can hear it. Your blood is too loud, roaring in your ears as you feel the fangs slip with his words, “I can’t.”

That hunger you felt, the one that had called out to you through the night and led you right to his doorstep, is unavoidable now. You need him closer, you need him to do this. For the first time since you had saved his life and tasted his blood after the Upside Down, everything seems to click into place. All he needs to do is let them sink into you, take that final leap of faith and reprieve that ache you’ve battled for weeks now.

You’re so close. So close.

“Eddie, please,” you’re nearly sobbing, hands gripping onto his shoulders, trying to pull him in closer.

But you’re no match for his strength. You don’t know if it’s a new addition with his vampire business or if there was always more to him than met the eye, but he easily stays stoic against your attempts, not moving a centimeter. Still hovering, still just barely making contact with your heartbeat.

“I-” his head drops slightly, tip of his nose beginning to trail down the side of your neck, mouth no longer dangerously close, “You saw my dreams-”

“I trust you.”

You do. You trust him even more now than you had when you first stumbled upon him in the boathouse. More than when he had pleaded his case, promised he hadn’t been the one to kill Chrissy Cunningham. The trust comes easier than breathing as his nose nuzzles into the junction of your neck and shoulder.

“You shouldn’t,” he mutters, fangs now brushing your collar bone, “You really, really shouldn’t.”

He doesn’t stop you when you move to straddle his hips. Your weight settles onto his lap, and he only fights to keep his face burrowed there in your shoulder, arms now moving around your waist to hold you tightly to him.

His self-control is impeccable. You’d admire him and all this impressiveness another time, when something inside of you wasn’t lamenting his resistance.

All at once, it occurs to you how to give him the final push.

“Did I ever tell you how sweet your blood was on my tongue after I brought you back?” you start, sighing, rolling your shoulders to expose more of your neck, grip on his shoulders tightening, “All that blood, all those tears, and I still can’t forget how welcome that warmth of you was in my mouth. How I needed more. How I pictured it every night, after every nightmare-”

He breaks.

One moment, his nose is buried in your skin. And the next, his fangs are.

You weren’t sure what to expect, but relief would have been low on your list. You gasp out in initial shock, but as you feel his teeth dig in, it’s as though something has snapped. The ache has been satiated, preening as you feel the warmth of your blood contrast the chill of his chin pressing into you.

If there’s any pain, you don’t feel it through the haze of pleasure.

Ice shards spread through your bloodstream, but the point in which Eddie’s mouth is connected to you radiates heat. He’s pulling you into him, letting go completely and relinquishing all that control as he nearly purrs against your skin in satisfaction. That connection is back, two minds linking with a heavy click, and you can feel all his pleasure mingling with your own. Satiation, desperation, adoration – the plethora of emotions all swarm your head and block out any better judgment.

You’d let him drain you dry, if that’s what he needed. If nothing more than to hear those soft moans as his fangs sink even deeper.

He pulls back too soon, though, suddenly and unexpectedly. Just as quickly as he had given in to both your desires, he’s putting an end to them. He hadn’t taken much blood, but your head is swimming from the loss all the same. Your grip has gone slack on him, hands slipping down to just barely cradle his biceps while his own touch stays unyielding around you.

You can hear his thoughts. Or rather, maybe more aptly put, you can feel them.

He wants to devour you. Wholly, ruthlessly.

He looks up at you with pupils still blown wide, chest heaving and a small scarlet drip trailing from the corner of his mouth. For the first time since he’d come back to you, he looks alive. Hair fluffed in a halo around his head, skin tinted with a healthy glow and unmistakable blush, bags beneath his eyes faded for the time being.

You were never quite sure if Eddie Munson’s heart had ever restarted, knew for certain that it hadn’t now, but you swear you can feel its pulse finally thrumming for you.

I need more.

It’s his voice in your head, echoing in the empty space as you look down with wild eyes to match his.

But it’s your voice in his head when you respond instantaneously.

Then take it.

Something unspoken lies there in the need. He doesn’t move back to your neck, doesn’t bite down and drink his fill of your blood. He only stares for a few seconds, watching the welt of blood that pools from each puncture wound of his making. His eyes follow when it runs down your skin, as though he might lose it should he so much as blink. Down, down, down. Following the trail that his nose had followed minutes before, across your collarbone until it stains the neck of your loose shirt.

My pleasure.

His hold proves helpful when he quickly changes positions, roughly throwing you down onto the couch before he’s settled between your thighs, crawling his way up your body. He pays close attention to the maroon trail on your throat, his tongue cleaning up after his mess, savoring the taste of you on his tongue.

Sweet as honey.

His tongue only pauses for a moment over the bite wound, pressing into it, making your back arch as you press yourself fully into him. Your head digs painfully into the cushion behind you as you expose your neck, wanting and begging and pleading all without words.

“I think we should take this off,” he plucks at the hem of your shirt, tugging hard before he begins to carefully lift. His freezing knuckles brush against your burning skin, eliciting a whimper from you, “Before we make an ever bigger mess. Don’t you agree, sweetheart?”

A sultry tone you’ve never heard from him before. Honeyed words, familiar to how he once spoke, but entirely new in the way they curl around you. There’s a confidence there, a baiting that he’s luring you with.

“Yes, please.”

He could ask anything of you in this moment, and you’d be eager to comply. Fueled by your desire for him before the events of spring break, worsened by his new condition. A bright, red, vibrating thread. You couldn’t severe the tie if you wanted to.

And you most certainly did not want to.

Your shirt is removed, his hands careful despite the way they shake. His words may be smooth, but each move is jagged, the only sign you had that he’s still exercising control.

“And these?” he whispers, lowering his lips to your sternum as he toys with the band of your pants. His fangs scratch down the center of your stomach as it quivers with each breath, careful to not break skin as they make their presence known. You nearly lose all capability to speak until he says, “Use your words, baby. Tell me I can take them off.”

Yes.

His eyes flare, looking up to you, “Use your words. Not your mind. I want to hear how badly you need me – I want everyone to hear you beg.”

The words strike straight to your core. Lashing out in your lower stomach, burning deliciously.

It’s more than putting on a show. He needs to know you want this.

“Take them off,” you gasp out, hands wandering to tangle in his hair, “Take- Take it all off. I’m yours, Eddie.”

Shaking hands perform a dance you had long since fantasized about. In easier days, when Eddie had been uninvolved in the episode down, heart still beating along as he would bounce his knees in front of you and his fingers would idly fiddle with his pencils and pens. A yearning, a wanting, you’d always held for the boy.

He used to be an escape from it all. A pretty thing to daydream about when you weren’t worried about monsters. And now – he was one of the monsters.

Your monster. Tied to you inexplicably, brought back by your hands and your stubborn efforts.

His lips and fangs are one in the same, trailing along your body as he finds a home at the apex between your thighs. Even in undeath, he’s the most beautiful thing your mind could conjure.

You’d forgotten how he was privy to your every thought until he reacts.

“You’re too sweet,” he murmurs, smirking salaciously as he mouths innocently at that sensitive skin of your inner thigh, tongue darting out to lick a cool stride before he breathes out against it. It has you writhing beneath his hold, “You’ve wanted this all this time, sweetheart? Wanted to see me, between these pretty thighs, making you scream my name?” His mouth falls open a bit wider, the sharp canines pressing but not sinking against where he had just licked. He holds there, eyes locking with yours, until he pulls back to cockily say, “Could’ve just said something, y’know. Didn’t have to bring me back from the dead to have me devoted to you.”

Finally, finally, he lets his fangs sink back into you. The soft meat of your thigh is more pliant in his mouth, and he doesn’t linger as long as he had on your neck. One nick, just enough to start the blood flow, before he’s pulling back and licking hungrily at the scarlet liquid. Less for feeding, more for marking.

Marking you as his, just as you have with him. His methods just appeared a bit more physical.

He’s quick to avert his focus on your cunt, no warning before the tongue still covered in your blood is taking long strides over your entrance and clit. Devotion. That was the only word to describe the way he was unraveling you, alternating between indulging in your sweet cunt and returning back to that bite, going as far to even sink his teeth in a second time to take a proper drink of you. His chin and lips grow slick with it all – with the blood, with your wetness, with his own saliva. A starved man with a feast before him.

The way he’s rutting his hips into the couch as he slings your legs over his shoulders doesn’t go unnoticed.

It’s a mess. A wonderful, satisfying, enchanting mess.

Beautiful. So beautiful, all mine.

His voice has you teetering on an edge of new carnal pleasure. Completely consumed by him, your hands tugging viciously at his curls. His face is round once more, eyes and cheeks no longer sunken in, vitality being breathed into him with each taste of your blood.

Let me touch you. Please.

You beg over that connection, trying your best to not buck your hips mercilessly against his tongue. You feel his wicked grin.

“You’re already touching me, sweetheart,” he reaches up, untangling your fingers from his hair for emphasis before he’s pinning them to your sides, “And what did I say about using our words? Hm?”

“Need more,” your voice is wrecked as you tilt your head back, wrists straining against his hold, “I need more.”

You’re fully light-headed now, the blood loss finally catching up. Maybe you were about to let him drain you dry.

And what a beautiful way to die. At the hand, at the fangs, of the one you had fought so urgently to bring back to you.

One last timid lick to the wound on your thigh, and he’s crawling his way back up to you. The mess doesn't phase you as he kisses you hungrily – the blood remains sweet rather than metallic, the remnants of your juices still on his tongue – and you meet him with an unbridled fervent. Nipping at his lips with your own dull canines as if you were the one looking for a bite of vivacity.

You don’t know when he lets go of your wrists, or when your hands find their way up beneath his shirt. The specifics don’t matter once he’s naked before you, clothes discarded messily to the ground with your own. The only thing that matters is the weight of him, the reminder that he was still here as his hips roll into yours and the head of him catches on your entrance.

He had been dead. For minutes. And you had brought him back to you.

The process had taken longer than the mere CPR administered, had taken weeks of whatever waiting game you two had tortured yourselves with, but you had him now. He was yours. You were his. There wasn’t a deity, a monster, an omniscient being in this world that could take that away from you. Not even Death herself.

“Last chance, baby,” he whispers against your lips, holding himself up so that not a single inch of his skin pressed to yours. You nearly cried out, missing that connection, missing him. Your hunger, the hunger for him entirely, rattles your bones once more, “Say the word, and I’ll-”

“No,” your hands pause their exploration of skin jagged with scars. Reminders of those few dreadful moments in which the world existed without Eddie Munson in it, that would fade in time but never fully disappear. Always there, just like the stain of his blood on your palms. Always there, just like your desperation to have him at your side. “I meant it when I said I’m yours. I’m not changing my mind. I want this.”

His skin is back on yours, body laid fully along your own road map, and it all comes flooding back. The pain of seeing his lifeless body, the nights spent in an eerie hospital room, baring your own teeth at any one who came too close to the man you had pulled back from the ledge of Death. The anxiety, the fear, the relief, the yearning – it all accumulates as he’s pressing into you, brimming you so full that there’s no room for memories of nightmares.

He’s here. He’s yours. You’re his.

His heart didn’t need to beat for you to accept that truth.

You can’t decipher which chants of your name fall from his lips for others to hear, and which ones whisper in the depths of your mind for only you to bear witness to. Each curse, each grunt, each moan – there for you and only you anyways. You’re entirely unsure if your lips even separate once as he thrusts, cock brushing somewhere deep in you that has you clenching around him.

And if his fangs wander, it only adds to the pleasure.

Blood, sweat, and tears all mingle between your bodies. He’s holding you tighter than water, as though you’re at risk of disappearing from him at any given moment. But that link between your two minds, your two souls, is unwavering. It’s the only thing grounding you to the moment as your half curls around his waist and your heel digs into his lower back. Urging him, pressing him, taking him.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he says it out loud, this time. You feel his lips brushing against your ear as he does, “Gripping me so tightly. This pussy was fucking made for me.”

Every movement only unlocks something more feral inside the two of you. Your nails rake down his back, leaving angry red lines to trace over once it’s all said and done. There’s enough shallow bite marks across your neck that you’ll be wearing scarves for weeks, months. The others might question it, strangers might stare, but the pride you feel as he marks you is unmatched for any anxiety about it.

That black hole of hunger is no longer swallowing either of you whole. That debilitating pain, that animal inside, has been tamed.

When his hips begin to stutter, mouth no longer capable of the strength to properly bite you as his lips only smear the soft spattering of blood pooling at the base of your throat, you’re already there. Squeezing him tightly, sucking him in, voice raw as you let everyone know who’s ravishing you.

Eddie.

Hawkins’ newest zombie boy – Hawkins’ newest vampire.

The climax is just as pleasurable as the lead up. The haze lingers long after his spent has dripped out of you, long after he’s collapsed into your body with exhaustion and contentment. The blood dries, the wounds clot – but that haze doesn’t falter.

As long as his skin presses to yours, you feel that caress of his mind against yours.

“Did…” you’re breathless as his face nuzzles into your nude chest, a few mindless hums of gratification still slipping from him as you bring a hand to toy with the curls at the crown of his head, “Did any of your vampire books say anything about… that?”

The connection. The bloodlust. The spell you swear he still has you under, even as it’s all said and done.

He snorts against your skin, “Not that I, uh, recall.”

“What? You mean to tell me in all your research, you never dived into any vampire smut?” you tsk jokingly, a calm smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. He lifts his head, and you swear, those honey-brown irises have threads of a deep maroon now, “You’re slacking, Munson.”

“Why read about it when I can just experience it?” he coos, letting his nose and lips drag across your still hot skin before he rests his chin on your sternum, “Besides, I mean – we’ll need to do this again, won’t we, baby? For research.”

Your head still spins. Your body aches in a welcome manner. There will be a need for explanations to others, for actually researching his condition, later on. But for now, it’s enough.

The pounding behind your ribcage, the one you know Eddie feels for the both of you when his ear presses to your chest, is enough.

Of course, lover.

That thought stays between the two of you. The world doesn’t need to know what can’t hurt them.

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pandorascripts · 1 year

Text

unknowingly yours

warnings: dark themes, stalking, possessiveness, obsession, gore, murder, biting, jealousy, and im probably forgetting something too. (you’re responsible for ur own media consumption buddy)

pairing: dark!wednesday addams x vampire!fem!reader

(all characters aged up to 18)

notes: this was written on a whim at like 1am, and I’ve just now completed it. it’s kinda rushed and half-assed. enjoy :)

————

Gomez had tried to warn his daughter what it meant to be an Addams. What it meant to be so deeply in love with someone, that’d you do anything for them. You’d murder, abandon your morales, just to get one more taste of them. Wednesday had repeatedly shoved him off, claiming it would never happen, but it did. The moment Wednesday laid eyes on you, she could feel the obsession turning dark, horrific. She reveled in it.

Wednesday loved the thrill of sneaking into your dorm, watching you whilst slept. She loved sitting in the back of her class, watching you do anything and everything. Every time your shoulders raised, taking a breath, Wednesday could praise you for it. She never understood what her father meant, until people got too touchy. After countless victims, it Yoko became the newest.

Wednesday sat in the back of the cafeteria, watching you chat with your friends. Yoko slung her arm over you shoulder, and Wednesday felt the can in her hand crack. She tried calming breaths, something her father taught her. They didn’t work. She shook with rage, the can splitting in half with her might and slicing her palm clean. She didn’t care though, all that mattered now was Yoko, who was now leaning into your ear, whispering something.

Wednesday took in another shaky breath, how dare she touch what was hers. Wednesday decided she would show that vampire not to mess with her territory, and you, you were in trouble. You were hers, and it’s just about time you started acting like it.

She watched with rapt attention as you leaned back, giggling. You lightly slapped Yoko on the shoulder, blushing deeply and scolding her. Wednesday stood up, food untouched, and walked over to your table.

She bumped into the wood, her tray flying upwards and landing in Yoko’s lap.

“The hell, dude?” Yoko yelled, her hands in the air, away from the mess.

You rushed into action, picking up bits of food with a napkin.

“I’m sure she didn’t mean it, Yoko. Calm down.”

Wednesday stared at you. Oh, you were so kind, beautifully unaware, and completely vulnerable. Wednesday filled with glee at the mere thought of ruining you.

“Yes, precisely.” Wednesday nodded to you, her eyes never leaving yours.

You smiled at her. “See you in botany, Wednesday?”

She nodded stiffly once again, her insides doing summersaults. You were so sweet, deliciously so. Wednesday walked away, her tray still on Yoko’s lap. That bloodsucker could deal with it, after all, it was only part of Wednesday’s much needed apology. She’d get the rest tonight, when Yoko was begging her for mercy. Her lips nearly twitched at the thought.

Wednesday walked back up to her dorm, still having fifteen minutes until botany with you. She set her bag down on her dark bed, the empty side of the room creaking. She was so pleased she didn’t have a roommate, that’d make this next part harder. Wednesday leaned under her bed, pulling out a huge poster board. She raced back to the door, double checking its lock, and set it up.

Her fingers traced over the red strings and pins delicately, stopping at a photo of you. You were laying down, enjoying the sun, your eyes closed and wearing your uniform. She remembered that day like yesterday, it was the first time you’d two had spoken. She only fell deeper.

Wednesday strolled down to the lake, watching as the lily pads drifted slowly. Canoes splashed across the water, people yelling and cheering.

“Hey! You mind if I sit here?”

Wednesday looked up, ready to dismember who ever decided to ruin her quiet. Her eyes laid on yours and, oh, Wednesday could’ve fainted. You were beautiful, an ethereal smile plastered on your face, eyes deep and true. It only solidified Wednesday’s desire for you.

“No, not at all.”

Wednesday scooted to the left, offering you more room against the tree.

You muttered a thank you.

“So, why are you all out here alone?”

Wednesday sighed, your voice was so pleasing, and it was bending her to your will even more so.

“I’ve decided to observe the Poe Cup. Thought it’d be amusing when they sink and fall. What about you, bellissima?

The Italian caught you by surprise, you were rusty, not really remembering most of it, so you shoved the nickname aside.

“Figured I’d get away from all the yelling. It’s more peaceful down here. I’m glad you’ve found my spot though.”

“Your spot?” Wednesday questioned, her hands itching to hold yours and never let it go.

“Yes, it’s been mine for a bit. Glad to share it though, been getting a bit lonely.”

Wednesday felt the Italian bubbling up, her father warned her about this too. She’d want to call you names, anything to give you a temporary mark as hers. She swallowed it though, choosing to instead ask you question with no flirtation.

“Lonely? You don’t have someone?”

You chuckled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. Wednesday wished she could’ve done it for you, she truly believed it was a crime that you’d do it yourself. A goddess like you shouldn’t waste precious time.

“No— I— No, I don’t. You?”

Wednesday shook her head. “I’ll have them soon.”

You smiled. “Do I know them?”

“You’re very familiar.”

You chuckled again. “What are they like?”

“They’re beautiful, out of the world so, and they make me crazy.”

You cracked a huge smile. “That’s cute. Sounds like you adore them.”

“Più di quanto tu possa sapere, mia amata.”

“I’m afraid my Italians a bit rusty. What’d you say?”

“Nothing of importance. No need to fret.”

Wednesday sighed. She traced her board again, documents and other people plastered up on there. Gently, she flipped it over, the backside littered with more photos. Everyone who was a threat.

She traced the X’s over their eyes, a wicked smile covering her face. Wednesday uncapped a red sharpie, drawing slow, deep X’s over Yoko’s eyes.

“Non ci disturberà più, amore mio,” she sighed.

Wednesday ordered Thing to put the board back under again. She marched off to her drawer, unlocking a secret section. Carefully, she pulled it out.

“Which one, Thing? The mace, my machete? Or should we do it in style? After all, we are aiming to impress her.”

Her fingers grazed over her arsenal of weapons.

“Let’s go old fashioned, hm?” She asked, pulling out a wooden stake. “Yoko’s barely even a threat.”

Wednesday set the oak down on her bed, taking out garlic spray before locking it back up. She slipped on a black pair of medical gloves, releasing them so they smacked painfully against her skin. Wednesday sighed in contempt.

“Thing, put on a glove. Nevermore’s already worried about their students. They keep disappearing don’t they?”

He tapped in agreement.

“What. A. Pity.”

She waited until dark, skipping her class, deciding to get more items like flashlights and garlic bombs to neutralize Yoko. Wednesday knew you wouldn’t be there, she always knew what you were doing. The psychic flipped open her pocket watch.

Two A.M, perfect time to strike.

Wednesday crept out of Ophelia Hall, traveling in the shadows until she reached Persephone’s Wing. Crouching down under room two-hundred and forty-three, Wednesday pulled the pin on the garlic grenade and rolled it under the door. It exploded silently, a jagged choking noise filling the room. Wednesday tossed another one, slipping out her crowbar and cracking the door open.

The anger from earlier surged through her as Wednesday marched inwards, she closed the door behind her. Knowing the lock was broken, she slid Yoko’s desk against the wooden frame.

Yoko choked out pleas, desperate to justify herself for an unknown crime. Wednesday looked up, inhaling deeply as she soaked in Yoko’s cries. The vampire continued crying, bloody tears streaking down her face as she choked.

Wednesday looked to her. Oh, it was exquisite. Yoko’s skin was burned and sores opened up, her neck straining for air, only to be poisoned a second later.

“Useless, bloodsucker,” Wednesday spat, stomping on Yoko’s stomach. A sharp crack echoed and Wednesday was delighted to hear a rib brake.

She crouched drown, driving the stake a mere inch from Yoko’s heart.

“You do not touch what is mine,” she spat again, her stake driving into her repeatedly, missing by an inch.

“I don’t—“ Yoko gasped, hoping to save herself.

“LIAR!” Wednesday shouted, diving the stake into her stomach and twisting it.

Blood gurgled out of Yoko’s mouth, her back arching upwards.

Wednesday leaned down into Yoko’s ear, stabbing her once again near her heart.

“She is mine. You are beneath her.” Pure venom erupted from Wednesday.

She cracked the stake up, driving it into Yoko’s heart. Wednesday panted, leaning back on her knees. She watched with glee as Yoko’s body disintegrated, burning into ash. At least vampires were easy to kill.

Wednesday picked up her stake. Tilting her neck to the left, she heard it pop and repeated the action.

“Thing, get the broom.”

Thing shuffled forward, the tall broom too much for him. Wednesday took it, sweeping the vampire remains.

“Nothing like a good murder, hm, Thing?”

He tapped, some ash flying up.

“Get out of her, I don’t wish for you to smell like garlic and cheap perfume.”

She tossed the bloody gloves into the trash bag, and replaced them with a new set. Wednesday set the broom down, pulling a record player out of her bag. She gently set it aside, shuffling through her travel collection until she reached Debussy: Cello Sonata in D Minor. She put the record on, breathing in heavily as it rang through her ears.

Wednesday held the garbage bag, filling it with Yoko’s ashes. She wiped her sweaty forehead, dust sticking to it.

“Thing, clean up the rest.”

She walked away, browsing the vampire’s trinkets. Wednesday paced to her jewelry box, flicking through the accessories. She gasped, a beautiful black skull ring, sat buried under hideous silver and gold necklaces. Wednesday gently pulled it out, holding it in her fingers.

Now this would make a lovely gift for you. See, Wednesday had a ritual, she’d kill your suitors, fake their leave and give you a gift from their collections. You’d yet to notice, considering all the beautiful gifts she gave were deemed ugly by the owner. For Rowan, she gave you a blood red ring, he probably received it from a family member, for Davina, it was a simple black hair clip. The others were less important, but she remembered them nonetheless. Whether it was a pining fool from across the room, or someone that had written you a love letter, only to scrap it moments later, Wednesday wouldn’t stand for that. The only person you should be with, is her, she was the only one who could treat you right. No one else understood you the way she did. Wednesday wasn’t going to let people stop her from achieving you.

Her next plan was set in action when you knocked on the door.

“Yoko, I thought we talked about this. I don’t gotta key, you cant lock the door,” you whined. “I’m so tired, please let me in.”

Wednesday frowned. Were there nights she didn’t let you in? She stood behind the door, opening it.

You walked through, glancing at Yoko’s bed.

“Yoko?” You called out, shuffling forward. You took note of the odd cello music. Classical was definitely not one of Yoko’s genres.

You closed the door, and Wednesday smashed a grenade in your face. Unfortunately, you weren’t like other vampires. Garlic wouldn’t affect you, but she knew vervain would.

You hissed, eyes burning. “Who’s there?” You cried out, the pain only getting worse. You tumbled down to the floor.

Wednesday crouched down to your level, cupping your jaw. You breathed heavily, still not understanding what was happening.

“Non mi diverto nel tuo dolore. Mi dispiace molto, ma deve essere fatto, amore mio,” Wednesday whispered.

You whimpered, only one person spoke to you in Italian.

“What did you do with Yoko?” You cried, rejecting her hand.

Wednesday seethed. She knew you’d be upset, but couldn’t you see? This was for you. All of it.

“I killed that useless bimbo. I had to.”

A sob racked through you, your eyes still clamped shut. You scrambled back again, hitting Yoko’s bed.

“You didn’t have to,” you cried, hugging your knees.

Wednesday walked over to you. She lifted your head up, wincing at the damage. Your eyes were bright red, bubbling and oozing.

“Mio cuore,” Wednesday whispered. She straightened your legs, sitting down on your thighs. Gently, she brushed back your hair, trying to remove it from your tear-soaked cheeks.

You continued crying, wishing she’d just go away, but she wouldn’t. You hated yourself because in some twisted, screwed up way, Wednesdays sweet nothings calmed you down. She was a murderer, she killed Yoko ruthlessly, and vervained you, so why did you feel for her?

“La mia amata, this is going to cause you pain, okay? It’s going to be alright though.”

Wednesday kissed your forehead, raking her hand through your hair. Then, her hand pulled back and tied something around your wrist.

You screamed out in pain, only to be muffled. She had restrained your hands with vervain-soaked cloth, and tied another one around your mouth.

Your eyes darted open and you lurched forward. The restraints burned your mouth and wrists. Wednesday cupped your face again, placing delicate kisses on your head.

She shushed you softly, one of her hands supporting your neck as you sobbed. Your breathing became labored and you could only focus on the pain. Your hands felt numb, wrists burning and screaming for release.

Every breath you took scorched your nose and seared your tongue. Your eyes clamped shut, the tears only increasing.

Wednesday hushed you once again, asking you questions. They all just faded away, the pain drowning them out. She leaned in close to your ear.

“It’s okay. Breathe.”

You followed her instructions, her words grounding you. The pain trickled into the background, and you let her voice guide you.

“Good girl,” she husked out.

You took in another breath with her, shaking.

“That’s it.”

Your eyes flickered open, meeting her dark face. You wondered how she could see when the lights were off, but you shoved that aside. You focused on her touch, her breaths, her weight on your thighs. You breathed in deeply again.

“I don’t want to tie up your legs.”

You stiffened, the last thing you wanted right now was more vervain coursing through your veins. Wednesday quickly hushed you.

“I’m not going to, but you must promise me something.”

You nodded.

“Do not, under any circumstance, run away from me. I’ve waited too long for this moment.” Her voice faded into a whisper as her sentence closed, and you shivered.

“Do you agree to my terms?”

You nodded your head.

“Good,” she whispered.

Slowly Wednesday got off you. The cold enveloped you, and you greedily missed her warmth. You were sick, you thought. This psycho murdered your friend, and here you were, pining. Disgusting.

You breathed in again, the vervain killing you every time.

You were too wrapped up in your head, that you hadn’t even notice Wednesday packing up some of your belongings.

Your eyes darted around the room, her dark figuring jumping all over the place. You wanted to ask her what she was doing, but the sizzling in your mouth wasn’t worth it.

You breathed in shakily, gaining courage. You chomped downwards, your hands spreading apart, and an involuntary scream racked through you. Wednesday rushed over to you, trying to figure out what you were doing. You clamped your mouth down again, and tried to pull the restraints off.

“Hey! No, no, no,” she yelled.

There wasn’t anything Wednesday could do though, she watched as you dropped down. You made yourself pass out from the pain, all so you wouldn’t experience this. Wednesday sighed in annoyance.

She cracked the door open, checking the halls. After seeing no one, she walked back over to you. Wednesday grunted as she picked you up, slinging you over her shoulder. She hated doing this, bodies were so heavy and always a pain to carry. Wednesday decided that she’d get the rest of her stuff later, you were more important.

Wednesday walked back to her dorm, ducking behind pillars and walls when voices were near. She sighed in relief, placing you on her bed. Wednesday carefully undid your binds, tying them to her bedpost so you couldn’t run. She flinched as the sizzle from your skin filled the silent room.

Wednesday walked back to Yoko’s room, picking up your stash of belongings that she’d packed for you, returning the room as it was. She packed up her other duffel bag, making sure not forget her record player, and walked out. Thing trailed after her.

“Lurch has been notified to pick us up?”

Thing tapped.

“He needs to get her before five. No exceptions.”

He tapped again.

“I don’t care about weather, Thing. He will get here, or he’ll go back in the grave where we discovered him.”

Thing scampered off, racing in front of her.

She reached her dorm once again and let out a breath of relief. Her bags were all packed, no sign of her existence anywhere. Thing did a good job for once.

Wednesday flicked out her pocket watch, checking the time.

3:16, the whole ordeal had lasted roughly an hour. Wednesday frowned, her new lowest not at all pleasing. She walked over to you, kissing you on the forehead softly. Wednesday untied your mouth piece and hoisted you against the head board.

She unsheathed her pocket knife from her boot and flicked it open. Wednesday shrugged off her plastic gloves, drawing blood over the wound she’d gotten previously. It opened easily, barely even closed, and rubbed it against your lips. The scent of blood had you drooling, waking you up instantly. You growled, looking possessed, and took her hand into your mouth. You fought against your restraints, trying to grab her hand for more. You removed your fangs out of her for a moment, trying to lick them off, and Wednesday retracted her hand. She waived it around, watching as you desperately nipped at it. The veins under your eyes turned a deep purple, blood smeared over your mouth. Your shoulders shook as you pulled at the restraints, trying to get free. The headboard would’ve been completely shattered by now if not for the dose of vervain you’d been hit with. As Wednesday observed your behavior, she realized something, you were a ripper. She moved her hand closer, watching as you shot forward and chomped down. Oh, this was glorious.

The perfect, sweet, charming goodie-two-shoes, was a killer beast. Wednesday knew she had to be careful with you, but an apart of her desperately wanted to ripped to shreds by your pointy fangs.

Wednesday got off the bed and walked into the bathroom. Your groans and snarls were music to her ears as she poked her skin, drawing more blood to taunt you. She cleaned up her hand, wrapping it in bandage. Wednesday took out a small vial and downed it, grimacing at the taste afterwards. That was for the compulsion. She shook, the taste alone not pleasing. Wednesday would usually hide it in her coffee, the flavor weighing it out, but she was running out of time.

Thing scampered into the bathroom.

“He’s here? See, it wasn’t too difficult was it?”

Thing tapped.

“Keep your distance, she’s hungry. Unfortunately for you, you can’t afford to have a chunk missing.”

He shivered, scampering off to meet Lurch.

Wednesday walked back up to you. You were crying once again, whimpering against the headboard. Wednesday went to wipe your tears, her red bandage nearing you. Your expression flipped like a dime, immediately going to ripper mode with the drug-like scent overwhelming you. Wednesday whipped her hand back.

She was quite curious. You’d been around blood before, whether it was other vampires drinking it, or some kid piercing his skin, you’d never had a problem. So why was it one with her?

“You need to behave,” Wednesday sighed out.

You snarled, bloody fangs flashing out at her.

“I will vervain you. This is your only warning,” she sneered.

You hissed once again, slumping backwards in defeat.

Wednesday slowly raised her hand, watching as you shivered with restraint. Your jaw clamped, eyes stuck on red. Your fangs pierced through your gums, and you bit into your own mouth to prevent yourself. Wednesday slowly untied your restrains, quickly tying them behind your back, and shoved you off the bed. She leaned into your ear.

“I stole your daylight ring whilst you slept. Thing has it now. Your only chance is to come with me, willingly, without causing problems. Do you understand? I willfry you.”

You shuddered, nodding hastily. Wednesday kissed the side of your neck and pushed you forward. The vervain burned your skin, but you trudged through it. You didn’t dare make a sound as you walked, the occasional wince was muffled by biting into your tongue.

Wednesday whispered praises into your ear as you walked down, your bags already taken care of.

Wednesday knew this facade had to look real, her parents were under the impression that you’d been dating for awhile. She informed you of this, walking down a flight of stairs.

“Do not say one word to them, Lurch, or any authorities, understood? Don’t worry about your daylight ring, we only do activities during the night. You’ll fit right in.”

Wednesday undid your restraints, and you gingerly rubbed at them. She raised her hand up to your face, and you looked in surprise at her.

“My bloods laced with vervain, so you’ll be unable to compel, and vulnerable. It’ll keep you in control, and your ripper side should despise it,” she explained.

You nodded, holding her arm. Shakily, you raised it against your mouth. You fangs ripped through her flesh, and you sighed in relief. Her blood was intoxicating if you ignored the sting of vervain, and your ripper side was going feral. The thought of you biting her neck, her shoulders, anywhere on her had you biting harder. You shook the thoughts from your mind, abruptly tearing her wrist away. You turned your back to her, blinking rapidly and heaving.

“Let me see you,” she whispered.

You shook your head. Getting wrapped up in your thoughts, you began to spiral, your victims faces flashing in your memories. You curled your hand into a fist, hitting the side of you head hard, trying to get them out. Wednesday’s hands shot up, stopping your hand from striking once again.

You clenched your eyes shut, panicking. Wednesday’s cold hands wrapped around your face, squeezing slightly as she wiped some fallen tears. The pressure lassoed you back to reality, your thoughts swimming into the dark basement of your mind.

Wednesday lowered your head, choosing to place it on her chest. Her loud heartbeat filled your ears, and your breathing settled. You inhaled deeply, shakily releasing it.

Her hands slowly started scratching the base of your neck, and she hummed quietly.

You focused on her heart again, hearing it pump steadily. Your ears picked up other noises too, her digestive system slowly working, the acid in her stomach bubbling slightly, and the blood coursing through her veins. The blood moving slowly drowned out her heartbeat, the image of you biting into her jugular filled your thoughts. Your fangs pierced out again, your eyes going darker. Clearing your throat hastily, you blinked rapidly. The whiff of lavender reeled you back to her, Wednesday’s presence returning. You sighed out heavily, leaning most of your weight on Wednesday.

God, you were so tired. Sometimes the thought of staking yourself seemed better than this, but you knew you couldn’t. You wouldn’t give up. Not until you’d served your sentence.

“Are you ready to go out to the car?” Wednesday quietly asked. You wouldn’t have picked it up if your senses weren’t heightened.

You nodded slowly, raising your head away from her. You gulped, not meeting her eyes. Wednesday may have been a murderous psycho, but you were a cold hearted ripper. It was hypocritical of you to judge her, especially since Wednesday’s never ripped off a head before. Wallowing in self-loathing, you walked of Nevermore’s doors hand in hand with Wednesday.

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chixkencxrry · 1 year

Text

mi sol

Summary: You get a new job as a caretaker at a mysterious estate two towns over. The salary is good enough for you to ignore certain things -- at first. Soon enough you have no choice but to get away. Too bad you're in for life. (one-shot, plot with porn) Vampire! Yandere! Miguel O'Hara x Fem! Reader

Warnings: eventual SMUT, masturbation, p in v, pussy eating, somewhat YANDERE! MIGUEL, YOUR CONSUMPTION OF MEDIA IS ON YOU! NOT PROOFED

fanart by @yeagersatorubar (twt)

The email had come in the middle of the night.

It was from an unrecognizable source. An acceptance to something, some job you didn’t remember applying for. A caretaker job two towns over. You rubbed your eyes in the blue light glare of your rickety laptop, lips pursued as you read.

“When did I apply for this?”

Attached to the close of the email was a number and name. A woman named Lyla was the contact. The name of the property was Stone. You dialled the number. If the person was sending the email this late, you didn’t worry about your call waking them up.

“Hello. You must be our new caretaker.”

You cleared your throat – taken aback. “I, uh, yes. I am. I hope it’s okay that I’m calling this late.”

The woman chuckled. “That’s fine! You’ll learn that we keep odd hours here.”

“Right,” did you really need the money that much? You eyed your room. It was pink, with posters half hanging. It had been your childhood room and you still occupied it. It made your mouth itch. You needed to leave. “When do you want me to start?”

Though as your taxi pulled up to the estate, you found yourself regretting it. Maybe regret was too strong a word. You found yourself reconsidering it. Had you done something terribly stupid by coming here? By packing your things and telling your parents they could fuck off?

It had taken four hours to get here, the sun had set and it was twilight now. Would it be too early to run back with your tail between your legs? Were you so weak that you had to give up?

“That’ll be 50$.” the driver grunted, growing impatient with your slow movement.

You baulked and shoved the bill into his hand. Out of spite, you took your time to get your bags out – making sure you didn’t miss one. You could have sworn you heard him curse as he drove off. Rolling your eyes, you slid your phone out to get to your emails – Lyla had sent you the code to get in. Turning your flashlight on the keypad, you punched the code in and continued your trek up the property. It was a long walk that left you huffing.

Once you met the great doors, you knocked the lion-faced knockers loudly a few times and waited. When you went to try for a second time, it pierced your skin, making you hiss. Your finger slipped into your mouth and you sucked.

The door swung open to reveal a fashionable dress auburn-haired woman with heart-shaped sunglasses. She grinned at you. All sharp, white teeth. “Hello! Aren't you an earlier riser?”

You bristled. “Pardon?”

“Are these your bags?” She turned her head inside the mansion and whistled. “I’ll get Ben to bring them in.”

Lyla was the assistant of the owner of the house. A real recluse, she claimed. You didn’t mind. They had paid you a freaking signing bonus when you agreed. Who gave signing bonuses to caretakers? Dumb rich people. This guy could be a troll for all you cared. As long as each salary came with the flourish of that, you could never meet the man.

“It's more of a managerial position really.” Lyla clarified after showing you the lion’s share of the house. “Ben takes care of the heavy lifting. Or Peter – he doesn’t show up much though, new father and all that.”

“We have cameras in the common areas. Bedrooms and baths are off limits of course. You’ll get access to them.”

“So, Mr. Stone just wants me to look after the place? Make sure it's clean and in order?”

Lyla stilled, causing you to bump into her. Her pale face twitched. “Mr. O’Hara. Don’t make that mistake again.”

“Sorry. It’s just the name of the estate –”

Lyla shook her head. “Don’t make that mistake again.”

“My bad.”

The tour continued on silently. Lyla stopped at the West Wing, where a portrait of a young family hung. They were dressed in regalia from at least three centuries ago. It was of two beautiful boys, a stately-looking woman and a cold-faced man. You shivered. You hoped the man was not Mr O’Hara.

“Don’t worry,” Lyla seemed to read your mind. Her pointer finger landed on the taller of the two boys. “That’s Mr O’Hara.”

You relaxed. Even though it was an old photo, the bright-eyed kid couldn’t be too different from the man who had just hired yourself out to.

Right?

***

Miguel felt warm.

For the first time in a century, he felt the warmth of you in the walls of his prison. It was like feeling the sun again. Like tasting wine, luscious and dark. You were home. He hadn’t risen yet. His meal sat by his window, eyes glossed over with compulsion. Miguel didn’t want to see you without eating. It had been so long after all. So very long without your touch, the brush of your lips, the scent of your hair, the feel of your pussy.

He throbbed with want for you.

Rising from his coffin, his talons fell. Piercing two holes in the side of his meal’s neck, Miguel made sure to drink his fill until it was cold and listless. His fangs, his fangs he would keep for you.

It was funny how it started. He had run into you while on a hunt. Well, you hadn’t noticed of course. You had been on a date, smelling of want and looking like sin in red. He wasn’t worthy of you. But that man touched you and lips had planted on your skin – he was lucky Miguel hadn’t killed him right then and there. He had been too caught up in you. Looking at you. Seeing you. Flesh and fire before him. The curls of your hair, the flare of your hips, the drag of your voice and the thrill of your laughter.

That man did not deserve any of that.

All of that belonged to him.

In the computer age, everything lay at his fingertips. He found you with ease. Found where you lived. Who you were now. Everything that the web of connections could provide. He knew what books you read, what songs you liked, your favourite bands and flower.

He also knew you needed him. You were twenty-five and unemployed, living with your parents and your art wasn’t selling as you’d liked. How that desperation clung to you, how that desperation made you sweet to him.

A gurgling sound distracted him.

Sneering, he looked at his feet to see the meal had not totally died. Rolling his eyes, he tore the heart out of its chest and sucked the remaining blood. He cursed.

Now he’d have to shower before seeing you. What a nuisance.

After cleaning off the blood, he watched the surveillance footage of Lyla giving you the door and waited until she’d left you alone like he’d asked to find you. He didn’t want an interloper. He wanted you alone to create a repertoire.

Running his fingers through his hair, he checked his teeth in the mirror — all traces of blood were gone. His talons were retracted, fangs disappeared but his eyes were still red from feeding. Would that freak you? He didn’t want to change it.

Tapping his smartwatch, he ordered Lyla to bring him a pair of contacts.

“Why? Won’t it just dissolve in a few hours?”

“Because I said so.”

“Well, now I’m not gonna bring them on principle.”

Miguel snapped. “Lyla…please bring the goddamn contacts.”

“They’re already in your room, fearless creator. Vanity drawer to the left.”

Miguel switched the watch off. Carefully, he placed the contacts onto his eyes. They stung a little but he only needed it for a few hours. They would be long dissolved and by then his eyes would return to their true brown.

You were beautiful in the kitchen. Hair tied up in a bun ontop of your head. Messy curls sweep to your forehead. Lips, pinked and plumb moving as you chewed. You seemed to try to make yourself seem smaller. Crouching over the plate of chicken salad Lyla had prepared for you. She couldn’t cook – his golem, but she tried. They had so few human guests these days after all.

Miguel cleared his throat, making you jolt and stare at him with big eyes. Your lashes fluttered, and you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and stood. “Oh, hello! You must be Mr. O’Hara.”

Your offered hand hung for a moment. He eyed it. Bare, delicate, your nails sharpened to a humanly acceptable point. He realised he’d been staring for longer than necessary and took it, glad he fed so his body warm. Your hand slipped in with ease. He gripped it and shook it, saying your name. “Call me Miguel. It’s nice to meet you. Lyla gave you the grounds tour?”

“Oh...no, she, uh, showed me the house and my quarters but not the grounds.” You titled your head, looking out the window. “I figured it was too dark out, no?”

Excellent. “We have very good lights. If you’re finished eating, I can give you the tour myself.”

“Yes! Definitely.” So eager. How promising.

***

Mr. O’Hara – no, Miguel, led you out by placing a hand on the small of your back. It was large and spanning and brushed against the rise of your ass before it fell to his side again and he resumed a respectable distance. He smelt of sandalwood and citrus. An oud wafted from him. This immaculately dressed older man with lines on his face creating dimension. He couldn’t be much older than you, but everything about him seemed grown whereas you seemed like a child playing dress up in adulthood.

The grounds were massive. Three acres he’d said. There was a small rose garden that led out to a private lake. A family mausoleum that made you shutter when you passed it. Arched trees bent over the manicured green. The entire place was immaculate.

What on earth did they need you for?

“Did the pass caretaker retire?”

Miguel shook his head. A small fence came into view. You saw dried-up shrubs and trees, barren spots and a small shed. “She passed.”

“My condolences,” you whispered softly, fingers brushing along his arm to comfort him briefly. “What is this?”

“It used to be a greenhouse.”

There was nothing green about the space. Clearing your throat, you let Miguel guide you back to the house. It was late now. You grew tired. So, very tired. “You have a beautiful home.”

“Thank you.” His eyes peered curiously at her. She swore they flashed red but that may have been her weariness showing. “I hope you can be comfortable here.”

His gaze was intense. You found it difficult to look away – it caused a dizzying effect on you. Turning away, Miguel and you went back into the house and he escorted you to your quarters. “Thank you for this opportunity. I’m really excited to dig in.”

He smiled – all white teeth. “No. I’m pleased to have you here. You have no idea how much.”

When you finally closed your door you let out a slight squeal of excitement. Biting your lower lip, you traced your fingers along the door. You had not expected Mr. O’Hara to look like that. Sure, he was certainly a mature man. The lines on his face told you that he was at least mid-thirties and the way he carried himself like a grown man would.

God. You didn’t know how you were going to make it out working with such a specimen. You could barely keep it together on the walk! Running your hand over your hair, you went to your laptop bag and pulled the small notebook out. You googled your new boss, disappointed to find nothing much. There was one link that had his name, a record from an archive three hundred years ago. When you clicked it, it bounced back.

Frustrated, you closed it and decided to just go to bed.

Weeks passed by, and a monolith of activity passed. You devoted your all to the house but particularly the greenhouse at the back of the property beside the lake. It became a passion project of yours. Lyla and Ben were helpful of course – they made sure that you got all the aid and materials you needed to realise your vision.

You became closer to the other members of the house. Lyla was kind and a good guide for you. Miguel was something.

It was not that you had an extensive working history but you were quite sure the interest he seemed to pay to you and your tasks were a little extra attention. In some regard, it unnerved you. But in another, you liked the praise and appreciation you received for every task completed. You also didn’t mind being in close proximity to him. There was no denying that Miguel had become a crush of yours and the star of your private fantasies.

Look at him. All harsh angles and sharpness, but his actions, his words were rose petal soft. God. He was a delicious man.

Another thing that struck you as strange was the utter loneliness of the house when the sun was up. When they had called themselves nocturnal creatures, you had merely thought it meant that they slept very late or worked very late in the evening. You were wrong though – they were completely gone during the day. In the afternoons they rose, bright and colourful as your energy dwindled down.

“Techies,” Lyla had explained. “We work best at night – what can we say!”

It felt like bullshit but the pay was too good for you to make it your business. By the beginning of your third month, you know the place like the back of your hand. Well – most of it but for the wing Lyla had warned you against. One particularly slow day temptation had gotten the better of you. Could your curiosity be blamed for your next act? You crept into the area, floorboard creaking as you looked. It was not a different hallway than the others.

A painting sat at the edge – but it was too poorly lit for you to see from your end. Squinting, you walked closer. The painting held a tear. It was a woman no doubt, soft-featured but you only saw up to her lower lip on which sat a mole. Something pulled at you.

You stretched forward, fingertips brushing the dried oil and hanging paper. Pushing it up to see the face, your breathe hitched at the sight.

The hairs at the back of your neck stood up and your stomach turned. You ran back to the other half of the house, heart speeding in your chest to jump through your ribs. You closed your door – the feeling of your skin getting ready to crawl off your body not leaving. You rubbed your ribs beneath your bosom.

Everything about that had felt wrong.

Since you began working here – you hadn’t taken a weekend off. Packing your bag hurriedly, you made a call to your mother, placing her on speaker. It rang for only a few moments.

“Hello, little stranger.”

“Mom – I, I need to come home.”

The panic in your voice set her voice on edge. “Baby? Is everything alright at your job?”

“I just got a bad feeling, Mom. I just need to come home.”

“Okay. Call an Uber.” Logic was your mother’s failsafe in times of duress.

You shook your head. Ubers didn’t get this far out. You would have to walk a mile into the town to order one or call a taxi. “No. They won’t come here. I’ll head to town and catch something.”

“Call me when you’re there. Okay?” Your mother cautioned.

“Okay...I will.”

Packing your things took longer than anticipated. You looked at your watch – it was almost five. It usually got dark around six. Shouldering your haversack and duffel bag, you snuck out of the estate and made your walk down the winding road to the town.

Your bags felt heavy and the road took forever. Eventually, you found a bus stop. It was just about twilight now. The blue sky became a warm orange. Warm day dying into a cool evening.

You sighed, back hitting the seat of the bench. The app told you the next bus to town was coming in the next twelve minutes. You just needed one ride to the inner city and there you could easily get an Uber home.

Closing your eyes, you felt relaxed for the first time in an hour.

You were safe. You were going home.

***

He knew you were missing the moment the sun had set.

Miguel had stretched the entire expanse of the property – searching everywhere for you. All of your things were gone from your quarters. Even your dirty laundry was gone. It was still full of your scent. He dug his nose into the rumpled sheets. Lilac and Lily. His talons dug through them – he picked up notes of fear and curiosity. Fear? What had made you fearful?

Miguel went to the abandoned wing. Your scent filled the air. Had you been snooping little girl? The painting. You’d seen your first iteration from so long ago.

“Lyla,” Miguel roared. “I want everyone on the ground looking for her. She doesn’t leave this town – do you hear me?”

“Louder than necessary but okay.”

He drove from the estate, through the town until he picked up your scent. His talons dug into the steering. Rage fuelled him like no other. Had you really thought you could leave? He thought he could be patient, be kind, and wait you out. Then you left.

What made you think you had the right?

His journey halted. Miguel retracted his talons and exited, fangs extended as you sat leaning back on a bus bench. About half a mile ahead, he could hear the incoming sound of the bus. You would get the chance.

“Where do you think you’re going, mi sol?”

You jumped up, eyes wide. “Miguel! How did you?”

“I can find you anywhere.” He said gruffly. “You leave without notice at all your jobs?”

“I, uh, I was just taking the weekend off.”

He clicked his tongue. “You’re lying to me. You were snooping. Come back with me.”

“I’m not going back.” You snapped. “I don’t know what’s going on in that place but it's not natural.”

Miguel grew tired but he knew he couldn’t be heavy-handed. He had to be smart about this. “You’re right. I’m sorry about that go to your family. But know on Monday you’ll still have a job and a home with us.”

You were so easy to lie to that he almost felt bad.

The bus came and he fell back, watching you leave. The bus moved slowly down the dusty road. It was a long ride back to town. He tapped his watch and made a phone call. “Lyla. I need an accident. Now.”

“Fatal or fatale?”

He sighed. “I’m not in the mood for this right now.”

“Well, she doesn’t seem to be in the mood for you either.”

“Crash the damn bus, Lyla, now.”

“Already sent something that way, bossman.”

“Ayudame dios.”

Keeping up with the bus wasn’t a problem. Through the woodlands, he could see a creation jumping through – all fur and bolts, his favourite hairy bot crashing into the bus from the front, making the driver stop immediately. The wolf sat growing, padding its way to the front sidewheels before he punctured it with his teeth tearing through. The bus leaned to its side, dipping. He watched, from his parked spot, morbidly as the great machine broke the side window, paw reaching in. He heard you scream and smelt the faint scent of your blood.

Miguel decided it had gone too far then, chasing the creature off.

The driver of the bus came out first, assessing the damages. You shivered, trembling as you climbed down with your bags on your shoulders. You had been crying. Salty tears rolled down your cheeks. “How long until someone gets out here.”

The driver scratched his head. “Best luck you got is to hitchhike. They’ll come get me in an hour or two. Sorry, darling.”

That was his cue. Miguel started the car and drove by slowly. It was tinted so you excitedly jumped up and down, glad to think it was a kindly stranger. As if he would leave you to be picked up by some ill-thinking stranger.

He stopped, rolling the windows down. “Need a ride?”

You looked stiff with fear. The driver, however, beamed at him. “Oh, sure young man. This lady is heading into town. Think you can give her a ride?”

“Sure I can.” He unlocked the door, pushing it open. Miguel smiled at her, showing his sharp teeth. “Get in.”

Nodding, you hurriedly got into the vehicle. Your curly hair fell to your face as glossy eyes watched him. Miguel turned the radio on and a storm warning came out.

“What are you?”

“Let’s get back to the estate and then I can explain.” Miguel made a sharp U-Turn and drove past the wreckage, racing back to the property.

He could smell your fear, the hint of your blood, he looked down seeing a little blood blooming beneath your white dress. It formed a little cloud. He hissed, he hadn’t meant for you to get hurt. “Are you in pain?”

You kissed your teeth instead of responding to him. He sighed. He had expected that – you always, without fail, had a bad attitude when he fucked up. Miguel cursed himself, he should have removed that painting. Why hadn’t he thought clearly? “I didn’t want it to come to this – if you had just let me explain.”

“What is there to explain?”

The estate was coming into view now. Rising like a terrible moon on the horizon.

“It wasn’t you in the painting.” He clarified. “Well, not you. A version of you.”

He punched the code in, the gates opening as he drove up and slamming shut behind the two of you. “That doesn’t make any sense, Miguel.”

You clutched your bags, walking ahead of him as you entered the house. You set them down and Miguel smelt your blood more. “Let me fix you up. Please.”

You flinched but allowed him to lead you to the other side of the house into the very wing that had made you run. Miguel tucked his hands into his pockets. Watching you carefully step ahead. He tried hard not to look at your ass, the switch and sway of the hefty cheeks but he tried to keep his mind on task and out of the gutter.

Which was hard since you looked and smelt like you.

“Are you human?”

“No.”

You gasped, wrapping your arms around you. “Okay.”

Miguel could positively hear your mind working. You turned to look at him, eyes narrowed as if to find the answer in his face. Miguel decided to make it easy on you. He opened his mouth, fangs dropped.

“Shit!”

“Shit.”

A familiar door came up. His hand settled on your waist, stopping you from going further. He felt you shiver under his touch. The faint scent of your arousal wafting upward. His gums shivered.

“C’mon,” his voice was gruff. “It's right through here.”

It had been decades since Miguel had let anyone but Lyla in. Having you here – where he slept, fed, and worked as a sort of rawness he had missed. He had missed you. Miguel had learned to love this new version of you, you sang as you worked along the house. Danced to pop songs and cooked in the early mornings before the sun rose.

“Sit here.” he directed you to a chaise lounge, eyes gazing back. “Take the dress off.”

Your lips quivered with a mounting argument but common sense seemed to reign for a moment as you slipped it off. Just watching you made him harden. The black cups of your bra barely keep the fat of your tits in, through the thin lace, he could see the puckered areolas of your breasts. The high waist of your thong dug into the subtle curve of your hourglass figure.

Merida.

Miguel set the tools down on the bed and cleaned the wound. It wasn’t too deep, just a flesh wound that didn’t need stitches. He brought his thumb to his fang and nicked the skin, pressing the open hole to your wound he smeared it with blood.

“Jesus Christ…that’s a health code violation.”

He snorted, leaning forward and licking it clean. After his saliva had wiped it off, not even a cut remained. “All better, mi sol.”

“What does that mean?”

“My sn.” he translated. “You’re my sun. Always have been.”

“So you’re a vampire.”

“I’m a vampire.”

You hummed. “And the woman who looks like me in the painting?”

“My wife when I was human.”

“Ah.”

“And I’m a version of her?”

“One of many.”

“Did you kill them?”

“God no.” The idea made his skin burn. “I could never, never hurt you.”

“But you’re a vampire, Miguel. What kind of promise is that?”

“Every time you’ve been in my reach, I loved you until you left me. Until old age took you or until sickness took you.”

Miguel fell to his knees resting his head on your lap. Your face read on incredulity but the fear had vanished from your scent. Curiosity with hints of want.

“I’m going back to my room.” You stated, picking up your bloodied dress. “And tomorrow night, we’ll talk.”

“Okay.”

***

You couldn’t sleep. When you got back to your room, you shower and change. Texting your mom to know you’re alright. You try to listen to music. To watch a movie. To read but nothing gets you sleep.

Perhaps it's simply a side-effect of finding out your work for vampires.

Rain began to pour outside, it was a soothing sound – you blushed as another thought came to mind. There was another way to get you to sleep. Opening your door, you peek outside, making sure the hallway was clear.

Closing your door, you twist the look and step out of your nightshirt and slide your panties off your hips. Digging into one of your bags, tucked at the very bottom was your prize. The blue vibrator stuck out to you. Catching your lower lip with your teeth, you sat at the edge of your bed. Raising one leg and keeping the other down, your legs were spread.

Your thumb rose the speed to your usual one as you teased your clitoris with it. Eyes closed, you imagined a familiar scenario. Your back against a wall, legs hooked by a faceless strong man. He would take his time with you first. Fucking a thick cock in and out of your wet cunt.

Your head fell back, as the man in your imagination sped up, fucking you harder. Back hitting the wall. As your height came – you murmured a name and a face appeared in your imagination.

“Miguel.”

Your climax was instant, spraying wetness onto the edge of the bed, a few droplets dampening the carpet. You set the vibrator aside, collapsing onto the bed. Hands roamed up and down the length of your body, and you vibrated with desire – Miguel’s hands would be bigger than yours, rubbing along your figure, grabbing and biting. He would want you. He would let it be known how much he needed you.

Your fingers went back to your pussy, rubbing the sticky substance about before slipping a finger in. His fingers would spread you better. Fuck you better. You were sure.

“You look delicious, mi sol.”

Eyes flickered open – Miguel stood at your door with glowing red eyes and mouth parted in hunger as he stared. His hair was not gelled as usual, falling curls making him look dishevelled. Shamelessly, you added a second finger. The wet sounds grew louder. In the quickness of a blink, he appeared in front of you. He squatted in front of your pussy – inches from your furious fingering.

“That’s it, baby. Make yourself come.”

You snapped like a whip. Miguel growled before you, eyes never leaving your wanton form. “Tell me I can touch you.”

“You can touch me.” you whimpered.

He sighed, a hand resting on the mound of your pussy. His thumb stroked your clit. “Tell me I can kiss you, mi cara.”

“Kiss me.”

Miguel’s lips planted themselves on the folds of your pussy. He kissed and sucked, tonguing the insides of you while he strummed your clit. He took his time. Savouring the flavours of your pussy, moaning as he ate and tasted every crevice of you.

Your fingers threaded his curly hair, gripping them as you ground against his face. His lips sucked on your clit, his hand moving from your mound to your thigh to keep your legs open while two of his thick fingers sawed into you.

Messily, you sprayed his face, hips moving maddeningly against his pretty face. Miguel sucked it down, licking and nipping at your trembling centre. When he rose, his face was shiny and he grinned down at you.

“Say you want this.”

How could you not? “I need this.”

You watched with earnestness as he pulled his pants down, slipping them off. His T-shirt went next. His body was better than you had imagined. The bounce of his thick cock. Begging to be made shiny with your pussy.

“Spread yourself for me, baby. Let me see this pretty little pussy.”

Your fingers spread yourself, you watched as he stroked himself, coating the large member with pre-cum. He bowed his head, spitting on your wet cunt. Miguel’s thumb rubbed the saliva in, using two of his fingers to open the weeping carven. Slowly he entered you – his thickness making you gasp.

Your hands gripped his shoulders, moaning as he bottomed out. You whimpered, groaning as he started to move. Your legs wrapped around him, nails digging into his shoulders.

“You’re doing so good, mi sol. Taking my cock so deep.”

His hips snapped, taking his time as you grew used to him. Miguel was certainly bigger than any toy you owned. His cock dragged along you like he was making sure you took him so deep you didn’t know where you ended and he began.

“Such a good girl. Mi vida. Mi luz.” His hand went to your throat, squeezing it slowly as his eyes stayed on your face. Memorising every O your lips made. It was disconcerting. But when his hips sped up, shaking the bed and making you mewl – you couldn’t care less.

Miguel’s head bowed, lips to your neck as he kissed his way down to your breasts. You felt his teeth graze the soft flesh of your breasts. He didn’t have to say what he wanted. You wanted it too, you could feel the tremble of your upcoming orgasm.

“Do it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Teeth sinking into the flesh and sucking. You creamed his cock, shouting obscenities as your orgasm shuddered through your entire body. Stars dotted your eyes, your toes curled and your bite your tongue so hard it bled.

Miguel’s hips went faster, hips snapping hard into you that it pained you ever so slightly. His cock twitched with an especially vicious plunge, painting your walls with his cum. Fangs retracting, Miguel licked your nipple, lips kissing it as he held you close.

The high of it all slowly died down. You felt the thickness of his cock and the fullness of his seed. Your fingers traced along his arm. “I’m guessing you’ve been hearing me most nights for the past three months.”

He kissed your sternum and then your lips. It was a passionate kiss. And you realised – your first kiss. How backwards the two of you had done everything. How unjust – because it seemed Miguel was a damned good kisser.

“And every night I touched myself to your sound.”

Your pussy clenched around him at the thought. Miguel smirked. “Aren’t you sore?”

“I’ll worry about that later.”

“As you wish.”

***

“So you’re sure everything is alright now?”

You rolled your eyes, reassuring your mother for the fifth today. It had been a solid week since you’d left and returned. Your mother still didn’t believe it was totally consensually – despite the fact that you had invited her and she’d come and see that you were totally alive and well.

“You can’t blame your mother for worrying.”

“I know.” Your eyes flickered outside the greenhouse. It was night now. The other members of the house would be up soon. Your mother and you finished talking soon after. It seemed like on cue as you finished the call Miguel came into the greenhouse. Pulling off your muddy gloves, you smiled at him. At your side in and second he kissed your forehead and set his hands around your waist.

“Hello, mi luz.”

“Hi, baby.” You kissed his mouth. “Did you feed yet?”

He hummed a confirmation, caging you against the desk. Miguel picked up a seed packing, explaining it. “Hibiscus? I don’t think those grew here.”

“Well, they’re not native,” you said. Slipping out from him, you dragged him down to his knees to see a box of soil you’d been working on. “But I’m sure I’ve got the soil mixture down. In the next few months, we’ll see how it goes.”

His hand rubbed along the side of your body. “That’s incredible, baby.”

Standing up, you looked down at him and blushed. “Well, its no machine wolf.”

“Mhmm.” His hands held your hips, squeezing the globes of your ass cheeks. He smacked the fat, groping it unashamedly. His nose pressed to your groin. “You’re an incredible woman. I hope you remember that.”

“Kiss up.”

His eyes flashed, and his lips spread to a mischievous grin. Miguel fell back onto the ground of the greenhouse. You smirked setting legs on either side of your hips. You unbuckled his pants and took his member out. You stroked it, spitting on the tip of it, before rubbing up and down. His hand raised your skirt up, a talon stretching out and cutting the side of your panty off. He pulled it off, baring your pussy against the rough material of your jeans.

Hips raised, Miguel pulled you onto his cock, grinning as you whimpered at the sudden intrusion of his thickness. Your hands pressed to his hard chest, crying as he fucked up into you.

Yes, you thought, eyes rolling back, everything was more than alright.

masterlist

reblog and comment!

#miguel o’hara x reader #black!reader #spiderman #miguel o hara x reader #miguel o’hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara smut #vampire Miguel o’hara x reader #vampire! Miguel o’hara #vampire Miguel o’hara #black reader #miguel o’hara fanart #yandere! miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara x black reader #miguel o'hara x you #spiderman 2099 fanfiction #spiderman 2099 x reader #yandere! miguel o'hara x reader #yandere miguel x reader

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starg1rlblog · 1 year

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Hii! I have a revenge era Gerard way request. It's really dark but uh here goes. Gerard isn't a member of MCR, but rather a vampire who kills and kidnaps girls for fun (think of lestat from interview with the vampire but somehow more sadistic) and one day he kidnaps a girl, intending to just toy around with her for a few weeks but instead falls in love with her and become yandere level obsessed. Please include smut! Preferably something kinky with dom Gerard but no pet names or fetish gear or anything! Thanks in advance, I love your writing tons!

᳝ ࣪ ♥︎ — All Yours

a/n: you’re too kind! if there’s poor grammar n spelling…hmmm you didn’t see it.

pairings: vampire!gerard way x fem!reader

warnings : 18+, dubious, yandere undertones, mentions of kidnapping, manipulation, manhandling, mentions of creampie/breeding, biting

taboo content ahead! you are responsible for your own media consumption!

Gerard loved to play with his food. He watched the pretty women that crossed his path and swept them off their feet. He had them melting at his very touch but foolishly falling into his trap. He would keep them locked up to use however he pleased. Each and every one of them were eaten with empty veins by the end of the week. Unfortunately for you, you were no different. He scooped you up one night with intentions for another meal.

He kept you bounded to his bedpost with rope. Where you were used for one purpose — his enjoyment. You laid there with your wrists bruised, tugging against the restraints. Your limbs were sprouting bruises of purples and deep blues; along with bite marks from the vampire. Gerard fed off of you. You were a pure taste to his palette. Something extraordinary — something he wanted to taste forever.

As time went on Gerard found himself wrestling the thought of you each night. You tainted him — he was losing himself to you. So, he kept you longer than he intended. Gerard creeped through the room and towered over you. He loved how helpless you were. Gerard cupped your cheek. “How’s my sweet girl doing?” He asked as if there would be any decent answer. Instead, you looked up with soft dewy eyes and asked, “When can I go?” He scowled at you with pointed eyebrows. Gerard sat beside you and leaned close. Pushing your disheveled hair behind your ear. “Why would you want to, hm?”

“It’s just ‘cause…” You mumbled meekly but stopped yourself to turn away with tearful eyes. “You’re always so mean to me.” Gerard proved your point by smacking you across the cheek. He gripped your face harshly to make you look at him. “What a stupid thing to say." He tauntingly shook your face side to side and whispered, "You can’t leave when you need me.”

With hot tears streaming down your face you grumbled a soft no. Gerard disagreed, “Yes, you do, you dumb girl. I took you so easily. Had it been someone else?” Gerard shoved your face away and brought his palm onto your bruised knee to rub it gently. “Someone bad?” He continued, “I’m protecting you since you couldn’t yourself, doll.”

“But what about my home? I-I have to go—“

“Shut up already.” Gerard gruffed, finding it hard to play nice with you anymore. He loved you too much to even consider releasing you. You were his.

Gerard smashed his lips onto yours. Letting his pointed fangs bite down on your lower lip, releasing soft dribbles of blood. He moaned as he tasted you. Holding onto the heated kiss, Gerard pushed himself between your legs and let his weight fall on you. Fumbling with his jeans he yanked them down below his thighs to release his hard cock. It sprung free with his tip flushed red — aching for you.

Gerard’s hands gripped the plush of your thighs to spread you farther apart. He rutted himself into you painfully slow. “Oh — fuuckk,” he seethed. You yanked against the restraints as you whimpered at the length of him. Your cunt still so sore from the countless fucks before but you were greedy and wanted more. You were choking his cock with your tight cunt. The vampire found it impossible to control himself. He kept his eyes fixated on you. He found you so beautiful this way; below him and completely under his control. Blood smothered on your lips and your eyes pinched shut with headed cheeks. You were embarrassed at how much you loved this.

Gerard brought his hands to your neck to keep you steady as he fucked into you. “that’s it — take it like a good whore,” Gerard moaned. He watched your eyes rolled to the back of your head. You were enjoying his cruel attention. The way he used you like you were nothing made you weak. “No one else can make you feel this good.” Each thrust growing harsher — fucking you like he hated you. Squeezing tighter around your neck, you squeaked out a gasp. “C’mon, needa hear that pretty mouth of yours say it. ” He demanded.

You couldn’t complete a coherent sentence. All you could do was nod profusely and babble, “m’only you.” Viscously milking his cock he couldn’t help but whine. Gerard gripped your jaw with one hand and groaned close, “So fucking tight.” His eyebrows furrowed with sweat glistening over his forehead. He can hear the blood pumping throughout your body from the intensity between you two. Gerard nuzzled into your shoulder biting down, unable to resist you. You hissed a stream of curses from the piercing pain of his fangs. It hurt so good. Gerard pulled back with groan. Basking in the taste of you. His lips covered in your blood, dribbling down his chin. Leaning down to kiss you, you taste yourself. The warm copper covered your tongue.

Gerard let his hands release hold of you and run down your body. “keep fucking me! Shit — just like that,” you whined, cock drunk. Gerard let his hands come between the two of you. He yanked your legs up and over his shoulders to be as deep as he could. Letting the tip of cock brush against your cervix. Gerard leaning closer and closer as his cock stretched you out. “Wanna cum inside you and make you mine.” He threatened. You yanked against the rope and yelped, “no, no — Uuhhh!” You mewled when your capturer’s thumb was rubbing against your swollen clit. Your eyes watered at the sensation. Twitching around his cock, he won’t last long. “Y’feel so fucking good. Just wanna fill you up.”

#gerard way smut #gerard way x reader #mcr smut #my chemical romance smut #gerard way fanfic #mcr fanfiction #mcr fanfic #my chemical romance fanfic #gerard way blurb #mcr blurb

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glassshard · 11 months

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Whenever I don’t like a major piece of media I really like to analyze why. Ever since the RLM Star Wars Prequels reviews I’ve found this exercise super helpful. I think it’s even more helpful than analyzing why I love a piece of media, since my heart is a lot more shallow than my head, and will happily latch onto media with all kinds of problems simply because a boy was stabbed in a sexy way or the music was good.

But after ten hours of Baldur’s Gate 3 this weekend, I just had to drop it. I don’t like the game. It charmed me at first with its high production values and its excellent exploration, but my ardour cooled quickly as it began to butt up against my personal predilections. At first it did so in totally subjective ways with its unlovable D&D mechanics. I don’t know D&D and the game did not have any interest in teaching me about it. It just kinda throws you into a system that has no place in a video game in my opinion, full of unnecessary tedium and opaque mechanics. But you know what, that’s just me. Plenty of people love it. I could deal with bad gameplay, I like lots of games that play like crap. Let me sing you a song of the Legacy of Kain series.

But then the story failed to grip me. It’s written like fanfiction, with no explanation for any of the races, proper nouns, or concepts because you’re expected to already know them. I love in media res, but c’mon. Ya know what though? Still just my opinion. Open world games are super popular, lots of people love them. Remember how much you enjoyed Dark Souls? Look at that vampire, keep going. Sure he’s walking around during the day and vampirism in this setting just seems to equate to some Spirit Halloween accessories but it’s fine!

But then! But then! Then that vampire killed my character in a cutscene! And I thought that was GREAT. Unexpected! Finally! The game’s getting good! I’m invested! I’ll need to save scum and reload but-

Wait, I don’t need to? That wasn’t a game over? I can... I can rez my character? My character died in a story cutscene and I can have another character rez them with a scroll? And then... then I can go talk to the vampire because he’s still hanging around? But I can’t even tell the other party members about it? This is... this is not right. This feels objectively not right.

You can’t use a game mechanic to rez a story death. That’s not how this works. That’s like if Cloud had pulled out a phoenix down on Aeris or Corvo just started shoving jellied eels down the dead Empress’ throat. That is deflating the very concept of death in the game. There are no stakes now. Why should I care about anything? Why do people even hate vampires in this world if death can be cleaned up with a square of toilet paper available from any shop?

Still, I pushed on, in a stubborn daze. This was a sixty dollar game, I had to keep trying!

The underwear inventory slots felt juvenile but that’s fine, that’s fine. The character designs are extremely Ren Faire, but no big deal. One of the party members is named after a Care Bear but don’t be superficial, Ashley. I can equip armour I’m not proficient in and the game’s not going to tell me why I shouldn’t, but I’m not going to take it personally. The mind control mechanic is making every interaction feel cheap and silly, and all the parasitized party members feel fake and offputting. It seems very contrived that they’re traveling together, and I don’t understand why my character would remain in the company of ANY of them when he himself knows they have his same mind-control powers and can never be trusted and sometimes the illithid powers are framed as course-altering and sometimes they’re not and nothing is consistent except the cartoonish characterization of the “evil” races but it’s fine, it’s fine, keep going

But then I got to a portion where my character was able to ask a dead Mindflayer questions about the plot. And I realised, sharply: I do not care about the answers. I do not care about this world or this cast or any schemes at play. No immersion will be happening; my suspension of disbelief is irrevocably snapped. This is a Saturday morning cartoon with dicks.

And it all really went back to rezzing that story death. While a lot of my gripes about this game are completely subjective and to do with my own tastes, I think it’s objectively bad design to allow a story death resurrection. It deflated everything for me and I couldn’t recover.

So! I did not like Baldur’s Gate 3, and in my mind my character’s story ended when their trusting nature was exploited by a vampire, and they were killed. But the experience did teach me some interesting things about my own tastes, and what I require to become invested in a video game narrative.

#baldur's gate 3

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theonevoice · 7 months

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Sorry if this is a little foggy and poorly worded, but I have been sitting on this thought all day, after working on a scene from Mamoru Hosoda's Wolf Children, and might as well put it here. The scene in question is the one where little wolf-boy Ame, sweet child who loves stories and picture books and who struggles to come to terms with his hybrid identity, one day while out in the woods with his sister and his mother on a sort of wolf-training excursion suddenly starts crying. And the reason why is crying is that, in all the picture books, he keeps seeing the wolf depicted as the bad guy that ends up shooed away or killed. And because of such representations, now he wants to repress his wolf identity, that has always been a lively and funny, although hard to figure out, part of his life. He is terrified of being what he is because the narrow representations that he has access to tell him that the world does not like people like him. It's a powerful little moment in a beautiful movie, that always makes me tear up, and if you missed it I highly recommend you watch it. If you are not into anime movie and just curious of the scene, I found a clip on YouTube:

youtube

Anyway, this scene made my lonely braincel twitch, and I was thinking, now that we are approaching the end of this glorious - as far as the mediascape is concerned - year 2023, that many people underestimate the enormous power of fantasy narratives in expanding the borders of gender (and minority in general) representation. Having an author canonically establish that certain fixed categories do not apply to one or more characters for in-universe reasons takes away that nasty oblique excuse that some people use to deny and disparage diversity in media (where I live they usually sound like "they only made this character a person of color to please the woke liberalsTM even if the historical context doesn't allow it", or even, comically, "it is narratively implausible that this character is or shows to be queer but they were forced to do it by THE GAY LOBBY" - yes, this is an actual conspiracy theory loudly promoted by Italian journalists and politicians, and yes, I am personally deeply ashamed by it). Obviously, almost none of said people has the faintest actual interest in narrative aspects, but they still use the excuse to pollute the public discourse and attack minorities. And I am aware that there is a possible dark pitfall here: in the best possible world, we should not need to take the route of fantasy settings to have something that should never have been denied in the first place, but from a pragmatical standpoint it does work. Having authors saying "nope, sorry not sorry, they are wolf-children / angels and demons / weird vampires / anachronistic pirates in a fantasy context so your self-proclaimed laws of plausibility do not apply and you can shove them where the sun does not shine while we enjoy the show and put this beautiful, funny, delicate, deep and sad things on screen", is like having a cultural picklock which is also a cultural battering ram thrusting the representation-door open. Shows like Good Omens, Our Flag Means Death, What We Do in the Shadows (and their fandoms with their massive collective creative endeavour), by offering the symbolic shield of a fantasy setting can establish a safe space where 1. queer people (especially young people but not only) can finally recognize themselves and stop feeling like they are alone and don't have the words and images they need to describe themselves; 2. not queer people can get used to a larger set of possible identities and not only realise that 100% of said idenities are in fact - hold on to your butts - still people with thoughts and feelings and needs, but also, through the power of mimesis, acquire a deeper understanding of forms of life that they don't directly experience. Including, hopefully, understanding how similar we all are when it comes to us being ultimately a bunch of naked apes who walk on this spinning rock trying to be as little miserable as possible.

Again, sorry if this sounds clumsy and blunt, given how delicate and complex this subject is (one does not simply walk into Mordor talk about the lives and needs of other people like that), but I had this thought stuck in my shallow brain wrinkles and I wanted to try and put it into words.

#celebrate your fandom #go #ofmd #wwdits #ourgoodshadows #good omens #good omens 2 #our flag means death #what we do in the shadows #Youtube

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latesummerfrost · 2 years

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If any of you seriously went into an adaptation of an Anne Rice property on goddamn AMC expecting a trigger warning you're sipping some Olympic-grade delusion juice. Settle back down with a nice soothing episode of The Owl House on Disney and stop pussy-aching about media with blatant adult themes if you can't handle it. This is the network that ran The Walking Dead adapting a book about a wildly abusive relationship between preternatural creatures who literally kill people for sustenance and amusement. Seriously, disconnect from your idiot-box of collected trigger words and go kick open a DVD out of the Twilight collection for that wholesome, family-friendly, Mormon-skewed vampire experience you so dubiously crave. Lestat unrepentantly ate a whole damn baby in the books, sweets, you think this is the worst it's gonna get? 😂😂😂

Sidebar; as someone who grew up in an extremely violent household, I can safely attest that THAT scene was exquisitely done. Putting Louis and Lestat's relationship through the lens of Claudia's POV the last two episodes was nothing short of inspired. And sorry to say it, but every queer story isn't going to be sunshine and daisies (especially not one that is, again, about preternatural creatures who kill people for sustenance and amusement). I can binge Heartstopper on Netflix anytime I want, but I've been waiting for THIS particular show my entire life.

Horror isn't just about beings with special powers peacocking and monologuing between luscious set pieces. The real horror of this story has always been underneath all of that simmering in the protagonists' extremely flawed humanity. Did you seriously walk into a horror show and balk at people experiencing and perpetrating horror?

And as a lifelong reader, let me close with this; this IS our Lestat. This is Lestat in as many forms and personalities as he's ever held (countless, btw), fused into one being who is going to fit the trappings of this story as its NEW custodians lead us down dark new paths.

Jesus god between this all and the assertion that Rice hated women because - let me check my notes - bad things happen to women in The Lives Of The Mayfair Witches (because it would have been a much better series if Lasher was a friendly pet ghost who tied the neighbors' shoelaces together when they were mean to Deirdre, and Rowan just spent the entire saga cruising on her boat and patching peoples' brains together between calls home to her loving and unproblematic Aunt Carlotta), I don't know how to engage with fandom anymore. I don't know how to politely tell people to shove their weird puritanical ramblings into the orifice of their choice, so I'm just gonna word it like that. Get real; get a grip. Bad things happen to women and all you're doing when you bitch and moan about women writing about these things is passing the narrative torch on to men who can't fucking relate enough to themes like rape and forced childbirth to touch on them well. And YES, a lot of Rice's women are super horny. LET WOMEN BE HORNY. Are you people on crack? Ya'll smokin' that shit the conservatives be slingin' on corners about women needing to think more with their brains than their privates? Women have sexual agency. I didn't phrase that as a goddamn question, women can suck dick and eat pussy till their incisors fall out. Women being sexual has LESS THAN NOTHING to do with rape when it happens to them. Seriously, Mom's Got A Date With A Vampire is fully streamable on Disney, ya'll. God knows I love Caroline Rhea and Charles Shaughnessy enough to give it another watch myself in between maimings and tragedies on Interview.

#interview with the vampire #the mayfair witches #lasher #rowan mayfair #lestat de lioncourt #louis de pointe du lac

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mermaidsirennikita · 9 months

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I’m too afraid that a Wallflower adaptation would be absolutely butchered in an attempt to appeal to non romance fans/puritans pushing for sexless media…

I think several issues would corrupt that show, tbh. Those you mentioned, for sure. Imo, The Wallflowers does a superb job of balancing the standalone nature of a good romance and an ongoing plot. You can read them on their own, but (imo) they are MUCH better when read in sequence, especially Winter coming off of Autumn. But if you adapted them somewhat faithfully, they'd all work in a mini-like way.

But of course, I think people would feel the need to have these dumb subplots to make it less romantic. We'd get some bullshit about Westcliff and Simon doing a business thing, Lillian starting her own company, Daisy going out to be proto-Louisa May Alcott/Eloise Bridgerton. I'm sure we'd see Evie getting abused by her family/sexually harassed by her cousin onscreen, because we super need that.

And I think there would be this need to connect things more than necssary. The books do some of it, right? Like, Westcliff and Lillian do get foreshadowed a ton in Summer, and I do think you have this through-line of their life because Lisa LOVES Westcliff, and the series basically ends with their firstborn coming into the world... Until Christmas, which would theoretically be a great finale/special, where you do see more of Evie and Sebastian because Lisa realized by then where the money shot was for fans lol.

But like. I can just SEE them seeding Evie and Sebastian way more than is necessary to create a continuance, and part of what makes their romance so good is that it is so out of nowhere for both of them. I think Sebastian alludes to seeing her in passing at one point, but he was like "whatever" because she was SUCH a Wallflower.

And I do think they wouldn't do the sex justice. Frankly, I don't really think Hollywood is currently casting a lot of men with leading man potential...? Or like, sex appeal? A lot of them read very boyish. I think a Wallflowers show would ideally be diversely cast, I'm not married to like, a blond white guy playing St. Vincent, but I don't even see where anyone is really getting a lot of actors that could pull off the brusque masculinity of Westcliff or the ridiculous sex appeal of St. V.

I mean, it can be done. Before it went downhill and everyone started fucking with everyone's hair, Sam Heughan and Caitriona Balfe were super well cast for Outlander. (David Barry was toooo.) Interview with the Vampire has not one, but TWO super hot and talented men in the lead. It can be done. But then you've got Bton, where they lucked the FUCK out with casting Rege for the first season, they lucked out again because while Jonathan Bailey is ultimately "a random white guy" visually, he's charismatic, very talented, and had great chemistry with Simone Ashley... and benefited from a first season that for all its flaws was way more enjoyable to watch and set the second season up for success, I'm sorry. Every other leading man on that show is "another random white guy". Put the dudes they have lined up against a Sam Heughan, a Jacob Anderson, a Sam Reid--both in terms of having a Distinct Look and Vibe and talent, it just doesn't compare. Mainstream American casting directors currently are not tapping into the type of mindset that like... the people casting Kdramas are. Or, on a good day, the people casting telenovelas and daytime soaps. The well is DRY. Girls? They can still find talented, charismatic girls. But I feel like, in part because there's such a need to make everything wholesome and it's easier to sell a hot grown ass actress as wholesome and sexy versus a hot grown ass actor.

So. Yeah. I don't know. I just don't think it would be done super well, lol.

Also, they'd completely bastardize the St. V plot in Autumn. That just wouldn't be done today. No fucking way. He'd like, shove Lillian off her horse or something lmao. IF that. There would be no kidnapping. Certainly no threats.

And I'm sorry, but that kinda ruins the whooole thing.

#romance novel blogging

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farie-insignias · 10 months

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Revised Chapter 18 of AE

Hi everyone! I hope you're doing well!!!! Yes, I'm still alive.

The following post will address the topic of SA - just to warn you, so if you have any triggers, please be mindful when reading.

After thinking about it for several, several months, I’ve decided to go back and rewrite part of Chapter 18: Photographic Evidence – namely, the section dealing with Caroline’s trauma. There are several reasons for this and I’ll list them below.

Firstly, I just didn’t like how I handled the subject matter. When I set out to write this story I had no intention of ever addressing the subject of sexual assault in any concrete way. I mean, it’s a stark and terrible reality of the world that many woman, unfortunately, have to deal with, and I knew I might brush against it as I painted a picture of Bonnie’s experiences in 1864, but I had no intention of diving any further into it than that. That simply wasn’t what this story was going to be about, and I know writing about a character that has gone through something like that should be done with thoughtfulness and respect.

So, why did I even bother trying in the first place?

I’ve responded to a few reviews asking me this very question, and the answer is pretty simple: timing. That’s what it boils down to. Just as I was gearing up to write the moment between Caroline and Bonnie, a video started making the rounds on Tumblr. It was of a woman talking about the media’s representation of assault culture and how it needed to change, and I believe she even used Caroline as an example of this – how all she does is shove Damon and call him a jerk in response to remembering that he assaulted her.

Some of you old hats might remember which video I’m talking about.

It was an interesting video, very well articulated points – and suddenly I felt very unsure about how I wanted to handle the Caroline/Bonnie scene I was about to write. Personally, even to this day, I don’t really think about a vampire’s compulsion in terms of how it would function in the real world – though that could make for an interesting exploration and for a very gritty and grounded series. Basically, I don’t think too deeply about the realistic consequences of a vampire using their naturally given powers – especially on a show like The Vampire Diaries. Maybe if this were The Walking Dead or Game of Thrones, I might have thought about it more, but…

As it was, I started to wonder: was I a part of the problem? Should I be addressing this? Would it be wrong of me to ignore it? Do I really believe Caroline views what happened to her in those terms?

If Caroline existed in the real world, I would say a thousand percent yes. But the Caroline in The Vampire Diaries? No, I honestly don’t think she does. I don’t think ANY of the characters do. For exactly the same reason as the young woman was addressing in the video: none of the writers saw it as sexual assault.

Which left me in a weird position – did I go along with the established portrayal of Caroline (which would be the easy thing to do) or did I bite the bullet and talk about what was on everyone’s mind at the time? Tbh, I wasn’t convinced I should touch it, because I deeply believe that sexual assault isn’t something that should be marginalized in a story and, if it’s going to be addressed it needs to be at the forefront.

But I also believe in signs from God… And a video popping up, just when you’re about to write a character’s perspective on another character, talking about the very same said character and how their justified hatred for other said character has been watered down… I mean, it seemed like a pretty clear sign to me.

In the end, we know what I chose. It simply felt like it would be wrong of me to try and sweep it under the rug. So, I took a swing at it… and I missed.

I got an extremely insightful review from someone named Miss 45 that really helped me realise how far off the mark I was with my attempt. I am eternally grateful to this person, because I now know what to avoid doing if I ever tackle this subject matter again in the future.

They also said, and I quote – “Tbh, when I think about bamon as a ship I usually pretend that it didn't happen bcs I can't imagine Bonnie ever doing that to Caroline […]”

And they are completely right! Especially looking back, I can see that now. The only reason I could write the scene and have it turn out fairly acceptable was because I was focused on Bonnie’s experiences/emotions and not Caroline’s – which was selfish of me as a writer. At the time, I had thought I had addressed the issue, but I really hadn’t. At least not in a way that represented Caroline’s trauma realistically.

So, I made a promise to myself and to Miss 45, that when I did address the issue again, as I was planning to at least once or twice more, I would do a better job.

Which brings us to where we are now, because the closer I get to talking about what happened to Caroline again and how it affects, not only her, but also Bonnie/Damon’s potential relationship… I realize there is no feasible way to do it and stay true to the characters/have a happy ending.

I’ve been wracking my brain about it for ages now. If I want to honestly do a good job, I realize I would have to dedicate far more of the story than I’m willing to on the subject of Caroline/Damon.

And not just because, if I’m being true to Bonnie, she wouldn’t be able to write off what Damon did to Caroline for her own happiness, no matter what Caroline said (which realistically Caroline wouldn’t want her doing either – who would want that?). But Damon wouldn’t be able to forgive himself either.

I honestly, with every fiber of my being, don’t believe Damon views what he did as sexual assault. Which is not to excuse him, but his understanding of the situation is definitely not objective. If he ever did come to understand the full extent of his actions I think that knowledge would destroy him. He’s a lot of things – proudly a monster who will cross many a line, but I can’t imagine he would ever cross that one. At least, not knowingly. So, if his perception of himself and his actions were to change so fundamentally, and in such a negative way… if he were to see himself fully for what he actually is and what he actually did... He already has issues with self-hatred…

Yeah, all the Damon scenarios in my head got pretty dark, pretty quickly.

I realized that if I wanted Bonnie and Damon to have any chance of being together, Damon would have to go on a very long journey towards recovery – which completely changed what the story was about and was something I wasn’t willing to do.

So, in order to tell the story I originally set out to tell, I made the decision to retcon Caroline and Bonnie’s forest conversation in Chapter 18 and make it into something that better serves the purposes of the story as a whole. *deep sigh* I’m not 1000% happy with this decision, but I do believe it’s the right decision to make. I think the story will, ultimately, be stronger for it.

I hope this doesn’t upset anyone. I understand if people think I’m being cowardly or even selfish for deciding not to pursue the topic anymore (and I would agree with you completely). I feel it would take a far more educated, sensitive and talented writer than myself to be able to do that particular storyline justice in the story I’m setting out to tell. But I’ve learned a lot from this experience that I plan to take with me into the future.

#bamon #fanfiction #adverse effect #ae #revision

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sloshed-cinema · 1 year

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From Dusk Till Dawn (1996)

Some of Quentin Tarantino’s shall we say ‘proclivities’ are well-known and ribbed at. But I never expected some of the more egregious moments in Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood to seem downright quaint by comparison to some of his other work. This QT-penned Robert Rodriguez joint hardly even needs a Written By credit when a scene features Tarantino’s character singled out by Vampire Selma Hayek so she can shove her foot in his mouth and pour liquor down her leg into his throat. Everyone knows exactly why that happened, coupled with the obsessive montage of Richard ogling Kay’s toes. This is pure, uncut trash-camp, for good or for ill. Before it reveals its trick, this is a reasonably fun subversive action western. Certainly not Tarantino firing on all cylinders in the writing department (nor are he and Clooney when it comes to acting), but it’s got an enjoyably acerbic wit to it which makes for novel viewing. Once the truth of the Titty Twister bar is revealed, the script starts to take stupid pills by the fistful. Sure, once the limbs are flying and the goo runs thick the film may not feel the need to lean on dialogue to drive interest. But it would be fun to take maybe a second pass at some of the jokes, which start to feel more and more repetitive.

Rodriguez has a way of rendering ultraviolence affable and glib, though he inhabits that pocket well. In dialing the gore well past the point of reason, he disarms the stakes of the film, making it more about spectacle and very simple character beats: it’s about family and money and survival. Our vampires are a wildly mixed bag, and this is a damning exhibit of the case for practical effects, or at least for understanding the limitations of different media and technology for your budget and capabilities. Ooey gooey rat monsters and crazy, imaginative prosthetics? More of this please. Strangely stilted CGI transformations? Keep that in the Asylum vault. Fortunately, they resisted the impulse to lean into that too heavily, remaining with the more tactile rubber suits during the final stages of this last stand. Why would vampires surround and furnish their hangout with so much décor which could potentially be weaponized against them? Who cares. Just let the mayhem wash over you.

THE RULES

SIP

Someone says ‘pussy’.

The brothers disagree on something.

““Glorious”“ CGI.

Someone uses more than two curses in sequence.

BIG DRINK

Richard sustains a hand injury.

Richard checks on his hand injury.

Richard is an expert wound-dresser of hand injuries.

#drinking games #from dusk till dawn #horror #comedy #action #action & adventure #horror & thriller #western #grindhouse #robert rodriguez #selma hayek #juliette lewis #harvey keitel #quentin tarantino #guess what there's foot stuff

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cielsosinfel · 2 years

Text

reading log attempt 2.0 where i don’t go off on essay-long rants

In The Dream House: A Memoir by Carmen Maria Machado: absolutely one of my all-time favorite ever books now, beautifully, amazing written, truly cathartic to read as Machado puts down all of the ugliest feelings of an abuse victim and survivor that society at large tries to shame people out of expressing. So much more than a memoir. I want to shove it into everyone’s hands.

Drag King Dreams by Leslie Feinberg: Love Feinberg, love her non-fiction, love her politics, love what she did for early trans literature, HATE THIS BOOK SO GODDAMN FUCKING MUCH. I deleted the huge essay I wrote about it but i have so many (negative) thoughts lmao. I can imagine there are people out in the world who could really, really use this book in their life, but I am definitely not one of them. Couldn’t actually finish it, dropped 85% of the way of the through and skipped to the end was just :| Women Make Horror: Filmmaking, Feminism, Genre, edited by Alison Peirse: I enjoyed this for the most part, but I went into it expecting something other than what it was, I guess more general film theory about the genre as a whole and how society reacts to it and women creating/partaking in it. A lot of the essays are about very specific movies, and so if you have not watched those moves (which I mostly haven’t, because film-media is hard to me due to attention span issues and hearing issues), then it’s kind of hard to get into it? Which is to say, this is an amazing book but I need to do a lot of studies (watch more horror) to truly appreciate it lmao. (Also I wish the line-up of films explored was more... diverse? In terms of creators, because it’s focused largely on white women, but.)

I will say I enjoy how many of the essays are concerned with exploring trauma via horror and taboo themes that are not sugar-coated! And may even be eroticized without a blaring “this is morally repugnant!” statement (because we should all know these things are morally repugnant but that survivors can have complicated relationships to them anyway.)

Essays I really appreciated:

Stephanie Rothman and Vampiric Film Histories by Alicia Kozma

Personal Trauma Cinema and the Experimental Videos of Cecelia Condit and Ellen Cantor by Katia Houde

Self-Reflexivity and Feminist Camp in Freddy’s Dead: The Final Nightmare by Tosha R. Taylor

Gender, Genre, and Authorship in Ginger Snaps by Katarzyna Paszkiewics

Women-made Horror in Korean Cinema by Molly Kim

The Transnational Gaze in A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night by Lindsey Decker

Gigi Saul Guerrero and her Latin American Female Monsters by Valeria Villegas Lindvall

These Violent Delights by Micah Nemerever: I hate this book so much lmao I am all down for unlikable protagonists but jesus fucking christ at least make their horrible internal monologuing fun to read. I REALLY want more pro lit fiction with both LGBT leads and this kind of unhealthy, fucked up, obsessive dynamic that ends in horrible things committed by this horrible couple (and things like noncon, incest, etc but i digress.) That are not YA or focused on teenagers. The opening pages that show the end point of the story really grabbed me! But then you find out the protags are both these... prodigy 17 year olds who feel special and superior and like no one can understand them because they’re too smart and see through society’s lies. Which is understandable for teenagers, and also for teenagers who are gay and Jewish and have to navigate living in a society that’s unwelcoming. But lord. The author tried really hard to make everything out of Julian’s mouth witty and scathing and intelligent but it never landed for me. The witty repartee between him and Paul never sounded like more than non-sequiturs or just lines that fell flat, disconnected, like they’re not really talking at each other. I gave up 30% of the way in.

Currently reading The Route of Ice and Salt by José Luis Zárate (enjoying a lot! exactly what i’m looking for!) and Boys, Beasts & Men by Sam J. Miller (short story collection that isn’t really grabbing me at all)

#reading log #i also read a lot of poetry but idk how to share my thoughts on poetry lmao #mine poste

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specialability · 2 years

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User @apfelhalm posted lamenting how people have mostly turned to posting fanworks only on semi-private discord servers and it blew up, so this slight resentment seems common. I have been on Many social media platforms over the years and have some Opinions, but didn't want to hijack their post since this turned long.

tl;dr discord definitely kinda sucks but it's not like there are a bunch of better options for semi-public fandom discussions :/

Discord is basically IRC with a flashier interface and voice chat. I have never been good at instant messaging or group chats, so my dislike of Discord extends from that. As soon as there are more than 3-4 people in a real-time conversation I need to focus on that convo and can do anything else at the same time. And in really busy servers/chats by the time I decide what I want to say and type it out the convo has moved on.

It's true that they're also not easily discovered and unless someone intentionally invites you, even if it's an open channel it's hard to feel welcome just walking into a room of strangers. If you already have a group of friends and just casually transition to discord so you can talk in real time more easily, it's fine. That's what it was built to do. It is more irritating when, as OP says, everybody just stops posting publicly anywhere else and just shares stuff to their one group discord. It is a really clumsy platform for finding or saving things and if it's even slightly active it's not possible to just check once or twice a day, you have to be on it all the time or you don't know what's going on. It's even worse if you aren't in the same time zone as everyone else. Like I said, it was the same 15 years ago in AIM chats or IRC channels, this isn't a unique or new problem. It's just that back then everyone who wanted to post any images or longer writing had to use other blogging sites as well due to character limits & the need for image hosting.

Despite disliking a lot of things about it, I have used discord regularly in the past when I've been part of gaming groups. There are competitors starting up, but it is still the first place to go for free gaming voice chat.

There are obvious reasons why people get tired of public fandom... I intentionally only use tumblr and not twitter for fandom stuff for the same reasons. So I can't really fault anyone for retreating behind closed doors.

It used to be that it was difficult to find and "join" fandom for technological/financial reasons and that friction meant the community was smaller and therefore there was a greater sense of safety through obscurity. There was also more consistency in social norms online and people who were bad actors would be shape up or be excluded simply because after a while they would be blocked from every available forum. This might seem overly harsh, but it's the way all small communities naturally police themselves. The unfortunate side effect is that charismatic bad actors in small communities can take over and ruin things for everyone who doesn't agree with them, especially if they can financially afford to run their own forums and suck all users out of other ones... but that still happens. And those fandom social norms could be inherently discriminatory towards marginalized groups, forcing people to put up with shit to participate at all... but that also still happens.

Fandom is now much more public. You don't "join" fandom in the same sense now, it's everywhere in popular media. Talk show hosts showing actors sexy fanart of themselves isn't even shocking any more, it's old hat. Some actors and creators knowing about fandom isn't new, but there was a certain understanding that you weren't supposed to shove it in their faces. Now it's unavoidable and corporations and savvy self-promoters capitalize on it (like that weird Interview With A Vampire fanfic app).

If all communities have 1% of users being intentional bad actors, with a group of 100 people that's only 1 person. You might be able to convince someone to not be an asshole at that ratio, and if they don't cut it out you can kick them out. With 1000 people that's 10 people, which is also somewhat manageable with an active moderation team. With 100,000 people that's 1000 people. That's a lot of harassment to deal with. With the number of users in the millions, it almost feels like there are more bad actors, trollers, grifters, and spam than there are genuine people. Not to mention you've now got a very non-homogenous group who are going to differ in opinions on things like NSFW content. And there's no way to kick or ban people from the community or provide meaningful moderation because there is no one community, there are several interlocking ones. I am sure that many people who joined fandom in the past 5-10 years simply do not know what an online community moderated space looks like outside of Discord.

All my opinions on internet communities is based on personal observation and some old internet truisms. There is a lot of nuance I am excluding for brevity's sake. I just think it's important for understanding why, when a community becomes super big and public, a lot of people flee for the hills to make new smaller groups. And right now that small and medium-sized semi-public community space is usually Discord.

Even if it's understandably the place people are congregating right now, I don't think anybody should get too comfortable on discord. They have made moves indicating they want to cash out. They have become harsher and harsher about NSFW content in the past couple years (due to the same reasons why tumblr has). Not to mention most people don't realize that discord as a company can view anything posted on any server, even private ones, so you need to assume nothing you post there is truly secure (especially if a corp you don't trust might buy it). Even if someone were to invent a new social media platform friendly to fandom (yet again. see also: dreamwidth, pillowfort, mastodon) they will run into a lot of the same problems w/r/t collecting funding that tumblr and discord have. So I don't see any other better options on the horizon and it's impossible to try to herd fandom in any particular direction, so who knows what the future will bring us.

#misc #fandom

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milaswriting · 3 years

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Hi Mila! Hope your day is wonderful. Could I please request this prompt for Kaidan? Or just K in general.

“ they don’t deserve you. and i’m not— i’m not tryna be that asshole that says i do. but sure as hell would never hurt you like that. ”

University guarantees one thing. Parties.

The intense kind, the ones that you shouldn’t go to but do anyway. The ones with the making out, the hookups, the pictures and videos that end up on social media — you get the gist.

And yet K’s walking into one. No, seriously, K de la Renta is walking into a party they don’t want to be at. The reason they’re doing that? Because of you.

It’s fair to say that K hasn’t been their usual self. Well, they’re still confident, flirtatious, strut around with a dash of arrogance but something’s off. Or, more specifically, you’re the one who’s off.

K shoves a hand into their jeans pocket before they slip through the door. A house full of humans, the scent of human blood… yet the smell of your blood in the one they pick out first.

They swallow hard before walking through the club, they accidentally bump into a few people but K isn’t one who cares enough to apologise. They then stop in their tracks when they see you at the other side of the room.

You have a smile on your face, a bright one, a genuine one; and it’s almost enough to make K grin. That is until they see you with them.

You’re used to the way rumours spread, being a big deal in a capital city has made you aware of that. Universities are the same.

The person who has their arms wrapped around you… rumour has it that they’re bad news. And not only when it comes to relationships. K isn’t usually one to trust stories that come through the grapevine, but if there’s a chance that you could get hurt from it, then they’re believing those stories 100%.

Using vampire speed in a club full of humans is a terrible idea, for so, so many reasons — but when your classmate leans in to kiss you on the cheek, K’s sure that terrible ideas are the way to go.

Without their supernatural abilities, they get to the other side of the room with ease, before the kiss is planted.

“Hey.”

You feel a hand clutch around your elbow gently, it’s enough to get you to turn around and tilt your head.

“K? What are you doing here?”

You watch as K’s eyes dart around, the fixed glare on their face as they focus on the person behind you before their eyes land on your own.

“I need to speak to you,” K utters. “Come with me.”

You’re not really given much of a chance before you’re pulled down a wide corridor, into a large room that you know is completely off limits but K shuts the door behind the two of you, anyway.

“You actually came to a club,” you says in surprise.

There’s a large enough distance between you and K, you even debate whether to take a seat on the sofa, but decide against it.

K swallows hard, and after that the words leave their mouth in a ramble. “What are you doing here with them?”

“What? With who?”

K rolls their eyes. “The idiot who’s had their hands over you all night.”

You take a breath, wet your lips and realise who K’s talking about. “I’m on a date, at a party, in a club,” you say in a matter-of-fact tone before taking a step forward. “Th— This is what you want to talk about?”

“Back up,” K says with their eyes closed before opening them. “A date?”

“Yes,” you exclaim. “Yes, a date. Why did you bring me here to ask me that?”

K runs a hand through their curls before taking a step closer to you. “Because they’re a dick, that’s why.”

“What?!”

“You are, you always will be the first person to hear the rumours that spread around this city,” K responds. “You hanging around with them, you dating them, it won’t end well. You’re being used for a leg up in society and a million pound cheque.”

Silence washes over the two of you, not complete silence because the music from the speakers outside is still audible, but for once neither of you utter any words.

“You’re wrong.” Your voice is far from confident, but you’re not going to reveal to K that you’re in two minds. “You’re wrong,” you reiterate.

“Fucking bullshit.” K scoffs.

“Admit it.” You’re directly in front of K now, your eyes are locked to one another’s and right now there’s only anger between you. “You’re jealous.”

A fake smirk curls over K’s lips. “Jealousy is one thing I don’t do, rich kid.”

It’s a statement you ignore. “Jealous that someone actually wants to be in a relationship with me. Frankly, I don’t know why you’re so bothered, you don’t want to be with me, anyway.”

“This isn’t even about me.” K looks you up and down. “They don’t deserve you.”

“And what? You fucking do?”

“Of course not, I—“ K gnaws on their bottom lip before taking a step back from you. “I’m not trying to be the asshole that says I do, but I sure as hell won’t hurt you like they will.”

You scoff before sauntering over to the door. Your hand hovers over the handle, and that’s when you look at K over your shoulder.

“I have a date to get back to.”

Thank you for your ask!

#anon #ask #scenario asks #kiana/kaidan #mila answers

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pillsarchive · 2 years

Text

Stu/ Vampire! reader imagine

Just a quick hoaky little thing I wrote at like 2 A.M last night. It's cheesy as shit, but the scream movies are too so I figured I'd post it anyways.

“Oh, no fuck you. That’s so weird - no - NO WHAT GIRL WOULD THINK THAT”S HOT THAT’S JUST WEIRD”

Twilight played on Stu’s television screen as randy yelled and stu cuddled up next to you. The party had been going great, and now it was even better. Most of the loud annoying shit bags had either passed out or gone home which meant you could just chill out and get smoked while you watched some horror movies with your pals. You had just figured out randy had never seen twilight, so after halloween ended you’d played a little game of truth or dare. Whoever chickened out first got to pick the next movie. You’d dared randy to go sit in the basement alone for five minutes (no flashlights allowed), and after a long rant about “no one taking the threat seriously” he’d explained that the way he saw it, it was watch this horrible vampire movie or get turned into a blood eagle and hung up next to the wine cellar shelves. In other words, randy was a wimp.

Stu nestled his head into your hair and talked lazily to you.

“We should dress up as the vampire guy and the brunette chick for halloween”

You giggled.

“Then we’d have to finally come to a conclusion on who wears the pants in this relationship. Or we could both go as Edward. Auto - homo - romanticism.”

“And make Billy wear a wig and low rise skinny jeans. Accurately represent the love triangle. Billy’s the werewolf guy, im the vampire, and you’re Kristin Stewart.”

You laughed a little more than you should have at that. You weren’t sure when you were going to break it to him, but it was probably good to do it sooner than later. You liked him a lot, billy wasn't any different. You were pretty sure it was a horrible idea, but you were dead set on keeping the two little psychopaths around. They were interesting, that was all you needed in a guy.

“You want some beer?”

You shook your head.

“Bear makes me wanna gag, you know that. I might go get myself another bottle out of your parent’s monumentally huge stash. How much wine can two people and a teenager drink?”

“It’s more of a bragging rights thing. They’ve never touched it, I cant stand it, the only reason they have it is because they like feeling rich. They’re hoarders, just neat about it. It’s the same reason they bought this huge ass house, not that im complaining.”

You giggled and ran your fingers through his hair. You enjoyed that look on his face, he thought he was fooling you. It was in his eyes. He liked you, and he wanted to incorporate you into the plan, but billy had some reservations. You’d be able to work it out by the end of the night, you always were. If push came to shove, you could deal with the cops and the media. Another thing the movies got wrong - you loved being on TV.

Stu got up. And so did you.

“And honey?”

“Yeah?”

“Meet me in your room after you get the beer. We need to talk about something…..personal.”

He grinned. You loved him.

“Me and stu are going to restock on the ala - co - hol”

“Yeah - we’ll be right back WoooOOOOOOOOoooOO!”

The crowd in the living room roared and he stuck his hands out in front of him and started to walk to the garage, snickering to himself.

“Feel free to switch it, randy. I'm releasing you from your bonds, you’re free as a dove.”

He smiled and looked at you upside down from his spot on the couch.

“Im actually sort of invested in their relationship. I’ve gotten the set up, im ready to see the car crash and burn.”

A few “yeah!” “me too”s echoed around the room, you smiled. You’d get them to leave randy alone, he was alright.

“If you think this is going to turn out badly, wait until the one where bella goes into labor for half an hour.”

Randy’s face twisted in disgust, you giggled and flashed him a toothy grin.

“Jesus, you have to come down here and cover my eyes for me when that comes up - I could barely get through the video they showed us in 9th grade sex ed.”

You’d never understand how the guy could watch a girl get sawed in half groin to sternum on tv without batting an eye, but he got all blushy and grossed out whenever anybody said the word “pregnancy” around him.

You found yourself laughing at the situation you were in, that had happened a lot in the last few years. 300 years old and you were hanging out with two small time serial killers at a highschool party, watching a vampire romance movie that parodied you. This was really what it had come to. Doing whatever you felt like doing in an attempt to stave off the boredom that came with being immortal. Impartial to right or wrong, moral compass thrown out the window, you just liked to watch interesting things happen. If that was so wrong god wouldn't do it, god wouldn't do it and you wouldn’t be allowed to exist.

As soon as you’d gotten into stu’s room you drank some wine and then put the cork back in the bottle. His bed smelled nice, his bed smelled like him. You snuggled up in the sheets and waited. When he walked in the room the smell of coppery blood clung to him like he’d just taken a bath in it, you couldnt help but inhale. He layed down next to you and smiled. The only thing present in him was love, that was his motive. He didnt want to hurt you. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and snuggled up to him.

“What did you want to talk to me about, baby? Im not really in the mood for getting physical, sorry to disappoint.”

That was a lie. You could smell the arousal rolling off of him clear as he could smell the wine on your breath. You wondered if it was because of you or what he just came back from doing.

“That’s not what I meant when I said talk, you aren’t disappointing anybody. I need…’

You let out a breath and sat up. He followed suit.

“I need you to know a few things about me. I havent been completely honest with you, it’s nothing bad, im not breaking up with you, I just need you to stay calm and keep an open mind okay?”

He stopped touching you and looked you in the eyes.

“Nothing could make me leave. Nothing.”

You smiled and pretzeled your legs around his waist, running your fingers through his hair.

“That’s the first thing I wanted to tell you - I love you. “

He went stiff in your arms and turned to look you in the eyes. He looked shocked and his pupils were blown wide. You smiled at him and he smiled back.

“You mean it?”

“Why would I tell you that if I didnt mean it, dork?”

He grinned even wider and pulled you into a kiss. There was no tongue, it was short and sweet. You could smell his cologne and feel the heat from his body radiating onto yours. You wished everything could stay like this forever - hopefully after tonight that wish could come true. You could run away with both of them, find a nice place in new york where stu could party and go to concerts and billy could have his peace and quiet, maybe get a degree in forensics. Woodsboro was so, so small and the world was so large.

He pulled back from the kiss and you realized he’d pulled the knife out from under the sheet while your eyes were closed, you couldn't see it yet but it was laying on the bed behind his back. Better get it over with.

“I love you too. You dont know how long I’ve wanted to say that to you, you’re mine, the only girl ill ever fucking look at for the rest of my life. You’re amazing.”

His thumb ran over your jawline as he talked and his voice got softer as he went on. How are you supposed to do this?

“Where’s billy? “

Stu quirked an eyebrow.

“I dont know, probably off working out his relationship issues with sidney - today I think they’re trying physical therapy.”

“Ah, I’d have liked him to be here for the second thing.”

“There’s a second thi - oh, right.”

You sighed and crossed your legs.

“Im going to be blunt, if thats ok? I dont really know how to do this. Like I said, do not do anything rash, Im with you ‘till the end, you know that.”

His heart rate picked up a bit and he silently wondered if you’d figured him out. You laughed. No harm in telling him now.

“I’ve known about your extracurricular activity with billy for a while now.”

You could feel him pull back. Shit.

“Why haven't you called the cops then?”

His tone was suspicious, confused, scared. You wanted him to hold you.

“I dont give a shit. I’ve done worse, I promise. Just please don't breakup with me after this? I do, really, really like you.”

He nodded hesitantly and bit back a smile, inside you could tell he was over the moon that you weren’t trying to run away. Then came the thought. “Done worse?”

“Fuck. I guess the only word I can use, the only word that would make sense to you is…. Vampire, it sounds hoaky and it makes it less believable but ill have to work with it. Im a vampire, stu.”

He giggled and looked at the wine on the floor.

“I can never tell when you’re drunk. You just act completely normal and then you say weird shit.”

At least he wasnt angry.

“Want me to prove it to you?”

“Ooooh you gonna bite me?”

You opened your mouth and showed him your canines.

“Dont freak out, okay?”

With that, you let them drop down and form into longer, sharper versions of themselves. Stu’s eyes widened.

“What the hell?”

“Want me to do something else? I cant actually do that much, vampire’s in movies are way cooler than real ones, but I can read minds, talk to you in the headspace if you want me to. Think of something.”

He was stunned. You were starting to get worried.

“Darling?”

His mind was almost completely blank, almost like he was in shock, but slowly he began to take in what you’d told him. The more he thought about it, the more he realized this was cool. Like super, super cool. He’d already thought you were perfect before, now you were beyond.

‘Can you hear what im thinking right now?’

“Yeah, I can. You’re taking this well. “

He started to bounce up and down on the bed, full blown smile cracking across his face.

“Obviously - the girl Im in love with is just as much of a freak as I am!”

#stu macher #billy loomis #stu macher imagine #stu macher/ reader #scream 1996 #scream movies #scream fanfiction #billy x stu #vampire fanfiction #reader insert #not beta read #not proof read #Im a red blooded american I dont need no beta reader #all of my writing is just for funsies #if it sucks - whatever #(tell me so I can improve #though)

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hxseok-honee · 3 years

Text

atlas heart || part 25

a/n : so sorry it took so long getting this update out !! i had a disgusting amount of work to do and i really was not doing anything else for a few days -- i really hope you like it!! pls lmk what you think about things now that jimin (and we) know everything! its gonna get,,,, i wanna say messy but messys not even enough to cover how messy its gonna get

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Jimin can’t remember the last time he’d closed his eyes for more than a few minutes. Time goes by so fast these days that he’s partially convinced he’s been falling asleep and not realizing it. The hours between class and dinner every day are spent in the library, his headphones shoved into his ears haphazardly while he tunnel visions onto what’s been in the back of his mind since the beginning of the year.

Those spare hours had turned into days and days into weeks -- weekends where he doesn’t even glance at his phone, unaware of the growing concern of his friends. It’s almost May now, the chill of early spring having melted away around him without him realizing. His schoolwork stopped being a priority ages ago, and he knows his grades are really taking the hit for it. He vaguely remembers Namjoon confronting him one night some time ago -- a week? Two weeks ago? -- but he can’t for the life of him recall the contents of that conversation. Something about hating to play the ‘prefect card’, but having no choice. He doesn’t even know if he’s still on the quidditch team. It doesn’t matter -- nothing matters when seeing everything with the perspective he’s got now.

Practically buried in scrolls and books, Jimin could care less about the time and the fact that he’s very obviously breaking curfew right now -- the library’s been empty for hours now, and the light outside the window has well past faded into pitch black darkness. He had to hide from Pince around 10pm, barely managing to catch the click of the librarian’s heels through the music blasting in his headphones to keep him concentrated -- it’s a miracle that she hadn't caught him, really. He’d never be able to focus properly back in his room, not when he’s this close to putting the pieces together.

It’s there, right there, everything scattered in his brain. He knows it’s sitting right in front of him, he can feel himself trying to hyperfocus on anything that can blatantly tell him what he needs to know. Flipping through the pages of a book with one hand and shuffling through scrolls with his other, he glances down at a scrap of paper with his own handwriting, chicken-scratch on a ripped up piece of parchment for him to refer back to every few minutes. There, in black ink, the words ‘vampire’ and ‘veela’ are written and then, later, crossed out. There’s one below it -- ‘maledictus’ -- that remains uncrossed and haunts his every thought.

For the better half of the week, he’d spent his nights scouring the bookshelves for any text he could find on blood malediction -- there isn’t much to show for his efforts. Too rare a condition to have any extensive research done, he could barely manage to put together a few measly scrolls and one book with less than a full chapter on the subject. Sighing heavily, Jimin leans back in his chair, rubbing at his temples while he reconsiders the information for what feels like the hundredth time.

It fits the fact that she has a blood condition… but it’s not right. There’s no mention of a potion or even of regularly experiencing sickness. Y/n is in the Hospital Wing like once a month. There wouldn’t be anything Pomfrey or Hoseok could do to help her if she was a maledictus…

He considers that maybe those things are part of blood malediction and that there just isn’t enough documentation for him to verify it. But there’s something nagging at him, telling him this isn’t right. He thinks back over everything he knows, trying to pull up the major details that could help him finally get some sleep. Ignoring the fact that he very well could doze off, even with his loud ass music, he lets his eyes close so he can think. It takes a few minutes, but eventually he’s sitting up in his seat, eyes wide as he recalls something said to him almost months ago, forgotten amidst everything else on his mind.

“What’s the deal with your roommate, Tae?”

“Who, Stephen?”

“No, not fuckin’ Stephen -- Jungkook!”

“Well, how the hell was I supposed to know?”

“Because Stephen doesn’t look at me like I’m the bane of his existence.”

“Yeah… I don’t know what you did to make Jeon Jungkook hate you, but it must have be serious--”

“Just tell me what you know about him, Tae.”

“I mean… nothing crazy, really -- an only child, comes from old money. Probably as old as the Malfoys or the Potters. His family’s the purest of purebloods. And always Gryffindors, just like the Malfoys are always Slytherins. It’s kind of nuts, having a family history like that.”

Jimin stumbles out of his chair, already making his way down the aisles of bookshelves, almost crazed with concentration.

Purest of purebloods -- there’s not a single pureblood family that isn’t documented in a registry… registry… regis-- aha!

Turning down an aisle designated for family registries dating back centuries, he scans the shelves at a lightening speed, finally coming to a halt in front of a tome titled Gryffindor Legacies. Hauling it from the shelf, he doesn’t even bother returning to his table, taking a seat right there on the floor.

Flipping straight to the back to search for the family name, he locates it easily and heads to appropriate page. Searching the family tree down generations, it takes him several pages of flipping through Jungkook’s ancestors’ lives to finally get to his parents. They’re the most recent entry -- new editions of the book are printed with each new generation, the original, handwritten copy belonging to the respective families. It’s an inefficient system for sure, but Jimin’s not exactly complaining when he’s the one benefiting directly.

Scanning the page, from the birth of his mother -- Jeon Eunha -- to her school days, from her marriage to his father all the way to Jungkook’s birth. Jimin expects the next part to follow the same structure of his mother’s story, recounting his childhood, but it diverges from that almost immediately with some extra lines that he almost feels don’t exist in the original copy at the Jeon family residence.

Not long after the birth of their first and only child, they were met with circumstances leading to the adoption and care of another, the recently orphaned infant girl, Y/n Y/l/n. In her days at Hogwarts, young Eunha had become friends with a female Ravenclaw student, who had a noticeably sickly pallor about her at all times. She was to become her closest lifelong friend. The same night in which Y/l/n was to give birth to her first child, she and her husband met an untimely fate in the form of a violent animal attack in the backyard of their own home. The Jeon family were the first to arrive at the premises, deciding immediately to take in the infant child and raise her alongside their own son. Not much else is known about the girl, only that she and the Jeon heir were to become inseparable.

Jimin stares down at the page, unblinking. There’s a lot of information to process, but the things that stand out most to him are the fact that Y/n’s mother was also apparently afflicted with the same illness as Y/n, and --

‘Violent animal attack’? I knew the car accident thing was bullshit, but… did her mom not even die in childbirth? Why would she not tell me… there’s nothing suspicious about an animal atta--

Almost like his brain has started to short-circuit after the long nights and lack of sleep, Jimin’s thoughts are gone instantly, replaced by the mental image of a book sitting not a even a few aisles away, on a table littered with all of the information he’d ever needed in the first place. He’s completely incapable of registering anything around him as he races back to his table, his mind flipping incomprehensibly between the information in front of him and all of the pieces of his memories, details that make too much sense in this moment to match anything but this one conclusion.

Most Muggles, however, will die from the extent of their injuries… all known instances of Muggle attacks have been portrayed in the media as ‘animal attacks’ so as to preserve the secrecy of the wizarding world…

Given the extent of the available research and data, collected almost entirely from male subjects afflicted with lycanthropy, not much is known about the hereditary components related to a female werewolf. Therefore, it is unknown if a pregnant female werewolf's transformations would affect the ability to carry the pregnancy to term…

Without any humans nearby to attack, or other animals to occupy it, the werewolf will attack itself out of frustration…

“My mom died in childbirth and my dad… just a… just a freak accident you know, no one’s fault or anything…”

Because werewolves only pose a danger to humans, companionship with animals whilst transformed has been known to make the experience more bearable as the werewolf has no-one to harm and will be less willing to harm themselves…

“You want to talk about forbidden, Jeon? Let’s talk about your illegal animagus status-”

The way one must imbibe it is very unique among potions, in that a goblet full of wolfsbane potion must be taken each day for a week preceding the full moon…

“…you know how long it takes me to make a full set of vials for you. I barely have enough to make it last 3 days…”

The monthly transformation of a werewolf is extremely painful if untreated and is usually preceded and succeeded by a few days of pallor and ill health…

“He was lowkey carrying her down the stairs… she looked kinda sick actually…”

Throwing scrolls behind him without care as he searches for the one with the final detail, he pulls his phone out when he finds it -- a book listing all of the recorded moon cycles for over a century. Jamming his thumb down on the icon that’ll take him to his search engine and typing with blind panic, he finds himself yanking out his headphones by the cord with one sharp tug when the answer flashes back at it him on the screen, and he realizes that almost all of the pieces are in place.

The quidditch match against Slytherin -- it was the night before a full moon.

“No, no… no, no, no, this can’t be right. This isn’t happening, this can’t be right, she can’t be--” Jimin remembers the text he’d sent to her almost 8 hours ago, sitting unanswered, and he moves without thinking. Slamming his hands down on either side of the moon cycle record, he flips frantically to the cycle for this current month, April of 1978. What he sees there has his heart dropping out of his chest.

“Next week? It’s next week? But that means she’d have to be feeling the effects of it this wee--” He’s cut off by the feeling of his phone buzzing in his pocket, and he reaches for it almost desperately. It’s Y/n, finally responding to his concerned texts with nothing more than a single line. His blood turns to ice when he reads it.

I’m fine, just feeling under the weather.

When Jimin bursts through the door of Dumbledore’s office just past 3am, the headmaster’s already seated at his desk, evidently waiting for him. He’s donning a light blue robe with a matching sleeping cap perched delicately on his head, suggesting to Jimin that he’d somehow woken up knowing he was soon to greet a guest. All of the panic invading Jimin’s body is masked just slightly by guilt, only now realizing how late it is and how intrusive he must seem in this moment.

“Mister Park, you certainly are out quite a bit past curfew, no?” Jimin stands in the doorway cradling all of the scrolls and books he’d been hoarding the last few weeks -- he can’t very well have left a huge pile of evidence back in the library. It would have taken no time at all for someone to look through it and see there were connections everywhere to lycanthropy, even if he himself had been blind to it for so long.

“... Park? Mister Park?” Jimin jumps, lifting his tired eyes to meet Dumbledore’s concerned ones. The man continues once he’s got Jimin’s attention. “Surely, you must need something from me, or you wouldn’t appear so…” He doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t need to. Jimin’s aware of the state he’s in -- the dark rings under his eyes, his ruffled clothes and hair, the way he’s holding his books like he needs to protect them with his life. He looks unhinged. He feels unhinged.

Realizing he has absolutely no idea how to approach the subject of a potential werewolf at Hogwarts with the school’s very headmaster, Jimin decides to start by moving toward the chair in front of Dumbledore’s desk.

Maybe I just need to sit down and take a deep breath. That should help--

He doesn’t even make it two steps before one of the many books he’s holding crashes to the floor between them, falling open to the page he’d stuck a pencil in to save his spot. The moon cycle for April of 1978 stares back up at him, and when he flicks his gaze up to peer at Dumbledore, he sees the headmaster’s expression has hardened with caution.

“Professor--”

“Have a seat, Mister Park.” Jimin’s heart lodges in his throat at Dumbledore’s tone, never having heard such a sharp edge to the kind man’s voice. He moves to the chair, setting the obnoxious amount of research haphazardly in his lap. His eyes will only go so far as the top of Dumbledore’s desk, unable to bring himself to meet the man’s eyes.

“Sir, I… need to ask you something.” When he isn’t granted a response, he swallows hard, pushing forward. “If there were to be a student at Hogwarts with a… peculiarity of sorts… how would you go about dealing with that?”

“How would I deal with what, Mister Park?”

“That student.”

“I’m not quite sure I know what you mean.” Jimin lifts his eyes then, confused, but he’s met with a deliberately ignorant smile.

“Sir?” Dumbledore’s smile, albeit strained, only widens.

“I think you may be suffering from a lack of sleep, Mister Park. There are no students at Hogwarts with any peculiarities, as you call it.” Jimin stares suspiciously up at him, knowing Dumbledore can tell that Jimin doesn’t for a second believe that claim. Breaking eye contact, he glances down at his lap, trying to figure out how to keep this conversation going. Trying to figure out why he’s even here.

Jimin looks down at himself and the pile of incriminating evidence, cursing his idiocy when he realizes just how bad this situation must look. A student out of bed way past curfew, barging into the headmaster’s office holding weeks of research and making outrageous claims about a potentially dangerous student. And he’s a Ravenclaw no less.

Shit. He probably thought I was some nosy little fucker trying to expose her and get her expelled.

Knowing that he’s risking a lot by being straightforward, he takes a single deep breath and meets Dumbledore’s eyes, his own filled with determination.

“Sir, I know about Y/n Y/l/n, and I know you do, too. I need to know how to take care of her. I need to know how to help her. I need you to tell me what to do because, to be honest with you, I’m freaking out.” The way Dumbledore’s examining him as he speaks tells Jimin that he’s right, but more importantly, it tells Jimin that Dumbledore hadn’t been expecting him to want to help.

“That is a very serious accusation you’re making, Mister Park, especially in this political climate. Very serious.” Jimin doesn’t waver when he responds.

“I know, sir. That’s why you’re the only one I’ve made it to. Because I need your help. Because I know you can help.” Dumbledore narrows his eyes, peering at Jimin over the tops of his half-moon spectacles.

“Have you considered the fact that just you knowing this information at all has placed Miss Y/l/n in more danger than she’s already in?” As soon as the words leave Dumbledore’s mouth, Jimin’s heart is stopping in his chest. All the times that Hoseok and Jungkook had told him to mind his business come rushing back, and he feels himself becoming sick to his stomach. Of course it’s more dangerous for her now that he knows -- he’d been too selfish to even think it through, too nosy for his own good. He had done all this to try to understand her, to try to be a better friend who can help when she needs it, but it’s all bullshit. Everything he thought he had done for her sake had actually been for his. For him and his stupid curiosity.

Lifting his head as a thought comes to mind, Jimin doesn’t even think twice before speaking.

“Can you erase my memories?” The headmaster’s eyebrows fly to his hairline, his expression becoming amused as Jimin continues rambling. “Can’t you obliviate me or something? Wouldn’t that be the best way for me to help her? Wait… but do you have to erase everything I know about her -- will I still know her? Can you make sure I still know her? I really like her! I don’t like Hoseok or Jungkook very much -- they kind of scare me -- but I like her! I don’t want to forget her, but also if me knowing that she’s a werewolf is only going to cause her more trouble, then I really think you should make me forget--” Dumbledore lifts his hand calmly, effectively silencing a frantic Jimin.

“Have you always had such a one-track mind, Mister Park?” Jimin smiles weakly, offering a half-joking response.

“It’s my only redeeming Ravenclaw quality…” Dumbledore chuckles before scratching at his forehead with a heavy sigh.

“Unfortunately -- and I do truly mean that -- I cannot erase a student’s memories. So, you and I will need to continue this difficult conversation.” Jimin considers the man’s words, knowing that it really would be better for everyone if he had his mind wiped clean and hating that he’d unknowingly put Y/n even more in harm’s way. He looks up when Dumbledore sighs again.

“Mister Park, you do understand that you are strictly forbidden from informing anyone else of this situation, yes?” When Jimin nods immediately, opening his mouth to assure the man that he wouldn’t say a word, Dumbledore only shakes his head. “No, Mister Park, I’m not sure you really understand. This situation is infinitely more complicated than you could ever imagine, so it is absolutely imperative that you keep this information to yourself.” Jimin blinks, unsure what’s meant by ‘infinitely more complicated’, but he nods again.

“I’ve put her in enough danger just by being here, Sir -- I’m not breathing a word of this to anyone.” Dumbledore examines him a moment longer, essentially staring into Jimin’s soul to gauge his trustworthiness. Eventually he nods, leaning back in his chair.

“What advice would you like me to give you, Mister Park?” Jimin stays silent, thinking hard about any way that he can make Y/n’s life easier, especially after all the trouble he’s caused up to now. His mind flashes back to the conversation he’d overheard in the library. He opens his mouth slowly, choosing his words with care.

“Sir… how does a student that isn’t even taking Potions know how to brew the wolfsbane potion? Isn’t it nearly impossible?” Jimin sees Dumbledore’s eyes flicker with recognition, and the headmaster responds cautiously.

“…If that student isn’t taking any kind of Potions course at all, they’d need to already be an expert from having dedicated all their studies to the art of potionmaking. They would also need an immense amount of private mentoring, even if they are taking Potions. We do not teach the wolfsbane potion in the curriculum. As I’m sure you can imagine, it wouldn’t fare well in these times…” Jimin squints, putting the pieces together quickly in his mind.

“And where would a student like that find this kind of… private mentoring?” The headmaster hums at Jimin’s question, peering down at him with knowing eyes.

“Well, Mister Park, if you wish to receive mentoring on much… safer forms of potionmaking, I’m sure Professor Slughorn would be happy to help you. However, if you are asking me about Mister Jung Hoseok of Slytherin House, and if you are wondering just how he became capable of caring for Miss Y/l/n at the young age of 13, well… you’re looking at his mentor.”

When Jimin leaves Dumbledore’s office almost an hour later, he feels like his head is going to explode. The nights of sleeplessness seem to also have come rushing back to him at once, and he’s not sure if he’s going to collapse first from the exhaustion or from the weight of everything he knows now. For a moment, he considers that maybe he really should ask someone to erase his memories -- Jungkook or Hoseok, perhaps.

Yeah, I’m sure they’d absolutely love to do me that favor.

Dragging his feet as he trudges down the corridor in the direction of Ravenclaw tower, Jimin stops short at a window when movement down by the Black Lake catches his eye. Almost as if thinking about them has caused them to materialize before him, Jimin watches the silhouette of Jung Hoseok stroll casually down by the shoreline, followed not long after by Jeon Jungkook racing toward him, a body perched precariously on his back. It’s not hard to see that Y/n’s clinging weakly to him as he runs, her arms wrapped around his shoulders as he keeps his hands hooked under her knees. Jimin can see that she’s got a gown on from the Hospital Wing, and it’s obvious that Jungkook and Hoseok have snuck her out from under Madam Pomfrey’s stern supervision.

They head for the Forbidden Forest, Y/n reaching back for Hoseok when Jungkook passes him. She beckons him forward, and Jimin watches as the three of them disappear together into the trees. He sighs deeply when he can no longer see them, muttering to himself under his breath as he makes his way to his room, overcome with extreme guilt at the entire situation.

“You’ve really gone and done it now, you fucking idiot.”

#bts au #bts smau #bts social media au #bts hogwarts au #park jimin #jimin x reader

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