#the hunger the nausea the hunger that turns back into nausea

[hidefdoritos]

working in fast food will give you eating disorders you’ve never even heard of

[neil-gaiman]

hi,

i’d like to say thank you for what you share on this platform; ofc the lovely fan interactions, but also the ‘the world is scary but we’re in this together’ things and the ‘there’s still a lot of good in the world’ things.

i’ve been meaning to go to the grocery store for several days and hadn’t managed to get myself to do so yet. ive been ordering a few things to my apartment which is tend to get in my head about because the grocery store is less than a block from my home. i’m having a lot of trouble eating again, regardless of what’s in the fridge, and expected this morning to be like any other where at some point hunger will turn into nausea which will get pushed to the back of my mind until mid day when i can maybe manage to get something down.

but i woke up this morning to your reblog of that post about all the things you can eat if you’ve got just a couple things lying around.

and then i got up and took my meds. i showered and shaved and felt like i was scrubbing away the outermost layer of this particular Depressive episode. i brushed my teeth and washed my face, put on clothes that aren’t the gym shorts and tee i expected to. i’m about to leave my apartment for the first time in three days. i’m about to go to the grocery store.

i know it’s not your original post, but you saw it and reblogged it for it to reach a greater audience. i don’t think i would’ve seen it had you not done so.

okay i’ve gotta quit writing and get my shoes on and be off (to the store! woo!!)

you put a lot of good in the world and in so many big ways. thank you for adding to the good in the seemingly smaller ways too <3

I'm really proud of you.

[stllmnstr]

sacred monsters: part two

pairing: lee heeseung x f reader

genre: academic rivals to lovers, vampire au, slow burn

part two word count: 12.4k

part two warnings: swearing, more blood and other vampire-y things, me forcing you to read extensive vampire lore, the supernatural elements are ramped up a notch (or, like, eight notches), semi-graphic descriptions and depictions of violence

soundtrack: still monster / moonstruck / lucifer - enhypen / everybody wants to rule the world - tears for fears / immortal - marina / supermassive black hole - muse / saturn - sleeping at last / everybody’s watching me (uh oh) - the neighbourhood

note/disclaimer: and to absolutely no one’s surprise, I cannot stop talking about vampire heeseung, so this story will be more than two parts. this is not the end. I want to say it will be around 4-5. potentially more. (yay if you’re excited, and my apologies if you’re not.) again, I want to name the sources I used to help me create this: the dark moon webtoon is where lots of the lore comes from, and influences from twilight are also scattered throughout. okay I think that’s it. for now at least… as always, happy reading ♡

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A literature student in your third year of university, you’ve been dreaming of having your writing published for as long as you can remember. With a perfect opportunity dangling at your fingertips, the only obstacle that stands in your way comes in the form of a ridiculously tall, stupidly handsome, and unfortunately, very talented writer by the name of Lee Heeseung. Unwilling to let your dream slip out of reach, you commit to being better than the aforementioned pain in your ass at absolutely everything.

But when a string of vampire attacks strikes close to your city for the first time in nearly two hundred years, publishing is suddenly the last thing on your mind. And, as you soon begin to discover, Heeseung may not quite be the person you thought he was.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

Everything hurts. 

As your consciousness slowly begins to trickle back in, pain is the most prominent sensation. It comes in slow, steady waves. With a certain kind of deep ache. 

Eyes still screwed shut, your brow furrows. The movement only inspires anothing intense wave of throbbing pain that thuds against your temples. 

As senses begin to emerge, you can tell that you’re horizontal. Lying down. The surface beneath you is soft. It dips and curves, gives to the shape of your body. A bed, maybe. 

Delicately, you try moving your right arm. Wiggling your toes. Both are responsive, but there’s a profound soreness sitting deep within your muscle that makes you strain against a whimper from even the tiniest of movements. 

And your throat. It’s so dry. Scraped raw as if someone has taken sandpaper to it. As if you’ve been screaming. 

You inhale deeply, assessing the way air inflates the lungs beneath your ribs. Even there, deep within you, there’s a dull, muted ache. A pain that lingers. As the ensuing exhale leaves your body, you note another sensation. 

The emptiness of your stomach. The deep pangs of hunger that roll like nausea. 

With no small amount of reluctance, you begin the arduous task of opening your eyes. One slow blink that bleeds into another. 

At first, the only thing you see is a vast expanse of white. Blinding light makes you want to squint. Close your eyes again. But it’s nothing but a trick of your own senses. Causes by eyes that have gone unused for an extended period of time. 

Slowly, the space above you begins to take on its true tone. A soft, even light gray that coats the expanse of the ceiling. Turning your head to the side, you ignore the protest of pain from your neck. 

You let your eyes wander for a minute. But as the space around you begins to come into focus, you’re left with more questions than answers. 

Your earlier assertion had been correct. You are lying in a bed. But it’s not the one you’ve grown used to. This isn’t your apartment. 

No, the bedroom around you is an unfamiliar one. But that’s undoubtedly what it is: a bedroom. Threadbare maybe, but with small touches of life. Aside from your current resting place, there’s a desk on the opposite side of the room. A nightstand right next to you. A small lamp that emanate a warm, golden glow. 

Forcing your body into an upright position, you wince at the effort it takes just to sit upright, to maneuver every aching limb into place. 

More details of the room come into focus. A computer monitor and keyboard on the desk. The small stack of books next to it. A record player. A small dresser. Little trinkets of personality, but nothing that serves you now. 

Even through the haze in your sleep-addled mind, you’re sure you’ve never seen any of it before. Why are you here? Where is here?

And why does your body hurt so damn much, nerves under your skin singing like they’ve been wrung out to dry?

The fog in your mind refuses to clear. Soon, another emotion begins to emerge alongside the confusion as the reality of the situation sets in. 

You’re alone. In an unfamiliar room. Hungry as if it’s been days since you’ve eaten. 

Judging from the way your limbs respond to even the most minute of movements, you’re injured. Badly. 

Flexing your left leg again, you wince. Can you even walk right now? 

This is bad. This is very, very bad. 

The beginnings of panic begin to trace your mind. Again, you’re searching the room. This time, however, you focus on memorizing the layout. Finding anything that might be of any use to you, that might help you identify your location. That might help you craft an escape.

Your search turns up two doors, one to your left and one directly across from the foot of the bed. Both are unmarked. Both are pulled shut. 

It’s possible that your panic is premature. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that this was nothing more than the bedroom of a rather minimalistic university student. But if that were the case why did you wake up here alone, head pounding, body aching?

That alone is definitive. Something is very wrong. 

Instinctively, you try to retrace your steps. You must have gotten here somehow. But the more you try to walk back through your memory, the hazier things become. The inside of your mind is like a murky labyrinth, dead ends at every corner. Rearranging and shifting the more you try to focus. 

It’s as if a dense fog has clouded over your ability to think, to recall. No matter how close you get to a memory, you can’t see anything. 

That alone is enough to send another fresh wave of panic straight to your bones. Alone, injured, and you can’t remember any of the events that led you to this strange place. 

Gingerly, you turn your body so that your legs hang off the side of the bed, bare feet resting lightly on the floor. That movement alone requires several of your deep inhales. 

Slowly, you try putting weight on your feet, your legs. It’s not pleasant by any means, but they hold steady. Or at the very least, they don’t buckle beneath you. Aside from the soreness, there’s a distinct fatigue in your extremities. One that gives them a slight shake the longer you try to stand. 

You doubt you can run, but at least you’re not completely immobile. Maybe, given enough adrenaline, you can walk. Crawl. 

But now you’re faced with another dilemma. Two doors. Two points of entry, two potential routes to escape. Or two paths to further danger. Trapped in a windowless room, you have no way of knowing which of your two choices, if any, is better. 

But you can’t just stay here. Backed into a corner, practically a sitting duck. Eyes darting between the two doors, you steel yourself for the inevitable flash of pain fully standing will inevitably cause. 

The door to the left of the bed. The door at the foot of the bed. 

Just as you’ve decided to veer to the right, muscles tensing in anticipation, a knock rings out. Your breath catches in your throat, panic reaching its peak as your heart beats a furious rhythm in your chest. There’s nowhere to hide. Nowhere to go.One rap against the door to your left. Two. Three. 

You won’t make it to the other door in time. Not on your legs. 

There’s a moment of suspended silence. And then, the door is opening. 

Instinctively, you push yourself backwards on the bed., trying to put as much space as physically possible between you and the stranger that enters. 

And a stranger he certainly is. With a tentative sort of slowness, a boy peers around the edge of the door, squinting in the low light. 

When he sees that you’re upright, he pushes into the room fully, closing the door quietly behind him. The glimpse you get over his shoulder doesn’t reveal much. Another room, maybe, but it’s gone too quickly to be certain. 

“You’re awake,” he nods, more to himself than anything. “I thought I heard your heartbeat pick up.”

Back pressed against the wall, you have nowhere left to go. Still hunched as if that will do anything to protect you, you stare at the boy in front of you. 

Maybe, you think. Maybe you could move fast enough to grab the lamp from the nightstand before he realizes what’s happening. Could use it as some sort of weapon, some meager means of self-defense. 

“Who are you?” Your throat is scraped raw. It hurts to speak, to think, to do much of anything. “Where am I?”

“Oh.” The boy pauses for a moment. For the first time since he entered, he stops to look at you. Really look at you. The extent of the terror that’s embedded in your features, written in the positioning of your body. 

Immediately, he stops in his tracks. Retreats a few steps until he’s back at the far edge of the room, just in front of the door he entered from. “Sorry, I guess it was probably quite the shock to wake up here. My name is Jake. You’re in our…” He trails off, searching for the right word. “Well, our home, I suppose.”

For a moment, you just look at him. Chest still rising and falling rapidly as you struggle to even your breathing. You can still feel your pulse in your neck. 

If the situation weren't so disorienting, so terrifyingly confusing, you might be mildly amused by the almost… sheepish look that crosses his features. Where he avoids eye contact with you from the doorframe, this boy certainly doesn’t look like a threat. 

If you had to guess, you’d say that he — Jake — is around your age. With dark hair that falls across his forehead and wide, dark eyes, he has a distinct sort of beauty that almost reminds you of… 

Suddenly, in the confines of your missing memories, you’re grasping at straws again. 

“Specifically,” Jake adds, realizing the information might be pertinent to you, “this is Heeseung’s room.”

Heeseung. You know that name. You think it’s the one you were searching for. 

Heeseung. 

It sparks something. A flicker of a memory. A ghost of the answers you seek. 

You feel like you’re on the verge of a revelation when you ask, “Where is he? Heeseung?”

Jake’s expression betrays no surprise. He’d expected you to ask him that, you realize. It does, however, suddenly appear a bit more guarded. “He’s recovering. That poison he got out of you really did a number on him.”

For a moment, his words do nothing but reverberate in your aching skull. And then—

“Poison?”

Jake just looks at you for a second, brow pulling down in confusion as if you’re the strange one in this situation. As if poison and Heeseung’s apparent removal of it should already be old news. Then, a flicker of realization crosses his features. His brow softens. 

“That’s right,” he mumbles. Again, it seems more for his benefit than yours. “I always forget that moonflower can cause memory loss in humans.”

Moonflower? In humans? 

“Memory loss?”

“It’s only temporary,” Jake says, as if that’s enough to make everything better. “Everything will start to come back soon, I’m sure.” He pauses, frowning. A flicker of sympathy enters his gaze. “I feel like I should warn you, though. Judging from the way you and Heeseung came in here a couple of nights ago, it might be a lot to take in all at once when they do.”

A couple of nights ago. Which means—

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Just over two days. It’s Friday night now. Almost midnight.” While the shock of that settles into your system, Jake continues, “Which reminds me, I brought you some things I thought you might need.”

He turns away from you, opening the door. When he closes it behind him again, he now has two bags in his hand. Carefully, like one might approach a wounded animal, he takes slow footsteps towards you. 

Setting the bags down next to the nightstand, he explains, “This one has water and food. I wasn’t sure what you would like, so feel free to have whatever, and let us know if there’s anything else you want.”

Looking at the second bag, he adds, “I also brought you some clothes. We didn’t really have anything for a girl here. I mean, Sunghoon had a couple of things, but I didn’t really think you’d want them. Sunoo and Niki went out and got some stuff. I’m sure they did their best, but, uh,” He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “No promises.”

Jake nods towards the dresser that sits by the desk. “If you hate everything, you can also look through whatever Heeseung has in there. I’m sure he wouldn't mind.”

That name again. Heeseung. There’s nothing solid in your memory, but heat finds itself on your cheekbones anyway. The thought of wearing his clothes just feels like something that should warrant that reaction, even if you’re not sure why. 

“There’s also a bathroom through that door.” Jake jerks his chin towards the door across from the foot of the bed. And maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t have enough time to craft an escape through there, you think. This conversation might have been significantly more awkward in a bathroom. “Feel free to use anything in there, including the shower, if you want. There should be clean towels in the bottom drawer.”

He takes another long look at you, that same sympathy from earlier coloring his gaze. It feels weighted, heavy. As if he’s forseen some great tragedy you’re not yet privy too. As if he knows something you don’t. “I’m sure you have a million questions, but I think you’ll feel better with some food and water in you.” He nods towards the bags he set close to you. “And a fresh change of clothes.” 

He’s probably right. With the urgency of your former panic subsiding, you still don’t feel at ease. But neither fight nor flight seem like appropriate responses to this situation. Which leaves you stuck with a third one: reluctant trust. 

As you make your peace with it, something begins to press at the fog in your mind. It swirls, collects as if being pressed against a glass window. Your memories are still evasive, but there’s something there, in that haze. Syllables stuck on a loop, a constant repetition that begs your attention. 

Heeseung. 

There’s a sudden urgency in your gut. The distinct feeling that things will start to make sense again if you can just see him, talk to him. Jake said that he’s recovering. From poison. But you don’t know what that means, don’t understand what kind of gravity it might hold. 

Vague sentiments conveyed through a messenger are hardly enough to satisfy the tugging in your mind. 

So you ask, “Can I see him? Heeseung?”

Something flickers across Jake’s gaze, too fast for you to catch it fully. Concern maybe. A premonition of fear. Still, he says, “He’s okay. I promise. You’ll be able to see him soon.” For a moment, Jake falls into silence, weighing words on his tongue like he can’t decide if he should share them or not. “But he’s not really in the best shape for visitors right now. Take care of you first, and then we can talk more if you want. And when you’re both ready, you can see Heeseung, too.”

It’s hardly a satisfying answer, but Jake holds the cards here. You have nothing to leverage, nothing to bargain. 

Before he leaves, he reiterates, “I’m sure that your memories will start to come back soon. Like I said, it might be a lot all at once. I’ll let you eat and get changed, if you want. The door locks.” He nods to the door handle. “So does the one on the bathroom door. And please, let me know if you need anything. I’ll be just outside.”

Gently, Jake opens the door, pulls it shut behind him. And then you’re alone again. 

Gone is the frantic terror you awoke with, and left in its wake is a gentler sort of fear. A deep sense of unease that refuses to fade. 

Pushing it aside for now, you attend to your baser needs. Heeding Jake’s advice, you retrieve the first bag he left for you, pulling it up onto the bed. 

The first thing you see is a bottle of water. You make quick work of pulling it out, removing the cap, and taking a long sip. It’s cool, refreshing. Soothes your aching throat before settling heavily at the bottom of your empty stomach. 

Taking another handful of gulps, you replace the cap before setting it on the nightstand. Opening the bag further, you reveal its other contents. 

It’s possibly the strangest assortment of food that you’ve ever seen. Frowning in confusion, you take stock of what you’ve been given. It just gets weirder the more you look at it. It’s as if Jake went to the grocery store and just grabbed the first thing he saw in every aisle with no regard for how they would fit together. As if he hasn’t made himself a meal since the day he was born. 

The first thing you pull out is a box of dry pasta, completely inedible without cooking utensils you currently have no access to. Jake did say you could ask him for anything, but even boiling water has a way of feeling like an insurmountable task in your current state. You move on. 

What follows is hardly better. There’s a singular, unripe avocado, an entire family sized bag of clementine oranges, three boxes of breakfast cereal, a loaf of bread, and — you pause a moment to count — eight different kinds of granola bars. 

Pushing past the strangeness, you figure you don’t need a Michelin star meal to ease the hunger. For now, you decide that one of the granola bars and a clementine look the most appetizing. 

After a few minutes, the blunt edges of hunger lose their sharpness. But even with a bit of food in your system, the nausea hold steady. 

Mind addled, you curse yourself for not asking him the most obvious question. What the hell happened to you? 

But he did say your memories should be coming back soon, and you decide you’ll just have to trust in that for now. 

Next, you reach for the bag of clothes. You didn’t think it was possible, but it somehow manages to be even stranger than the food. 

To your shoppers’ credit, they are girls’ clothes, yes, but it seems that was the only criteria for selection. It’s the dead of winter, and the first two things you pull out are a pair of denim shorts and a sundress. Frowning, you refold them both, placing them back in the bag. At least they still have their tags. Hopefully the two boys Jake mentioned kept their receipt. 

That leaves you with your other option. Glancing over at the dresser, his dresser, you’re at an impasse. 

Even with gaping holes in your memory, it feels invasive, far too intimate to look through his things. To go through his clothes until you find something that suits you. To wear it without his permission. 

Taking a sidelong glance at the pair of denim shorts, you decide you don’t have all that much pride left to barter, anyway. After all, you work up disoriented, weak, and missing all of your memories in the boy’s bed. What’s a spare change of clothes in comparison with that?

As you gingerly pad your way to the dresser, you decide it feels less like snooping if you only reach for what’s on top. Luck is on your side. The first thing you see when you open the top drawer is a sweatshirt and matching pair of sweatpants, both of which are ridiculously soft. 

Stolen goods in tow, you continue towards the bathroom door. Pulling it closed behind you, you see that Jake was telling the truth. The lock slides into place with a small click.  

Like his bedroom, Heeseung’s bathroom is fairly nondescript. Devoid of decor, it holds what he needs and little else. Opening the bottom drawer of the vanity, you find a clean towel and set it down on the counter, next to the clothes. 

Lifting your head, you catch your reflection in the mirror. It’s enough to have you double take. You almost don’t recognize yourself. The tangled mess of hair and dark circles of exhaustion beneath your eyes are things you could forgive. Two days of straight sleep is enough to wreak at least a little havoc on anyone. 

But that’s not what has your reflection freezing. 

Delicately, as if the truth will somehow be less awful if revealed slowly, you tilt your head to the side. Pull your hair away, tuck it behind your ear. Expose the dark, mottled assortment of discolored marks that extend all the way from your jaw to the base of your neck. 

Bruises. Deep, dark bruises. 

And on top of them, uneven, flaky patches of multicolored crimson. Dried blood, you realize as your stomach gives a sickening lurch. 

Is it yours? Heeseung’s? Someone else’s? 

The fog in your mind suddenly feels like an enclosure. Holding you hostage and dangling your forgotten memories just out of reach. Trapping you in the darkness and offering no way out, no way through. Just a dim candle against the vast, midnight darkness of terror. 

You’re too wrung out to cry, too confused to so much as gasp. As reality unfolds, devastation seems to be the norm, not the exception. Even if your throat weren’t raw, you’re not sure you’d scream. 

With trepidation, you raise a hand, watching the way your fingers tremble in your reflection. And then your run a gentle touch over the evidence of destruction, a war waged on your skin. Once it nears your jaw, you feel something. A small bump that has you hissing at the contact. 

Leaning forward, you examine it closer. It’s a tiny wound, barely perceptible. It reminds you of a vaccination at the doctor’s office. Neat, sterile. 

Enough to be confusing, yes. Arguably even concerning. But it’s not what has you reeling. 

Because around the tiny mark are two more puncture wounds. Perfectly circular still, but decidedly larger. Rougher. Deeper. They’re embedded into your skin on either side of the smaller wound. And if you didn’t know any better, if your mind had any more capacity for the impossible, you’d almost think they look like…

You’d almost think they look like bite marks. 

The longer you stare, the more sinister they appear. The more hopelessly horrified you feel. What happened to you? Why does the side of your neck look like a watercolor painting of violets? Why does it look like you’ve been bitten?

If this is what you look like, what kind of state is Heeseung in? Jake said it himself that he’s in no condition for visitors. 

What if he’s not recovering as well as Jake said? What if it’s your fault—?

No. You won’t let yourself spiral there. 

Memories, you just need your memories. 

Which means you just need a little more time. 

The shower, to your relief, has plenty of hot water to spare. For long minutes, you just stand there, letting it pour over you, your skin, your aching muscles. As water seeps through the drain, it carries some of your tension with it.

You watch as the water that circles the drain runs red before it clears again, blood washed away from your skin.

It’s instinct, mostly. The desire to confirm what you already know, that has you retracing the strange marks on your neck. 

A hiss of pain is the only thing that ensues in response at first. But then something else comes. 

A flicker of a memory. 

A strange place, a dark room. 

New Haven. The publishing house. Because you had gone there to meet Professor Kim, to show him your draft, to see the space you’d won an internship in. 

It’s coming back now, in fragments. 

There had been something strange, though. It was dark when you arrived. Dark and empty and quiet until—

Until suddenly it wasn’t. Until Heeseung was there with you.

Warm water traces steady lines on your skin. Your memory reappears in tangled, discombobulated jumbles. Things clicking into place as you do your best to sort them chronologically. 

Heeseung was there, but he wasn’t supposed to be. You had gone there to see Professor Kim. Why wasn’t he—?

The sudden flash of memory is sickening. Has another bout of nausea threatening the contents of your stomach. 

It all comes back, all at once. Replaying like a nightmare, like a scene plucked from a horror film. 

Blood dripping from your professor’s mouth. Clothes tattered on his body. Heeseung shielding you, protecting you. 

But Professor Kim wasn’t himself. He wasn’t right. He threw something at you. Something that hit you right where he intended. 

Without your permission, your fingers are back on the slippery skin of your neck. The blood is gone, but the wound remains just the same. The wound that Professor Kim gave to you. 

You remember the feeling of floating, of being distant from your body, removed from reality. Mind on some other plane of existence. 

You remember gentle, insistent, desperate hands on your waist. Your jaw. Your forehead. 

Heeseung, bent over you, consuming your limited plane of vision as your eyelids became too heavy to remain open. 

Pain in your neck. Sharp at first. Then dull, numbing. 

Heeseung. Heeseung bit you. Held you in his arms as consciousness drained from your body along with your blood. 

Poison, Jake had called it. ‘Poison he got out of you.’

It’s all so strange. They’re your memories, yes, and you’re sure of them, but why was there poison in your neck? Why was biting you the solution? How did his teeth leave such perfectly circular marks on—?

The final puzzle piece clicks into place. 

Vampire attacks. You had been worried about Heeseung, relieved to see him safe and sound at New Haven. Because you had just read about vampire attacks. 

Robotically, you turn the water off. Step out of the shower, wrap a towel around your body. 

His clothes are soft against your skin. 

Heeseung saved you. Of that, you’re sure. But what about the three people at the river? The three victims of a vampire attack?

It can’t be true. It can’t. You don’t know him, not really, but he’s just… Heeseung. 

An annoyingly competent poet and a massive pain in your ass. Someone that walks you home when you stay too late in the library. Someone that calls your writing awful when it is, when you need a cold, hard reality check. 

He’s… he’s just Heeseung. He’s not a—

You can’t even bring yourself to finish the thought. 

But your memories are back, and there’s a alertness to your mind that only sharpens as the fog clears. 

At the edge of your mind, Jake’s voice replays. Something you glossed over in your confusion, something you fixate on now. 

“I always forget that moonflower can cause memory loss in humans.”

“I thought I heard your heartbeat pick up.”

The strange assortment of food. Jake’s undeniable, uncanny beauty. The kind you’ve only ever seen in one other person. 

Jake was right. You do feel a bit better with food and water in your stomach. With the last three days of horror washed off of your skin. But your mind is alert now. The memories are coming back. Puzzle pieces rearranging and clicking into place with alarming accuracy. 

And as the dust settles, you’re suddenly very, very afraid of the reality that greets you. 

In your mind, the facts play on a loop. 

You don’t know where you are. You don’t know how to leave. Jake has been nothing but kind, but if he so wished, you’re sure he could overpower you easily. And he insinuated that he’s not the only one here. 

You need answers. You need to leave. But Heeseung…

You have to know. 

Is the boy you’ve been trying to outwrite for months, the boy you shared a moment under a moonlit sky with, is he a… a vampire?

Why was he at New Haven that day? Did he know about Professor Kim? Did he know about the deaths at the river? Was he complicit in them? Was he responsible for them?

Clothed in determination and a fleeting moment of bravery, you undo the lock on the bathroom door, passing through the bedroom, his bedroom, on furious footsteps. The second door opens just as easily as the bathroom had, and suddenly, you’re in the room you caught just a glimpse of before. A living room, of sorts. Some sort of common area. 

True to his earlier word, Jake sits nearby. Planted on a navy sofa, he looks up when you enter. “How are you feeling? Do you need any—”

Manners are the last thing on your mind when you interrupt him mid-sentence. “What are you?” Not ‘who are you.’ That won’t give you the answer you seek. The difference is subtle. The difference is cavernous. 

Jake’s mouth falls shut, presses into a line. Hesitation paints his features. “I don’t think this is the best—”

You won’t hear it. “What are you?”

Jake holds up his palms in surrender. “Your memories are starting to come back, I take it. Look, we can explain everything, just—”

On the far end of the room, another door opens. Another boy enters. Just like Heeseung, just like Jake, he’s beautiful. Moves with that same unnatural grace that you used to admire when you thought no one would notice. Now, it has another surge of nausea rolling in your stomach. 

Jake glances at the new arrival. He sighs. “This isn’t really a good time, Sunghoon. Why don’t you—”

The boy, Sunghoon, never hears Jake’s suggestion. Instead, he cuts him off. And once again, your world is spinning. 

“He’s back.”

…..

You are the last to enter the strange room. On the heels of Jake and Sunghoon, despite the former’s insistence that you wait and see him later, you take in your surroundings. 

Odd enough was the long, winding hallway that led you here, but this is even stranger. Instead of a proper door, the room is guarded by long, thick metal bars. They stand ajar now but bear a rather impressive lock. You have the distinct impression that this place was designed to keep people out. Or maybe rather to keep someone in. 

You hear him before you see him. Memories recovered, the sound of his voice is something you’re well attuned to, even if it flickers with a strong tone of annoyance. 

“Yes, I’m fine. I told you, it’s a ridiculously strong sedative at its core. We’ll react strangely, yes, but it’s not the same as bloodlust—”

“Still,” another voice argues. “We all saw how she looked when you brought her in. You had to have drank a considerable amount—”

“I told you I’m fine, Jungwon,” Heeseung counters. “Do I look out of control to you? Would I be sitting here having this conversation with you if I was?”

“Fine.” It’s the same voice. Jungwon. “If you’re alive and well, then maybe you can answer my question. What were you doing at New Haven? Do you know how long we’ve—”

It’s probably stupid, shoving past people in their own home. People that you suspect are dangerous, that might not really be people at all. But you have to see him. You have to know. 

Once you finally get around Sunghoon, your view of the room opens up. Sparsely decorated, dimly lit, and there are four other boys you don’t recognize. You pay them no attention. 

Because in the middle of it all stands Heeseung. Maybe, if you squint, you could argue that he looks a little worse for wear. There’s a pink flush under his eyes, a slight disarray to his usually perfect hair, but other than that, he paints the perfect, untouchable picture he always has. 

At the commotion of your sudden movement, all eyes in the room turn from Heeseung and land squarely on you. For a moment, seven gazes just look at you. All of them are blank. Lost. Out of depth. 

All except for the one you match. 

Where he stands, Heeseung stares at you with an intensity you’ve only seen once before. In a moment you wish you could forget. In a fragmented memory you already know you’re cursed to carry forever. 

Slowly, his eyes scan the length of your body, something in his jaw tightening when he notes the clothes you’re wearing. His clothes. 

Jungwon is still pressing him for answers. Heeseung doesn’t bother to provide any. 

Instead, he says, “Give us a minute.”

He’s still looking at you. Frozen in place, his eyes trace the line of your neck, ghosting over the array of bruises, the twin wounds he left there. His voice betrays no emotion, but his eyes flash with something that looks all too much like regret, shame. 

Jungwon balks for a moment. “No, I’m not giving you a minute. You could have jeopardized everything we’ve been working towards—”

Heeseung does break eye contact with you then. Turning to the boy that stands next to him, he says, “What’s done is done, Jungwon. A few more minutes won’t change that. You can shout at me some more in a minute.”

“Ouch.” A boy that you don’t recognize winces. 

“Right?” another one of the strangers agrees. “A pretty human over five hundred years of brotherhood.” He shakes his head. “I’d expect that from Sunghoon, maybe, but—”

Behind you, Jake sighs. “Is this really the time, you two?”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon agrees, arms crossing his chest as he pouts. “And I take offense to that, you know. I would not put all of your hard work in danger for a human.” Sunghoon takes a sidelong glance at you. “No offense.”

“Just give us a minute,” Heeseung repeats again, more command in his voice this time as he slides a palm through his hair in frustration. “Please. All of you.”

There’s enough authority in his voice time. Or maybe enough pleading. Whatever it is, the rest of the room files out, one by one. Even Jungwon, although he does cast one final, warning look over his shoulder. 

It’s lost on Heeseung, who has already turned his attention back to you. “Are you okay?” 

An echo of the past, a reminder of why you’re here. Of why your throat threatens to close up now, just looking at him.  

Even if you wanted to, you have no idea how you’d answer him. Physically, you’re sore. Tired even though you’ve been sleeping for days. Temporary aches. Things that will heal with rest and time. 

Mentally, though… Your mind is spinning a million miles a minute. Even now, face to face with him, you can’t reconcile all of the pieces of Heeseung you’ve gathered. 

Indifferent student. Brilliant writer. Honest reviewer. Maybe even a friend. 

Vampire. 

You don’t know what to make of him. You don’t know how to piece him together. 

He’s here, standing in front of you. You used to stare at the back of his head during lectures. Used to fantasize about him giving you a minute of his time. 

And now, it’s just the two of you. Alone. His eyes search your face, his focus consumed by you. And he’s never felt further away. 

You don't answer his question. Instead, you ask one of your own. 

“What’s going on?” Your voice is small, holds none of the command you wish it could. “And don’t… don’t you dare lie to me.”

Across from you, Heeseung exhales. There’s a distinct sorrow in his eyes. “I won’t. But it’s a long story. And there are parts of it I’m not sure you’ll like.”

“I don’t care.” But you do, so much that it hurts. You almost wish you were still begging for scraps of his attention. At least then, you knew where you stood. “I want the truth.” That much, at least, is honest. 

Heeseung nods, as if any of this is simple. “Then you’ll have it.”

A beat of silence passes. You remember the question you had asked Jake less than an hour ago. What are you? You can’t quite bring yourself to ask it now. Not with everything that has passed between you. Not when it feels like more of an accusation than an inquiry. 

You wear his wounds on your skin. You don’t know why you still want to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Still, you ask, “Who are you?” The difference is subtle. The difference is cavernous. 

Heeseung doesn’t smile, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his lips. “I’m not undercover. My name is Heeseung.” The flicker of amusement dies. He knows what you’re really asking him. He knows it’s not an easy answer to give, not an easy truth to receive. “But I’m… different. I was born with a strange ability.”

You breathe. “What kind of ability?”

Heeseung looks down at his hands. Studies them for a moment before turning back to you. “It would be easier to show you, if you’ll let me.”

Instinctively, your hand finds the wound on your neck. 

A dark shadow crosses Heeseung’s features. “That’s not the ability I’m referring to.” 

There’s a chair in the room, just behind him. He walks to it and sits down at the edge, knees wide. “Come here.”

You shouldn’t. You should stay as far away as space allows. You shouldn’t let him do anything. In every sense of the word, he holds the advantage here. You’re in his home. He has knowledge you don’t. The only thing you have left to leverage is the distance between you and your decision to maintain it. 

But every inch between you was doomed to be a losing battle. Steady, slow footsteps erase the distance between you as you come to stand directly in front of him. 

At this angle, with your positioning, he’s forced to look up at you. Chin lifted, he whispers, “Hold out your hand.”

You could try to fight. You could question him. You don’t. Resistance was always going to be futile. In no time at all, your hand is outstretched. 

Once again, Heeseung studies his own fingers. A shudder traces the length of his spine. Hesitation spills from every minute movement, every microexpression you’re allowed. It’s straining him, you realize. This ability is not something he’s excited to share. 

You can’t decide if that eases your worry or increases it tenfold. 

But after another wasted moment, his right hand reaches out to encircle the skin of your left wrist. For a few stilted heartbeats, it’s just the two of you in a strange room, a cage of sorts, your wrist cradled in his loose grip. 

Then, your vision begins to flicker. At first, you think it’s a trick of the light. Something lingering side effect of a long sleep as everything begins to go out of focus. 

But as the room around you fades, something takes its place. It takes a moment to manifest completely, for your eyes to adjust. 

In front of you, Heeseung still sits in his chair, gaze trained on your wide eyes. But the two of you are no longer in the small, threadbare room. Instead, you stand in an open field, freckled with wildflowers and teeming with butterflies. Above you, the sky is blue and vast, the late summer sun casting a vibrant glow over everything. 

In your shock, you nearly wrench your arm out of Heeseung’s grip. He senses the movement, tightens his fingers around your wrist before you can pull away. 

“Sorry.” He glances at where you two are touching. “It’s better not to break contact once you’re in. It’s quite disorienting if you do. And it will give you awful motion sickness.”

Once you’re in where? Turning your head, you look for something, anything, that makes even the tiniest bit of sense. But all you see is grass. The vast expanse of an open field that only ends where it meets the sky. 

“Where are we?”

“Still in the same room,” Heeseung says. “Physically, at least.” He takes a deep breath. “This is the ability I referred to. It’s a bit difficult to describe, but I can… project my consciousness, I guess. As long as we maintain physical contact, I can show you things from my mind. Memories, visions, anything I dream up. What you see now is the field where I discovered my ability, actually. A friend and I were playing here. I was ten.” He pauses, looks at you. “The year was 1534.”

The full weight of his words barely has time to settle before the vision is morphing, the scene changing into another. 

“It’s difficult to know where to start, but I suppose the beginning is as good a place as any. In the Kingdom of Celedis,” he narrates, “there were eight noble families that had been feuding with each other for over a century. As a result of their petty infighting, the common people suffered. There was constant strife throughout the kingdom. Pains that caused immense suffering but left the nobles untouched. There were frequent blockades, limits on trading, restricted movement, and nasty skirmishes along the borders. Petty crime ran rampant, unchecked. People weren’t safe anywhere, not even in their homes.”

You see it just as he imagines it. Tired, hungry, exhausted people. Mistreated and left to the whims of whatever best suited the nobles’ current desires. 

And the rulers, the nobles themselves. Eight men, adorned in finery, showered with gifts and praise and fine wines while the people just outside the walls of their ornate homes suffered just to survive, starving to death while they gorged themselves on luxury. 

You wouldn’t consider yourself an expert in history, and it’s not like the scenario is exactly uncommon, but you still find it strange that you’ve never heard of this place, not even in passing. 

“Celedis?” You frown. 

“It’s been erased now,” is all Heeseung says. “From both existence and memory. But it was real, a long time ago. And it was where I was born.”

Again, the scene around you starts to take on that odd, unfocused quality. It’s changing again. By now, you almost feel accustomed to the way images and light start to distort as one vision bleeds into another. 

“Celedis was a strange kingdom,” Heeseung continues. “Full of old magic. Ancient rituals and rites that faded from most places but held true there. The land was, in many ways, just as alive as you and I. And it grew weary of seeing its people suffer.”

You see a man now, dressed in simple clothes, tucked in the back corner of what appears to be a shop. He’s surrounded by crystals, trinkets, and old, leather-bound books. 

“One night, the eight noble lords received a message from a seer, one that claimed to communicate with the land, to speak for Celedis as its messenger. The seer told them that the old magic of the land would grant them a single wish on one condition: There had to be peace in the kingdom by the night of the blood moon. A night that comes only once every hundred years. When the moon itself shines bright red.  

“Seven of the lords, eager to have a wish granted, did as the seer advised. They ceased their fighting, recalled their troops. Began to support and protect their people once again. The eighth lord, however, did not.”

After a moment, you’re plunged into darkness. Above you, the night sky of Heeseung’s mind twinkles with distant stars and a distinct, crimson red moon. Seven men, all dressed in finery, stand around an oak tree. The rules of Heeseung’s ability don’t seem to be governed by the laws of physics. You watch as an eighth man appears, seemingly out of thin air. The same man from the crystal shop. 

“The seven who heeded the seer’s advice gathered on the night of the blood moon to pass along their wish — they wanted their bloodlines to endure forever. 

“The seer passed this message along, but old magic is a fickle thing. You have to be precise with your words, or things will be lost in translation. Interpreted in strange ways.”

Now, you stand in a nursery. There’s a crib in the corner. A pregnant woman bends over it, singing a soft lullaby. 

“Within the year, each of the seven noble lords gave birth to a son. They took this with great joy, a sign that their wish had come true. Before the year reached its end, each of the seven had procured a strong, healthy heir to succeed them.”

Suddenly, you’re back in the endless field from before, watching two young boys play in the distance. 

“But these were no ordinary sons. And around the age of ten, each of them revealed a special ability, a supernatural gift.” 

The two boys are playing a game, you realize. You can’t decipher the rules, but you watch as they throw their heads back in a burst of carefree laughter. The first young boy grabs his friend by the wrist. A harmless gesture. A meaningless touch. 

The second boy recoils as if he’s been burned. Hand back at his side, he doubles over in pain, emptying the contents of his stomach. 

In front of you, Heeseung looks away. 

In the distance, another version of Heeseung apologizes profusely as the other child turns his back. 

He changes the scene before you can watch any further. 

You’re in a bedroom now, watching a young man put on a jacket. It’s startling, almost, how similar he looks. The two of you watch as Heeseung, because it is undoubtedly him, pulls the jacket over his back, slides his arms through the sleeves. 

The resemblance is so uncanny that the only thing that sets this Heeseung apart, really, is the style of his clothing. The coat that obviously belongs to another century, lost to time. 

“And once each son reached their twenty-first birthday,” Heesung says. “They stopped aging.”

Heeseung and his jacket dissolve, change into something else. The new scene you look out upon is somber. Heeseung is there again, this time dressed in all black. The clothes of a mourner. Aside from that, he looks exactly the same. 

Then you see the casket. The portrait standing next to it. It’s her, you realize. The woman from the nursery, the one who hummed the lullaby. Much, much older though. Fifty years older. Maybe sixty. 

You look at this vision’s Heeseung again. He hasn’t aged a day. Still the epitome of youth, even as he mourns the death of his mother. 

“This was the interpretation of the wish, how it was warped through old magic. The bloodline would endure forever, because each son that had been born in the year of the blood moon was born immortal. But by doing so, the seven lords’ wish had also effectively ended their bloodline. Their sons would never grow old, never bear children. And none were ever given a sibling. 

“The eighth lord, the one that did not agree to peace and therefore did not receive a wish, had not yet foreseen this tragedy. He didn’t understand the implications of immortality, the terrible burden it brings. All he saw was an opportunity that he had lost. In his eyes, it had been stolen.”

You watch as the eighth lord bangs on the door of the crystal shop, face red, fury obvious in every inch of his visage. 

“When he discovered the nature of the gift the other lords had been given, the eighth became enraged. He went to the seer and demanded that he pass along his wish to the old magic of the land. That his son, born as an ordinary human, would also be given the gift of immortality.”

In front of you, the lord lunges at the seer, rage in his eyes. The seer raises his hands in a pitiful attempt at self-defense. 

“The seer pleaded with the lord. He tried to explain that he had no way of passing his request along. That the ability to communicate with old magic was not something he could do whenever he so pleased.”

The scene changes, the seer and his shop disappearing. Again, you see the oak tree. This time, though, it is only the eighth lord that stands before it. His eyes are sunken, shaded with deep, dark shadows. A mad desperation is painted across his features. 

“After murdering the seer for his insolence, the eighth lord went to the oak tree, a place rumored to be full of old magic. He wished for his son to become like the other seven sons, and he gave the seer’s blood as an offering.” 

The scene morphs again, fading until you’re surrounded by the ghastliest thing you’ve seen yet. You and Heeseung are in a small room. In the center, there’s an ornate dining table adorned with expensive cutlery and fine china. Lined with a lacy white tablecloth. 

And blood. The room, the tablecloth, the plates, are covered in dark, red blood. 

“There was one last thing that the eighth lord did not yet understand about immortality. About the other seven sons.”

One by one, you watch as they appear. 

Jake. Sunghoon. Jungwon. The others whose names you do not yet know. Heeseung.

Their mouths, clothes, faces, are all covered in it, dripping with it. Blood. 

“The old magic, above all, favors balance. In exchange for eternal life, it deemed that the only thing capable of sustaining it would be the life of others. Their blood. Once a year, on the anniversary of the day the seven noble lords cast their selfish wish, their seven sons would need to feed. To consume blood. This would sustain them for the rest of the year. They did not need to eat, drink, or sleep on any other day.

“But that one day, every year, they would always need blood.”

The horror of the bloody dining room fades. Now, you see the eighth son. Your eyes widen in fear as the image continues to develop in front of you, one ghastly scene traded for another. He is in a throne room, back bent unnaturally, a predatory glint in his eyes. Blood covers his mouth, his jaw. And as he rises to his full height, the rest of the horror is unveiled. 

He stands above the pale, drained, lifeless body of his father. 

“As I said before, old magic is a fickle thing. It listened to the eighth lord’s request that his son ‘become like the other seven sons,’ but not everything was the same. He was granted immortality, yes, and he also needed to consume blood to sustain himself. Unlike the original seven, he needed to feed frequently. Consume blood often. If he didn’t, the urges would drive him mad. Send him into a frenzy. 

“It was in such a state that he killed his own father. Murdered the rest of his family and every other living soul he found in the castle.”

You now stand in the dim light of a castle corridor. Beams of moonlight cast a cool glow as a soft breeze rustles tree branches just outside the window. It’s quiet, eerily so. In front of you, a person lies motionless. The wound on their neck matches yours, but instead of bruising, it’s surrounded by fresh blood. 

You watch in silent horror as the eighth son’s victim begins to twitch. At first, it’s just the fingers of their left hand. A spasm that shakes their shoulder. And then their mouth opens, face contorted in agony as they let out a long, blood curdling scream. 

Heeseung spares you the burden of hearing it.

“One of his victims, however, he did not drain fully of blood. Lost to his instinct, he had gorged himself so full that he could drink no more. This human, nearly dead, began to transform. And after long hours of acute agony, turned into a vampire of the same nature as the eighth son. Uncontrollable. Frenzied. And full of bloodlust.”

It reminds you of a montage, the scene that plays next. Still standing in front of Heeseung, your wrist still between his fingers, you watch as villages appear and fade. Families, lovers, children running in fear as the domino effect begins to take place. As one vampire becomes ten. As they fall into bloodlust, leaving a bloody path in their wake. 

The image of a young woman, mouth agape and features frozen in terror, remains imprinted on the backs of your eyelids as the small, dark room of Heeseung’s home comes back into view. As the last of the illusion fades, he releases his grip, freeing you from his ability. 

Your arm falls limply to your side. 

“For years,” he tells you, and there’s no image to accompany his words now. Nowhere to look but his eyes. “We just existed. Tried to carve meaning into our lives, tried to find a reason to keep living once it became apparent that was never something we would need to fight for. 

“But terror continued to reign. Vampire populations continued to spread and after three hundred long years of acting only in our own self-interest, we decided to intervene. To help the human effort to eradicate vampirism and the blight it had become. 

“But we never wanted to become judge, jury, or executioner. And playing god was never something we found pleasure in. We let many live. Vampires that demonstrated restraint, that chose to live far away from humans. Vampires that we came across on days we were tired of killing. Of being monsters.”

His words hang heavy between you. Was it a mistake, not finishing the job? Was it mercy?

“Professor Kim is what brought us here, actually. He has an unnaturally high level of control over his instincts. One we’ve never seen from a descendent of the eighth son.”

You inhale, more pieces beginning to fall into place. “So you enrolled in his course—”

“With the intention of winning the internship, yes,” he confirms. “Of getting a chance to study him up close.” 

Heeseung smiles wryly. “You were quite the pain at first, actually. After those first few days of class, I wasn’t so sure I could outwrite you.”

You have no idea what to say to that. An apology feels strange, but he’s just told you that you essentially foiled a grand plan to reduce the threat of vampires, to better understand their nature. “I…”

Heeseung pushes on, “It didn’t end up mattering, though.” He frowns. “The last day of the semester, the day I was late. I’d been following him. Trailing him from his house when he…” He trails off. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what happened. But I think he scented me. Or somehow realized I was on his tail.”

You frown. “Is that unusual?” You remember Jake’s words earlier. I thought I heard your heartbeat pick up. “I thought that vampires had heightened senses.”

“We do,” Heeseung clarifies. “But there are differences between us — the original seven — and all other vampires. Our senses are much stronger. They still have sharper senses than a human, yes, but I accounted for that. He shouldn’t have been able to detect me.”

“What are the other differences?”

“The seven of us are the only ones with any kind of additional abilities. We each have one, and they’re all different. We only need to feed once a year, and we have far more control over our instincts. We don’t experience bloodlust nearly as strong.” He passes you a meaningful glance. “Unless we’re feeding.”

Looking around, Heeseung confirms your suspicions.  “That’s what this room is, actually. A precautionary measure. It hasn’t happened in the last five hundred years, but we like knowing that there’s somewhere we won’t be able to escape, should the need for that ever arise.” 

“And you’re in here, because you… you drank my blood.”

Heeseung’s expression is unreadable. “Yes. The others thought it would be wise. It was precautionary. And ultimately unnecessary.” Again, he glances at your neck. “I didn’t experience any bloodlust. I was weak for a couple of days, but that wasn’t because of you. The dart that the professor shot you with had traces of moonflower in it. It’s poisonous for us.” 

As he looks at you, he explains, “Humans can ingest it safely in small doses, usually. Some brew it as a tea. You just have to be careful not to have too much, since it can cause temporary memory loss. But injected straight into the bloodstream, the effects are unknown.” His eyes flicker with a memory. You, crumpled in his arms, losing your grip on consciousness. “But it didn’t look good.”

So he had sucked it out of your neck. 

Your neck. Where he bit you.

Another piece of the vision he’s just shown you comes flashing back. 

“You bit me.” 

Heeseung meets your gaze. “I did.”

“Am I…” It’s hard to quell the panic once the realization starts to set in. Flashes of faces contorted in agony swim across your vision. “Am I going to change?”

“No,” Heeseung shakes his head. Leans forward, as if to reach for you. He thinks better of it, letting his hand fall back to his side. “No, that’s another difference. The seven of us can’t create new vampires.”

“Oh.” As the panic ebbs, you find yourself at a loss again. He saved you. Knowingly ingested a substance that could harm him to do so. Gratitude feels in order, but you can’t quite bring yourself to express it. 

The truth you want most to avoid dances on the tip of your tongue. “And you only… feed once a year.”

Again, Heeseung nods. “It doesn’t hurt us to ingest blood more frequently, but it’s not necessary. And like I said, we avoid it. We’re better at maintaining our inhibitions, but blood still has power over us. When we feed, it’s in a room like this. One we can’t get out of until we have complete control again.”

The questions that arise are morbid. How much blood is required to satisfy a year’s worth of thirst? How do they choose? Who lives, who dies for the hunger that binds them to this world? In the last five hundred years, how much blood has been washed from their hands, from his hands?

You can hardly ask him, but the truth still remains. “You’ve killed people.”

Heeseung’s gaze falls to the floor. “I won’t pretend to be innocent.” There’s a distinct edge of self-loathing when he says, “I won’t pretend that I’m not still… a monster. But the blood we ingest comes from animals, not humans.” 

He looks back to you, gaze searching as if he craves something from you. A flicker of trust. The reassurance that you’re not appalled by him, by everything he’s told you. 

You match his eye, and he hates the fear he finds reflected there. 

A moment of stilted silence passes. Another. The weight of a million revelations and a thousand unanswered questions rests heavily between you. It’s a lot to digest all at once. Too much. So much that your mind struggles to bear the weight of it all, to organize the information you’ve received into categories that give sense to the illogical, the impossible. 

Outside the barred door, you hear the whisper of a scuffle. 

“Stop that!”

“Move over. It’s been way more than a minute. I don’t care what he says. I’m going to—”

Heeseung sighs, rolling his eyes as he turns towards the door. “Just come in if you’re going to.”

Six boys tumble through the door in an excited heap. It reminds you a bit of overenthusiastic puppies. Again, you find the differences hard to reconcile. Killers. Monsters. Immortals beings with unnatural powers. 

And they look about as threatening as a gang of kittens. 

“So,” Jake starts, glancing between the two of you. “Did he tell you everything?”

You spare a look at Heeseung. The long fingers that rest at his side. “Showed me, actually.”

A flicker of surprise crosses Jake’s features. “Oh.” He tamps it quickly. “That is more efficient, I suppose.”

“Well,” another boy pipes up, one you don’t yet have a name for. “At least now you know why he’s been following you home like a lovesick puppy every night. You can rest assured he’s not just some crazy stalker, and he—”

“Jay,” Heeseung bites. “Would you shut up already?”

“You’ve been following me?”

“Oh.” Jay winces, realizing the misstep a moment too late. “Sorry, man.” 

Heeseung exhales again. “We were worried Professor Kim might do something,” he explains, looking at you. “It was a precautionary measure.” 

Behind you, you hear a snicker. “Precautionary measure, my ass.”

But you’re too caught up in a sudden realization. Your professor. “It was Professor Kim, then. Those bodies at the river…”

“No, actually.” Jake shakes his head. “We don’t think he was responsible for the bodies at the river.” He nods towards another boy. “Sunoo had eyes on him that night. He was home when the attacks occurred.” 

You frown. “So who was?”

“We don’t know.” Jungwon’s ire may not be directed at you, but you feel it all the same. “We have no idea, and your professor was our best shot at figuring it out.” He looks at Heeseung. “Thanks to the stunt you pulled, we have no way of getting closer to him now.”

Heeseung glares back. “If by stunt, you mean saving someone’s life, then yes, I pulled a stunt.”

“And now there have been three more attacks in the last two days!”

“Wait.” For a moment, your voice reverberates off the walls as all seven of them fall into silence, gazes turning to you. Your face heats at the sudden influx of attention. Finding your words again, you state the obvious oddity. “But it doesn’t make any sense that Professor Kim is a vampire. He hates vampires. Everything New Haven has published is essentially just anti-vampire propaganda.”

“That’s another mystery,” Heeseung says. “Something else we were trying to figure out. And honestly, Jungwon, I don’t think it would have mattered. I told you, he scented me that day, so I’m sure he already knew—”

“That’s impossible.” Jungwon scoffs. 

“And yet it happened.” Heeseung frowns. “There’s something strange about him.”

Jungwon’s lips pull into a thin line. “Something that we’re no closer to finding out. It will take months for another one of us to get any sort of trust from him. Never mind access to New Haven.”

With the urgency of an alarm bell, an idea starts to take form in your mind. Rough around the edges but solid in shape. “I think I can help with that.” Again, seven pairs of eyes fall on you, all in varying states of disbelief. “I’m interning with him. At New Haven.”

Heeseung is the first to break the silence. “Like hell you are. Or did you forget that the last time he saw you, he shot you with poison?”

Sunghoon nods. “It does seem like a pretty bad idea.”

“No, it doesn’t.” You shake your head. “Think about it. He shot me with something that’s poisonous to vampires. And I think it’s because he saw Heeseung. If he really did… scent you, then he knew you were a vampire. I think… I think he might have been trying to protect me.”

The room is quiet for a moment, your inference settling into the air. It’s a long shot maybe, but it’s starting to come together. 

After a minute, Sunoo says tentatively, “She might be right.” No one else speaks up, but you see a few heads nod in agreement. 

Heeseung is quick to shut them down. “No way. No fucking way. Those are terrible odds, and I’m not betting on them. None of you should be either.”

But the more you think about it, the more it makes sense to you. Why else would your professor shoot you full of something poisonous to vampires? 

You try to think of the scene from his eyes. He walked in on you and Heeseung alone in a dark room. You were frightened out of your mind, and in the split second he had to analyze things, he could have misjudged the source of your fear. One vampire for another. 

So you double down. “I’m serious. This could be the in we need.”

“There is no we,” Heeseung shakes his head. “You’re not a part of this.”

His dismissal makes you bristle. If what Jungwon said is true, the attacks are only increasing, leaving more victims in their wake. And your professor may have unusual amounts of control, but he certainly wasn’t demonstrating that two nights ago. 

“So what, I’m supposed to go home, pretend that everything is normal, and just let people keep dying?” Your gaze meets Jungwon’s. “That’s what will happen, isn’t it? You said there were three more attacks just in the time I was unconscious. How many people have died now?”

Jungwon’s lips are tight. “Eleven.”

“Eleven people,” you echo. “If I go to Professor Kim and tell him—”

“You’re not going anywhere near that man,” Heeseung counters. “We’ll take care of it. It’s what we do.”

But his excuses are wearing thin in your mind, turning flimsy the more you consider them. “How? If he can identify you as vampires, then there’s no way you’ll ever get close enough to figure out how he might be connected to all of this.” You turn, addressing all seven of them. “I, on the other hand, have a draft written about the intrinsic evil of vampirism. I have a bite mark healing on my neck. If I go to him and say that I hate vampires too, that I was attacked by Heeseung, and his poison was the only thing that saved me, then I’ll earn his trust.”

Heeseung just scoffs, shaking his head. “Are the rest of you hearing this?”

Sunghoon opens his mouth hesitantly. “I mean… she kind of has a point.”

Heeseung glares. “Besides you.”

Sunoo frowns for a moment, parts his lips. 

Heeseung doesn’t let him get a word out. “Don’t even try it.” He turns to the others, something pleading in his gaze. “Jungwon, Jay, Niki, Jake, you have to see how insane this is. She’s a human.”

Your lips pull tight. “A human that’s standing right here.”

Jungwon maintains an even tone when he restates the simple fact, “If this professor truly can scent us, we don’t have any way of investigating him further. Not without using force.” He turns to look at you, gaze assessing. “Do you really think he’ll believe that you’re on his side?”

Do you? Maybe Heeseung is right. Maybe you’re betting on ludicrous odds, wasting the last of your luck on a game that was rigged from the beginning. But why inject you with a substance poisonous to vampires? Why publish all of those anti-vampire stories?

You match Jungwon’s eye. “I do.”

“Okay.” Jungwon nods, mulling it over in his mind. “Okay.”

Heeseung watches the exchange with heated eyes. “Absolutely not—”

“You’ve been overruled,” Jay interjects. 

“Six to one,” Niki agrees. Glancing at you, he amends, “Make that seven to one.”

Heeseung is still seeing red. “This isn’t a fucking group vote. We’re not deciding which coffee table to put in the living room. This is a life.” Turning to you, his voice softens, an edge of pleading in his tone. “This is your life.”

“Exactly.” You’re begging too, for a bit of understanding. “It’s my life. A week ago, it was completely consumed by winning an internship, getting my writing published. And now there are vampire attacks ravaging my city. The professor I wanted to impress so badly might just be one of them. Even if I walk away from here and vow to never go near New Haven again, my life won’t go back to what it was. I won’t be safe. So I’m going to do what I can to get back to the things that are important to me.” Eyes heating, you add, “So yes, I am a part of this now, whether you like it or not. And I have the marks on my neck to prove it.”

“Damn,” Sunghoon whistles lowly. “That was kind of beautiful.”

“You have a way with words,” Sunoo agrees. 

“Of course she does,” Jay nods. “Remember how frustrated Heeseung was a few months ago after she presented her analysis or whatever in class? He was so stressed he’d lose out on the internship bec—”

Heeseung’s glare could freeze hellfire. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“It’s late,” Jungwon interrupts, sensing the response that builds on Jay’s tongue. Pouring water over the flames before they can escalate into a full blown argument. Again, he addresses you. “You’re welcome to stay here tonight.” He glances around the room, and you imagine he’s trying to see things from your perspective. “Or any one of us would be happy to take you back home, if that’s what you prefer.”

There are aspects of your apartment that appeal to you. Sleeping in your own bed comes to mind. As does getting some distance from all of this. From him. You’ve taken in far too much information in the span of a few hours, and the throbbing against your temple has yet to ease. 

But your apartment is also empty. Quiet, isolated. With recent events in mind, you’re not sure it would feel like such a safe haven. If you’re quite ready to be truly alone. 

Still, you’re tentative. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“You’re not,” Jake shakes his head. “It’s been a long few days. I’m sure you could use some rest.”

“Hasn’t she been asleep for, like, two days straight?” Sunghoon whispers to Jay. 

The only thing he gets in response is an elbow to the ribs. 

Jungwon ignores them. “You’re not overstaying anything. You can go home when you’re ready.”

“Ugh,” Niki grumbles. “Does that mean Heeseung’s gonna try and hang out in my room again? Because—”

He falls silent when at least three matching glares turn in his direction. 

Suddenly sheepish, you offer, “I can sleep somewhere else.” Glancing at Heeseung, you add, “I’m sure you want to sleep in your own bed again.” 

Heeseung just gives you a strange look. Niki bursts out laughing. 

“Damn,” Jay says. “Two hundred years really is a long time, I guess. Humans these days don’t remember anything about vampires.”

Cheeks heating with embarrassment, you realize your mistake. Of course. Not only are the boys in front of you blood-drinking immortal beings that have been alive since the early sixteenth century, but they also don’t sleep. 

Mollified, you feel the urge to defend yourself. “Why do you even have beds, then?”

This time, it’s Sunghoon that erupts in a fit of laughter. The other six avoid your gaze pointedly. 

You didn’t think it was possible, but once the realization sinks in, your cheeks heat even further. 

“Oh, cut the poor girl some slack,” Sunoo scolds. Turning to you, he’s kind when he explains, “We don’t sleep, but we do relax. An old force of habit, I suppose. It’s nice to just lay down sometimes.”

Jay can’t help himself. “Among other things, right Sunghoon?”

“Ignore them,” Jungwon advises. “Five hundred year old children.”

“Hey!” Sunghoon protests. “We’re not the ones that couldn’t handle a sex joke—”

Heeseung just sighs, a stray strand of hair falling over his eyes. For a moment, he looks like the boy you used to sit behind in class. Dreamy. Moody. Untouchable. So painfully out of reach that spite made you want to try anyway. 

He’s here now. Within your grasp. And when he looks at you, the quiet words he whispers are meant only for your ears. “I can walk you to my—er—your room, if you’re ready.”

You’re not ready. You don’t think you ever will be. But even a life spun on top of its head has a way of unfolding in predictable ways. Such is the nature of things, and so flows the progression of time. 

You don’t say anything, but you do nod. 

Trailing after him silently down the hallway you came from, you’re not sure if it feels more right to fall into step beside him or let him lead you. In the end, he makes the decision for you. Without breaking stride, Heeseung slows down until your shoulders are aligned, eyes facing forward. 

He doesn’t say anything as the two of you track a steady path to his bedroom. Mind leaden with the weight of the last five hundred years, you remain silent as well. Finally, you pass the common room again. 

He opens the door to his bedroom, steps to the side to let you walk in first. 

Unwittingly, your eyes land on the most conspicuous piece of furniture in the room. Your cheekbones are flaming again, and finding sleep in that bed suddenly feels like an arduous task. 

Heeseung follows your gaze. The golden glow of his skin remains the same, but his eyes flash with embarrassment. “You don't, uh…” He trails off. Even poets struggle with finding the right words at times. Finally, he settles on, “Not all of us live like Sunghoon.”

“He seems nice,” you say, desperate to draw your minds away from where they’ve wandered. 

“That’s one way of putting it.” But there’s affection in his voice when he says it. Brothers, you think. All of them. They seem like brothers. 

Heeseung’s eyes scan the expanse of his bedroom as if he’s looking at it for the first time. “There’s not much.” He seems almost apologetic for it. “But help yourself to whatever you like. The computer doesn’t have a password. And there’s books on the desk, too.”

“Thank you,” you tell him. And you mean it. He’s not someone you expected to be generous with their space, their belongings. Another aspect of him you had all wrong. 

“I’ll let you have some space then.” He pauses at the door. “Don’t be afraid to let me know if there's anything you need.”

“Okay,” you whisper. 

He hesitates a moment longer. You can see it in the curve of his lips, the arrangement of his features. There’s more he wants to say. Something else he wants to tell you. 

Instead, he closes the door behind him on his way out. Gently, so that it hardly makes a noise. 

His bed is comfortable when you lay down, even if your mind is still racing a million miles a minute. Distantly, you wonder if he can hear your heartbeat now. What he thinks of the way it picks up speed every time certain moments replay in your head. 

But despite yourself, despite him, despite everything, you manage to drift off after only a few long minutes. Tucked away in the corner of a strange home, the sleep that greets you is blissfully dreamless.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

note: WHEW. This is the most info-dumpy we'll be getting, so I hope this made for an enjoyable follow up to the first part regardless. The relationship between our two leads will really start to take off in the next part, as will the remaining aspects of the ~mystery~ now that (most of) the lore/backstory is covered. as always, I love to know what you're thinking!

[morgana-ren]

i love angst, and i love your writing, but please, PLEASE, i beg you, could you write some hope of tav ever returning now that the imbecile, has realised the error of his ways 🥺😭 (either way, thank you so much, for all your astarion writtings, it has made me feel things, the angst is real and my masochistic heart loves it🥲)

First part of the story HERE

Common complaint I got on that one! So I fixed it just for y'all. This ending is much less sad and much more sappy, so here is the comfort you need after all that angst!

"Darling, will you smile for me? Just once more. Please--"

He feels her cheeks in his palms, the soft skin against his battle-hardened callouses. Desperation cradles his unbeating heart, and for a moment, the emotion is far too much. A searing flame after centuries of frost. A bonfire in a blizzard. It hurts-- it burns--

"My love, I just need you to--"

"Anything my lord, anything at all for you. Simply command me and I will do anything you ask."

"No, I can't-- I-- I won't do it. I won't. I won't!"

"My lord?"

Her head cocks, turning slowly to look upon him, but her eyes-- they are empty; beetle-black and hollow. Her smile is uncanny as a painted doll, her movements disjointed and inhuman. Her teeth are stained crimson with blood, dripping, dripping, ever dripping down, never swallowed, only pooling.

She is light as a feather as she slips away from him, her skin marbling into a sickly gray before ash spreads across her body as a disease, smearing her form into nothingness. Only her face is left untouched, pretty as porcelain, unflinching and unfalling save a small crack that splinters down from her forehead down to her eyes, revealing inky black abyss beneath.

"My lord-- Oh, my tender, vicious lord. I can feel your anguish-- your hunger. Devour me to be whole once more--"

Her blood smells of rot and she--

She is too far gone to save. Too far gone to ever be saved.

"I won't!"

Whirlwind. Pain. Confusion and dread and seeping anguish. A maelstrom of rage and all-consuming despair swelling from within his soul—

—his soul?

The world around him falls away, a wicked tornado thrashing him about, his mind howling in the eternal winds--

And suddenly he is in a chair.

Not a throne. A chair— and a rather uncomfortable one at that.

"What in the hells—"

His vision spins, nausea curling his gut into a wicked tide of sickness barely restrained by his teeth. He tastes stale blood crawling up his throat, threatening to overturn onto the faded rug beneath him.

"Did you see what you wished for, little spawn?"

The voice takes him by surprise. It is not hers, but another, less familiar voice. The wailing animal in his head retreats to a dull roar as his memory creeps back. A brightly colored tent assaults his vision, piecemeal rugs and odd, foreign trinkets abound on makeshift shelves, and before him sits a strange old woman, hood pulled heavy over her straggling gray hair.

"I-- What was that?"

He sees her cracked, aging lips upturn, gnarled hands placed protectively over a strange orb on the table touching his knees. "I have shown you your future, vampling. Was it to your liking?" Panic rises within his stomach again, and though he does not breathe, he clutches his chest. The smell of incense clogs his nostrils and again, the wave of sick threatens to spill forth. Wretched taste of metallic, aged blood sits heavy on his tongue, all sensation too much-- all of it too much.

"No-- No, that cannot be it!"

"This is your path, Pale Elf. The road you walk. The power you seek is well within your grasp, but as I told you before, it will cost you everything."

He vehemently shakes his head, denying it. Denying it before her and all the Gods.

"You told me upon entry that no price was too great for your reward. Do you still agree with this sentiment?"

"No! Not-- not her. Not her. Not that! I couldn't--"

"You can and you shall, sure as the moon follows the sun. You will have everything you ever wanted, but cost of this ritual is plain before you. You cared not for the many souls left to your mercy that are crushed beneath your tyrannical fist in your ascension, but what of the sole one that resides in your heart?"

Her. The light of his life. The air he breathes. The sun on his frigid flesh, the warmth that melts his icy heart.

"No," He hisses, trying to stand, but ultimately unable to muster the strength. "I won't! There-- There must be another way. Show me!"

"There is no other way," She says, solemnly. "It is inevitable."

He swallows down the information like a boulder lodged in his gullet. Her words echo endlessly in his mind, bouncing off the walls and lodging shards of ice directly in his soul.

"What if I-- What if I don't ascend? Tell me, what if I don't?"

She smiles again, teeth flashing through her thin lips. "That is another path, little elf." "I need to know. I-- I need certainty. I won't do this to her, but I--" He pauses, grappling with everything in his mind, desperately flitting about to absorb it all. "If I am going to forgo this, I need to be certain. I need to know that I can protect her, that she will be safe--"

But the woman simply shakes her head.

"Everyone must choose. For some, the path is dark, but for you, you see more than most will ever have the comfort of knowing. I can offer you nothing more. Should you initiate the Rite, you know this will come to pass. I can tell you nothing more if you choose to not. The future is yet unwritten, and the quill resides in your hands." "Then why can I not have both!" He slams a fist on the table, clawing at the soft wood. For the first time in ages, tears prick at his pale lashes and frustration wells a knot in his throat. "Why--" "Because one path is wholly your own, while the other is a tangled web, such is the nature of deals with the Hells. You will get everything you ever wanted and lose everything that made it worth having."

His head slumps, defeated and miserable. Silvery tears slide down the curves of his cheeks, even as he attempts to bite them back. He thought he would find comfort in knowing the future, but all it has given him is utter horror.

"Despair not," She continues. "Yes, you will wither under the sun, an eternally cursed dweller of the night, but all is not lost, is it? The one you love, will she stray from your side?" "I wanted her to have better than that," He sniffles, needling his lip with a fang. "I cannot brave the sun, but her-- She deserves better than that-- better than me."

"And what of what she feels?"

His brows furrow, and he peers up at the woman from tear-beaded lashes.

"You are a night walker; it is in your nature to be selfish. But love is not selfish, little vampling. You must fight your nature, your inherent self-loathing, or your love will always find the fire. What of what she desires?"

"She loves me," He says with absolute certainty. "And I--" "Do you love her?"

"Yes," He hisses, almost insulted that she would ask. "More than anything. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Then the rest matters naught. If you love her, you will allow her the agency to choose-- something you deny her as an ascendent. You must grow past your own follies. To love is to be vulnerable, and you must allow both yourself and her this freedom."

They are hard words to swallow, and yet, he feels the truth resound in them. She would not leave his side, even as he tried to force her to understand. Even as an instrument of his manipulation and schemes came to light, she stood steadfast with him, hand entwined in his, ready to face the fire together.

"I-- I need to know she will be safe."

Again, the woman shakes her head. "You cannot. You must fight fate if you wish to overturn it. You face dire odds, though throwing the dice in your favor now will doom you later should this outcome be the confirmation of your fears."

He sighs, face crinkling as he sniffs once more, summoning the willpower to swallow down the agony of his choice. He finds the strength in his legs to push himself upward from the chair, weak and shaking as a newborn fawn as he does so. "I will do whatever I need to. Anything."

"Then you may yet see this through."

He can hear the fanfare of the circus outside, the bawdy bards strumming away on their lutes and banging on drums, the elated screams of the children and their parents. Facing the light now seems impossible, but he must find his way home to her-- he has to be with her now now now--

"The coin first, boy."

He snaps out of his delirium only long enough to fish his hands into one of his pockets, bringing out a coin. Aged and neglected, the sinister engraving of a skull peers up at him from his palm, ruby eyes gleaming in the light as he tosses it into the woman's knobbily-jointed hands.

"Best of luck to you, night-child," She tucks it away. "We may yet meet again." "No offense, but I hope not."

"Me too, Little Star."

He pays little mind to the bustling streets and bursting taverns of Baldur's Gate, his feet carrying him back to camp as swiftly as his body will allow. It takes him until sundown even as he damn near jobs, ripping through the tree line and into the ruins with the intensity of a man starved.

"Astarion!" Karlach greets him, trying to wave him over. "I've got a bet with Gale about--" "Where is she?" Astarion immediately cuts her off, looking around frantically.

"Who?" Karlach raises a brow.

"Who else?" Wyll crosses his arms, looking intrigued at Astarion's intensity.

"Oh! In her tent, I think. Why? Gotcha a special something' in town for her, eh?" Karlach tries to rib at him, but he pushes past her without a second glance.

"Bet it's a fancy new dress he needs to tear off of her immediately," Karlach rolls her eyes before returning to her business.

He bursts into her tent to find her hunched over a book, tongue poking from between her teeth, as she scans over the page. This only lasts a few seconds before he scrambles onto the bed, squeezing her as tightly as he can manage, burying his nose into her hair, tears brimming in his eyes once more.

"Woah, hey!" She laughs, carefully setting her book aside, trying to discern what in the hells he is mumbling endlessly into her neck.

Need you-- need you-- love you-- can't lose you-- don't ever--

She hushes him, realizing something has gone terribly, terribly wrong, kissing his head and tugging him close. "Hey, what's wrong?"

She tries to cup his cheeks and bring his face up but he adamantly refuses, hard-swallowing the urge to bawl into her shoulder with every ounce of willpower he has. All he can manage is to cling to her, half sobbing, visions of that terrible future swimming in his head. He cannot let it come to pass, he will not--

And she holds him, cradling him in her arms, hushing him gently. Her face creases with worry, running her hands through his silvery hair as he pulls him into her lap.

"Little Star, what's wrong? You seem so upset. What can I do to make you happy, my love?"

"Is it done?" Ulma leans down as she enters the tent, carefully dodging the intricate tassels of the blanket strewn over the entryway.

"It is," The strange old woman replies, still rubbing the coin with her worn thumb.

"And?"

"I showed him nothing but truth," She says quietly. "I did not manipulate his vision. Only channeled it."

"That tells me nothing. I need to know if our children are safe."

"I cannot tell you this, Ulma. You know of the ways of our tribe; our relationship with these magics." Ulma's lips purse, her exasperation evident in her humorless expression. "I need to know--"

"His reaction was genuine. That was not my doing. He knows the price of power. I cannot tell you if he will pay it regardless," The old woman's head lifts, a slight mischievous smile playing on her lips. "But I can tell you what I think."

"And what do you think?"

"I have seen his soul-- the heart of it. I believe you will see our children yet. He will spare our heart to spare his own in kind. It beats in that woman," Her eyes twinkle in the low candlelight, a genuine smile widening across her cheeks. "I believe he can find redemption yet."

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Wicked Games 12

Warnings: non/dubcon, cheating, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: you had a one night stand. Or did you?

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You open the cupboard and rummage through the contents. Rice crackers, no. Protein powder, please. You scoff and find what looks to be chocolate but as you rip the wrapper open and bite into it, the bitterness nearly gags you. You rush to the sink and spit it out. 

“Glad to see you making yourself at home,” Steve muses from the doorway. 

You look to him and fold the wrapper back around the bar. You scowl and go to put it back. You shake your head. 

“I’m starving,” you say. “So hungry it hurts.” 

You rub your stomach as a wave of dizziness bobbles your head. Between waves of nausea and fatigue, the ravenous need consumes you. You search around, forgetting him for the pang in your stomach. You pull open the fridge and pull out the yogurt. You peel the lid off and grab the sugar dish and pour it into the container. 

“Woah, woah, that’s not good for the baby,” Steve rushes forward. 

“Don’t,” you warn as you slide open drawers in search of a spoon, “do you have pickles?” 

“Pickles? With yogurt?” 

“I’m fucking hungry!” You growl, a surge of rage searing through your veins as you grab a spoon. “If I have to be here, let me eat, at least.” 

“I don’t mind you eating, but you gotta be careful--” 

“Pickles,” you remind him. 

“Don’t got any, sorry. But I can go grab some, I guess. If you make a list--” 

He gets closer and you recoil. You wave your hand at him and plug your nose, “don’t come any closer.” 

“Excuse me?” He grimaces. 

“Your cologne or something. It’s setting me--” 

You spin and hold the spoon behind you as you puke into the sink. Your body lurches with each violent wretch. The bile does little to deter your appetite. You simply rinse out your mouth and the sink and go back to the hunt for satiation. 

“They said the symptoms will probably be worse than usual,” he leans on the counter and watches you. “Nausea, hunger, hormones...” 

“Goddamn? Ice cream? Do you have ice cream?” You snarl down at the freezer drawer. 

“I’m not much of a sweets guy.” 

“No pickles, no ice cream. Baking chocolate and sour yogurt.” You rant. 

“I told you, I’ll go get you some stuff-” 

“Then go.” You snap. 

“Hey, watch it.” 

“Or what?” You face him defiantly. “I’m carrying your baby, Steve Rogers, so you can’t do shit.” 

“I can do whatever needs to be done. You might require bedrest.” 

“Bedrest? I’m fine.” You insist and turn your back to him. 

“You’re tearing apart my kitchen and slathering like a dog,” he reproaches. 

“Slathering like a dog? Tell me again about how in love you are.” You snip, “Jeez.” 

“I didn’t mean—honey, sweetheart, I’m just trying to help you settle. We both gotta learn to live with each other. We only got seven months or so to do so.” He crosses his arms as you pull out the loaf of bread and load the toaster. 

“Hmm, you know what will help me settle in? Peanut butter and jelly. Oh and cream cheese. Mmph, yes,” you march around the kitchen and grab the butter. “Also, oreos--bagels!” 

“Okay, I’ll head out,” he sniffs and shifts flat on his feet. 

“Great,” you go back to the toaster as the scent of the browning bread drives you wild. 

He approaches you from behind and you do your best to ignore him. You bounce on your heels impatiently and tap your fingers. You stiffen as he rests his hands on your hips. You have nowhere to go. 

“A kiss before I go?” He asks. 

You hold back a heave, “I just puked.” 

“I don’t care,” he squeezes, “please. It’s been a while since that night. I’m a bit... neglected.” 

You lock your jaw and stare at the tiled wall. You force the tension out and steel yourself. You turn to him and your insides coil uncomfortably. 

“Fine,” you croak. 

He leans in and presses his lips to yours. You hold back an eruption of disgust. Objectively, he’s handsome. He is the great golden Captain America but you’ve seen the real him. You’ve seen his callousness, his cruelty. You have witnessed his delusion. You wonder if the serum did that too. 

The toast pops and you tear away just as his tongue pokes out. You grab the butter knife and take the lid off the container. You slide out a hot slice and spread the dairy across it. He sighs and looms close. 

“Anything else I can get?” He asks. 

“Just food. Lots of food,” you say as you shove a piece of toast in your mouth. “Mmm, ohmagrddddd.” 

“Alright, I’ll be back. Call me if you need anything.” 

“Sure,” you munch loudly.

Maybe that will keep him away. If you can make yourself as gross as possible, you won’t have to worry about him begging for kisses and touches. Right now, you don’t want anyone near you. 

[mintmatcha]

Inevitable Things: chapter five

Aizawa x reader fic

cw: cisfem reader, no quirks, office au, miscommunications, slow burn. full tags available on AO3 (linked in masterlist)

previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter

Fridays are the only day you carve out time for lunch. Less than coincidentally, Fridays are also the only day lunch is catered.

“Here-” Izuku jams his bowl of take out into Katsuki’s face. “Does it smell like there’s peanuts in here?”

Bakugo Katsuki, Izuku’s fiance, is only half as ornery as he looks. A premature wrinkle has formed in between his brows, a sign of his almost constant annoyance. His straw colored hair is a sharp contrast to his deep red eyes, currently narrowed in disgust.

“Get this shit out of my fucking face,” he groans. “I’m not a fucking allergy alert dog-- I can’t smell peanuts.”

“To be fair-” Ochako interjects through a mouthful. She’s the opposite of Katsuki: dark hair, round eyes, a smile so sweet that it makes your teeth hurt. Her cheeks are always flushed, spots of broken blood vessels spattered like freckles. “Peanuts do have a smell.”

“Did you ask him to smell for penis?” Denki says, too loud to be genuine. “Kind of homophobic to ask a gay guy that.”

Both men give him identical deadpan stares.

“That’s just his fucking country-ass accent.” Katsuki brushes Denki off and turns back to the curly haired man. “Why would chicken have peanuts in it anyway?”

“The o’l.” Izuku stresses.

“The what?”

“Some places use peanut o’l.”

“Say oil.”

Izuku sneers a bit in return, smoothing out the curves of his accent. “Oy-I’ll.”

“Jesus christ, I’m marrying a hick.” Katsuki leans back in his chair and meets your eye with a jerk of his chin. “Can you believe this?”

You snap back into focus. Your own lunch is untouched, fork still in its little plastic wrapper. Hunger nips at your stomach, but nausea wins over today. The cafeteria isn’t very busy, but in the next couple minutes everyone will start pouring in. The lot of you arrived early to get the best seating-- a little couch and coffee table in the corner, a perfect place to eat and people watch.

“Oh, yeah, uh- Izuku, they have an allergen free option.”

“Well, yeah, but-” He tilts his head as he talks, watching you with those wide, green eyes, like he sees something just below the surface. “It doesn't have chicken-- are you good?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.” Katsuki fingers a piece of Izuku’s food and pops it into his mouth, much to the man’s dismay. “You’ve been making that sad little face all day.”

You pout a bit harder at that. Shit-- you thought you were being subtle. You haven’t been able to walk this whole Aizawa thing off yet, despite all of your attempts. No amount of emails, meetings, and other petty office bullshit managed to distract you from the absolute shock and humiliation of… whatever that was.

Embarrassment.

Embarrassment? You’re certainly not the prettiest girl in the office, but embarrassing? That makes your gums ache, like a punch to the nose, and it makes you feel dirty, like the fall to the ground afterwards.

“You’re doing it again.” Ochako points to your face and it’s apparently sadness. “What’s going on?”

You hem a bit, before condensing it the best you can.

“I’m having issues with a guy.” What an understatement.

A collective glance is shared between the group.

“Touya again?”

Again, Touya haunts a room he’s never been in. You debate what to say. If you admit to it being someone new, they might start sniffing around and jump to conclusions-- though Aizawa would certainly be the last assumption they would make, you still can’t risk it. Besides, you don’t need a gaggle of 23 year olds dissecting your every move. They’re going to jump to some stupid conclusion, like you’re dating Toshinori, if you aren’t careful.

“Yeah, it’s Touya,” you lie, as sheepishly as you can. “Oops.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ.” Katsuki rolls his eyes so hard that you imagine his brain must hurt. “Again?”

“Shh, just tell us what happened,” Izuku urges, elbowing his partner rather sharply.

“I don't know where I stand with him. It's so-- Ugh, I thought things were going to start going well and then it was just ice cold.” You press your palms into your eyes and sigh. The pressure feels good and helps with the remnants of your hangover. You need an electrolyte drink, stat. Maybe another fucking drink too. “And I’m not even sure why I’m surprised because it’s ice cold a lot.”

When you look up, Ochako is offering a hand, palm up and open. When you take it, she giggles a bit, squeezing gently.

“I think you need to prioritize yourself.”

Denki nods in agreement, cheeks stuffed with food. He’s finished his meal and started stabbing bits of yours. You just push the whole bowl towards him in defeat and slump down into the couch.

“Stop giving men who treat you poorly the time of day.” Ochako says. “When you let them in again and again, you’re basically, like, giving them permission to do this stuff.”

“Yeah!” Denki says through a mouthful. “Cut that fucker off! Don’t even talk to him!”

“Oh, I dunno--” You glance between them. “I think that’d be mean.”

Conflict makes your head spin. It’s so much easier to roll over and take whatever people give you, negative or otherwise. It’s what made your relationship with Touya work-- and it’s what’s allowed you to stay in this job for so long.

“Good!” Denki says. “He deserves it.”

“You deserve to be a little mean and a little angry when people treat you poorly.” She smiles again, wider this time. “Grow some balls. Stand up for yourself.”

“Yeah! Balls!” Denki agrees.

You suck on your bottom lip and turn the idea over in your head. Are you even angry at Aizawa? Or just hurt and confused? Right now, those things may as well be the same thing-- they certainly burn the same in your chest. Cruelty isn’t your usual indulgence…

But it’s someone else’s.

“What do you think?” You turn to Katsuki, who’s been scrolling through twitter for a bit now. His face doesn’t change when he speaks, locked into a general annoyance.

“I think you should kill that fucker.”

You turn to Izuku, the rational one of the couple. He shrugs, straw in mouth and completely unamused.

“Oh, I also think you should kill him,” he says, tone matching Katsuki’s.

Not helpful.

“Listen--” Katsuki leans forward, elbows on his spread knees. He uses a fork to articulate as he speaks. “I’m the expert on being a cunt-”

“-we don’t use that word!” Ochako grimaces.

“And it’s the most freeing and addictive thing you can be.” The tongs of the fork point directly towards you, as sharp as his gaze. “More people should be cunts more often. The world would be a happier place.”

Ochako gasps. “I don’t agree with that at all!”

“Oh please, miss goody-goody,” Katsuki sneers. “You wouldn't need to go to kickboxing five times a week if you let your anger out day to day like a normal motherfucker.”

The girl of the group puffs out her cheeks, but does not argue back. Izuku pats her shoulder affectionately. His food is still untouched, but his free hand guards it from Denki.

“I'm telling you. Try it out. You’ll like it.” Katsuki leans back into his seat. “Or don't. Your life.”

“Question-” The other blonde pipes up. “Did you, like, do something?”

“Kaminari!”

“I mean, like, was there a catalyst?” “A fight or a date or-?”

You know exactly what drives Touya away everytime, but Aizawa is a new beast. Did you breathe wrong or--

“Oh, I uh,” A realization hits you. “I ignored a couple texts, I guess.”

Suddenly, you’re very aware of the outline of your phone and how it presses into your pocket. If there wasn’t a chance of you flashing the group pictures of their boss, you’d check it immediately, but you can’t mentally handle the risk.

“What an overreaction,” Ochako sighs. “Dump him forever and move on-- Mr. Hizashi and his wife-”

“We aren’t like that.” Ugh. You love Hizashi, but the trio relationship isn’t your speed. “Besides, I don’t like blondes.”

The two toe-heads of the group roll their eyes in a practiced synchrony. Ochako’s smile changes a little bit, something tighter and brighter; is she excited that you aren’t interested? Interesting and a bit gross: she’s too young for that. They’re more than ten years older than her-

(How old is Aizawa? He went to school with Hizashi, so he’s at least 38-- but you could have sworn there were whispers of his fortieth last year. You’ll have to snoop.)

“We’re in agreement. Be a cunt, move on. The end.” Katsuki turns away from you, done with this topic. “Izuku, just fucking eat it already.”

The boy takes a deep breath and runs his fingers through his curly hair. “Well, alright, but if I get hives, you’re the one who has to deal with me.”

…

Be mean.

You’re written it on a sticky note and placed it under your computer monitor, like some sort of fucked up mantra. The mere idea of it feels antithetical to who you are at your core; you enjoy helping people, you love making the world better. That’s why you work like a dog for the company-- you know it’s improving the lives of its customers. If Toshinori wasn’t sick, you know he’d be doing even more too.

On the other hand, being nice has led to your own detriment many times. Touya has hurt you, your parents, and now even Aizawa. And you can’t even blame Aizawa, can you? Texting him was your mistake--

You rest your forehead against your desk. There’s still a sticky spot from when you spilled your coffee yesterday. God, yesterday feels so close and yet so far away. How does a man yoyo between yelling at you, sending you his weiner, then telling you that you’re embarrassing? The idea of ‘always wanted you’ goes flying out the window.

Just as you try and put yourself to work, you hear it. The familiar lopsided stomp. Fuck, it’s him, probably looking for his afternoon coffee. He’s been by much less than usual, a fact you’re very grateful for, so you haven’t even thought about the pot since before lunch. You glance over and see it’s empty. Crap.

As you start to get up, the sticky note catches your eye again. Be mean. That’s right. Why are you popping out of your chair for this, this, this--- total fucking cunt? Your chair squeaks with the force you sit down with. You try to embody Katsuki with your face - furrowing your brow and yet keeping your mouth unaffected-- and your worst nightmare turns the corner.

You keep typing and hope Aizawa doesn't notice that it's the same words over and over again, hit in the same rhythm. P-e-a-n-u-t-O-i-l P-e-a-n-u-t-O-i-l P-e-a-n-u-t-O-i-l P-e-a-n-u-t-O-i-l. He waits a long moment, then clears his throat louder. You don't gift him your attention until he grumbles something under his breath, shifting his weight on to his other leg. Just as he begins to say something, you interject.

“I had more important things to focus on,” you lie. “You can figure out how to brew coffee, Mr.// Engineer.”

You throw in that last bit without thinking, but the bite rolls so easily off of your tongue. It’s nothing like your usual tone, but it feels so, so right. From the corner of your vision you can see his literally reel back, blinking hard,

“That’s how it’s going to be?”

You don’t respond. P-e-a-n-u-t-O-i-l P-e-a-n-u-t-O-i-l P-e-a-n-u-t-O-i-l P-e-a-n-u-t-O-i-l. Your fingers shake from the adrenaline boost. Ochako was right; don't even give this man the time of day.

“It's going to be like that?” He yanks the pot from its stand. “Fine.”

You have to muster all of willpower not to grin as he starts slamming open the drawers and scrounging around for supplies. It takes a whole ten minutes before he presses brew, then another five before the pot is almost half full. The whole time he grumbles to himself, leaning his whole weight against the flimsy table.

This is good. Too good. The vindictive rush of power feels almost sexual in the way it satisfies. Teeth dig into your lip as you hold back a smile even harder.

Embarrassment? You'll show him what embarrassment really means.

Finally, he pours himself a cup. He doesn't fill his thermos nearly as much as he normally does, most likely trying to leave as quickly as possible. Just as he starts to turn, you get up out of your chair and walk over. You take one of the little disposable cups from the stack and take your time adding three sugars and two cream, each one at a time, as he lurks there. Then, you pour the coffee, thick and oddly gritty into your cup. You finally meet his eye when you take a swig.

Aizawa’s face is set hard, small eyes narrowed even tighter. His lips are screwed up with annoyance, wrinkling his low bridged nose. Pissed would be an understatement. Just as you brace for another yelling match, he turns away, marching down the hall.

“Enjoy the fucking coffee.”

Oh, Katsuki was right. Being mean tastes good.

….This coffee, however, does not.

[murdrdocs]

fully charged | f. odair

description. a grueling week spent in the arena where you thought about two things, survival and finnick odair, has come to an end, leaving you to make your way back to finnick's arms to finish what you both started.

aka part 2 to saber tooth

includes. SMUT 16+, fem!reader, reader has hair to wash, loss of virginity, unprotected p in v sex (don't do this irl), fingering, super soft finnick, brief mention of trauma from the games, finnick loves consent ! (so do i), switches pov for a line but don't focus on that okay focus on the sex, not proofread but its 3 am

a/n: i stayed up super late to finish this and i didn't do my homework so don't ever say i never do anything for yall (i wasn't gonna do my work anyway and i was gonna stay up but shh). title from disco tits by tove lo

word count: 5.0k+

Blood on your hands, a headache that makes your ears ring and your vision spin, a simultaneous feeling of indescribable hunger and tear-inducing nausea, but the only thing on your mind is Finnick. 

The Capitol airlift coming to the area was quick, and you’d never been happier to leave somewhere. You don’t look down at the open meadow that you’d spent the last days in. You look up into the jet, both joyed and disappointed to see the nurses and medics who awaited you. 

Hours of injections and force feedings and encouragement to sleep later, and you were finally closer to Finnick than you had been in the last week. 

The little notes he sent through sponsored care packages gave you the strength to make it out of there, and now that you are out, just the thought of seeing him is what keeps you on your feet. 

“And everyone is so thrilled to have you back. There is a feast planned later tonight, and another for when you get home to Four, and of course a housewarming party to get you settled into the Village,” Mitch, your escort, rambles on as he leads you through the train cars, all the way to your personal area. Through each car that you walk through, your eyes scan the area for the golden blonde boy that you’d been happiest to see. And when you come up empty again and again, your heart feels as if it shrinks. 

“But first, you need a shower. No offense,” Mitch smiles, his hands on your shoulders to turn you around to face the bathroom. 

“None taken,” you mumble. Truth be told, you had more things on your mind to worry about other than how you smelt. The sound of Mitch’s dress shoes clacking against the floor announces his intended departure, but you turn around to stop him before he can leave. 

“Yes, dearie?” 

“Do you know where Finnick is?” The train hadn’t started moving yet, you were still at the Capitol’s station, so if Finnick were not aboard yet there was still time for him to join. 

“Um, no.” Mitch looks disappointed by his own answer. “He said he had business to take care of and he might be traveling home with us. But I do not know for sure.” 

Mitch’s answer leaves you with an intense feeling of loneliness, but you push it down as you make your way to the bathroom. 

The shower is hotter than it needs to be, but the sting on your skin is welcomed. You scrub along your body with the exfoliating cloth until it’s visibly irritated, and even then, you continue a few more times. Images of the arena attempt to surface, a knot in your throat with each memory and self-deprecating thought that accompanies it, but you push it down with another pump of shampoo and you wash it away with the suds. 

You’re on your third round of washing your hair whenever the whirring sound of the door to the bathroom opening meets your ears. 

You stop rinsing, your eyes opening to look out around you. An unusual thick cloud of steam clouds the pristine area, you squint as you attempt to see who, or even what, has entered. 

You come up short. Not knowing who was there makes you anxious and you regress into the thought process that you’ve become well acquainted with.

Your eyes scan the spacious shower, looking for something sharp. There’s nothing to defend yourself with, which means you’ll have to rely on your hands. Quickly, you rinse them in the running water, getting rid of the suds, and then you reach out to pull the shower door open. 

“Hello?” you ask, your voice stronger than it would have been if you were in this predicament 7 days ago. 

It’s silent for a few seconds, then a breath is heard, followed by a smooth timbre. 

“Hey, sweetheart.” 

Finnick. 

He stands in the corner of the bathroom, just out of sight from where the shower had you angled. His back is turned, leaving you to see the linen of his shirt and the dark-honey blonde of the bottom of his hair as his head is bowed. You want nothing more than to see his face. 

Your foot reaches out to meet the plush rug, but you stop when the cool outside air enters the shower and you’re reminded that you’re naked, wet, and your hair is nowhere near presentable. But in the grand scheme of things, none of that matters. 

So you step out of the shower, your feet sinking into the plush rug and your heart banging against your chest, and a smile reaches your face when you say, “Finnick.” 

His head turns first, then his body, and you’re met with the sea-green eyes that you’ve thought about every night since that night. His eyes stay on your face, even though you’re completely nude. 

You barely feel any shame or insecurity. 

“Hey,” he says again, his pretty pink lips pulling into his own smile. 

“Hi.” 

There’s a few moments of serene silence, both of you just taking in the presence of the other, and then Finnick makes the move to cross the room. 

His hands lift and his palms find the wet skin of your cheeks. He smiles. He blinks. Then he moves in. 

When Finnick kisses you, it’s like nothing else in the world even exists. The entire Universe in that moment is just you and Finnick, two people who have always existed together. Nothing else. 

His lips gently pull from yours, but he doesn’t go far, his forehead resting against yours. 

“It’s good to see you again,” he tells you. 

“I’ve missed you,” you tell him. 

He smiles. “I’ve missed you too.” 

Finnick lets you finish cleaning up. He was going to leave the bathroom, but when you asked him to stay, your eyes welled up with tears and your voice cracked and he wanted  to stay anyway, so he planted himself right outside of the shower then. 

It takes a while for you to get ready, you spent most of the time scrubbing dirt out from under your fingernails and trying to scrub out the stench that permeated inside of your nose, but dinner was delayed for you, and no one complained. It’s when you were sitting at the table, eating food that was somehow still warm, with Finnicks hand on your knee and proud and sympathetic looks from your stylist and escort, that you realize that things are going to revolve around you for a while. 

A nightmare plagued sleep on the train, a welcome party at the station in Four, a housewarming party in a renovated mansion in the Victors Village, another dress from your stylist, and a large dinner with friends you haven’t considered friends in years, with your family and Finnick in attendance. 

And now you’re alone again. 

Not exactly alone. Finnick’s sitting outside of your new bathroom, waiting for you, which is as alone as you’re going to get for a while. 

Your makeup is gone, you’re out of the dress and into a pair of comfortable pajamas, and there’s a nervous anticipation in your chest. Not the kind of nervous anticipation that you’d felt in the area, but the kind that you felt last week when Finnick came to visit. 

The kind where you hoped that something sentimental was going to happen soon, and as you pull the door open and come face to face with Finnick who sits at the edge of your bed, you knew that something sentimental was going to happen. 

“Hey,” he scoots over to make room for you. 

You take the space beside him, resting your head on his shoulder. “Hi.” His shoulder works as a comfortable pillow, which you’d dreamed of for many nights when you only had grass as an actual pillow. . “Are you planning to stay here tonight?” You lift your eyes to look at him, a fluttery feeling spreading all over your body when you see that he was already looking at you. 

He blinks, his tongue moistens his lips. “If you’d like me to.” 

You hum. “I would.” 

“What would I do?” 

A shrug from you. “Help me settle in.” 

“Oh so you’re using me staying as an excuse to have me kill bugs, chase out mice, dust the corners.” 

You laugh. It feels good to laugh. 

“Maybe.” Your shared laughter dies down and a still silence places itself over the room. You stare ahead, take a deep breath, and say, “And to keep me warm.” 

Finnicks hand snakes around your waist, cupping the outside to pull you flush into his side. His lips are against the crown of your head, pressing a kiss into your hair. You can feel them move when he assures you. “That’s what I’m best at.” 

There’s a bit of silence that you use to turn yourself to fully face Finnick. His hand gravitates to your lower back with the movement. 

He stares at you expectantly, and you smile gently. “Thank you,” you tell him. 

His eyebrows furrow. “For?” 

A small shrug from you. “Keeping me alive … in there. And for being my best friend and so much more that I can’t think of right now.” 

Both of Finnick's hands cup your cheeks and his forehead knocks into yours, then his nose, then his lips. 

He kisses you softly, pressing a single kiss into your parted lips, the two pairs molding and sticking together as if they were always meant for each other. You melt into the second kiss, thankful to get to feel this again. A thought arises within you, one that details you and Finnick getting to do this for the rest of your lives, no longer plagued with the thought of being reaped. If that’s something he also wants. 

The kiss is nice, but it’s also not quite what you want. 

You communicate that by tilting your head, letting your hands meet the back of Finnick’s head, and scooting yourself closer. 

Finnick mimics your new found ferocity, but it seems like he’s still not getting it. You push your chest into his, you slide your hands down his torso, letting them rest on his abdomen, and then he pulls away and furrows his eyebrows. 

Now he’s getting it. 

“Are you sure? Are you ready?” 

You can feel the touch of his hand on your lower back getting lighter as if he’s anticipating your denial. But you nod, no hesitance behind the movement, and since you know he’s going to want to hear it verbally, you part your slick lips and say, “I’m sure. And I’m ready.” 

Finnick has you on your back in the center of your bed quickly. You’re still fully clothed, but obviously not for long with the way his large hand is roaming under your shirt. The other rests beside your head, pressed into the pillow and keeping him afloat above you. 

You can feel the ghost of his knee between your parted legs and he’s too far away. You need him closer. You need his chest against yours instead of a few inches away, you need his knee pressed against your center, you need his entire being to become fused with yours. 

There’s no way for you to communicate that when he’s kissing you so hard that you consider the possibility that your lips would bruise. Not that you’re complaining one bit.

Finnick pulls away from your lips to press kisses into your jaw and neck, where he switches from simple kisses to sucking actual bruises into your skin. The feeling of his lips sucking the skin and his teeth nipping stings, not in the way an ant bite does, but in the way that has your back arching and you feel the scratch of the linen of Finnick’s shirt against the cotton of yours. 

You let out a breath, not meaning for it to sound as much of a moan as it does, but Finnick’s lips curl up against your skin. He presses a final, chaste kiss into the bruise that you know to be forming, and he leans back to give you a full look. 

“Can you take this off for me?” His hands tug at your shirt once. 

You nod, sitting up to fill the space that Finnick makes by leaning back, and you swiftly pull the shirt over your head. For the sake of comfort, you’d opted out on a bra tonight, and the decision is clearly thanked by Finnick. 

He’s staring, marveling, at your bare chest, taking in the sight. You know the way he’s looking at you is a good sign, but you can’t help but feel a little insecure, something in your mind telling you to cover up. Your hands twitch at your sides to make the move to your chest, but then Finnick’s speaking. 

“You’re so beautiful.” He says it like he means it. There’s something in you, the same thing that tried to convince you to cover up, that tells you that he doesn’t mean it. He’s just saying it in the heat of the moment. 

But your better judgment comes into play then and it notices that Finnick’s tell still isn’t there. He’s still telling the truth. 

You smile, just a little bashful, and reach to tug at the end of Finnick’s shirt. 

“Even the playing field, Odair.” He does as you say, his hands finding the neck hole of his shirt and pulling it over his head, tossing it off the side of your bed. 

Then his lips are back on your skin, kissing at your collarbone and steadily moving down your chest. He’s just pressing little kisses along your skin, not staying in one place too long, but the anticipation swims low in your stomach and makes you push your chest up into the air, waiting for Finnick to hopefully reach the destination you want him to go to. 

When he does, when his lips wrap around your nipple, you sigh blissfully. 

He gives the bud the same treatment that he delivered onto your neck, sucking and nipping, just a tad more gentle. All the while, his sea-green eyes stare up at you, gauging your reaction, seeing if he’s doing the right or the wrong thing. 

Your face is one of nothing but pleasure, mouth parted, eyes closed, eyebrows pinched together with enough tension to tell him that he’s doing right, not wrong. 

He switches to the other bud, and his hand trails down to the elastic waistband of your pants. Your hips wiggle, impatience finding you quickly, and then his hand slips past the elastic and his middle finger nudges between your clothed folds. 

You shiver, a quiet mewl escaping past your lips. Your sounds only increase in volume when Finnick adds his ring finger and works then up and down your slit, circling them at your clit when they reach that point, and then working their way back down and teasing your hole. 

When Finnick’s warm mouth detaches from your hardened bud, the cool air hits it and sends goosebumps onto the finest layer of your skin like a wave. They multiply when he speaks. 

“You’re so wet, darling,” His fingers trail back up to circle your clit languidly, not fast enough to give you any real satisfaction, but enough to let you know that they’re there. “‘S all for me?” He’s teasing, pulling your leg, because who else would it be for? 

The corner of his lips pull up into a smirk, confirming your suspicions, and you mean to say something equally as teasing back, something that would make his smile drop. 

But your mouth works faster than your brain. 

“Of course, Finn. Always all for you.” 

He swears under his breath, his fingers stopping right on the hidden nub. He blinks, inhales, then fixes his gaze on your expectant one. 

“You really mean that?” His hand flexes beside your head and you turn your head, your eyes fixed on him, and press a kiss into his forearm. 

“I do.” 

Finnick has your pants and panties off and thrown to the opposite side of your bed so quickly that you barely have time to process it. You only start to process how bare you are whenever his thick fingers come back to your center and this time, you feel them. 

You feel the rough skin of his finger pads, the way they glide through your slick, toy with your clit, then sink down to begin to probe at your entrance. 

You let him, your legs falling open even more when his middle finger sinks in to the first knuckle. He glances at you before he continues, and you’re in a state of bliss already, so he continues until the deft digit is sheathed completely inside your walls. 

Finnick only fucks you with the single finger for a few moments, then you’re reaching down and wrapping your hand around his wrist, pushing your hips into his hand, silently telling him that you want more. 

So he adds another. 

He curls them, reaches them deep inside of you, searches for the spot that he’ll memorize for minutes from now when you get the real deal. 

His watchful eyes search your reactions, too. He watches the way your tongue darts out to lick your lips and the way your lips part and how your eyebrows pinch together more and more until there. He finds it and your back arches off the bed and your hiss turns into a pretty cracked moan. 

“Right there?” he asks for confirmation. 

“Right there.” 

You feel lips kiss your inner thigh and then Finnick’s focusing on that spot a few more times, then he’s abandoning it. You hold in your disappointed sigh, but the feeling of Finnick separating his fingers, scissoring you open, is one that’s greatly welcomed as a replacement. 

You gasp, moan, your back arches, your nails dig into the sheets. Finnick’s other hand goes to your clit, rubbing little circles. “Holy shit, Finn.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Better than my own.” 

An image of you in a similar position, but with your own hands between your legs and not Finnick’s, flashes in his mind and is that a sight to see. 

“Are you close, sweetheart?” 

You nod, expecting Finnick to work you harder, faster, to guide you to the edge. He does the exact opposite. 

He pulls his fingers away from your cunt and your eyes open, staring down at him with bewilderment written all over your face. 

“You still want me to fuck you?” His eyebrows raise. 

You nod. “Yeah.” 

“Okay then.” 

You watch him stand, slip his pants and boxers off, and you shamelessly stare at his dick, propped up on your elbows for an unobstructed view. 

The way it sits so prettily, erected, reaching right at his abdomen. Flushed the same pink as his lips at the head, leaking a picturesque drop of precum. You could just sit and marvel at Finnick’s cock for a while longer than you’re given. But he bends down to search the pockets of the pants he came in, and swears when he doesn’t find what he needs. 

“What? What is it?” You think you know what it is but you’re really hoping you don’t. 

Finnick stands straight again and looks at you, obviously dejected. “No condoms.” 

Fuck. 

You’re silent, attempting to think of a solution. 

“I could just go to mine, it's right next door, you know. I’ll be quick.” 

He could. But you truthfully don’t care at this moment. 

You’re sure there has to be some sort of morning after preventative that you could get your hands on now that you're Victor, and Finnick looks so appetizing just standing there, there’s no way you would be able to survive the few minutes that you would have to sit there without him. 

“I don’t care if you don’t.” Your admission has his eyes widening just a bit, then his eyebrows furrowing and his face scrunching into one of slight worry. 

“Are you sure? This isn’t something lighthearted.” 

You nod. “I’m sure. There’s a preventative out there, right?” He thinks for a second, then nods. “Then I’m sure.” 

Finnick climbs back onto the bed, wraps one hand around his cock and the other around the outside of your thigh. He glances at you, “Just relax, okay?”, and then back at your cunt when you nod. 

He lines himself up and your immediate reaction is to tense up, but you take a breath, and relax, and then he breaches. 

It’s painful, not in the way that you’ve felt pain just days ago, but in a stinging way. You can feel yourself stretching around him, allowing him in, and every few inches he stops to remind you to breathe. 

You feel like his member is endless, there always seems to be more and more, but he’s almost there now, home stretch, but you don’t know that until he tells you. 

“Breathe with me, sweetheart. ‘M almost there,” he says, his eyes locking into yours as he takes a deep inhale, nodding when you mirror the action, then he slowly exhales. When you do the same, he slides all the way in until you can feel the base of his dick pressed against your mound. 

When he’s all the way in, the curls at the base of his dick tickling you, you’re able to focus on how good it feels to have Finnick Odair’s dick nestled inside of your walls. The stretch is addicting. Your head’s spinning, your mouth salivating, and you just know that you’re gonna be addicted after this. 

Now that he’s situated within you, Finnick brings his forearm back to push into the pillow beside your head. He presses a kiss to your cheek, then to your lips when you turn your head. 

“Let me know when it’s okay to move, okay?” 

You nod. “You can move.” 

Finnick seems a little unsure, but your hips wiggle and you moan and he takes your word for it. 

He starts slow, pulling out halfway then pushing back all the way in. You’re so receptive, little breaths and moans leaving your lips and immediately meeting his ears. He relishes in the sounds, the auditory display of satisfaction going right down to his groin, encouraging him to fuck you harder and deeper. 

He starts to pull out more, inch by inch, and push back in with more force. There’s no way for you to describe the feeling you’re in other than euphoric. For a second, you search your brain for descriptors, ways you can put the feeling to words for when you think about it later on, but you come up so short and Finnick is making you feel so good that you forget what you were thinking about in the first place with the next thrust. 

“Doing okay?” 

“More than okay, Finn.” 

“Yeah? Tell me about it.” He lifts his face to level it with yours, green eyes staring at you, watching you get lost in his gaze and blink yourself awake multiple times. “You can do it, baby. Tell me how good I’m making you feel.” 

Is he reading your mind? 

“You’re an asshole.” He laughs. 

“That’s no way to treat the guy making you feel this good, is it?” 

He tilts his head, waiting for your response. You shake your head, back to being fucked out, and Finnick decides to let you off the hook for now. 

He leans down, pushing his lips to yours and letting you sloppily kiss him while his hips rock into yours. 

You didn’t think there was a way that you could feel better than this, but Finnick shifts his hips when he pulls out, then he pushes back in with more assurance and confidence and he finds that same spot and your back arches, your chest pushing into his. 

“That’s it,” Finnick coos, either talking to himself or you, you’re not really sure. Either way, you still nod. 

The linen sheets rub at your back, the crisp pillow cover crinkles with each thrust that sends you up the bed a little more, you can feel your pussy leaking around Finnick. You can smell him, a mix of the smell of the sea and a musk that is so unique to him that you want the scent to live permanently in your nose. 

Your eyes are open, somehow, and you’re watching Finnick. The way the vein in his head pops out every so often, how his tanned skin looks in the low light of your bedroom, the way sweat reflects off of his forehead and a bead looks as if it’s going to trickle down and land onto your tit. You watch it, lost and mesmerized by everything that is Finnick Odair, and when it lands on your chest you just feel like he’s giving you even more of himself. 

You want to give him more of you, too, but you don’t know how. Not here, in this position, with this hazed state of mind, so you do what you can. You dig a hand in his hair, scratching at his scalp and pulling at the strands with just enough tension, and you arch your back from the lowest point, pushing your hips further into him. 

“You feel so good, sweetheart. One of a kind.” His hips are starting to speed up a bit, getting a little sloppier too if you really focus. But all you can focus on is the slight rasp in his voice when he praises you. “Don’t think I’ll ever be able to leave this pussy after this. Don’t think I’ll ever be able to leave you.” 

You know what he means. You’ve known Finnick most of your life, long enough to be able to read between lines that sometimes aren’t even there. You know what he means. 

You keen, the sound a little embarrassing but not enough for you to reflect on the thought for more than a second. 

“‘M close, Finnick.” You can feel it low in your belly, burning, begging for your attention. This build up feels different from the last, a little more urgent, maybe. A little more prevalent. 

This build up has you desperately chasing after it, terrified that you won’t catch it, that it’ll somehow slip past your grasp and you’ll be left unsatisfied. You know you don’t have to worry about that when Finnick’s the one making you feel so good. 

The hand on your thigh inches towards your core, his thumb singling out and connecting with your clit. It only takes a few tight circles and a few more expert thrusts for you to fall over the edge, your legs lifting, hooking behind Finnick’s back to keep him close to you. Not like he was planning to go anywhere. 

He feels so good like this, fucking you through your orgasm. You don’t want him to pull out, but you know he should. You know he has to. He tells you as much. 

“Squeezing me so hard, sweetheart. Fuck, I gotta … gotta pull out.” You really, really, don’t want him to, but you let your legs drop and Finnick pulls out and his hand wraps around his lubed up dick, pumping a few times and then he’s spilling warm spurts of cum over your tummy. 

You watch your stomach rise and fall rapidly with your breaths, the white substance glistening against your skin. Finnick watches it too, then he’s coming back for more kisses. 

These are a little less sloppy, a little more gentle, a little more loving. 

You feel yourself slipping out of it as he kisses you, your lips a little less receptive with each passing moment. Finnick notices and he pulls back, leaving you with one more chaste kiss before he’s leaving the bed and the sound of his feet on your hardwood lets you know that he’s moving towards your bathroom. 

You don’t bother opening your eyes, you just listen to the sound of the closet door opening, the sound of running water starting and stopping, more feet against hardwood, then you feel the bed dip with Finnicks weight. 

You flinch, then giggle, when the towel rubs at your inner thighs and then your stomach. 

Finnick giggles with you, and you feel so domestic, so loved and cared for. 

You peek your eyes open, watching the way he gently cleans you up. As if he feels eyes on him, he lifts his gaze, and smiles, dimples on display. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“Hi.” 

“Am I still invited to spend the night?” 

You pretend to think, but you’re too tired to even do that. 

“If you make me breakfast in the morning,” you settle on, your hands under the folded back sheets of your bed. 

You slip under the sheets and you watch Finnick carelessly throw the towel off to the side of the bed. Your mouth falls open. “And clean that up,” you add. 

Finnick doesn’t bother responding. He just climbs to the top of the bed, slips under the covers with you, and pulls you to his chest with a kiss to your head. 

Cuddled up with Finnick is a feeling you know you could get used to, and you hope you’ll be able to. You try not to think about how fleeting this could be. Instead, you force yourself to be optimistic, focusing on the riches you now have, and the beautiful home that’s on the beach and next to your best friend, and the way he’s holding you so securely to his chest, and the peaceful sleep that’s begging to be welcomed into the equation. 

You decide to count it in, nestling even further into Finnick’s warmth and closing your eyes. 

They immediately reopen and squint at the corner to the left of your bed. 

“Finnick,” you whisper, continuing when he hums. “There’s a bug in the corner.” 

“Where?” 

You lift a finger, pointing to where it is. “Right there.” 

Finnick sighs and stands. 

“And pick that towel up while you’re at it please.”

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Consider this a part 2 of Can't Escape the Nightmares cuz I keep getting ideas for this story 🙃

Pairing(s): Jasper Hale x Human!Reader, platonic!Rosalie Hale x Human!Reader

Warnings: mentions of past assault, mentions of past rape, noncon themes discussed, reader is jasper's mate, platonic!rosaliexreader, human!reader, nightmares, trauma, ptsd, dark content, mention of blood, brief mention of murder/death, hurt&comfort, ft the cullen fam, yes i'd like to sign up to be protected by rosalie ✋🏼, and my depressive ass could certainly use a man like jasper lol

Words: 1253

Summary: It was hard for you to be outside. Not after what happened. And with the Cullen house surrounded by a sea of towering trees. . . It was difficult for you to even step onto the wrap around porch. Everything about the outside reminded you of that day in the woods.

They'd smelled your blood from miles away, noticing that it grew closer and closer until Rosalie was upon the doorstep with you dangling in her arms. Your eyes were open, though void of expression; merely staring at these near angelic looking family with gold hued eyes.

Your injuries were nothing major, yet your blood yanked at their olfactory senses.

And Jasper was helpless when, eyes being engulfed by jet black.

The expression in Rosalie's expression though kept him at bay.

"Get him out of here. He can't handle it." Rosalie snaps, her hold on you growing tighter.

Intently watching Jasper's every move, you see the rigidity of his frame and the back and forth sawing motion of his jaw. He must have ground his teeth to oblivion, at least that's what you thought.

Never imagining the true inner turmoil that was engulfing his every sensibility. Jasper's perpetually cold skin suddenly felt like it was on fire. A monster scratched at his mental door. A monster that wanted to taste every inch of your skin before sinking his straight, razor teeth into your delicate paper-like flesh.

"Jazz, snap out of it." Edward motions for Emmett to keep him back. His hiss is low as not to scare you further. Knowing all the horrors you had just gone through

The fog that reduced his head to a warm flush lifts enough for him to finally notice the state you were in.

Large splotches of red and rich purple are smattered across the entirety of your arms and legs, with a giant one blooming on your jaw. His stomach recoils at your lack of clothes. Connecting the visual clues together to realize what had happened and why Rosalie was dyed in a mess of different blood types that didn't belong to you.

You were already broken.

Suddenly that monster was silent, it too watching with baited breath as Rosalie carries you up the staircase and to Carlisle's office. The older blonde vampire quick and on her heels.

Jasper's monster seemed to take that moment to decide something that was against its very nature: it would protect you, guard you and keep you.

There will always be that hunger in him for your blood. But no longer would he be ruled by it.

When exhaustion finally swept over you, Jasper peeks his head into Carlisle's office. Rosalie sat on the floor in front of the couch you were asleep on.

She's in front of him in a flash, barring him entrance with a fatal snarl.

He dare not mess with this gold mama bear.

It was hard for you to be outside. Not after what happened. And with the Cullen house surrounded by a sea of towering trees. . . It was difficult for you to even step onto the wrap around porch. Everything about the outside reminded you of-

"They can't hurt you again." Edward mentions behind you as you stood in the front door, hand quaking above the doorknob.

That didn't relive the nausea in your stomach. Your eyes shut tight and Edward winces when your mind immediately goes to the day that you were assaulted.

When you catch yourself you immediately apologize and take a step back. "S-sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"No, don't apologize." He's firm on this and finally you turn around. Surprisingly, the Cullens had understood the trauma you had gone through more than you would have thought. Every one of them had gone through a horrifying event much like your own. Rosalie's was almost identical to your's and possibly the very reason why she had saved you and killed those monsters who abducted you. And has protected you since then. She reminded you of a mother hen.

When Jasper first showed interest in you, Rosalie actually became aggressive toward him; telling him that you weren't ready for such a relationship. That you needed to heal more.

Jasper never stepped over any boundaries. He never came close to it. He waited. Helped you whenever you asked for it. Approached you tentatively until you told him that he didn't have to tiptoe around you. Many months were required before this. In the meantime you allowed Rosalie (and to a smaller extent, Alice and Esme) to tend to you and repair your fragmented body.

The only time he used his power on you without your permission was when you were asleep and suffering from your all too frequent nightmares.

"If you want, I can go outside with you. Maybe we can take a short walk around the house." He softly offers when you glance back at the door.

They were all so kind to you, never asking when you'd be ready to leave their house. It never came up. In fact you had the suspicion that Rosalie would insist on you living with them from now on. An unofficial part of the Cullen family.

You knew their secret. Living there, it didn't take long to discover that they were not human. From their perfect pale skin, to their golden eyes, there was something different about them. The way Edward was able to anticipate your every needs or how even being in the same room with Jasper had your anxiety simmering down. Even Alice displayed odd signs that you would have normally passed off as some kind of mental illness when she'd stare off into the distance. You now knew it was her getting a glimpse of the future.

"Thank you, but maybe today isn't the day. . ." You force your trembling lips to quirk up into a tentative smile though it could not fool Edward who could hear the inner turmoil in your mind. He never pushed.

He nods and lets you amble back upstairs to safety. The Cullens required no sleep so their bedrooms were essentially just for decoration. Rosalie and Emmett happily gave up their room so that you could seek out privacy when you were too overstimulated to be in their company. They even bought a tv just to put in the room for you. You didn't know what you did in your life to deserve them.

But before you go to your own designated room, you stop in front of Jasper's with a tentative hand raised to knock on his door. You were always nervous when asking him to hang out with you while Rosalie was gone. You'd heard Rosalie whisper to Emmett one night about you being Jasper's 'mate'. She must have thought you were fast asleep but you heard them discuss the possibility of a relationship between you and the other blonde Hale.

It made you self conscious now when you were near him. You'd known that he was. . . attracted to you.

You jump when his bedroom door opens to reveal his figure. "H-Hi."

His smile is always so sweet and even shy. "Hello."

"Um," Your fingers twist the hem of your shirt anxiously. " well, Rosalie is gone. I was wondering if you wanted to hang out for a little bit. . . Esme bought me a new dvd. We can watch it?"

Adoring the way his eyes crinkle when his smile broadens, you take a step back to allow Jasper to exit his room and close the door behind him. "Lead the way, ma'am." Your chest squeezes when that southern drawl of his comes out.

Trusting anyone again wasn't an easy journey. But being cradled by the Cullen family was bound to heal some wounds.

And perhaps water the seed of love that had been planted in your heart by Jasper.

[stardancerluv]

A Space Journey

Part One of ???

Summary: Introduction to Tyler and his girl.

Notes/Warnings: I saw Alien Romulus and fell very hard for Tyler. 😍 Wanted to give him a story. Might be a bit of an AU in bits giving him a backstory and fuller future..probably write leading up to the movie & such. 😬Hope I do him justice. 😬Also first time writing scifi..and writing in a future of any kind…so 😬 hope I did good.

18 & over. Consensual sex between and man and woman. Angst. (It wrote itself..a bit long!

❤️s, reblogs, comments, & feedback always welcome! Enjoy

The elevator whispered its way up from the depths of the mine to the top level. Some stared blindly ahead or in front of them, you chose some indiscernible place, not really seeing it. Your imagination conjured up happier moments from the past.

Behind you in one of the shadowy corners, the yellow bird in the cage chirped and fluttered its wings. Happy to be out of those large caverns. It was a good day. No leaving work prematurely. You would get your full credits for the day.

Stepping, out of the elevator you saw your boots were caked with the usual soot and mud. A cold, heavy rain dropped from the heavy clouds. It was not long before the rain seeped under the many layers of your clothes.

Tiredness, wore you down as you walked. Your body ached. You knew there were liberal smudges on your face, your hair was matted and oily under the hood you pulled more around your face.

You had not taken a decent shower in a few days since you knew you’d be pulling extra shifts back to back and since your boyfriend was off world till the end of the week. You just rolled in and out of bed and went and returned from work.

With all the soot flying around you squinted and paused when you saw the red neon sign, Bar. You pressed your lips together. You could go for a cold one, but you knew how rough the crowd could be at times. Without Tyler by your side you really didn’t want to venture in.

You decided to keep on going, pulling your hood tighter around you, wishing you could hide completely. A grumble gurgled from your stomach as it twisted in hunger. You would stop at the mess hall and grab some food before turning in at your sleep bunk.

Before, you realized what was happening you were tugged harshly into one of the nearby alleyways. Fear shot through you. You immediately started fighting. It was a regular occurrence people would get beat up, mugged or worse. People lost it out here on the mining planets, at least that was what your parents had always said.

“Shh, shhh. It’s easier when you don’t fight.” The voice whispered, as one hand had already slipped under the top layers of your clothes and now crept across your torso.

Only a thin, very worn scrap of fabric laid between you and the hand. Your hunger turned to nausea as you could feel the warmth from it. It was all you needed to fight even harder. You finally managed to stomp down on one of their feet.

“Oooooouch!” The voice called out and instantly let you go.

You turned around, your heart beating harder since you knew the voice.

“Tyler!” You scream and slapped his arm.

A large smile spread across his handsome face before he howled with laughter. Easily, he pulled you close and this time you wrapped your arms around him. Happily, you pressed yourself even closer against him.

“My strong, feisty girl.” He said breathless against the top of your head.

Easily, you forgot the wind or the rain pelting the two of you.

“You weren’t supposed be back for three days.” You managed to mumble out against his heavy clothes. Your body beginning to relax knowing you were now safe.

“We did good. Found more then expected and came back.”

You blinked up at him. “Really?”

“Yes.” He nodded, he was so soft and warm. “Let me take you home.”

*******

He took your hand as you walked up the steep steps into the hauler he shared with the others. You couldn’t help but notice no one was there.

“Bjorn and Navarro, left in a blink to get their drink and dance on. And Kay barely told me she was going out, when I heard the door shut.”

Leaning against the wall, you were relieved to be out of the soot cloaked air. You pulled and tugged, till you were free of your heavy boots. Once in your heavy socks, you were relieved the boots had kept your socks dry.

“Can’t blame them these last three weeks had felt long despite coming home a week early. I’m sure.”

You said with a fleeting smile. After you pulled off your gloves, you began working on the buttons of your heavy coat. Seeing, two of the buttons had been undone by him you glanced at him.

He winked. “What? I missed the feel of my girl.” You didn’t know how he could look cocky and sheepish at once but he did.

His cheekiness always made your heart flutter. In the few books, you managed to get your hands you figured you shared that with the girls of the past long gone.

“To be fair, I scrubbed up as fast as I could and headed out to find you.” He scratched at the back of his head. “Was going to check at the mine and the sleeping bunks.”

His mouth twisted at the last bit. You went over and gently tugged on his shirt. “I only do it when you’re not around, I’m cautious.”

“That’s what worries me.” He looked down at you and smiled, softly.

You could swim and lose yourself in his dark eyes, as the two of you looked unwavering at each other. No words were needed as the emotions welled up at his return. You swallowed. There was always chance he’d crash during reentry. Heck could during take off too, but Navarro was a pretty good pilot so you didn’t worry too much about take off.

He rubbed your arms. “Why don’t you go and wash up and I’ll make us something to eat.”

“Alright. Just don’t burn it this time.”

“Don’t invite me into the shower cubicle and I won’t.”

“I did that didn’t I?”

He smirked. “You certainly did.”

“Alright. Maybe this time I will behave myself.” You giggled.

******

The water from the shower head fell on you with a good pressure. Since Tyler and the others were known as pretty scavengers the company allowed them some nicer things. Water pressure and rations were among them.

You stood there not worried that the warm water would run out too fast. You just let it melt the cold from the mine and outside that remained in you. The water around your feet obscured with the soot that had clung to you, your hair.

Stretching, you sighed as the crisp scent of his soap comforted you. Turning the knobs, you finally stepped from the shower onto the rough mat which had become a welcome feel under foot as opposed to the cold tile in mass shower rooms.

You smiled, seeing that Tyler had hung up a fresh shirt and the pair of cotton pants, you usually stole when you stayed there. They had shrank in one of the laundry services so they fit you better. Seeing the bundle of yours gone, you knew he must have taken them to put into cleaning cycle.

After slipping on the fresh clothes you reached up and grabbed his towel, it was still faintly wet from his using it earlier. The thought made you smile as you rubbed your hair with it.

*******

You gently slumped against Tyler’s side. Reaching, you placed your fork with a clank on the plate in front of you, only some cornbread crumbs remained.

“You did it. You made a half way decent meal which you didn’t burn.” You said with a half smile on your face.

“Well, I got to do good by my girl.”

******

His sheets were softer, his pillows fuller and they smelled liked him. His bed, softer then the bunks easily gave under the weight of the two of you.

He was partially on you, your arms around him. His hair soft, as your fingers entwined in the inky strands. Your lips had met and not wanted to part. They were much softer now, then a few month intervals after discovering that softening ointment. It beat away the chapping the wind whipping at your faces did and made the kisses all the more enjoyable. They were far sweeter then any candy you could save up for with your credits.

Pausing, as you felt his hand slipping under the hem shirt you wore; you excitedly letting your fingers leave the softness of his hair pulled up on the shirt and more of yourself was revealed to him. You happily tossed it without worry. His room was always clean and fresh, once he had peaked into his cousin’s room and they couldn’t be anymore opposite.

It puzzled you that Navarro could even tolerate it. But then again the two of you were also very different.

You were soft compared to his toned torso. It excited you and made you feel safe. You had seen him handle himself more then one time at the Bar. Whether defending your honor, his sisters or some stupid fight by the tempers flairing.

Opening, yourself you did so with a warmth and love that you would never allow the company steal away from you.

His lips, grazed your cheeks as he drew close to ear to whisper soft words only spoke between the two of you. Never to be shared.

“Are you well, is now a good time?” You could practically feel his heart thudding in his chest.

You nodded.

The first time or at least the aftermath of it had been right on the cusp of your cycle. Your excitement of him reciprocating your feelings and sharing first touches, kisses had stolen your body’s cues to its soon arrival. When the two of you had awoken the next day, worry had clouded your mind, believing it had ruined any chance of continuing things. But he had been kind, warm not just the cheeky guy who had made your heart squeeze with a wink or a smirk.

“I could barely focus these last three weeks, all I could think about was this. I needed to fuck, my sweet girl, remind her who I am after being off world for so long.”

The contrast to his sweet nature and razor sharp lust, made you moan and make your desire sharpen for him.

“I’m all yours.”

A soft moan broke from your lips and his, as he entered you. You arched against him, you had craved him as well. It had been hard to not answer any of the wanton calls from your body in his absence. Together you found your rhythms and moved. Your breathless moans became louder, sharper the closer you drew to cumming hard under him. You always felt so wonderfully wilted liked the dried flowers people once would keep in those books you had read from that had spoken of love and dreams.

Clutching him hard, your fingers gently pulling on his soft strands you arched against him once again. Your body tightening with pleasure he was giving you. Before you could hold it; it all shattered into moon dust. You softened and wilted under him. He was and would only be the only one to ever make you feel like this.

You met his hungry kisses, whimpering at the well placed love bites, he loved leaving. You felt how his body tightened above you. His deep, pleasure filled moan that filled the small room, you knew he had felt what you had. You relished making him feel just as good. His breath hot as he panted, a soft peppering of kisses as he rested his forehead against yours.

*******

“Hey! Where are you going?”

You had thought you could safely grab your discarded shirt from earlier and curl back up to his side before he even noticed. But that wasn’t the case.

One of his strong arms wrapped around you and held you tightly against him. You turned easily in it to face him. “Was just grabbing my shirt. I had taken a small chill.”

“You’ve got me.” And soon he pulled the blanket and himself closer around you. You were enveloped by him, almost completely.

You pretended to think about it. “This is so much better.”

“It had better be.” And he gave you a quick kiss.

The rain streaked down his window. The brightness of the fluorescent lights that lined the roads of the colony were muted from where he was.

“How long do I have you this time?” You whispered after a few beats of your heart.

“Long enough.”

You wanted to reply with the snappy answer that it never was but you learned this, right now was long enough. Every moment the two of you were together was.

A commotion, peels of laughter and a door slamming shut; drifted through his closed door.

“They’re home.”

You could practically hear him rolling his eyes.

“Hey, hey you’re here lady. Missed you! We need to catch up and have some girl talk in the morning!”

“If she’s awake.” Tyler called back.

“Hey! I wasn’t talking to you.”

You giggled against his chest. “Sure! Sounds like a plan.” You finally called back.

“Great.” She called, her voice further away and then you could hear the one creak in the floor that you knew meant she was now by her own room.

“Here we go.” Tyler whispered.

As the exaggerated laughter came closer flowed by a thud as either Bjorn or Navarro bumped his door, by tipsy accident or deliberate. When they had a few drinks one could never be sure.

“Tyler, now you better be treating that girl of yours in there right. No funny business.”

“Hey, hey now.”

There was a smack and a similar oww, must run in the family you mused.

“He used to be a brute my cousin. He had to learn to be nice and charming.”

“He was always charming and nice to me.” You spoke up.

“Good.” His cousin replied.

“See she confirms. He’s been good to her.”

“Do I give him a gold star then?”

“Come on, let them have some peace. I want to get out of these high boots.”

“Now, I like hearing that.”

And there was only muted muffled sounds, if at all.

“Now that the circus passed.”

You giggled and shook your head. “You love them.”

“I do. I do.�� He stretched, but still kept an arm around you. He gave your hip a squeeze.

“So you used to be a brut huh?”

“Yes, but you changed things.” He winked.

[minghaoslatina]

the one where he takes care of you

pairing: ceo!wooyoung x female!reader

word count: 958

warnings: mentions of nausea, pregnancy, flufffff

now playing 🎧 intro (end of the world) by ariana grande

★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★

It's been about three weeks since you and Wooyoung discovered that you were pregnant. At first, you were overwhelmed with fear because you're both young and just starting out your successful careers. You as a writer, and Wooyoung as a CEO. The thought of balancing your professional life with impending parenthood felt daunting. Wooyoung's unwavering love and support made you feel secure despite your initial worries. The fact that you could work from home without giving up your career also brought you a sense of relief. Your fears quickly dissipated when you realized that your boyfriend is the most loving and caring human being in the world.

Since finding out you were going to have a baby, Wooyoung has been treating you with extra gentleness and constant concern for your well-being. This journey, however, has not only strengthened your bond but has also enabled you to discover newfound resilience and inner strength. You're gradually learning to embrace the changes in your body and emotions, and this experience has been incredibly transformative for both of you. The way you've adapted and grown through this process is truly inspiring.

You awake slowly, your eyes adjusting to the gentle light filtering through your bedroom window. Wooyoung had insisted that you take a nap about an hour earlier, as you were feeling nauseous, but now hunger has roused you from sleep. As you quietly make your way to the kitchen, a heartwarming scene unfolds before you. Your boyfriend stands there, sleeves rolled up, tending to a pot of what appears to be your favorite soup. The rich, inviting aroma fills the air, enveloping you in a comforting embrace. You can already imagine the soothing warmth of each bite. Your gaze lingers on his hands, strong and veiny. Even after nearly four years together, he still manages to stir up those familiar butterflies in your stomach. You almost sigh from how handsome and dreamy he is. Seeing him caring for you in this simple yet profound way fills your heart with an overwhelming mixture of love and gratitude.

"What are you doing awake?" Wooyoung asks teasingly with his head turned towards you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. You were so lost in thought that you didn't notice he had spotted you from his spot in the cozy, dimly lit kitchen. He continues stirring the soup in the pot, the gentle clinking of the spoon against the sides breaking the silence of the room. As you walk towards him, you wrap your arms around his waist from behind, seeking warmth and comfort in his embrace.

"I'm hungry," your voice sounds muffled due to your face resting against his back, but he understands you perfectly. Wooyoung chuckles softly and turns off the stove, the savory aroma of the soup still lingering in the air.

"Don't worry, I just finished lunch," he says with a smile as he turns around in your arms. With a gentle touch, he brings his hands up to cup your cheeks, his thumbs gently squeezing them together. Wooyoung leans in and plants a quick but soft kiss on your lips before guiding you to a seat in the dining room.

"I'll set the table," you say, attempting to get up, but Wooyoung is quick to stop you, gently placing a hand on your shoulder, urging you to stay seated.

"You sit there and look pretty; I've got it," he says with a warm grin before he starts setting the table with care and precision. Within a few moments, he places the steaming hot soup he just made, along with curry and rice, in the center of the table.

"Thank you, baby. It looks so delicious," you say, your voice filled with gratitude and affection as Wooyoung settles into the chair next to you. A sense of peace and contentment envelops the two of you.

Wooyoung, ever attentive to your needs, quietly responds, "Anything for you," as he prepares a plate and bowl filled with your favorite dishes. One of the endearing things about him is how he always ensures that you eat first. With playful teasing, he takes your spoon and scoops a spoonful of soup to feed you, showcasing his caring nature.

Amused, you playfully remark, "You know, I'm perfectly capable of holding a spoon." At the same time, he carefully supports the spoon to prevent the hot liquid from spilling on you accidentally. His retort is lighthearted, "Be quiet and eat," as you giggle and savor the delicious taste on your tongue.

As you do your little happy dance in your chair, Wooyoung inquires, "Good?" you respond with a nod, urging him to eat as well. The two of you enjoy the meal in companionable silence, savoring every bite in appreciation.

Feeling satiated after eating together, you gently pat your stomach and lean back in the chair, saying, "I'm so full." Wooyoung, with a grin, attends to clearing the table and remarks with affection, "I'm glad you and dumpling are satisfied," referring to the endearing nickname he has given the little being growing in your stomach, even though it's probably the size of a pinhead at this point. You chuckle and help him clear the table.

"Want to watch Harry Potter?" Wooyoung asks with a smile as he starts washing the dishes. You nod eagerly and grab a dish towel to help him dry them. Wooyoung doesn't say anything else because he knows there's no stopping you once you've made up your mind. As you both finish up, you settle on the comfortable couch, snuggled up to watch the movie. The soft glow of the TV illuminates the room as Wooyoung starts the film, and you can't help but feel a deep sense of contentment being with him.

🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

dad! wooyoung drabbles masterlist

taglist 💗

@hanni-bae44

[k-nayee]

Wife to the Winds Epic: The Musical | i

wc: 1.7k a/n: currently obsessed with anything Ancient Greek right now - ESPECIALLY Epic lol. it technically picks up after the song, but if ya wanna here's the animation to it!

Traveler M.List

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ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

You felt nauseas, sick with fear as you cautiously made your way through the stone corridors.

Distant clash of swords and muffled shouts of Greek soldiers rummaging the palace heightened your urgency. 

With every turn, the looming threat grows: facing an enemy and their weapon stained with the blood of those you've grown to know.

"Lord Apollo...Please...let me be there in time..."you prayed silently, the image of Astyanax's sleeping face urging you forward.

Thoughts racing almost as fast as your feet, you nearly miss a group of men around the corner.

"Imagine the glory we'll have after this!"

Too caught up in conversation, they miss the sight of you slipping into a dark alcove.

"Praise? Forget that! I'm claiming the prettiest whore out of the bunch. You seen all we captured? Deserve some softness after all this."

Hidden in the shadows you're able to take in the blood splatters and dirt on their passing frames.

"You got that right! One thing I'll admit about Troy, they have some nice women..."

You shiver at their crude remarks and wait until their laughter fades into the distance before moving once more.

After a few more dodges and turns, you find the narrow passage and squeeze through.

There, you travel the secret route you'd discovered months ago having spent years exploring every hidden nook and cranny.

The weight of the glass feeding bottle in your hand is a constant reminder of the innocence you're desperate to protect, even as the world around you crumbled. 'I'm on my way Astyanax...'

Inside the walls with only the sound of your heartbeat and the distant chaos; a haunting, pain-filled voice echoes through the air as you near the babe's chamber.

"...I'm just...a man..."

Compelled by the unexpected softness, you peek through a sliver of space at the ornately disguised door (its decorations masterfully concealing its true nature).

There, at the balcony, you're met with the view of Odysseus. And in his hands he drops—

Your heart stops.

No, it shatters.

The baby prince, your charge, your little Astyanax, is...

A heart-wrenching gasp escape your lips, the forgotten milk bottle slipping from your hands to shatter against the stone floor.

Odysseus's head snaps around.

The warrior within him awakened instantly, his eyes narrowing and scanning the shadows.

"Who's there?" he demands, voice sharp and commanding as it sliced through the quiet.

Hand already on the hilt of his dagger, he draws it with a sound that promised death and begins the search.

His feet echoes on the stone floor, each step feeling like a countdown to your end.

The air around you thickens with tension, you struggle to breath against the fear that threatens to overwhelm you.

In hopes of blending in the shadows you press your back harder against the cool wall.

'Be still...Be silent,' you chant even as your heart frantically beat against your ribcage.

Not even daring to breathe too loudly: your inhales and exhales are measured and deliberate despite the panic clawing at your throat.

Memories of Lady Andromache's warnings swirled through your mind—of men turned monsters in the heat of battle, their souls stained with the bloodlust of war.

"The taste of blood...changes a man." Dark brown eyes, somber and knowing, stare into your own. "Leaves him with a hunger for violence that's never fully sated..."

Her words, a distant and cautionary tale you never understood, now rang with terrifying clarity.

With Odysseus so close, the fear becomes so palpable it wraps around you.

Your eyes clamp shut when his footsteps nears, a feeble attempt to shield yourself from the impending horror.

Tears cascade silently down your cheeks in hot paths. There, you mourn not just for the young prince but for yourself and what may come of you.

Suddenly, the footsteps began to fade, leaving a silence so profound it feels like a scream in the void.

Minutes pass, each second an eternity spent in the clutches of fear. Then, there's a sound: the door closing—it cuts sharply through the stillness.

He left...

Relief washes over you, albeit tinged with the sorrow and shock of witnessing your charge's murder.

You wait. Counting each breath, allowing the minutes to stretch until it feels an eternity has passed.

No sound follows, no sign of his presence remains.

Emboldened by the silence and finally convinced, you allow yourself to move.

With cautious steps you emerge from your hiding spot and move toward the center of the room.

The need to escape, to distance yourself from this nightmare of death and close calls pushes you forward.

It's a relief short-lived.

Realizing the silence was a trick, it's already too late: arms encircle you.

The cold kiss of his dagger at your throat shatters any illusion of safety.

His body is pressed against your back, a wall of muscle and tension. You're acutely aware of him—the heat of his breath, the controlled movements, the slight shift as he adjusts his grip on the knife.

Your breath hitches from the terror and despair mingling in your throat, choking you.

"Not a sound," Odysseus whispers, his voice a lethal calm that contrasts the violent actions. "Now tell me: who are you?"

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Your life...choices...everything you had or could have depended on the mercy of the man who had just taken a child from the world.

Fear wars with desperation in your heart. 'Please...let this not be my end. I have so much left to live for...'

"P—please..." you stammer, the words barely escaping your lips. "I won't tell anyone, I swear it. Just let me go..."

"I said," he ignores your pleads, choosing to press the dagger closer for emphasis, "who are you?"

In a flash of desperation and unexpected courage, you act.

With a swift, practiced move born from hours of watching the palace guards train, you suddenly shift your weight.

Pivoting on your heel you wrench his arm away from your throat and use the momentum to twist his wrist; forcing him to drop and send the dagger clattering to the ground.

You jump back, chest heaving with exertion and the shock of your own audacity. You lock eyes with Odysseus who stares at you in stunned silence.

For a moment, he is visibly taken aback; eyes widening not just at the loss of his weapon but at the sight of you.

"By the Gods..." he murmurs, the edge of his battle-hardened demeanor softening as he truly sees you for the first time.

The fire of the torches cast a soft glow on your brown skin, making the stone of the palace around you seem even more dull.

Your hair is nothing he had seen before. There amidst the curls that frame your face, lays a bold streak of white that runs into the mass of hair.

However, it's your eyes that truly captivate him—they glimmer, a striking violet filled with an intensity of deep grief yet unwavering determination.

For a fleeting moment, the fierceness in his eyes dims as a cascade of thoughts sweep through.

Odysseus, a man who faced gods and monsters...

...a man who has navigated the treacherous whims of fate...

...finds himself lost in the mere mortal beauty before him.

In another life, he might have allowed himself to be drawn in; to explore your being and the depths of those violet eyes. 

The fantasy flickers through his mind of what could have been, momentary indulgence if you will.

Yet, as quickly as it arrived, it is quelled by his love and loyalty for Penelope. The memory of her steadfastness and unwavering faith in his return casts a shadow over any fleeting desire he might feel.

Taking advantage of his internal conflict, you find your voice and interject. "W-wait! I mean no harm nor am I an enemy! I was just trying to survive."

Curiosity piqued, Odysseus gestures for you to continue.

"I come from land that's oceans away, taken against my will. Here, I became a servant for Lady Andromache out of exotic curiosity," Your voice steadies as you speak, gaining strength from the truth of your words. "But then my purpose evolved and I became the caretaker for the prince—a child now dead, through no fault of my own."

The Greek king could only narrow his eyes at you in assessment, voice regaining some of its earlier edge. "And why should I spare you? You are, after all, of Troy."

"Not by choice!" you counter quickly, the words tumbling out, "I am no citizen of Troy, bound by loyalty nor blood. My life here was never of my choosing. My only wish is to live a life beyond wars, serving as a pawn in the games of Gods and Kings."

A smile wry of acknowledgment touches Odysseus' lips.

"You're clever," he admits as the tension in the room shifts, becoming less hostile.

"But why should I trust you?" he probes further, bending down to retrieve his dagger yet making no move to use it. "You, who managed to disarm me?"

Your gaze held a weariness it almost felt bone-deep,, "I have nothing left. The same ambush that brought me here as a servant...massacred my family. The only wish I have now is to live a life of medicine, as my mother was and hers before her. My hands are meant for healing, not for war. Let me serve in your kingdom, and I promise, my loyalty will be yours."

Silence hangs between you two, thick with possibilities.

Then, slowly, a smile begins to form on Odysseus's lips; the first genuine smile he's probably shown in years.

"A barter, then. You propose your freedom for my journey home?"

"Yes!" your voice is firmer now, pushed by his response. "I have skills, knowledge that can aid you. Take me with you, and I swear to devote myself in ensuring your safe return to Ithaca without further misfortune."

Odysseus studies you for a long moment, weighing your words and the sincerity in your eyes. "You truly believe you can ensure my safe passage home? After everything?"

You keeping eye contact with him, the intensity of your gaze unwavering. "With all my heart..."

The quiet that follows is heavy with contemplation, with the unspoken thoughts that flicker behind his eyes.

Finally, he nods, a decision made.

"Very well. But know this," he adds, his tone leaving no room for doubt, "any betrayal, and it will be the last thing you do."

[underoospeterparker]

finnick w/ a reader who ate something bad or has a tummy bug (yes I’m projecting) n just takes care of her really well. Like rubbing her back n holding her hair, n being all nice cause in the middle of the bloody hunger games is not a nice time to get sick to ur stomach :((

hope you feel better soon, anon!

finnick odair x fem!reader, set in catching fire, 0.5k words

warnings: description of throwing up, stomach ache

You vaguely heard them start to talk about a plan but all you could think about was the fish you had eaten earlier. It was raw, but you ate raw fish all the time back home. You started to feel slightly queasy but you tried to focus on what Beetee was saying.

"Here's what I propose," he said, his tone serious, and Finnick and Johanna turned to listen to what he was saying. "We leave the beach at dusk. We head to the lightning tree. That should draw them back to the beach."

Finnick's eyes met yours, and you must have looked really bad, because he moved to crouch in front of you. His eyes were worried as he assessed your face. "Is something wrong?"

You looked like you were about to burst into tears. "I don't know," you whined, quiet so as to not attract the others' attention. "I feel sick," you admitted. "Maybe it was the fish I ate earlier?"

His gaze grew understanding. "Maybe," he agreed, offering you a hand and pulling you up. You leaned against him gratefully. You felt the nausea start to rise and you pressed a hand to your mouth.

"Finnick," you whispered, and he knew what you needed. He pulled you to a tree out of view and you knelt down, bile spewing from your mouth and onto the bed of grass.

He stood behind you, rubbing diligently at your back, soothing sweeps up and down as he held your hair away from your face. "There you go," he murmured, "good job, sweetheart."

A stray hair fell in front of your face but he was quick to push it behind your ear. You lay in a heap at his feet, exhausted, eyes big and watery as you clung to him. Finnick looked like wanted to kill someone, but his touch softened when he stroked your hair.

"You okay to stand?" When he heard no response, he kneeled down on the ground with you, bringing his sleeve up to wipe the corner of your mouth. "Hey." Your eyes started to water and Finnick leaned down further to catch your wavering gaze. "Hey," he cooed, pressing you to his chest, "you're okay."

You let out a quiet whimper, tremors racking your frame as Finnick tried his best to hold you together. He gave you one last squeeze before pulling away to assess your face. "You feeling better?"

You gave him your best smile, the biggest you could manage at the moment. "A little. Thanks, Finn."

"You don't have to thank me, lovely girl," he watched adoringly as you stayed clutching to his leg like a leech, "I'll always be here."

[astvrook]

洪水 | YANDERE THEMES | JUNGWON.

once, your teacher gave an explanation of altitude sickness or mountain fever, defining it as a claustrophobic reaction when a person began to spend too much time cooped up with others, and it could manifest itself when people ascended to very high altitudes, starting with symptoms such as headaches, fatigue or nausea, and eventually causing harm to themselves or others around them.

he seemed, evidently, to know what he was talking about, so that you believed him, and your mind focused on that ancient explanation as you struggled with the events that, during a «apparently harmless» winter holiday with your friends at the cabin, began to make sense when you started having nightmares about their deaths.

"do you think i'm out of my mind?" you asked jungwon, your best friend, after a terrible night full of incessant screaming.

alas, he hesitated too long to answer. yet he could see your muscles tense with fear and smiled at you. "i don't know," he said, glancing at you pityingly and falling silent again as if a clock were ticking over his head. "just know that some places are like people, too much they get inside your head."

after all, the hut belonged to his family and, as far as you knew, he went every winter to stay with them more than 20 miles from the nearest town. jungwon's grandmother, before seeing you two off, tried to reassure you by mentioning that, as they had a good income, they were always stocking the larder with food and water, everything was close at hand and easy to get without having to leave, except that things began to change when they mentioned over the radio that the roads were closed because of a severe storm, perhaps one of the biggest that had occurred in years.

at high altitude, air felt different, and the group started to behave differently, so the fights between everyone started, first because of differences in personalities, then because of the cold and then because of hunger, starting to behave like badly socialised people, because you had to keep well fed if you wanted to be happy. indeed, one of them started complaining about your relationship with jungwon, pointing out to everyone how annoying it was that he shared his room with you (which was the best) and wrongly accusing you of having food kept, which kept the others from being fed and they started exaggerating about the severity of the situation they were subjected to.

then you began to miss the rustling trees that surrounded you in the city, those birds scattering from the branches, flapping their wings wildly as they fled, wishing (for the first time) that you were one of them with all your might, and if phone communications hadn't been cut off because of the heavy snowfall, you would have immediately called the first number you had saved for help.

"guys, can complain all you want and hope that someone around here for «miles around» will listen." jungwon commented, mocking your friends' desperation, before wrapping his arms around you and pulling you back into the room, declining to play the same game.

"what was the point of us all getting mad at each other?" you pressed your lips together at your own words, listening as the silence fell over you, thick and heavy. "my stomach is growling too."

rather than rest at your side, jungwon showed leadership once again and made a point of leaving the room, but not before locking it so that no one could interrupt your rest, meaning you couldn't leave, though you didn't mind. you were weak, and while could stand for the moment, it didn't mean you always could, so you decided to listen to him, for it wasn't so far-fetched to find comfort in the smell of his pillow.

some hours passed, maybe six, when again you heard footsteps behind the door, but every time you turned your body, jungwon never came to open it. exhausted, you decided to rest for a while longer, until you heard a vibration in the mattress beneath you. a dull thud. and, as you stood up, still sleepy and checked under the bed, you found the device hidden in a hole in the mattress. "how—?" took the device between your fingers and saw that the signal did indeed work, staring at it for a moment with something akin to confusion mingling with betrayal brewing inside you.

"are you up?" then jungwon asked, knocking on the door through the wood. his voice was raspy, likely from exposure to low temperatures, but it didn't make you feel safe like it used to.

"yes, i'm coming!" you had to raise your voice to be heard over your chest that was threatening to close up in panic. left the mobile phone where you found it and crossed your arms over your chest, struggling to retain some warmth and stop shivering, not from the cold, but from the knowledge that you had to tell the others soon and, even if it hurt, charge jungwon for keeping it hidden from you.

because you knew the rules of survival, therefore you refused to be like those animals in the forest who chewed off their own paws to escape, or perhaps for fear of defending yourself.

your eyes darted to the door when the lock was opened, and followed jungwon's body in front of you, landing on the snowflakes covering his coat. "do you feel better?" he asked.

well, you couldn't answer because you didn't know at the time; you would have said whatever jungwon wanted you to say. had he wished you to say that you were delighted to see him, you would have said so, even if it was untrue. but instead, you just replied, "maybe. i'm so hungry."

as he left the threshold by the bedroom door, he moved so close that you could reach him, grabbing your cheeks and letting them rest in his hands. his face changed then, from worried cat to bright-eyed domestic kitten, and the sudden curve in his lip made you tense as you took your time to breathe.

"we'll sort that out at this moment." your eyes met, and the thick feeling of fear dissipated in you, like panic, at the mention of food. "come to me, (y/n)."

aside from the furious gurgling in your stomach, you followed him silently, staring at the kitchen table like the clock inside it. it seemed more than six hours had passed since everyone had left. when you smelled the scent of food, you let out a sound of satisfaction and clung tighter to jungwon's hand, tucking your lower lip between the teeth.

"does that expression on your face signify that you're content?" his movements paused for a second before he resumed, stowing what appeared to be bags inside the freezer.

surprised you weren't fighting, and you concentrated even more on following the steam from the frying pan with your eyes. "how did you make it?"

without answering you, jungwon bit the tip of your nose lightly, then suddenly, as you began to realise that the bags contained enough meat for the winter, the oxygen in the room faded and froze your breath, for as the hours passed, your friends did not return.

and you realised that, from then on, it would only be the two of you for a long time.

LISTA MAESTRA DE ENHYPEN

[polyamorousmood]

Here's a poly story for ya, similar to the last one.

Not long after I moved in with my two partners I became severely sick. Like unable to keep anything down sick with a high fever. These two kept me sane the whole time and cared for me like no one else had before. they took turns staying at my bed side, helping me take my meds, etc. They took notes of the past week of illness and were there with me through the urgent care visit, sharing the notes with the doctor. They spoke and advocated for me when I couldn't. They celebrated when I hallucinated waffle house because I actually wanted and thought about food again instead of the illness overriding my hunger with nausea. It's been a year since they and they have been with me through thick and thin. I love them dearly and I wish to give them the world.

YESSSSS

Nothing emphasizes that polyamory is about love quite so much as this to me. Its loving. It's about so much love and caring and --

They just love you and wanted you to be comfortable and get better. We just love. We just love over and over again. It all come back to that it's just 💕love💕

😭💙😭💖😭🖤😭

Thank you for sending this. It really struck something in me. Please know your love can do that.

[dronebiscuitbat]

Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 57)

N watched a Uzi stared down at the scan results in complete silence. Her eyelights hollow, stress lines underneath them and one of her hands covering her mouth. She trembled as she seemed to check and recheck the same section of the blueprint over and over.

“Uzi… what's wrong?” He asked, sitting down beside her on the bed and putting a hand on her shoulder. Her eyes drifted over to him as she gripped his arms tightly, burying her face into his sleeve. He couldn't see her visor, but he could tell she'd started to cry, with the sobs rocking her body.

Worry wracked his being, and he wrapped her in an embrace as she had an emotional breakdown on him, gripping onto him as tightly as she could, Tera was clinging to her leg, also looking worried but unable to vocalize it.

“I-I'm- N…” She choked out, struggling to explain what she'd seen, N was patient, holding one of her hands and squeezing while the other stroked her back.

“I'm pregnant”

He felt his entire body freeze. Shock overtaking him as he ran her words through his processors several times to make sure he'd heard her right.

“W-what?” His voice wavered and he blinked, he only knew what that word meant from his time at the manor, humans could grow other humans inside them, and he'd seen a few pregnant women inside the manor before… which had to mean.

“We're… having a baby?” It was phrased as a question only because he was still incredulous, Uzi looked up at him, nodding, tears in her eyes and looking as if she didn't know weather to smile or look horrified.

“Oh. Oh my robo-god. Uzi… we're… we're gonna have a baby!” A grin bloomed across his face as he pulled her in closer, if she was encompassed by him before, she was melding into him now.

It took a moment of him squeezing her, but before she could react he was pulling back and then leaning back in to capture her lips in his own, and Uzi found herself melting into it, eyelights closed as tears seeped from them, she was… happy? Terrified? It's like she was feeling every single emotion at once.

When he pulled away he was holding both sides of her face, looking into her eyelights with both a smile and golden tears dripping from the inside of visor, he pushed hair out of her face and pet her cheek.

Seeing him so happy with the news quelled her darker thoughts, there was no question if N would be there for her or not (and there should never have been one, either.) But she still felt worried, extremely so.

There had never been a Worker/Dissasembler hybrid before, and drone pregnancies were… mild. Low energy, weakness, core flutters. Those were all normal, and while yes she had all of these, she also had more.

The dizziness, the nausea, the vomiting, the trances, and the hunger. Oh robo-god, was she hungry, oil only seemed to help so much with that, she craved… something. Something she couldn't pinpoint and no amount of drone safe snacks could satiate.

And she was… only eighteen. They had Tera already… but… another newborn? Something that was part her and part N? That was scary… she didn't know if she was ready for that.

“I'm… scared N.” The words that would otherwise be damaging to her pride wasn't so much when only spoken to N. His face fell as he took in her face, realizing that the tears he mistook for joy and nervousness, were actually from fear.

“Uzi… Hey, everything's going to be fine.” He turned to comforting her, his tail finding her leg and wrapping around it, pushing her into his chest as he purred, it was meant to be soothing, and it was.

“I'm- We're so young N.”

“Yeah… but we already have Tera. It's not like we're… stupid kids.” He pointed out, near whispering into her audio receptors, he took a glance at their daughter, asleep, curled up near her mothers legs, gripping onto her bat plushie like a lifeline.

He had a point, it wasn't as if they were going to be flying blind into what taking care of a baby was like, but it didn't seem to slow the flurry of emotions swirling in her systems.

“I shouldn't be- why am I getting so many symptoms?” She wasn't sure why she was asking him, it was unlikely he would know.

“Is this not normal?” He asked cocking his head as he tenderly moved his hand down to her midsection, ghosting over it.

“N-no! I shouldn't be throwing up or… watching the room spin!” His hand resting where it was had a calming effect, the warmth of it radiating off his hand and into her internals.

“No other drone is as… fleshy. You saw what's in there, you're partly organic… maybe it is normal, just normal for you.” He suggested, intended to calm her nerves but it just made her nerves spiral more.

“Is something gonna come out of me?!” She freaked out a little bit, imagining a sort of Alien ‘chest burster’ scenario where some freaky flesh baby exploded out of her.

“Okay, I doubt whatever situation you're imagining is going to happen.” N seemed to detect she was freaking herself out and placed his head into the crook of her neck, now resting both hands on her midsection.

“Look, I don't know how the solver-flesh-mutation thing works, but if you are-” he paused, rubbing a hand over her midsection, making her blush at the contact. “-growing something, then whatever gave you that ability would also give you the ability to get them out right?”

She thought back to her wings, how they grew and pulsed a writhed until her chassis gave way and they burst out of her, and she was about to open her mouth to say ‘it didn't’ before she realized that while yes… her wings coming in hurt like a bitch. She did have new compartments to store them away in, and she'd mostly healed afterwards.

So she could kinda see what he was getting at.

“And we don't know if you even are. Your organic parts could be just… reacting to it like they were in something that does work like that.” He finished, nuzzling softly into her neck.

Uzi pondered his words, spurred on by his purring, his nuzzling, and the attention he was giving her midsection, she felt the spiral she was beginning to plummet down start to lift. She hummed, nervous, but coming down to a manageable level.

“Anyone ever told you you're smarter then you look?” She asked with a wary smirk, causing N to chuckle into her shoulder and lift his head slightly.

“Not until now. No. But maybe some of your smarts rubbed off on me.” He quipped back, kissing into her neck gently and making her smile genuinely for the first time that night. She placed her hand over his and let them both rest there, N was rubbing his thumb over her rubber so she rubbed her thumb over his hand.

“We'll just keep an eye on you, okay? And whatever you need, I'll get it for you.”

Next ->

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Augusnippets Day 15: Starvation

cw: drugging, substance dependency, starvation, emeto, sorta dehumanization, dissociation, nonsexual nudity, vague deathwish

previous // next

for the @augusnippets challenge // word count: 537

=~=~=

He can no longer sit up on his own.

Too weak. In the sparse moments where he's coherent enough to think, the spy knows they're tapering off his rations. Hunger crawls up from his stomach like a swarm of ants, leeching what little strength remains.

He It is always trapped in a haze, but the haze is no longer big enough. It aches all day, unable to even sleep until someone brings another water bottle. Pain consumes its leg, hunger shivers in its bones. When guards pass by, it begs them for water, not food, wanting only to numb it all.

Sometimes they comply, but it's rarely enough. Are they taking away its relief too? Or has it built a tolerance to the drug?

(the thought terrifies the spy when he can comprehend it; the thought of never returning to himself)

It can hardly move. It doesn't want to move. When the stubborn thing inside tries to lift its head, there is only dizziness, more pain, a fleeting fear that this may be the end.

The creature wants none of that. No thoughts, no senses, only the drug that allows it to sleep.

They bring it water and it drinks and nothing happens. No fog, no sudden emptiness. It whimpers into the concrete for hours or days.

The bring it water and it drinks.

(no food)

It can't stop shivering, nausea twisting its empty stomach.

(why can't you do something why can't you move why couldn't you have held fast)

They don't bring it water.

Two guards, it can see them through hazy vision. Its eyes hurt, its head aches.

(this is different)

They grab its arms, dragging it out of the cell, bad leg howling, utter agony, creature howling with it, voice weak

(pathetic, could've ran, could've done something)

the movement and pain and nausea and dizziness are all too much after it's been allowed to feel nothing for so long and it heaves up nothing, bile on its tongue, tears in its eyes. They drag it somewhere and it hurts it hurts it hurts.

(could've turned it down)

would've died

(would've been better)

They have to hold it up, hands around and under its arms. Someone else is talking at it, but it doesn't matter. It hurts and it's cold, colder than the cell was.

(when did they take his clothes?)

It tries to vomit again, left with a sour string of spit clinging to its chin. Over, it just wants it to be over, just wants it to—

Its head jerks up so quickly it sees spots when it hears the snap of a bottle opening. The new person is holding it out

(smirking)

It tries to reach for the bottle, can't shake itself free of the hands, trapped. It can't make sense of the stream of words pouring from its mouth, but it can't stop them either.

pleasepleasepleaesithurtspleaseithurts

(you were supposed to be better than this you were supposed to endure–)

The man laughs.

“Damn. Guess you really can do a number on a guy without lifting a finger.” He screws the cap back on, ignoring the creature's despairing whine.

“Put him back for now. I think he's almost ready for some questions.”