#I did not expect to write a poem today | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

stllmnstr · 6 months ago

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sacred monsters: part one

pairing: lee heeseung x f reader

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

part one word count: 19.3k

part one warnings: swearing, blood and all sorts of other vampire-y things, semi graphic descriptions/depictions of violence, I don't know anything about publishing and wrote about it anyway, not quite as much in this part, but I want to forewarn you that while there is still nothing explicit, we do get a little ~sexier~ than most stllmnstr fics

note/disclaimer: I have been itching to write an enha vampire fic for ages because hello? the material is RIGHT THERE!! this is a story I'm super excited about, and it's definitely gotten me out of my comfort zone. in order to help build this world, I did draw from some outside sources. primarily, a lot of the vampire lore and some plot elements are inspired by the dark moon webtoon series. I did also pull some things from twilight and other well-known vampire myths. lastly, there is a section with "poetry" in it. these "poems" are translated lyrics from still monster, chaconne, and lucifer by enhypen. some are in their original form and some I altered slightly. everything else is straight from yours truly! as always, happy reading ♡

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

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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.

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The last sip of your coffee tastes bitter on your tongue. Acidic, like it was left to brew too long. Or maybe not long enough. Your limited knowledge of coffee extends to its effects on your alertness and little else.

Taste has always been an afterthought, something of little consequence. Besides, some bitterness is to be expected when you take your coffee black.

Suppressing the small wince that always follows your final sip, you set the reusable thermos down on your desk. Next to your open notebook and favorite ballpoint pen, it settles in nicely with your other class essentials.

Call it poetic or romantic or unbearably pretentious, but you actually do prefer to take your notes by hand. Partly because it feels more fitting for a literature major and mostly because your laptop is on its last leg and between tuition and rent, you don’t exactly have the funds to shell out for a new one.

Frowning at the bitter taste that still lingers on your tongue, you feel another pang of regret for forgetting to pack your water bottle this morning. But no matter. Today is a day for optimism. The bitterness now only means that your imminent victory will taste that much sweeter in comparison.

Because today is the last day of the fall semester of your third year. Which means that this is the last morning you’ll be sitting here in this lecture hall in the minutes preceding 9 am.

Which means that today is the day of your professor’s long awaited announcement. You still remember the day, nearly four months ago, when he first told the entire room of undermotivated, overcaffeinated students about it.

A publishing opportunity. A real, actual publishing opportunity. Something most literature students would sell their soul for.

Because Professor Kim, while a rather mediocre professor who prefers to dish out criticism and bite back praise, has an excellent eye for great writing. So much so that nearly twenty years ago, he founded his very own publishing house.

Known by the name New Haven Publishing, it’s a small operation that deals mostly in short pieces that are marketed more for niche literary circles than mass public appeal. Being published by New Haven may not be a straight shot to the New York Times’ Best Sellers List, but it’s still professional publishing.

And a week into classes, he announced that for the first time ever, he would be choosing one of you to not only intern at New Haven the following semester, but also to publish an original piece of short fiction with them.

You’ve been fantasizing about it for months now. You can already imagine it. A piece of your very own, marketed and edited by professionals. Published and complete with Professor Kim’s stamp of approval.

It’s what you’ve been craving ever since you decided to switch paths and pursue literature studies at the end of your first semester. It’s everything you’re sure you need. Validation that your writing is good, that your words are worth reading.

Hell, maybe it will even earn you the approval of your parents.

And, perhaps most satisfying of all, you will have officially beaten Lee Heeseng once and for all. You don’t want to speak poorly of the rest of your classmates and their writing abilities, but this has always been a competition between you and him.

Or, at least, it has been for you.

It’s the last day of the semester, and honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if Heeseung still had a hard time remembering that the internship was even happening. Then again, you wouldn’t exactly be shocked if he couldn't remember your name, either.

And if you were hard pressed to choose only one thing, that would probably be what annoys you the most about him. Not the way his hair is alway somehow perfectly mussed. Not the way his writing is painfully beautiful and poetic that you swell green with envy just thinking about it.

No, the root cause of your infinite ire when it comes to Lee Heeseung is how damn aloof he is. Like his classmates and professors and even his greatest rival aren’t worth the effort of remembering.

And it’s not like it’s because he’s got some kind of crazy social life outside of academics. Other than mandatory discussion groups, you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him so much as talk to anyone.

But that’s just the way he is, you suppose.

Perfect Heeseung with his perfect hair and his perfect writing and perfect attendance record doesn’t need anyone but himself—

Wait.

Perfect attendance record.

Glancing at the clock mounted high above the front door of the lecture hall, you can hardly believe what you’re seeing.

8:59.

There’s no way. There’s no fucking way that the universe is rooting for you this hard, that the stars are aligning this perfectly.

Despite your doubts, the second hand continues its onward march. You suppress the sudden urge to bounce your leg in a matching rhythm.

He has five seconds.

Four. Three. Two. One.

And it’s official. A ridiculous amount of pent up tension drains from your shoulders as your spine straightens. You can’t believe it was that easy.

A semester of agonizing over every word, every sentence, every assignment you handed in for this class. A semester of panicking over missed buses and waking up way too early just to make sure you always beat the clock.

But today is the day where everything comes to a head.

And Lee Heeseung is officially late.

Professor Kim, at the beginning of the semester, had only two pieces of advice to offer his students that were suddenly all gunning for a shot at being published:

One: “Don’t make me read awful writing.”

And two: “Don’t be late to class. I have zero tolerance for tardiness.”

Heeseung has just broken a cardinal rule. One row down, nine seats to the left from where you sit. It’s the place that would usually be filled with an annoyingly broad set of shoulders and distractingly sharp jawline. In fact, Heeseung usually beats you here most days. Not that you’re keeping track, of course. And not that it matters.

Because this morning, this fateful morning, that particular seat, his seat, is glaringly, gloriously empty.

Your eyes flicker over to it again without your permission. But you can’t help it. You’re so antsy now, teeming with self-satisfied excitement. It’s almost unbelievable actually. A golden stroke of luck that he chose today, of all days, to be late.

In fact, you think the more you stare at the empty seat, Lee Heeseung is such a reliable presence that the entire lecture hall suddenly seems a bit off kilter. Tilted too far in some precarious state of imbalance.

Your smugness is still there, yes, but now there’s also a heavy feeling beginning to settle at the bottom of your gut. Why on earth is Lee Heeseung late?

You’re so distracted by his absence, the endless loop of possibilities and explanations running through your mind, that you almost miss the second abnormality of the morning.

Because now the clock reads 9:04, and Heeseung isn’t the only one missing.

All at once, your attention is on the podium at the front of the lecture hall. It’s empty, too. And Professor Kim may be a hardass, but he’s no hypocrite. Never once throughout this entire semester has he ever begun a class even a millisecond late.

Frowning, you pull out your phone to confirm that the clock on the wall is not playing tricks on you. Maybe there was a power outage or something, and maintenance hasn’t had time to correct it yet.

But your phone screen lights up, and 9:05 is the time that stares back at you.

Glancing around, no one else seems too particularly bothered by this. There are a few titters, a few annoyed grumbles that sound like hypocrite and double standard where they reach your ears.

But still, the clock ticks forward.

The minute hand has fallen another two notches when the front door finally opens, Professor Kim striding in unhurried. Despite his lateness, his steps are steady, even. There’s nothing frantic or apologetic about the way he sets his briefcase down next to the podium, pulling out his laptop and a small stack of notes before clearing his throat.

As the students around you fall silent, class begins as it always does. Other than the time, nothing is out of the ordinary.

But your spirits are still high, and you figure you can cut your professor some slack. Maybe he ran into a bad bit of traffic or spilled coffee all over his shirt. Maybe he’s too embarrassed to draw more attention to his error and has decided that not acknowledging it at all is the best course of action.

Oh, well. It’s no use ruminating on it now. Settling back into your seat, you do your best to focus your attention on the front of the room and not that damn empty chair. But the distraction isn’t necessary for long.

The clock is just striking 9:12 when a second late arrival draws the eyes of the class to the front door of the lecture hall. Like your professor, Heeseung maintains a certain air of composedness as he makes his way towards his seat wordlessly.

There’s a moment, a fraction of a second, where Professor Kim pauses, letting a sentence drift into silence.

Twelve minutes late. It’s a rookie mistake. For a fleeting moment, you almost feel bad for him. Because surely Professor Kim is about to make an example of him. No one walks into his lectures late and leaves unscathed.

Wincing, you remember a handful of weeks ago when a poor girl that sits a few rows behind you arrived late. Not only had Professor Kim stopped the entire flow of his lecture to draw attention to her tardiness, he had also assigned her an extra short story for homework. One on the merits of punctuality.

But the ebb in the lecture begins to flow again, the moment passing as soon as it comes. Heeseung settles into his chair. Your professor resumes his sentence.

For the remainder of the class, you do your best to pay attention, but you’re having trouble finding a point. It’s not like he can assign homework or an exam or a discussion on the last day of the semester.

Like you, most of your peers are fully zoned out, just waiting for him to get to what everyone has been dying to know for months.

Who’s interning at New Haven? Who’s getting published?

But distractions in this class have never been hard to come by. More than once, you find your wandering gaze drifting to the back of Heeseung’s head. Usually, you’d be bitterly admiring how soft his hair looks. But today, there’s only one question that plays in your mind as you stare.

What on earth happened that made perfect Lee Heeseung late?

Your thoughts are only interrupted by the sudden shuffle of small movement around you as everyone sits up a bit straighter in their seats.

“Ah,” Professor Kim glances at the time. “That wraps up our semester, then. As promised, I would like to announce the student who will be interning with New Haven Publishing this upcoming semester. And, of course, the student that will have the opportunity to publish an original piece with us.”

He pauses for a moment, looking down at his notes. You wonder if the people sitting close to you can hear the way your heart pounds in your chest.

Please be me. Please be me. Please be me.

The rushing in your ears is so loud that you almost miss it. But not quite. Because the sound of your own name is something you’d recognize anywhere.

Because it was your name that he said. Not anyone else’s. Not Heeseung’s.

You. You did it.

You’re officially going to be interning with New Haven. You’re going to be published.

When he asks you to stay a minute after class to discuss the details, it’s all you can do to nod. Butterflies are still scattered in your stomach.

As the rest of the students begin to file out, you pack up your materials with hands that shake slightly. It doesn’t feel real. It feels too good to be true. You poured your everything into this all semester long, and now it’s actually happening.

Your mind is a mess, and an erratic movement almost sends your empty thermos flying. Luckily, you snap out of it long enough to catch it before it hits the ground. With everything packed back into your bag, you make your way down to the podium on slightly unsteady feet.

A handful of passing classmates congratulate you on their way out, and you smile in return.

You’ve almost made it to the front of the lecture hall when a body blocks your path. It takes a moment for your brain to register the identity of the offender. And once it does, it spits his name with venom. Heeseung.

Oblivious and self-centered as always, he nearly knocks you over. Rolling your eyes, you move to step around him. Apparently whatever gift he was given for writing doesn’t extend to his spatial awareness or consideration for others.

But as you lean to the left, he follows the movement, still in your path. Your gaze snaps up, eyebrows raised when you find him already looking at you.

Oh. So it’s not a spatial awareness problem, then. He’s in your way on purpose.

As always, his expression is infuriatingly blank. You can’t get any sort of read on him, and it unnerves you. Irritates you. Here he is, blocking your path, and the only thing he has to offer you is an empty, silent stare.

You could just say excuse me, force your way around him, and be done with it. You should. The semester is over, your professor’s decision is made, and you have no stake left in this game.

But you’ve been biting back snarky comments and masking irritated expressions with mild indifference for months. The nerve he has to block you. The utter gall of it all. To physically stand in your way when he’s been your metaphorical obstacle to success all semester.

When every time you look at him, you still remember that one sunny afternoon, early in the semester. The time you tried, actually tried to be his friend. When he waved you off like a buzzing fly that was nothing more than a nuisance.

You inhale, weighing your options. His head tilts slightly at the movement, and it’s your last straw.

There’s poison in your voice when you bite, “Oh, what? Now that I’ve proved myself, you can spare some time out of your day to talk to me?”

Heeseung’s eyes widen, lips parting slightly. It’s the most emotion you’ve ever seen from him, and he’s wasting it on shock. As if he can’t quite comprehend why the girl he’s been giving headaches for months might not want to stop and have a friendly chat with him. Not that you imagine he’d even be capable of that if you tried.

Already, you regret your comment. In a perfect world, you wouldn’t have said anything. You’d be just as detached and cold and aloof as he was on that day you hate to think about. You still remember it like it was yesterday. Without your permission, the memory floats front and center to your mind.

It was warmer, then. The last clutches of summer were still holding on tight. Sunlight was bright in the sky, and it felt like a good time to breach the barrier of your comfort zone.

Class had just ended. Usually, Heeseung was one of the first to leave. You had to pack up abnormally quickly just to catch him in the quad right outside the lecture hall.

But you did catch up to him.

And in a voice braver than you felt, you asked, “Hey, it’s Heeseung, right?”

You’d been brighter, then. Still full of an energy you haven’t been able to muster since midterms. Not yet burdened by the weight of assignments and rejection, your disposition was as sunny as the sky above.

Heeseung hadn’t bothered to dignify your question with an actual answer, but he had at least stopped walking, and that seemed like an invitation at the time. Now, with the power of hindsight, you wince. You should have spared yourself the regret.

You remember watching as he pulled out his earbuds, tucking them back into his pocket before turning his attention to you. Or at least half of it. Even then, you never felt like he was truly looking at you, hearing you. His mind always seemed off in the distance, preoccupied somewhere you could never quite reach.

You recall being nervous, heat in your cheeks as you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His eyes tracked the movement like a cat tracks a ray of sunlight. Lazily, intently. With an energy you weren’t quite sure what to do with.

Instead, you had stuttered, “I, uh, I wanted to tell you that I thought your analysis today was brilliant.” The worst part is that it really was a brilliant analysis. Although you’d never admit that today, and much less to his face.

Instead, you cringe just thinking about it. You should have taken his blank stare as a sign. You should have just let the one-sided conversation die there. With at least a little dignity and some of your pride left to spare.

But you hadn’t.

“I never thought about the use of sunlight as a metaphor for life. I mean, now that you’ve pointed it out, it seems kind of obvious.” The memory of your nervous giggles settle like rocks in your stomach. “Anyway, I feel like I’m rambling, but if you ever want to get together and look through assignments or review each other’s analyses, I’d love to—”

You’d heard his voice before, of course. In class discussions and presentations. But never this close. And never directed at you.

He kept it short, his interruption, his response to your shaky offer.

“I’m busy.”

And that was it. Two words. Two fucking words. And not even an explanation or an I’m sorry or a sheepish expression to go along with them.

With that, you’d watched, a bit helplessly, as he pulled his earbuds out of his pocket, put them back into his ears and turned away from you before you could realize just how thoroughly you’d been rejected.

With a sudden haze in the air and hope dying in your heart, your friendly smile slipped into confused dismay as you watched him track a steady path across the quad.

If your cheekbones felt warm before, you were sure they must have been aflame by then. After all, it was your body’s natural response to the crushing weight of the embarrassment and thoroughly bruised ego he’d left you there standing with.

Fine then, you’d resolved after walking as quickly as you could in the opposite direction, sending a prayer to the heavens that no one from your class had just witnessed the most mortifying interaction you’ve ever had. If Lee Heeseung wanted nothing to do with you, the feeling could be mutual.

In fact, it was probably for the best. You were vying for that internship and if the past class discussions were anything to go by, Heeseung would be your only real competition. If he was too busy for you, then you would just have to be too busy for him.

Too busy perfecting every assignment and acing every exam. Too busy drowning in dictionaries and thesauruses and reference materials to make sure everything you submitted was perfect — no, scratch that — better than perfect.

Too busy to attempt another conversation or interaction or do anything but nod along politely whenever he did make an unfortunately great point in class.

So, no. Heeseung doesn’t get to dictate your time or attention or conversation now that you’ve actually been awarded with a publishing opportunity, now that all of your efforts and dedication and late nights have paid off.

If Lee Heeseung wants a bit of your attention on today of all days, at this moment of all moments, then you’re just going to have to be too busy to entertain him.

Standing in front of you, still blocking your path to the podium, Heeseung has the nerve to look confused. As if you have no reason to give him the cold shoulder. As if you’re the one being unreasonable here.

His brow furrows further. “What?” It’s the third word he’s ever spoken directly to you. It makes your blood boil. “No, I…” he trails off. You can practically see the gears running in his mind, like this wasn’t the conversation he expected to be having. Like he has no idea how to navigate it now. “I was just going to say that you should maybe reconsider.”

Your voice is ice when you ask, “Reconsider what?”

“Well…” He’s treading in dangerous territory, and he seems to realize it too. “The internship,” he clarifies, and it’s the second most insulting thing he’s ever said to your face.

You screw your eyes shut. Cold and detached. Blank and aloof. All the things you should be. But you’ve always run a little hot. And end of the semester exhaustion finds you more willing to throw caution to the wind.

“You have got to be fucking with me.” Eyes reopening, you’re met with that same expression of mild shock. Brows raised, lips parted. And god, he even looks good like that. “Yeah, right. Let me guess, so you can do the internship and publish a piece of your own? If all you came over to do is insult me, then save your breath.”

“What?” He still looks so damn confused. “No, I—”

You don’t want to hear it. “I have nothing to say to you.” If he won’t get out of your way, you’ll just have to go through him. The shoulder check is maybe slightly more intense than it needs to be as you shove your way past him. He barely stumbles back an inch. It makes you want to rip your hair out. “Besides,” you add, not bothering to turn back to look at him. “I’m busy.”

It’s a dig at him, yes, but it’s also true. You are. This is the opportunity of a lifetime, and Lee Heeseung is not about to ruin it for you.

To your unending gratitude, he doesn’t try to intercept you again. Your path to the front of the lecture hall is clear, and Professor Kim is just tucking his laptop back into his briefcase when you reach the podium.

Ultimately, it’s a watered down version of the million times you’ve imagined this moment in your head. Even coming on the tail end of the most annoying interaction you’ve had in months. Professor Kim congratulates you again, and hands you a printed schedule of when you’ll be expected at the publishing office for the first time.

There are also submission dates. Deadlines for you to submit drafts of the piece that you’ll be publishing. You take it all in with a beam and enthusiastic nods, mishap with Heeseung from minutes ago all but forgotten.

That is, until Professor Kim’s gaze lands somewhere over your shoulder after he tells you he’ll also send you a follow-up email with all the information you need.

You watch as his expression shifts, something uneasy, distrustful entering his gaze as he looks beyond you. “Something I can help you with, Mr. Lee?”

Following his gaze, you turn to look behind you. The lecture hall is empty, students cleared out from the class that dismissed nearly five minutes ago. All except for one, that is.

Gone is the shock from Heeseung’s delicately sharp features. Instead, he wears his mask of indifference again, betraying no emotion. You must be imagining the way it looks almost strained this time, as if he’s forcing his expression into neutrality instead of it there of its own accord.

Wordlessly, his gaze shifts to you.

And now it’s your turn to be confused, but you won’t let it last long. At least not outwardly. You’re quick to match his gaze with nothing but pure ire, venom dripping seeping from every inch of your glare.

Is he seriously still trying to ruin this for you? So much for being busy.

“No, sir.” Heeseung shakes his head. He’s addressing your professor, but he’s still looking at you. A muscle ticks in his jaw, betrays a hint of tension. “I was just on my way out.”

True to his word, he begins a steady descent towards the front door.

Your professor clears his throat, turns his attention back to you, resuming the wrap-up of your conversation.

You’re extra grateful for that follow-up email now, given the way movement in your periphery distracts you from Professor Kim’s last few statements. Instead, your focus hones in on the even footsteps that carry Heeseung to the door, allow him to slip through it silently.

It must be a trick of the light, must be a figment of your overworked, over irritated imagination. But you swear you see him linger there, just on the other side of the small glass window carved into the door.

Professor Kim says his parting words, and you thank him one final time. If there’s an unnatural quickness in your footsteps as you turn to leave, you tell yourself that it’s because you’re excited to get started on your draft, not because you have the sneaking suspicion Heeseung is still standing just on the other side of the door.

But you swear that’s his silhouette you see as you draw closer, shrouded in shadows but distinct all the same. You’re debating the merits of shouting at him or maybe accidentally shoulder checking him again as you pull open the door handle, a little more roughly than you intend.

But the only thing that greets you on the other side of the door is a nearly empty hallway, save for the pair of students bent over a laptop a few paces away. You ignore their twin expressions of shock as you let the door fall closed behind you, much more calmly than you opened it.

…..

The blank expanse of your notebook stares at you accusingly.

You’d stare back, if that would somehow make words appear on the page. Sighing, you reach for your long forgotten cup of tea sitting on your desk. Taking a slow sip, you realize it’s gone cold.

That just makes you double down on your frustration. How long have you been sitting here, waiting for inspiration to strike?

People always talk about the merits of a change in scenery, but ever since you started your first semester of university three years ago, your favorite place to write has always been here, at the small, simple desk that sits in the corner of your bedroom.

Back then, writing was a hobby. Something to do when the last of your biochemistry homework was finished. A way to release pent-up stress and tension from long days in the university lab and long hours feeling like you were drowning between all of the extra study sessions, TA workshops, and office hours.

At first, it had been worth it. You maintained high grades and high spirits. Mostly because of the small sprinkles of support your parents showered you with.

Every little You got this! that lit up your phone screen on dreary afternoons and We believe in you! that made your evening lectures a little more bearable felt like tokens of your parents’ affection. Something tangible to show for the care they held for you.

Most of all, you cherished the We’re proud of you messages. You can’t remember the last time you received one.

And it’s not like they were mad, exactly, when you told them you wanted to change majors. They did their best to be supportive in the ways that they knew how.

For your father, that was concern. “Are you sure? Literature? What do the job prospects after graduation look like?”

And for your mother, that was letting you know that she thought you were capable of more. Of better. “It’s not that literature is bad, sweetie. It’s just… Well, you’ve always been such a smart girl…”

You get it; you really do. All the questions and prodding comments that felt like criticism were wrapped in nothing but love. But that didn’t do much to soften the sting.

In the end, it was this desk that made you follow through with your change in major. Slumped in your hand-me-down chair late one Friday night, half finished lab report sitting untouched in your bag, the threat of tears burning at the corners of your eyes, all you wanted to do was write.

To put into words the feelings and emotions and fantasies and frustrations that you could never seem to express otherwise. To commit a piece of your soul to paper and wonder if maybe, just maybe, there was someone else out there who would read it and find a sense of solidarity, of common ground.

You submitted your official change request the next morning. You never regretted it once.

But your parents still make comments, still share their concerns. And for the last three years, you haven’t had anything to show for it except for empty promises. But now, you have something. A real something.

Publishing a story of your own is the exact validation that you need that your choice was the right one. And it’s the proof you need to assuage your parents’ fears, to show them that pursuing literature was the right call. That you can carve out a life for yourself with it.

You’ve fantasized about this for years. For the chance to have your voice heard, your words read. There are a million half-baked thoughts and partially written drafts scattered in your notebooks and digital documents and on the corners of takeout napkins that have been lying in wait for a moment just like this.

But no matter how hard you stare at the page in front of you, the words just won’t come. The more old drafts you scour, the more amateur your writing feels. The more you feel like maybe Heeseung should have won the internship over you.

It’s a miserable cycle your brain works itself into. The less you write, the more you criticize, the more you wonder.

What if he hadn’t been late that morning? What if Professor Kim was hoping to choose him instead? What if the reason he didn’t say anything when Heeseung finally arrived in class was because he was so disappointed that his first choice wasn’t an option anymore?

Groaning out loud to an empty room, your head falls on your desk with a muted thud.

It’s there, facedown on your desk, where an idea strikes you. If you can’t manifest a draft out of thin air, maybe you just need some parameters. A general guide to get the creative juices flowing.

Lifting your head back up, you push your notebook to the side and reach for your laptop. Opening a web browser, you navigate to New Haven Publishing House’s homepage.

It’s a simple website, reflective of its simple namesake. Chin in one hand, you click the link that reads Recently Published.

The list that pops up is modest. Unlike a larger, more corporate publishing house, your professor’s self-made enterprise is churning out new releases at a slower rate and smaller volume.

Perusing the titles and descriptions, you note that the vast majority of the works are short form fiction. There are very few full length novels. The majority is made up of essay and poetry collections, short stories, and memoirs.

Scanning the list again, a title close to the top catches your eye.

The Thirst for Revenge: An Analysis of Contemporary Vampire Activity. It was published less than a month ago.

Your cursor hovers over the link, brow furrowing. It strikes you as odd that something so… archaic would be published so recently.

Professor Kim has always come across as a discerning man. Someone that prides himself on his well curated taste.

But vampires… that’s hardly a headline worthy topic these days.

While most people still practice caution walking down dark alleyways at night and some even go so far as to carry charms infused with garlic cloves, monsters of the night are by and large a thing of the past.

The entire species of bloodthirsty, ravaging immortals were hunted to near extinction almost two hundred years ago. Those that survived relocated to remote areas. Some adapted to life in the countryside by learning to enjoy the taste of animal blood. Others found humans willing to donate small portions of their own blood intermittently. You won’t pretend to understand, but you suppose it’s preferable to the alternative.

Some still hunted in the traditional way, of course, but vampire attacks on humans are few are far between these days. After all, vampires, as a means of survival, have all but forsaken major urban areas. Population density spells demise for their species.

You’d have to confirm through research, but if you remember correctly, the last recorded vampire-related death in your city was nearly two hundred years ago.

Without bothering to click on the link, you continue scrolling down. Honestly, it was probably just a fluke. After all, who knows? Maybe there’s some niche circle out there that enjoys analyzing vampire literature, regardless of how outdated it is.

The next title seems a bit more promising. Shadowless Nights. The brief description marks it as a short story published half a year ago.

You click on it, take a sip of room temperature tea while the page loads.

Night was my favorite time of day, the first line reads.

I loved the stillness of it all, the all encompassing serenity. With the moon in the sky and stars in my eyes, every moment felt like a secret between me and the universe. Something we alone shared.

I whispered secrets to the earth and held hers in return. My days felt like dreams. Distant, blurry, faded. It was only then, in the distinct stillness of midnight, that I truly came alive.

Interesting, you think. It’s a bit more melodramatic than you expected, but maybe your professor prefers a poetic touch.

In the night, I earned peace. And in the night, I learned fear.

It came slowly at first, that sinking feeling of dread. The horrible suspicion that made the hair on the back of my neck feel sharp, the air in my throat feel shallow.

But if I have learned anything of monsters, it is that they revel in that fear. That sickeningly overt reminder of mortality, of humanity. The way I couldn’t help the racing of my pulse, the darting of my eyes.

He enjoyed it, toying with me from the shadows. Watching me become desperate, watching me become weak.

But it paled in comparison, I’m sure, with what came next. Every story has its climax, and every beginning has its end. For him, it was the sweet, clean taste of my blood.

Wait. Another vampire story? One was strange enough, but for the last two published works at New Haven to be vampire related doesn’t feel like a coincidence. Especially since the more you read, the more you realize it’s not as much of a story as it is thinly veiled anti-vampire rhetoric.

The dramatized descriptions of a weak, innocent female lead being victimized by a faceless, bloodthirsty monster. It just feels… strange. Outdated. Irrelevant, even.

Clicking back to the list, you scan over the next five entries. All of them are more or less the same. Some are more metaphorical than others, abstract in their rhetoric, but the topic is always the same. And the conclusion always affirms the immense, inevitable, irredeemable blight that vampirism is to the world.

It’s just bizarre. Especially considering that Professor Kim never once had you analyze any anti-vampire propaganda throughout the entire semester. In fact, you were never assigned to read anything vampire related at all.

If this type of literature is so central to his professional career, it doesn't make sense to you that he wouldn’t incorporate it into his class. Especially considering the fact that he was awarding an internship at New Haven to one of the students.

You take another long sip of cold tea. Well… you could try to come up with something that aligns with the current profile of New Haven’s recently published works. It’s not like you’ve ever written anything related to vampires. Maybe you just need to think of it as a writing exercise, a challenge of sorts. Producing a piece that feels relevant and fresh even if the central topic is a bit out of style.

According to the revision schedule Professor Kim gave you, your first draft issue in a week and a half. The same day that you’re set to go to New Haven for the first time and tour the office you’ll be interning at once winter break is over. It’s an ambitious timeline, but he did specify that he’s looking more for a solid concept than a well polished draft. But something in you wants to have more than just a concept. You want his approval, to impress him.

So you have a week and a half to come up with a draft that will catch his attention, that will convince him that you were the right choice for this opportunity. Not anyone else in your class. Not Heeseung. You.

A concept that will excite New Haven Publishing House’s usual reader base, that will maybe actually earn you some commercial success.

A story that will prove to your parents that literature was the right choice for you. That your words do matter, that you can make a name for yourself with your writing.

Well, you think, suppressing an internal groan, it looks like you have your work cut out for you.

…..

Despite your admitted lack of vampiric knowledge, once you have your topic, the words start to flow. You’re not sure if it’s your best work. You’re not even sure if it’s good. But it feels a hell of a lot better than staring at a blank page for hours.

This afternoon finds you in the corner of your favorite coffee shop. Mostly because they offer half priced lattes on Wednesdays. As you make a dent in yours, the pen in your other hand continues to fly over the pages of your notebook, occasionally stopping to scratch out a word or rewrite a sentence.

The bare bones are there. Just like in the handful of stories you perused on New Haven’s website, your plot features a young woman. It’s a historic setting, mostly because you still can’t quite bring yourself to write vampires into the modern day when the reality is so starkly different.

And it’s not a vampire story. At least not at first glance. Instead, you weave an enduring metaphor to symbolize a parasitic relationship between two lovers.

The woman in your draft is young, full of life and energy and optimism. And she dreams. Vivid, brilliant dreams that she clings to in order to escape the harshness of her reality as a lower class woman in the countryside.

Her husband, however, is a brute. Older than her and with a decidedly less sunny disposition. When he learns that his health is failing, he discovers that he can heal himself temporarily by stealing these dreams from her.

So, no. It’s not overtly about vampires. But it does fall into step with some of the more abstract anti-vampire tropes you came across in your preliminary research.

Crossing a dark line through the word you just penned, you sigh.

This is the fastest you’ve put a story together in ages. It’s cohesive, and the writing is solid. Your use of metaphor is strong and concise, and the prose feels true to your identity as a writer.

But something in you withers a bit with every new word you commit to paper. It’s not that you hate your topic. If anything, it’s just that you have no stake in it at all. It doesn't feel innovative or exciting or representative of your creativity.

No matter how easily the words flow out of you, something about it just feels… flat. One dimensional.

You need something new. A different angle or an alternative perspective or… Or a fresh set of eyes.

Struck with a sudden idea, you pull out your phone, plan taking form in your mind. The literature club at your university hosts bimonthly peer review sessions, and you haven’t taken advantage of them nearly as much as you should. They’re a chance for any writer, literature major or otherwise, to come together and workshop any piece of writing of their choice.

Tapping your finger impatiently on the table, you wait for the page to load. The fall semester did end almost a week ago, so it may be a long shot. You’re not sure if the club typically holds sessions over winter break. But as you pull up the club’s calendar of events, a small smile tugs at your lips.

Luck seems to be on your side this time. It’s written there in plain, bold font that there will be a session this upcoming Friday evening. That means that if you attend the session and get some solid ideas for revision, you’ll have exactly five days to refine your draft before you present it to Professor Kim.

The idea of having not only a topic, as the schedule outlined, but an actual complete, well-written draft to show him next Wednesday, turns your small smile into one that overtakes your features.

Energized with a new vigor, you reach for your pen again. It doesn’t have to be perfect, you remind yourself, even as a turn of phrase makes you cringe. Even as a piece of punctuation feels out of place. It just needs to be written. You just need to have as much content as you can to share on Friday.

Besides, you’re sure that a second opinion will help you fine tune this story into something you’re proud to share, something you’re excited to attach your name to.

The afternoon is quick to blur into early evening, and you’re still bent over your favorite corner table. Coffee long drained, you’re full of a new confidence. The thought of proving yourself suddenly doesn’t seem like such an unachievable, out of reach task.

And when you do finally gather up all of your belongings and make your way back to your apartment for the night, you’re sure that this is the exact boost you needed.

That same stroke of self-assuredness carries you all the way through a finished first draft. It’s rough and messy and littered with loose ends, but it’s tucked away in the bottom of your tote bag with a smile as you haul it to classroom number 105 in the university liberal arts building Friday evening.

You pause at the door to the classroom, only for a moment. The inhale you breathe in is deep, full. Nodding to yourself once, you push open the door.

You haven’t been to one of these workshop sessions since the second semester of your first year, back when you had just switched to a literature major. You remember being wide-eyed and incredibly protective over your work. It was hard to part with it, to let anyone else read over the sentences you were so unsure of. The writing you had little confidence in.

But your partner had been kind. Another girl in her first year, she had nothing but gentle feedback to give and reassurance that your writing was worth reading. Honestly, it was such an overwhelmingly positive experience that you would have come back for more sessions if you weren’t constantly struggling to find minutes to spare in the day.

You’re hoping that tonight will be just as rewarding as you enter the classroom, tote bag in tow. But as you survey the space around you, your face falls flat, easy going smile dropping from your lips.

You weren’t expecting a big crowd, considering that it is winter break and most students are deliberately avoiding campus right now, but you were hoping there’d be more than one other person in attendance.

Well, you think, deciding to look on the bright side of things. At least you’re not the only person.

The other attendee is sitting in the far corner of the room, occupying a desk near the front of the classroom. At the sound of your entrance, they turn to face you.

With that, your small disappointment is quick to snowball into an intense wave of exasperation. Because why is the universe so hellbent on playing games with you?

Your mouth drops open without your permission. “Heeseung?”

Your sudden outburst fills the room and lingers long into the awkward silence that follows. You hadn’t meant to say anything, but really, what are the god forsaken odds?

If he’s bothered by your reaction to seeing him, Heeseung doesn’t show it. Instead he looks strangely… relieved. It makes absolutely no sense for him to feel any sort of relief at the sight of you, but it’s hard to put a more apt descriptor to the way tension drains from his shoulders, crease between his brows softening as he looks at you, scans you from head to toe.

A moment of stilted silence passes between the two of you. Another. Your heartbeat feels too loud in your chest.

You exhale, a cross between a scoff and a laugh so humorless it could freeze a flame. Weighing your options, the most tempting by far is to just turn on your heel and exit the way you came.

Heeseung seems to read your intention before you can commit to it.

Breaking the heaviness in the atmosphere, he acts as if you’ve greeted him like an old friend, not as the source of all your recent headaches.

“Hi,” he nods, so tentatively you almost want to let your jaw drop open in shock. Almost.

Because what the fuck does he mean by ‘Hi?’ This has to be some kind of mind game, some way to get in your head and ruin this for you.

“Right.” Your lips pull into a tight line. You don’t bother to return his greeting. “I’m just gonna go, then.” Hiking up your bag on your shoulder, you turn to do just that. Your first draft will just have to be unpolished. Oh, well. You’re sure Professor Kim will have better feedback for you than Lee Heeseung ever would anyway.

Once again, Heeseung’s voice cuts across the classroom. “Wait.” There’s a command in his voice. Gentle, but firm. Insistent. So pervasive that you find yourself following without really meaning to.

Mind made up and dead set on leaving, now you’re just annoyed. What a waste of a Friday evening.

“What?” You turn back to him. You’re not sure if there’s more venom in your voice or your eyes.

And Heeseung, who commands a classroom with quiet grace, with his steady, unwavering presence, suddenly looks so damn unsure. As if tormenting you is uncharted territory. As if he’s never once left you in the cold with flaming cheeks and a thoroughly shattered ego.

“I…” he trails off, not quite meeting your furious gaze. “Didn’t you come here to get feedback?”

“Right.” You scoff again. “Because I’m sure you’d love nothing more than to tear my writing to shreds. Forgive me, but I’m not interested in being the butt end of your joke tonight.”

“What?” If you didn’t know any better, the ignorance he feigns would be rather convincing. “That’s not why I’m here.” He shakes his head. “I brought something I want reviewed too.”

Your brow arches. He can’t be serious. “Even if I did stay,” you counter, “you’re actually the last person I would want to read my work. Feel free to be offended by that, by the way.”

For a solid minute, Heeseung just looks at you. He wears that same damn deer-in-the-headlights expression he had after you brushed him off when he intercepted you in class the other day. He pauses, weighing words on his tongue. “Look, ____.” The sound of your name on his lips strikes a strange chord in you. Until now, you were certain he didn’t even know it. “Did I do something to offend—”

And no. Absolutely not. No way are you rehashing that day in the quad with him now.

“You know what,” you interrupt. You need to go. Now. You need an out. “I’m actually, like, super tired. I think I’m just gonna head back, and—”

But then it’s his turn to cut off your train of thought. “It’s your piece for Professor Kim, isn’t it?” Heeseung takes your silence as confirmation. “Publishing is a big deal. A second set of eyes will only make your work stronger. And if you hate my feedback, it’s not like you have to use any of it.”

You hate it. You despise the way his reasoning matches your internal monologue nearly word for word. The way your thoughts align exactly.

You pause, a decision weighing heavy on your mind. He is an excellent writer… There would probably be substance to his feedback. Real, actual, good substance that you could use to make your writing bloom into something truly amazing. He could be the exact spark you need to make your story come to life.

You purse your lips. “What’s in it for you?”

Heeseung smiles, a nearly imperceptible quirk of his lips. He knows he’s won. “Like I said, I brought something I’ve been working on.” There’s an intention you can’t quite read behind his gaze when he adds, “I want to know what you think of it.”

Hook, line, and sinker.

With a grumble, you take reluctant steps towards where he sits on the opposite side of the classroom. And if you slide down into the seat next to him with a little more force than necessary, well, it’s just because you’ve had a long week. No other reason. None at all.

“Fine,” you relent, reaching to pull your notebook out of your bag. “You get twenty minutes.”

“That’s not nearly long eno—”

“Thirty,” you concede. “And don’t push it.”

Sensing your disdain, Heeseung doesn’t respond. Instead, he accepts the notebook you reluctantly hand him with an outstretched hand and an open palm. The transfer between the two of you is gentle. You have the distinct sense that he’ll treat your work with care, in more than one way.

Still, something in your heart seizes at the thought of letting your work be read. Of letting him be the one to read it.

In return, he offers you a notebook of his own. Bound in brown, aged leather, it’s certainly much more refined than yours. Of course.

He hands it to you still closed. Staring down at the cover, you ask, “What page?” It feels intrusive to start flipping through his writing uninvited.

“There’s a bookmark.” Heeseung nods his chin towards the small piece of paper sticking out of the top edge that you missed at first glance.

And then the transfer is complete. A piece of your heart is spread open on his desk, and a piece of his soul is in your hands.

Ignoring the way your fingers tremble with a slight shake, you delicately open his notebook to the bookmarked page, letting it fall open on the desk in front of you.

At first glance, the writing strikes you as odd. The paragraphs are strange lengths, ending at random junctures instead of extending all the way to the margins. And then it hits you. They’re not paragraphs. They’re stanzas.

Poetry. Lee Heeseung writes poetry.

You sneak a sidelong glance at him out of your periphery. He’s already engrossed in the pages of your notebook, pausing occasionally to jot a note down on a scrap piece of paper. His brow is furrowed, and there’s a tension in his jawline that only makes it sharper.

Still, the image of his profile is shrouded in a distinct sort of softness. The kind of effortless beauty that feels like it should be reserved for intimate moments in the dead of night, secrets passed between lovers. It’s wasted under the fluorescent lights and patchy, beige walls of an underfunded classroom, but you waste another minute staring at him all the same.

For a fleeting moment, it’s not hard to imagine those hands, those long, delicate fingers maintaining an even grip on a ballpoint pen to write something as romantic as poetry.

Shaking your head, you clear the errant thoughts. Instead, you turn your focus back to the page in front of you and begin with the first poem. Forcing your eyes to focus, you read.

As if nothing happened,

She looks at me

With shadowless eyes.

But it is me who has been

Forgiven and reborn countless times.

You inhale. Exhale. Short and succinct with a distinct twinge of tragedy. That was… not what you were expecting. Pushing forward, you move onto the next entry.

Even the stars in the universe

Will close their eyes one day.

Underneath their watchful gaze,

All of these moments are precious.

For memory, for regret,

I will carve them

Into the repetition of the moment.

Again, you pause, taking a moment to breathe. It’s so… melancholy, so poignant in its evocation of pain, of regret. While you’ve been familiar with Heeseung’s ability to analyze the hell out of a novella, this was not something you thought you’d find in his repertoire. And the more you read on, the more you realize these aren’t flukes. This is his identity as a writer, or at least a significant part of it.

The world that abandoned us

Slowly turns to ash.

But I don’t feel the pain.

I only feel the cold.

My god. You nearly close the notebook on instinct. Without your permission, your eyes flick ove to the desk next to you. The broad set of shoulders that fill the seat. What has this boy been through? Why is he letting you read this?

Heeseung looks up. Not at you, but the movement is enough to startle you out of your staring. Returning your eyes to his notebook, you read the last entry on the page.

A shaded castle with no sun

The thick scent of dying roses never fades.

In a broken mirror, I see myself.

And my reflection whispers, “Monster.”

The breath you release is long. Audible. You’re overcome with the urge to run your fingers over his words, to feel the indents his pen made as he carved pain into the page. His writing is gorgeous. It’s beautifully, tragically haunting. Of that much, you’re certain. But you have no idea what to do with that information.

His words feel too raw, too terribly intimate. Like something that was never meant for your eyes. You can’t understand what on earth possibly possessed him to let — no — to encourage you to read these.

You can’t fathom any kind of feedback you could offer him. These feel like pieces of his soul, not something to be commodified or commented on in a writing workshop. Discussed in the cold, unfeeling walls of an old classroom.

Despite the discomfort that lingers with each passing stanza, his writing has an almost addictive quality. Over and over, you find yourself rereading each brief poem. You’re searching for meaning, for clarity, for something hidden between the lines that you missed on your first handful of reads.

Thirty minutes pass in a trance, and Heeseung, true to his word, is the one to break the silence when your half hour is up.

Mind still reeling, you realize with a sinking feeling that you have absolutely no feedback to give him at all.

Instead, you turn to face him. Throwing a meaningful glance at where your notebook still lies open on the desk in front of him. Doing your best to not look too hopeful, you ask, “Well?”

For a moment, Heeseung just looks at you, an unreadable expression on his face. Tension pulls at his temple, his jaw. Frustration seeps from beneath his skin, and you can’t tell where it’s directed.

“Oh, come on,” you prod when his silence extends even longer. “I know you’re dying to spill the gory details of how grossly incompetent I am and how horrifically amateur my writing is, so don’t—”

Heeseung wastes no fanfare. “This is awful.”

Your lips flatten. “Or just cut right to the chase.”

He’s quick to clarify. “But not for any of the reasons you just listed. I mean, sure, there are some craft issues here, but even those seem like a result of your concept.”

“What’s wrong with my concept?” The edge of defensiveness in your voice escapes without your permission.

Heeseung just levels you with a look. Returning his gaze to your notebook, he reads from your draft verbatim, “...Stashing away the light from her life. Tucking it into his back pocket like extra change just for the satisfaction of temporary happiness. It was never love that bound him to her, but the promise of a never ending fountain of life. Of wishes and thoughts and hopes and dreams that he could use to sustain himself as long as he subjected himself to the numbing pleasure of existing at her side.”

He raises an eyebrow, turns back to you. “I mean, really, ____? I’ve read some nauseatingly vitriolic vampire pieces in my life, and this just about has all of them beat. Besides, the whole vampire thing just feels so… irrelevant. Do people still read this stuff anymore?”

Your first instinct is to defend yourself, your work, even if his thoughts mirror your own. Before you can, Heeseung is pressing on. You don’t have the space to get a word in sideways. “I mean, what happened to the writing from that piece you presented back in September? I don’t remember all the details, but there was something about watching birds land on water and connecting it to the feeling of belonging but never truly fitting in.” He looks at you again. There’s more emotion, more glittering life in his eyes than you’ve ever seen from him before. “That was a fresh take and a well done metaphor.”

Your mind is reeling. It’s far too much information to take in all at once. But something stands out amongst the rest. Because that almost sounded like—

“Was that a compliment?” It seems unlikely, but you can’t find another way to take his words. “You paid attention to my presentation?”

You liked it? You don’t ask that question out loud, but the needier parts of you crave his answer anyway.

“Yeah, of course I did. Peer review was a mandatory component of the course.” Heeseung’s cheekbones remain the same, even, honey-tinted tone, but you swear you see a flash of embarrassment in the way he averts his gaze.

“Well, yeah.” It’s not a justification that holds much weight in your mind. “But you don’t exactly seem like the type to really pay attention to other people’s stuff. Especially if you think it’s not worth your time.”

“I just told you your presentation was good, didn’t I?”

You arch a brow. “Yeah, right after you finished calling my draft horrific.”

Heeseung shakes his head. “I didn’t say it was horrific…”

“Oh, please. Spare us both the semantics. That’s what you meant.” You’re not sure why your mind always goes back to that day in the quad, but you find yourself still sore from his rejection, his new assertion of your work poking at old wounds. Picking at poorly healed scabs. “And it’s not like you were jumping for joy at the chance to review my work back then, either.”

Heeseung’s brow furrows. You can practically see the gears turning in his mind. You’re not sure if it makes you feel better or worse, the fact that he doesn’t seem to remember that day at all.

In the end, you decide to spare him the effort of empty recollection. With a sigh, you spill your shame. At least this time around, you’re the only two that will bear witness. “That one day in class. Back at the beginning of the semester. We had to present our analysis of that one short story. You remember, the one about planting seeds in bad soil.” Heeseung nods, but there’s no spark of realization. Not yet.

Continuing, it only pains you slightly to admit, “Your analysis was brilliant, and I gushed about it in front of the whole class. Laid it on thick with the compliments. And then after class, I stopped you in the quad.” Something flickers over Heeseung’s features. A memory tugging at the back of his mind. “When I asked if you wanted to review each other’s pieces for the next assignment, you completely brushed me off.”

Brow still pulled downwards, Heeseung is thinking back to that day, too. But it doesn't seem to hold the same awful, leaden weight in his mind. “I didn’t brush you off,” he argues. “I think I said I was busy.”

It takes a lot of willpower not to let your jaw drop open. “That’s brushing someone off!” Your voice is too loud for the near empty classroom, for your close proximity. “Like literally the textbook definition. Everyone knows that ‘I’m busy’ is code for ‘leave me the hell alone.’”

Almost imperceptibly, Heeseung’s features soften as he watches yours strain. The fluorescent light bulbs that fill the room suddenly don’t seem quite as harsh when he says, “Well, that's not what I meant. I was busy.”

It’s hardly a satisfying answer. But you suppose it makes little difference. If he wants to stick to his story, you’ll continue to feign indifference. “Whatever. It’s not like it matters now anyway.”

And then your mind is back on his poems. His beautiful, tragic, gorgeously phrased stanzas scribbled in his handwriting. Fragments of vulnerability that he handed to you without hesitation.

It’s like comparing apples to oranges in a way, but there is no doubt in your mind that between the two of you, the writing he brought tonight is better. Better than your story, better than most things you’ve ever written, probably. The imagery is evocative, striking in a way you’ve never quite been able to achieve no matter how many seminars and workshops and lectures you attend.

Not for the first time, your brain dangles a dangerous thought in a place where you can’t avoid it. What if Professor Kim chose wrong? What if Heeseung hadn’t been late to class that day? Would you be sitting here with a mediocre draft and a raging inferiority complex?

You’ll never know, not really, but you find yourself asking anyway, “Why were you late to class that day?”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you wish you could take them back. It’s not like his answer will change anything. And it’s invasive. Far too personal to ask someone you barely know. That up until thirty minutes ago, you actively avoided.

But maybe the universe is on your side for once. Maybe you got ridiculously lucky and he didn’t hear you, despite the fact that it’s dead silent in this classroom. Maybe—

“What?”

Or not.

Well, you’re committed now. “The last day of class. When the winner for the publishing opportunity was announced,” you clarify. “You were late. Honestly,” you add with a wry smile, “you’d probably be the one writing overdramatic vampire slander right now if you hadn’t been.”

It’s a self-deprecating joke. It might land poorly, but you’re hoping it will lighten the atmosphere.

A dark shadow crosses Heeseung’s features. “Trust me, ___. You winning had nothing to do with me being late that day.”

If he thinks flattery will get him anywhere, he’s wrong. You can feel your frustrations bubbling in your throat, clawing at your mind. You won. You beat him. So why doesn’t it feel like it? Why doesn’t it feel like anything you do is ever good enough?

“C’mon, Heeseung.” He doesn’t deserve your anger. At least, not now. But he gets it anyway. Insecurities and inferiority and frustration all wrapped in rage. “You were practically a shoe-in, and everyone knows it.”

He’s just as insistent. Leaning towards you slightly, he looks anything but aloof now. “No I wasn’t. Professor Kim chose you to intern with him. He read both of our submissions all semester and chose you to publish with his firm. I told you, your writing is good. Really good.” Glancing down at your notebook, he adds, “Even if this one is a bit… uninspired.”

A compliment and a slight. His version of the truth, wrapped up in a bow and delivered right to your waiting ears. You don’t know whether to be furious or overjoyed. Maybe it would be best to feel absolutely nothing at all. It scares you, just how much weight his opinion holds.

But approval from him has its way of feeling like a long sought victory, and now the air feels fraught with something delicate, fragile. Precarious, even.

It’s early evening in a threadbare classroom. The most neutral territory imaginable. But it’s the two of you, alone, secluded. And suddenly, that frightens you.

“Right.” You won’t tell him ‘thank you’ for the compliment or ‘go fuck yourself’ for the criticism. Both options feel like you would be revealing too much.

Instead, you take a glance at the clock. It’s not late, but it’s an excuse. “I should probably get going.”

Heeseung exhales. Leans back in his seat. “Of course,” he concedes easily, reaching to hand you your notebook.

You do the same with his, almost sad to watch his poetry pass from your hands to his. It’s odd, the way his words already feel like something you’ll miss.

You realize then that he hasn’t asked you for your opinion on his work. For your advice on how to make it better. In all honesty, you’re relieved. You haven’t the slightest idea what you would say.

So instead, you busy yourself with repacking your tote bag. In your haste, you knock your pen off of your desk. The sound it makes as it strikes the thinning carpet can’t be loud, but it feels thunderous in your ears.

As you reach to pick it up, Heeseung does the same. There’s a moment, fleeting but unmistakable, when the skin of his hand brushes against yours.

Instantly, Heeseung recoils as if you’ve burned him. His hand is back in his own space at a speed so fast you nearly miss it.

It was an accident, a tiny blip with no real consequences, but the way he’s looking at you with those damn eyes makes you feel like you should be apologizing.

“Sorry.” The severity of his reaction stings like rejection. It’s not like he’s exactly your favorite person either, but at least you have the common decency to not look repulsed at the thought of touching him. At the accidental brushing of your hands.

Heeseung frowns. Shakes his head slightly as if to clear his thoughts. “No, I…” he trails off, letting his words hang in the air for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he concludes, but it feels disingenuous. And he doesn’t bother to elaborate. Looking over your shoulder, he reads the clock on the wall. “It’s getting kind of late. Where are you parked? I can walk you to your car.”

His hands are busy putting his notebook back in his back. It’s a considerate offer, but coming on the tail end of everything else, it doesn’t hold much weight with you. His words don’t match his actions, and you decide you’d be a fool to take them at face value.

“Don’t bother. I’m walking home, not driving.”

Heeseung freezes, hand still inside his bag. He’s not looking at you, but you feel the weight of his attention all the same. “Do you need someone to walk with you?”

The way he phrases the question makes you feel like a burden. He’s asking if you need someone to walk with you, not offering because he wants to. A subtle difference maybe, but the last thing you want is to feel like you owe him any favors.

“No, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” He does look at you now, concern painted across his features. “It’s getting dark earlier these days, and—”

His words are wasted on you. You’re already halfway to the door. “I’m sure.” But before you leave, you decide one more hit to your pride can’t worsen the damage that’s already been done. At least this time, it will be by your doing. Standing under the doorframe, you turn back to him. “Thank you for your feedback. It was good to hear an honest opinion.”

Your words sink into the air. Linger for a moment.

Heeseung nods. Something in his jaw tightens. “You know, if you do decide to change topics, I’d be happy to read whatever you write.”

It almost sounds like another compliment. Or maybe another insult. Either way, you’re sure that even if you figure it out, you’ll still have no idea what to do with it. You nod, only once, and then your back is turned again before you can linger too long on any of it.

But his words, the sweet ones this time, replay in your mind the entire walk home.

Maybe if you weren’t so distracted by the ghosts of compliments, you’d have noticed the pair of quiet, even footsteps that trailed after you in the distance. That only retreated once the front door to your apartment was pulled shut and locked tight behind you.

Then again, maybe not. Heeseung has always had a knack for going undetected.

…..

You wake up the next morning with Heeseung’s words replaying in your mind.

Awful. Irrelevant. And of course your favorite, ‘nauseatingly vitriolic vampire piece.’

In the faded glow of morning light, you groan out loud to your empty bedroom. The worst part of it all is that he’s not even wrong. But it’s Saturday morning, and your first draft is due on Wednesday. The thought of starting a new story from scratch and writing it to completion within that time frame is enough to make you want to curl into a ball and screw your eyes shut until you can pretend the world outside your bedroom is nothing but a figment of your imagination.

So no, you don’t think you can start over entirely. But maybe, just maybe, you can rework things. Tweak the narrative to feel less cliche, less outdated. More true to you.

Part of you wants to abandon the vampire concept entirely, convinced it’s what’s holding you down. The other part is hesitant to do so based on New Haven’s list of recently published works.

And while Heeseung’s criticism was the confirmation you needed that your story needs reworking, it’s not like he gave you any ideas as to what you should change. What direction you should take.

Nauseatingly vitriolic vampire piece. That seemed to be Heeseung’s biggest problem with your draft. Not that it alluded to vampirism. No, you think he disliked that it was a tired and rehashed propaganda piece on the inherent evilness of vampires.

Everyone knows that vampires were monsters. Writing about it, no matter how many metaphors and symbolic phrases you wrap it up in, just isn’t interesting.

That’s the route you’ll take, then, you decide. You don’t have to invent a new concept out of thin air. You just need to find a way to bring something new to the table. Something worth reading. Climbing out of bed, you switch your pajamas for clothes more acceptable in public.

And then you make your way to the university library.

Just as you suspected, it’s essentially empty. Between long rows of meticulously shelved books, vacant study rooms, and community computers, the only other person you see is the librarian that greets you as you arrive. Even her eyebrows raise in mild shock to see someone else during the break, and on a weekend at that.

Heading to the second floor, the first section you peruse through is historical records. But between old newspapers, reports, and journals, the content itself is quite cut and dry. Detached descriptions of vampire attacks that only contain details of the date, time, and death toll aren’t exactly riveting. And you don’t think they’ll do much for your feeble draft.

Before long, you move away from the nonfiction section. Navigating to supernatural fiction on the third floor, you start browsing titles. Vampire stories make up a rather small portion of the texts, and from what you can tell, the vast majority align with what you found on New Haven’s website.

From Demons of the Dark to Left in Cold Blood, you doubt that most of what you find will offer any kind of new perspective. But on your third, slightly desperate scouring of the shelf, you make a discovery.

It’s a small, nondescript book. The muted tones and faded lettering on the spine go easily undetected amongst the much flashier copies of anti-vampire propaganda it’s nestled between.

Pulling the book out from the shelf with a delicate touch, you flip the cover face-up in your hand.

Sacred Monsters: A Collection of Essays on the Origins of Immortality

It piques your interest. At the very least, it seems different from all the other novels.

Book in hand, you make your way to a nearby desk. Once you’re settled in, you pull out your notebook, opening to a new page with the intention of taking notes.

The book you lay on the desk next to your notebook seems like it’s lived a long life, the old scent of dust and aged paper and time all contained within its pages. Flipping open the front cover, you look for an author or publication date. But there’s nothing there, not even a title page or a table of contents.

Glossing over the slight oddity, you decide the beginning is as good a place as any to start.

The Taste of Blood, is the title at the top of the page.

And the first sentence begins:

It is neither sweet nor particularly savory. There is no distinct aroma, no compelling flavor profile, nothing that appeals to the eye or excites the taste buds. The only merit is the fact that it is necessary. For even those blessed with immortality know what it means to survive. And even those cursed to live forever know what it means to die.

Frowning, you flip back to the cover, as if that will provide any clarity for the strange passage you just read. But nothing is different. Nothing new stands out. Just the same, faded title. No author or indication of any kind of publication date.

Intrigued, you turn back and resume where you left off.

Some are said to enjoy the act. The purity of release, of giving in to the instincts that can be convinced into domesticity but never fully silenced. I have never found such relief. The ghost of my humanity has always been stronger than the voice of the monster, even as he screams with unbounded ferocity.

Without it, I feel incomplete. With it, I feel irredeemable. Even now, I dodge the truth, omit the profane. I have seen many moons, enjoyed their silver glow. I have stolen the very same pleasure from countless others. And yet, I struggle to call it by name. I cannot reconcile the battles waged in my bones, the war fought in my mind.

There is no winner in either. All that remains in the taste of it. Lingering on my breath. Haunting my waking dreams. That which I cannot name.

The taste of blood.

In my fervor, it soothes like honey. In my regret, it turns to ash.

And still, nothing changes. And still, nothing remains the same.

-- Anonymous

Well, if you were looking for something different, you found it. Because what the absolute fuck are you reading? If you didn’t know any better, you’d think it were written from the perspective of a vampire.

Then again, shelved in the fiction section, you suppose it’s plausible. Actual vampires may have housed little room in their consciousness for anything outside of bloodlust, but it is an interesting idea to think of vampires as conflicted. Haunted by the brutality of their innate instincts.

You’re not exactly sure how or if this will be able to influence your own story for the better, but something about it makes you want to keep reading.

Alone, tucked amongst the dusty shelves of a neglected section of the library, you lose yourself between the pages of the mysterious book.

As the title indicated, it’s a collection of essays. Most are quite short, around the same length as the first one you read. And none are claimed by an author. All are signed off with the same boldface type that spells Anonymous. There are subtle differences in the writing though, stylistic choices that make you think that more than one person wrote these essays.

Despite that, they’re all woven together by a common thread. The first essay, as you discover, was not a fluke. Every single one is written in first person from the perspective of a vampire.

The writing is compelling, humorous in places and deeply upsetting in others. It seems odd to you, just how much humanity is captured within the pages, within each turn of phrase.

You feel inclined to root for the narrator in some stories and abjectly horrified by them in others. But never once does the writing make you think that vampires are incapable of self-actualization, of reflection, of morality.

In all honesty, aside from Heeseung’s poems, it’s the most interesting thing you’ve read in ages. So much so that by the time you realize you’ve finished the last essay, the winter sun is teeming dangerously close to the horizon, and the library is nearing its closing hours.

The notebook page you intended to use for notes, to jot down points of inspiration, is still woefully blank. But as you make your way back to the front of the library, the small, strange book comes along with you.

Stopping at the front desk to formally check it out, the librarian frowns when she enters the number from the spine into the system. She clicks around on her computer for a moment longer before handing the book back to you.

“I’m sorry, but the book isn’t coming up in our system for some reason. Would you mind writing down your student ID number for me? I’ll have to enter the information manually.”

You oblige her request, tucking the book into your bag before you leave.

It’s chilly outside, the cold clutches of winter gaining a full grasp on the crisp, frigid air. After a long day in a stuffy library, the freezing air is almost soothing. Tucking your hands into your pockets, you turn towards the direction that will take you home.

You’ve barely taken five steps when a voice calls your name from behind. Pausing, you turn to find the source of the sound.

“Heeseung?” But there’s no mistaking it. That is most definitely Lee Heeseung, currently jogging towards you on the otherwise empty sidewalk in front of the university library.

He catches up to you easily, no sign of perspiration or even a hint of breathlessness when he asks, “What are you doing walking alone at night?” As if you’re the strange one in this situation.

You give him a once over. The loose jeans and dark winter coat he wears are nothing special, but he wears them well regardless. You suppress the urge to sigh. “I could ask you the same.”

“Fair enough.” His tone is too light, too casual. Like he’s forcing it. Like he’s hiding something. “Are you headed home? I’ll walk you there.”

And if you weren’t suspicious before, you sure as hell are now. Why on earth would he want to walk you home? “I’m fine, thanks.” You turn away from him, heading in the direction of your apartment and hoping he’ll take the hint.

Your wish goes ungranted. He matches your pace easily, even as you try to quicken it. “It’s after dark, ___. And there are a lot of…” He trails off, searching for the right word. “strange people out at night these days. I’m not letting you walk home alone.”

Lips tight, you don’t bother looking at him. The idea of Heeseung letting you do anything makes you want to throw things. “I’ll be fine.”

But he’s persistent. He’s all smiles and a strange amount of desperate when he says, “Either you let me walk you back or I’ll just follow you at a weird distance, which will be far more uncomfortable for both of us.”

That makes you stop in your tracks. And now you do turn to look at him. “Well, when you put it that way…”

Heeseung nods, “Exactly. So—”

You arch an unimpressed brow, crossing your arms over your chest. “It sounds like you’re the strange person at night I need to stay away from.”

Heeseung sighs, matches your eye. A strand of hair falls into his eyes, and he pushes it away with long fingers. “Are you gonna start walking or are we gonna stand here and argue a little longer?”

“You don’t even know where I live.”

“What a great night to find out.”

You stare at him a moment longer, lips tight. You don’t want to be the one to give in, to hand him any kind of victory, no matter how small.

But it is getting late. The walk from campus to your apartment is never one that’s made you uneasy, but it never hurts to have someone at your side. Besides, you think he was serious about following you. He’s made it clear that he’ll be tagging along one way or another.

“Fine,” you huff, arms still crossed over your chest. “But only because the streetlight a few blocks away is out.”

Heeseung inclines his head, a minute acknowledgement. There’s a hint of movement at the corner of his lips. “Naturally.”

You resume walking, and he falls into your pace with a practiced ease, hands in his pocket, eyes on the stars. It’s a cloudless evening. The sky above you feels vast, immense as the last rays of daylight lie to rest on the distant horizon.

With a slight shiver, you pull your jacket tighter around your body. Heeseung notices the movement. Parts his lips as if he wants to say something. Changes his mind. Closes them.

You’ve just reached the far edge of campus when he breaks the steady silence.

“How’s your draft coming?”

“It’s…” You trail off, not sure how well honesty will serve you here. It feels vulnerable, like a blatant weakness to admit that you’ve got nothing. But something about cold air and the vast expanse of night has you wanting to tell the truth. “Not great.”

Heeseung lets your response settle. Turns it over in his mind a few times. You’ve noticed that about him. He’s careful with his responses. Weighs his words before breathing them to life. “Still looking for inspiration?”

“I don’t know if it’s inspiration I need.” It’s easier to talk to him like this, when your eyes have something to focus on, when your body has the constant repetition of steps to occupy part of your mind. Without little distractions like these, Heeseung has a way of becoming all consuming. “I feel like I backed myself into a corner with the vampire concept. I’m not sure if there's really anything there to explore that won’t feel outdated and irrelevant.”

“Mm,” Heeseung muses. It’s noncommittal, neither an agreement nor an argument. “Maybe. You said it yourself; vampires are nothing but bloodlust. Riled completely by instinct. Nothing left of their humanity.”

Frowning, your footsteps almost falter. “I didn’t say that.”

“Forgive me.” If there’s a tinge of bitterness in his tone, you suppose it must be because of the cold. The fact that he’s wasting his Saturday night walking you home. “Heavily implied it.”

“Honestly, the only reason I even wrote that story was because there were a lot of similar ones on New Haven’s list of recently published works.” Your reasoning feels almost stupid when you admit it aloud like this. You’ve always prided yourself on your originality, your commitment to staying true to yourself as a writer. But when push comes to shove, you let your desire to impress your professor get in the way of that. “I wanted something that would align with their usual publications.”

You’ve admitted a weakness, a poorly made choice. You’re expecting ire, more of that haughty contempt. But Heeseung’s mind is going in an entirely different direction.

He’s not questioning your abilities, not even alluding to them at all when he asks, “What do you think of vampires, then?”

His question catches you off guard. Why on earth would he care about that? “What’s it to you?”

“My bad. We can just walk in awkward silence if you prefer.”

It takes a ridiculous amount of your energy to swallow the laugh that bubbles in your throat. Since when did Heeseung crack jokes? Since when did you have to fight the urge to giggle at them like a schoolgirl with a crush? You suddenly find yourself grateful for the cover of night, the way shadows make the heat on your cheeks undetectable.

But his question still lingers. Ruminating on it, your mind flickers to the small, odd book currently sitting at the bottom of your bag.

Sacred Monsters.

It feels like a strange combination of words, two concepts that shouldn’t fit together.

“I think it’s more complicated than that,” you breathe. You don’t know if it could possibly be true, the idea that creatures of the night have a high level of consciousness, the ability to moralize, to feel conflicted. But it certainly makes for a more interesting story.

“I mean, vampires had to have some level of base cognition, right?” You’ll never know for sure, but the more you think about it, the more it makes sense. “They were hunted to near extinction, but they put up a good fight. They hid. They fled. They tried blending in as humans. Some resorted to drinking animal blood. I guess there’s no way of knowing, but that doesn’t feel like pure biology or an evolutionary response alone. It feels like… something a human would do.”

“Wouldn’t that be worse?” Heeseung’s voice is low. If the faint hum of faraway traffic were any louder, you might not hear him at all. “For them to know what it means to be alive and still make the choice to take that away from someone else? To exist as a parasite.”

“It would certainly be tragic.” The words of the first essay come back to you.

For even those blessed with immortality know what it means to survive. And even those cursed to live forever know what it means to die.

“It’s a fatal flaw, a cruel design. They need blood to survive. The very thing that their bodies used to create on their own. It’s parasitic, yes, but that doesn’t make it animal instinct. I can’t imagine the horror of having to experience that with the burden of human consciousness.”

You feel the weight of Heeseung’s gaze on the side of your face. “It’s still evil, is it not?”

His words feel heavy, weighted under moonlight. Though you can’t imagine why, you have the distinct sense that your answer is important to him.

“Like I said, I think it’s more complicated than that. Taking someone’s life is evil, yes, but that was never unique to vampires. Is a vampire that chooses animal blood still evil just because they’re a vampire? Is a human that chooses to kill another absolved of their crime just by virtue of being human?”

Your words settle into the space between you.

“That,” Heeseung finally breathes, “would make a much better story than the one I read last night.”

This time, you do laugh, a light airy thing. It feels easy, lighthearted as some of the tension drains from the atmosphere.

“Unfortunately, I’m not so sure Professor Kim would agree. Based on everything New Haven publishes, he seems to have some weird anti-vampire vendetta.”

As you round the corner, your apartment comes into view. Nodding toward the staircase that leads to your front door, you tell him, “This is me, by the way.”

Heeseung glances at the stairs, then back at you. He shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “When is your draft due?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” you groan. “Wednesday.”

“Mm,” he winces, an offer of understanding. “What time?”

“I’m supposed to be at New Haven by three, so—”

“What?” Heeseung cuts you off, expression suddenly tense, voice suddenly sharp. “You’re going to the publishing office?”

“Yeah.” You nod slowly, unsure why that would possibly warrant such a strong reaction. “I’m dropping off my first draft and getting a tour. The internship starts right when spring semester does, so he told me I could come in person to familiarize myself with the space first.”

“Right.” Heeseung nods. The tension in his jaw doesn’t relax.

It’s all so strange. He always seems to be speaking in riddles, dealing with invisible problems you can’t detect.

You’re tired and confused, and the moon that hangs above you doesn’t feel like a remedy for either of those things. In fact, it might be making things worse.

Because despite the way you feel like you’ll never quite understand him, bathed in the shimmering glow of moonlight, Heeseung looks…

He looks like all the things you’ve been trying to avoid calling him for the duration of the semester. Ethereal. Beautiful. Maybe even kind, at least when he wants to be.

After all, you’re standing at the base of your staircase with company, and it wasn’t due to any insistence on your end.

The silence lingers. A string somewhere is pulled taught.

You’re standing still, and you’re still a little breathless when you tell him, “I should go.” You don’t want to. You’re not sure why.

Again, Heeseung only nods.

The movement sends shadows dancing over his features. The bridge of his nose. The plane of his cheek. The line of his jaw. Things you’ve never let yourself linger on. Things you’re having a hard time looking away from now.

But he’s seen you home safe and sound, and even nights under the stars have their inevitable end.

It occurs to you then that you have no idea how he plans to get home, or even how far away he lives.

After he walked you home,it’s the least you could do to offer, “Do you live far? I could help you pay for a cab or something if—”

Heeseung shakes his head. He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It won’t take me long. Besides, I like to walk at night.”

“Okay.” It feels strange, trading these bits of kindness. You’re craving some normalcy, something unwavering. So with a final wave and a small goodnight, you climb the stairs to your door.

You couldn’t say for sure if his eyes follow you on the way up. You feel the heat of them, the weight of a steady gaze on your spine. But it’s a fickle sensation and you’ve been wrong before. And you can’t quite bring yourself to turn around and look.

The door closes behind you. Surrounded by the stillness of an empty apartment, you release a long held exhale. It drains out of you audibly. You hadn’t even realized you were holding your breath.

…..

Dawn breaks Wednesday morning and carries with it a certain kind of dread.

Despite your efforts, and there have been many, your draft remains far too close to its original state for your satisfaction. No matter how many times you pour over Sacred Monsters, you can never quite seem to find a way to make your submission more interesting while also staying true to New Haven’s general themes.

If anything, the book has been a distraction. Long hours that you could have spent editing or revising or rewriting were instead dedicated to detailed web searches with a variety of keywords and spellings that never seemed to bear any fruit.

It doesn’t matter which search engine you use. It doesn’t matter which database you browse. Other than the copy sitting on your desk, Sacred Monsters doesn’t seem to exist.

But the annoying, wonderful, awful thing about time is that it passes. Time doesn’t care that you haven’t found it in yourself to produce a draft you’re proud of. Time doesn’t relent just because you always feel like it’s slipping through your fingers.

And Wednesday morning turns to Wednesday afternoon with the same steady predictability as always.

You’d like to think that you know the area around your university quite well, but New Haven’s main office is in an entirely different part of the city. You’ll have to leave now if you want to catch the bus with a little cushion of time to spare. The last thing you want to do is be late to your first day. Especially since the draft tucked neatly into your bag isn’t one you can hand over with confidence.

To your relief, the bus is relatively empty. You tuck yourself into a seat and thank your lucky stars that you missed the afternoon rush.

Popping your headphones in, you’re searching for something to fill the time. There’s the draft sitting in your bag, of course, but the last thing you want to do is spend the next thirty minutes agonizing over it. For now, it will just have to be the mess of mediocrity that it is.

Instead, you reach for your phone. Maybe some mindless scrolling will be what you need to put your nerves at ease.

But when the app loads, the first post you see doesn’t have you giggling or rolling your eyes or scrolling on without a thought at all. Instead, your spine straightens, shoulders suddenly tense.

Because the words you’re reading are not something you ever expected to see in your lifetime.

Three dead in suspected vampire attack, the latest headline from your local news reporting channel reads.

Clicking on the article, the details are hazy, but that does little to lessen the grip of fear that makes a sudden grab at your throat. Fragments of sentences capture your attention as you scan the page.

Three bodies found near the river…

Bite marks on their necks…

No trace of recent animal activity in the area…

Eyes widening with every new piece of information, fear claws at your throat.

Bodies completely drained of blood.

Two hundred years. Two hundred years of the belief that vampires have all but been eradicated. Shattered in one fell swoop.

And in your city, of all places. At the river. Somewhere you’ve been. Somewhere you wouldn’t think twice about going. It’s not particularly close to your apartment or university, but it’s not exactly far enough away for comfort.

You shudder, suddenly grateful that Heeseung was there to walk you home last night. Not that he would be able to do much if you did stumble across the path of a vampire, but—”

Oh god. Oh god.

Heeseung.

You have no idea if he made it home safe after parting ways with you and you have no way of checking. He hadn’t made any indication as to where he lived before saying goodnight. For all you know, he could have been heading in the direction of the river. He could have been at the river. Right when the attacks occurred.

Doubling down on your phone, you scour the article for any information you can find on the victims. Objectively, it’s probably a good thing that they’re described only vaguely. Probably an intentional choice to protect the privacy of grieving friends and families.

But ‘three victims, two men and one woman, all in their early twenties’ does very, very little to assuage your terror. In fact, it only heightens it.

Blood pounding in your ears and dread pooling in your stomach, thirty minutes passes in the blink of an eye, you nearly miss your stop. But as you get off of the bus, you’re spiraling. Should you even be here? It feels wrong, leaving such a terrifying loose end untied.

But then you think it through a little further. Even if you got back on the bus, rode it all the way to the stop by your apartment, you have no idea where you’d go from there. You may have shared insults and confidence and a moment under the moonlight with Heeseung, but you don’t know anything about him. Where he lives, where to reach him, where he could possibly be right now.

But Professor Kim might. You’re sure that student information is strictly confidential, but if you explain the situation to him, he might be understanding, might just be willing to bend the rules a bit for you.

So with a heaviness in your heart and fire in your footsteps, you double check the address of New Haven’s office and start walking away from the bus stop. Your surroundings are not a primary area of your focus, but it does strike you as odd how deserted the whole area seems.

Other than a few residential looking buildings, the street you walk is mostly empty lots. Abandoned houses. Not the kind of place you would consider ideal for any business.

Despite the cold morning sunshine, the afternoon has brought a cover of clouds. Squinting towards the distance, you wonder if you should have brought your umbrella, just in case. It almost looks as if it’s going to rain.

When you do finally find the building, you have to stop to double check the address. Not only is there no signage, but New Haven’s supposed headquarters looks just as run down as all of the other buildings in the area.

Frowning, you reread your email. The address does match the faded numbers next to the front door, and Professor Kim seems too meticulous to make a mistake like an incorrect address. Then again, he also seems too well off to run his publishing company out of a decrepit building far away from any of the city’s major business centers.

But you won’t bother worrying about it now. Even your dreary first draft feels like an afterthought at this point. Who cares if the building’s not what you expected, if the location isn’t ideal? Right now, you need to focus on finding Heeseung, on making sure he’s okay.

Because the alternative…

No, you refuse to let yourself spiral there either. But the pressure of grief borrowed from the future is already pressing firmly against the backs of your eyelids, blurring your surroundings.

As you approach the front door, you notice a small, faded placard.

New Haven. Well, at least that confirms that you’re in the right spot. Even if it is a bit odd that they left off Publishing.

Standing at the door, you hesitate. Should you knock? Just walk in? You take a sidelong glance at the window, scanning for any sign of movement. But there’s nothing there. In fact, it looks as if the lights are off.

Dark, quiet, desolate. Strange, yes, but not something you’ll waste time ruminating on now.

You knock once. Twice. The sound echoes; the only response is the whistling of the wind.

Deep in the pit of your stomach, a sense of unease begins to build. It feels off, like something is wrong. Senses on high alert, you force the feeling aside. You need a way to find Heeseung, to make sure he’s okay. Besides, the lingering unease is probably just the anxiety of not knowing if he’s safe.

Steeling your resolve, you reach for the door handle, twisting it tentatively. It opens slowly, the hinges groaning in protest. As if the building itself doesn’t want you there. Stepping inside does little to shake the feeling. Dark and devoid of any decoration, the interior is nearly as gloomy as the sunless sky outside.

And even the layout of the building is strange. The front door opens to a long, dark hallway with no lights on. It’s eerily quiet. Too quiet. Too empty. You weren’t expecting a welcoming party by any means, but it’s hard to imagine anyone, much less Professor Kim, even being here.

“Hello?” You call, clutching your bag a little closer to your body, suppressing the shudder that licks at the base of your spine. “Professor Kim?” You wait a moment, but sustained silence is the only response.

Forcing your footsteps forward, you tread tentatively down the hallway. After all, you didn’t come this far just to turn around. Especially now that Professor Kim might be your only way of finding Heeseung.

Taking slow steps down the dark hallway, you pass two doors, both of them pulled shut. The end of the hall opens into a larger room, still empty of any furnishings. It certainly doesn’t look like a publishing house. It doesn't look like much at all. At the very least, there’s a bit more visibility here, faint traces of faded daylight streaming in through the half drawn blinds on the other side of the room.

Turning to your left, you see another door. This one is also pulled shut, but there’s a name placard on the front. Drawing closer, you read your professor’s name. It still doesn't feel right. Ducking down slightly, you check the gap between the bottom of the door and the hardwood floor for any sign of light, of movement. But it’s just as dark, just as quiet as the rest of the strange building.

As you stand back up to your full height, you raise a hand to knock. Just before your knuckles make contact with the door, you see it. An odd array of crimson stains near the handle. Peering closer, your brow furrows in a combination of disgust and confusion.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think it looked like blood.

But that doesn’t make any sense. None of this does. You won’t pretend to know Professor Kim, but he’s never shown up to a lecture with so much as a hair out of place. Why on earth would he run his publishing company out of a building that’s nearly falling apart? Why would there be strange, suspicious looking stains on the door to his office? Why would it be empty at the time he asked you to come present your draft and tour your future internship location?

You have no idea what to do. Opening the door to his office and letting yourself in would feel like an inappropriate invasion of privacy, but you’re at a loss. This entire thing is so strange.

Before you can decide how to proceed, you hear something. A faint noise, barely there, but distinct from the wind that still whistles outside. It’s disjointed, arrhythmic like the sound of hushed voices. Overlapping. Arguing, maybe.

Inclining your head, your brow creases further. It sounds like it’s coming from your professor’s office, but how could it be? The noises are too muffled, too distant to be coming from right in front of you.

You lean closer. Deciding you’re past the point of maintaining decorum, you press your ear to the door, careful to avoid any of the suspicious looking stains.

For a moment, you hear nothing. Half convinced the voices were nothing but a figment of your overactive imagination, you almost pull away.

But then you hear them again. Still muffled, still indecipherable, but undoubtedly louder than before. Which means they must be coming from behind the door. The voices pause, suspend you in silence once again.

And then you hear another noise, different this time. Less like a voice and more like movement. Scuffling, maybe. Feet dragging against the floor. It’s punctuated by a strange gurgling noise. Something wet and thick and throaty. The kind of sound that makes you wince in a subconscious reaction.

And then a sudden thump has your bones jolting beneath your skin, everything muscle in your body tensing as you suppress an uninvited gasp. Because that didn’t sound far away. It was loud, too loud to be anywhere but right on the other side of the door.

Mild unease is quick to transform into sheer panic as you stagger backwards on shaky footsteps. You need to leave. You need to leave now.

You’ll find another way to get ahold of Heeseung, to make sure he’s okay. And maybe there’s a rational explanation for all of this. Maybe this is an old New Haven office and Professor Kim forgot to send you the new address. Maybe there’s an email in your inbox now, and he’s apologizing for the oversight and rescheduling your draft meeting. Maybe he’s—

The sound of the front door you walked in through minutes ago slamming shut kills the train of thought. This time, you can’t bite down the noise that crawls up your throat.

It’s stupid, from a logical perspective. A fatal flaw of human nature that your first instinct is to scream. To alert whatever danger surely lurks nearby of your exact location, the precise depth of your fear.

But the terror that leaves your lips is muffled. It comes from behind, the palm that covers your mouth. The outline of a body that presses into your back, forces you into submission with a hand around your wrist.

You thrash against the ironclad grip to no avail. Dig your heels into the ground but find little purchase in the hardwood floor as you’re dragged backwards, every nerve in your body singing with terror as you’re forced into a dark room. Even with your elbows flailing and head jerking, the grip on you remains steady, firm.

In the end, it’s a bite that frees you. The hand that covers your mouth drops away as soon as you sink your teeth into the flesh of your captor’s fingers. There’s a muffled grunt of pain in your ear as you spin on your heel.

Again, it’s stupid. You should be running, sprinting in the opposite direction, but everything in you is begging to know. To gain some sense of control over the situation. Eyes still adjusting to the dark and blinded by fear, you turn to find—

“Heeseung?” Your mind is spinning a million miles a minute. There are too many thoughts, too many emotions to keep up with. Relief. Fear. Confusion.

Relief, because he’s okay and he’s here, but—

“What are you doing?” You have a million questions that demand answers. “Why are you here? Why did you grab me like th—”

“Are you okay?” Heeseung takes a step closer to you, reaches his hands out as if to grab you again. Thinking better of it, he lets them fall back to his side with a slight shake of his head. There’s terror in his eyes too when he clarifies, “You’re not hurt?”

“No, I…” What the hell is going on? “I’m fine, but—”

A flash of relief makes itself apparent on Heeseung’s features before they’re morphing again, regaining all the urgency, the fear that was there before. He’s serious, gravely so when he tells you, “We have to get out of here.”

“Okay,” you stumble forward as he reaches for your wrist again, intent on tugging you behind him. “But I don’t understand. What’s—”

“I’ll explain everything later.” He’s frantic, you realize. Desperate. And so terribly afraid. Emotions you’ve never seen him wear. Not in the cool, calm mask of indifference he had in class. Not in the faint flickers of vulnerability from stolen moments under moonlight. This is different. This is so much worse. “But we have to go. Now.”

With that much command in his voice, that much fear in his eyes, you’re putty in his hands. But in the end, it makes little difference. The door to the room he’s dragged you into opens with a resounding bang before the two of you can make your escape. The sound is so loud, so frightening that you feel reverberations in your marrow as the door collides with the room’s interior wall, no doubt leaving a sizable dent.

And standing there, shrouded by the gray tones of sunless winter daylight, your professor blocks the room’s only exit.

Instinctively, you take a step closer to Heeseung. He does the same, pulling you towards him, behind him, until half of your body is covered by his. Peering over his shoulder, the sight that greets you is one that will haunt waking nightmares for a long time to come.

Professor Kim, who always prided himself on maintaining a neat, clean appearance couldn’t be further from that now. His clothes are ripped, hanging from his body at odd angles, adding an element of disfigured monstrosity to his silhouette.

And his eyes. His eyes. Bloodshot and so wide they must hurt, they dart around the room, narrow in on you and Heeseung like he doesn’t see humans. Only targets. Enemies. Prey. Mouth open and snarling, you swear you see a glint in his mouth, the shape of a tooth far too long and pointed to belong to any normal person.

But even those things you could force yourself to forget.

What horrifies you the most is the blood. Even in the shadows, the unnaturally potent shade of crimson is unmistakable. It stains him, covers him, drips from him. Seeps from his clothes and his skin and his mouth.

Panic clawing at your throat, you suppress the urge to vomit.

“Get behind me,” Heeseung whispers, low. “Now.”

But a split second of averted attention is all your professor needs. Professor Kim, lover of literature, beacon of taste, a role model you’ve looked up to since the first time you stepped foot in his class a handful of months ago, pinches a tiny object between his long, bony, blood-covered fingers. And then he throws it.

With startling precision, it whistles through the air, races through a hazy cloud of confusion and panic before it strikes its target true.

It doesn’t hurt, not really. The hand that flies to the side of your neck is instinct, more than anything. But the fingers that linger on your pulse point don’t find the smooth expanse of your unblemished throat that they usually would.

Because there’s something there now. An object lodged just beneath your jaw. Delicately, you draw your hand back in front of your face. There’s no blood on your fingers, but that doesn’t stop them from shaking.

As you look over Heeseung’s shoulder, the world starts to blur around the edges. Darken, as if your eyes are closing of their own volition, against your will. You see him retreat, the terrible ghost of your professor. In the dark, he looks almost forlorn. Regretful.

“Fuck,” Heeseung whispers. He doesn’t see the way your professor spins on his heel, runs in the opposite direction. His attention is trained fully on the space beneath your jaw. “Fuck.”

“Heeseung?” Your voice sounds strange to your own ears. Distant, muffled as if you’re submerged beneath water. You have so many questions.

But it’s suddenly so cold. And you’re so tired. Wouldn’t it be nice to just lay down? Rest for a moment? Surely that couldn’t hurt anything.

Your legs are wobbly beneath you, and you would collapse to the floor in an ungraceful heap if it weren’t for the two hands on your waist, supporting your weight.

“I’m here,” he tells you. Cold. When did it get so cold? Your eyes try to focus on Heeseung, but your vision is swimming. You wonder if he would be warm. “I’m right here. Just… fuck.”

Gently, he eases you both to the ground. The floor is hard beneath you, but it feels like a reprieve. You’re tired of holding the weight of your body upright. Your blinking is becoming slow, lethargic. Your head is suddenly far too heavy for your neck.

Slowly, Heeseung removes his hands from your waist, relocates them to either side of your jaw. With the care of someone well versed in patience, he delicately maneuvers your head to the side, exposing the length of your neck.

Whatever he finds there must be displeasing. You can’t imagine why. You can’t think much of anything. The world has taken on a sort of dreamlike quality in which everything feels loose, fluid and unburdened by the laws of any physics.

“Fuck,” he whispers for the fourth time. The curse scatters over your cheekbone like a kiss.

Pulling back slightly, he meets your half-closed eyes. “I’m sorry.” It sounds like a prayer. “This might…” he swallows, something in his resolve wavering. “This might hurt.”

Pain. You can barely conceptualize the sensation. It feels like a distant memory.

And then he’s tilting your head to the side again. His face draws closer, overcomes the last of your remaining senses, demands the full attention of what’s left of your consciousness.

You think he might kiss you. Whatever desire remains in you almost wishes he would.

Your eyes flutter shut, lips parting slightly as your eyelashes fan against the tops of your cheeks.

But his mouth never finds yours. Instead, you feel the soft caress of his lips against the side of your neck, a fleeting touch against the sensitive skin just beneath your jaw. Inhibitions whittled to nothing, you shudder against the sensation, release the airy ghost of a sigh.

He was wrong, you think. With his mouth on your neck, pain is the last thing you feel.

You feel his lips part against your skin, chasing away some of the cold that has only seeped deeper into bones, into the very essence of your being.

And then you feel it. Whatever capacity for sensation that remains all focuses on the sudden flash of agony as his teeth pierce the skin of your throat.

The tiny moan that escapes your lips is pitiful. Your ability to think, to rationalize, feels like something that’s dangling in front of you, just out of reach. Your body is too heavy, too weak to respond to the flash of searing pain as your skin is pierced deeper.

He can’t speak, but you feel the shallow vibration of a hum against your neck. Soothing, calming. His hand that doesn’t bear the weight of your head moves to push a stray strand of hair from your forehead. It’s gentle, reverent. In complete opposition to the war he wages against your neck.

Mouth still full of you, a groan escapes him. It’s heady, throaty, and you feel it travel the length of your spine, settle in the pit of your stomach. Sensation is the only thing tethering you to this world, and you can’t quite tell if this is pleasure or pain.

He pulls back, the absence of his steady heat leaving your jaw vulnerable to the chill in the air.

“Hold on,” you hear. You can’t pinpoint where the noise comes from. Sound surrounds you, washes over you in a strange uniformity. You feel the ground fall away, something warm and solid behind your shoulders and under your knees.“We’ll be there soon.”

Floating, you think. You must be floating. It’s hard to tell. Moments are bleeding into one another too quickly for you to keep up.

Eyes closed, body molten, you relax into the steady grip that carries you.

And the last thing you hear before reality loses its hold is the fervent, whispered sound of your name.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

CONTINUED IN PART 2 (which can be found on my masterlist!)

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

note: THANK YOUUUUU for reading!!! this is pretty different from what I usually write plot wise, so I hope it made for a good read. vampire heeseung and this oc are near and dear to me, and I'm excited to continue their story. the rest of this fic is fully plotted and partially written. I'm actively continuing to work on it, and hearing your thoughts/theories/screaming/feedback/etc. is great motivation! as always, I love know what you're thinking. ♡

#heeseung fanfiction #heeseung x reader #heeseung fanfic #enhypen fanfic #enhypen x reader #heeseung x you #enhypen x you #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios #heeseung scenarios #heeseung imagines

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madebycloud · 29 days ago

Text

pt 3 | Not Even at All

jinx/powder x female reader — 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬⠀𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

summary: vi is off limits until her sister gets a date that doesn't end within the first ten minutes. eager to date vi, a certain girl approaches you with a proposal. date jinx. win her over. and for your efforts, she's willing to be generous. (10 Things I Hate About You AU) warnings/themes: fluff and slight angst, kinda enemies to what, one sided fake dating, highschool, modern au, kat!jinx, patrick!reader words: 7.5k notes: took this long enough bcz uni sucks — ✩ part one, part two, part three, part four, part five

“THE WEAKNESS IN ME”

Jinx storms into her classroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

She's only been inside for a few seconds when one shithead student leans back, sneering. “Jinx, me lady, you sway to the rhythm of me heart,” he mocks, his friends laughing along.

Another adds, “Yeah, give us a private performance, babe!”

Another one shouts from across the row, “How much for a personal dance, cowgirl?”

Some asshole from the party filmed her drunken dance and uploaded it, and now she's the hot topic around school.

“Piss off, dipshits,” she mutters, dropping her backpack on her desk and throwing herself into her chair.

Mr. Salo walks into the class, a stack of papers in his hand. “How was everyone's weekend?” He set the papers down on his desk.

One of the boys pipes up, his friends snickering as they elbow him in the ribs. “Maybe we should ask Jinx.”

Before Jinx can respond, Mr. Salo cuts in, “Unless she kicked the crap out of your butt, I don't want to hear about it.”

—

You shuffle into the classroom late as usual, trying to ignore the way Mr. Salo's eye twitches as you drop into your desk. Immediately you glance over to where Jinx usually sits.

Jinx lifts her head, her eyes shifting across the room. At the whiteboard. At the ceiling. At her textbook. Anywhere but you.

“We're continuing our lesson today,” Mr. Salo announces, grabbing your attention. “Open your books to page seventy-three, and we'll get started.”

You rummage through your backpack, shoving your textbooks and notes and empty crisp packets out of the way. You manage to wrangle out the battered copy of the textbook.

Mr. Salo clears his throat, addressing the class. “We'll be doing something a little different today. I want you all to write your own version of Shakespeare's Sonnet 141.”

Groans echo across the classroom.

You don't really blame them—doing it like this on Monday? not only that, it's english class. Nobody in this room can be bothered to do any work right now, least of all thinking of a way to make an assignment interesting.

“As you work on your assignments,” Mr. Salo continues, “remember this is meant to be a creative, expressive project. I expect everyone to think outside the box for this one.”

Creative and expressive? What could be so creative and expressive about an old ass Shakespeare sonnet.

While the rest of the class starts writing, you open the assigned page and squint at the poem, silently reading it to yourself.

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes. For they in thee a thousand errors note.

How in the hell are you supposed to come up with anything creative for something like this?

But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise.

You read out the next line, drumming your fingers against the edge of your desk.

Who, in despite of view, are pleas'd to dote.

This whole assignment seems like a bunch of pretentious bullshit.

—

“You actually went to the party?” Lux asks, eyeing the menu on the counter. “I thought we were officially opposed to suburban social activity.”

Jinx gives a half-shrug. “I didn't have much of a choice.”

“You didn't have a choice,” Lux repeats mockingly. “What'd they hold you at gunpoint or what?”

Jinx cringes, avoiding Lux's gaze. “I did Vi a favor, and it backfired.”

Lux's eyes widen. “You didn’t…”

“I got drunk. I puked. I got rejected. It was big fun.”

—

You enter the diner, making your way towards the counter to order.

Wait a damn minute.

Is that Jinx?

You smirk, approaching Jinx. “Hey,” you greet, lifting a hand.

Jinx doesn't reply. She shoves a handful of items into her backpack, not even sparing you a glance before she takes off out the door.

You furrow your brow, turning back to look at her friend (Lux, you think her name is?), who just shrugs apologetically before following Jinx out the door.

You stand in the diner for a solid ten seconds.

What the hell?

Did she just... ignore you like that?

You blink a couple times, staring at the door Jinx just walked out of.

Just what the hell?

—

You sit on the bleachers watching the girls soccer team practice. You spot Jinx kicking the ball around with a few of her teammates.

“What'd you do to her?” Cait asks on the other end.

“I don't know,” is your honest answer. A pause. “I decided not to take advantage of her.”

“You realize that pretty much ruins our deal, right?”

“Yeah, no kidding," you reply. “She won't even look at me.”

“Why can't you just tell her you're sorry?"

“Because she's been doing nothing but avoiding me,” you explain. “I'm not sure she even knows I exist anymore.”

“Of course she knows. It's not like she doesn't remember who you are,” Caitlyn points out. “Did you at least apologize?”

“No.”

“And why not?”

“Because she'd probably break my nose if I was within a 10-foot radius of her right now,” you retort.

Caitlyn sighs. “You're an idiot.”

“I'm aware.”

“You need to apologize,” she says. “Soon. Otherwise this entire thing is going to blow up in our faces, and neither of us is going to get anything out of it.”

“She just needs time to cool off,” you say, nodding. “I'll give it a day.”

And suddenly—

THWAP!

A soccer ball goes flying past your head. You flinch so hard you nearly fall off the bleachers. You twist around to see who threw the damn thing.

Jinx.

“...maybe two,” you correct yourself, watching her get back to practice.

You rub your forehead where the ball almost hit you, frowning as you watch her play. You knew she could aim, but holy moly. If that had hit you, it would have probably left a bruise.

Well, at least you know she hasn't completely forgotten who you are. So… progress?

—

Jinx and Lux walk through the courtyard when Jinx sees a flyer for prom taped to the nearby wall. She rips the flyer off the wall, crumpling it in her hands before tossing it to the ground.

A girl next to the wall, who was holding a stack of flyers, let out a gasp. “Hey!”

Jinx doesn't even glance in her direction as she keeps walking, shaking her head. She turns to Lux. “Can you imagine who would even go to that antiquated mating ritual?”

Lux raises her hand. “I guess I would. But I don't have a date,” she admits.

“Why would you want to go to prom?”

Lux shrugs. “It's the last time we'll all be together as seniors-”

“You really want to get all dolled up so some guy with a cheap Walmart suit and a boner shoved down his pants can grab your ass all night while you're forced to listen to a band that, by definition, sucks?”

“Okay, okay, I guess we won't go. It's not like I have a dress or anything.”

Jinx smirks. “You're looking at this from entirely the wrong perspective. We're not just skipping prom. We're making a statement.”

“Oh, goody. Something new and different for us.”

“We're not some mindless sheep, going through the motions of senior year just because we're expected to-”

“Apart from studying for exams and turning in assignments,” Lux comments.

Jinx shoots her a scowl. “You're ruining my monologue.”

“Sorry,” Lux says, still smiling.

“As I was saying,” Jinx continues. “We're not just skipping prom to sit at home all night... we're making a statement. We're rebels. We're refusing to go through the boring, pointless motions of senior year like the other sheep, like every other senior year before us.”

—

You meet up with Caitlyn, who looks like she's getting just as frustrated and restless as you are with this entire situation.

Jinx has been refusing to even acknowledge your existence, and it's been a week since she last spoke to you—if you even count a soccer ball being whipped at your head as a form of communication.

And you're not sure you even want to bother anymore. This is stupid.

But Caitlyn is just as persistent and desperate as ever.

“Your school's having prom soon, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

Caitlyn hands you a stack of 200 dollar bills, pushing it into your chest. “Take her to prom.”

”No,” you reply, shoving her hand away. “I don't care, Cait. Can't do this anymore. Its sick-”

“Come on, 300 bucks.”

You push her hand away for the second time. “I thought you wanted out.”

“Yeah, well, things have changed. Vi kissed me,” she says. “We're not together yet.. but I think we're close. The only thing holding Vi back right now is her sister.” Caitlyn pushes the three-hundred dollar bill into your palm and closes your fingers over the money. “That's why I need you to do this now. Come on… help a friend out?”

You look at the money in your palm, then at Caitlyn.

“Fine.”

—

You figure you can't make things much worse than they already are and decide to find Jinx at the record store.

After some searching, you eventually find her standing in the guitar section, admiring an electric guitar. Complete with strap, of course. She fits the headphones over her ears, then sits on one of the stools nearby.

You slip your hands into your pockets, quietly approaching her from behind to talk and—

Wait.

You pause a few feet away, watching her.

Jinx looks… content. Comfortable, at least. Her eyes are closed, and she's slowly bobbing her head to whatever music is playing through the headphones.

You open your mouth to speak, to say sorry and get all this done and over with. But…

No. No. You can't—won't—disturb her when she's comfortable and, dare you even think it... too peaceful. Too calm. You're not going to take that from her.

So you quietly back away, deciding to leave her alone.

—

You wander down the section of vinyl and CDs, scanning the titles on display. You spot Jinx across the way and decide to follow her, ducking your head to watch her walk across the shelf.

Once she turns the corner, you end up right in front of her.

“Excuse me. Have you seen Collide with the Sky? I'm looking for the vinyl.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And what are you doing here?”

“I heard there's a sale going on,” you lie.

“You're so…” she starts, her eyes narrowing.

“Charming?” You cut her off with a grin, only for Jinx to roll her eyes—not amused at all, and walk away. “Wholesome?“

She stops in her tracks, turning to look at you. “Unwelcome.”

You step closer. “You're not as mean as you think you are.”

She looks at you head to toe and scowls. “And you're not as badass as you think you are.”

“OOO,” you drawl. “Someone's still got their panties in a twist.”

“Don't for one minute think you had any effect on my anything, let alone my panties. Moron.”

“Then what did I have an effect on?”

She turns away from you, rifling through the vinyl. “Other than making me want to puke? Nothing.” She shoves one into your hands and pushes past you, knocking you back a step as she storms out of the record store.

You glance down at the vinyl she shoved into your hands. Collide with the Sky.

—

You sit at a table in the cafeteria, typing out a message on your phone and sending it to Caitlyn. “she's still pissed.” You hit send before taking a bite of your lunch.

Almost instantly, you get a notification. Caitlyn reacted to your message with a haha. A message bubble appears, then disappears.

You type out another message. “i can hardly ask her to prom if she's still pissed at me.”

She responds in mere seconds. “I have an idea.”

“what is it?” you type back.

“Sing a romantic song for her.”

“you want me to die that badly?” you reply. “do you really think that will work?”

“Yes.”

You toss your phone to the side, picking at your food again. Singing a romantic song to Jinx? that's ridiculous.

Your phone buzzes again. “Come on. Do it. You've got nothing to lose.”

You pick up your phone and type out a response. “besides my pride, self-respect, and maybe even my life?”

“Stop being a pussy. Just do it. I double dog dare you.”

—

You approach Ekko's locker as he closes it with a slam. You clear your throat and give him a smirk.

“You again?” he says before turning to look at you. “What do you want now?”

You pause, glancing around the hallway to make sure no other students are within earshot. The coast looks clear, so you turn to face Ekko again. “You lead the marching band, right?”

“So?”

You hold up a one hundred dollar bill. “Play a song.” You notice his gaze flick back and forth between the stack of cash and your face.

He clenches his jaw but takes the bill nonetheless. “What song?”

—

You look out over the school field as the girls' soccer team and marching band members practice below.

You scan the controls for the school's stadium audio before plucking the cordless microphone off its stand. You find the switch labeled FIELD MIC ANNOUNCE and turn it up.

The mic is on. You hear some feedback when you bring it to your lips. Here goes nothing.

“You're just too good to be true. Can't take my eyes off of you,” you begin to sing, stepping out through the stadium's audio control room and into the open air. Your voice echoes from the speakers all over the open field. “You'd be like Heaven to touch. I wanna hold you so much. At long last love has arrived…”

The soccer team and the marching band members look up at the sound of your voice. Some of them stop to see where the singing was coming from.

“And I thank God, I'm alive. You're just too good to be true.” You step into view, scanning across the open field and finally spotting Jinx in the crowd.

She's standing in the field with the rest of the soccer team, and she's already looking at you.

“Can't take my eyes off youuuu,” you point directly at her, a huge grin stretching across your face.

With a whistle from Ekko, the marching band takes their cue and starts playing.

The noise catches Jinx's attention, and she turns away from you to look at the band playing. Realizing that something is going on, she glances back and forth between the band and then to you before breaking out into a chuckle.

“I love you, baby, and if it's quite alright. I need you, baby, to warm the lonely night,” you sing, making your way over towards the home bleachers and sitting down on one of the steps. “I love you, baby, trust in me when I sayyy.”

You keep going with your performance, dancing around the bleachers while singing.

The two guards arrive to grab you, but not before the crowd claps to your performance.

You finally break out of their grip and continue singing. You even sneak in a pat on one guard's ass on your way past them, then run away with a huge grin on your face.

—

And, as expected, you end up in detention after that.

The room is quiet, and you rest your head against the surface of the table, closing your eyes.

Mrs. Medarda walks around the room, occasionally glancing around to make sure they're behaving. She stops at the desk next to yours. “You look pretty nervous.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He nods anxiously.

“You're sweating like a pig,” she notes, eyeing the boy.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Your eyes are all... bloodshot.”

“Yes, m-ma'am,” he stutters.

“You've got pot, don't you?”

The boy pales but reluctantly holds out his hand and places the weed into her open palm.

“I'm confiscating this,” she says, turning around and placing the weed on the front desk.

You hear the creaking sound of the classroom door opening, followed by Jinx's voice. “Coach Medarda…” She clears her throat. “I have some ideas on how we can improve the girls' soccer team.”

Mrs. Medarda turns her head towards Jinx. “Let's talk about it later,” she replies before turning away once again.

Jinx turns to you and whispers loudly, “Window! Now!”

“Window?!” you whisper shout back. The hell does she mean, window?

Mrs. Medarda turns back to Jinx, who gives a nervous laugh. “As you know, we have a huge game against the Noxus High Scorpions upcoming.”

You quickly grab your bag and move to the side of the room without Mrs. Medarda noticing.

Mrs. Medarda begins to turn in your direction, but Jinx grabs her arm to keep her from turning around completely.

“Your bicep is huge! Holy crap!” Jinx exclaims, grabbing Mrs. Medarda's other arm. “The other one's even bigger. Do you take steroids or something? I've heard steroids can really mess you up, like make your-”

“Jinx.” Mrs. Medarda interrupts her.

“Uh, that's not the point.”

“Let's hope not.”

When you make a loud creak, Mrs. Medarda cranes her neck to look at you, but Jinx grabs Mrs. Medarda's arm again to stop her from turning around.

“So, the point is,” Jinx chimes in, “they beat us every single time. And this year, I think I have a plan to actually win. You see…”

“And what might this plan be?” Mrs. Medarda asks.

You take a glance out the window. It's open, but it's a fair distance down from the second floor. Definitely would not be a pleasant drop. You spot a large tree in front of the window with its branches extended across it. That might work.

“You remember that drill you taught us?” Jinx continues.

“What drill?”

“Misdirection.”

Mrs. Medarda stops and thinks for a minute. “I taught you that?”

“Yep… anyway... that's not what's important right now.”

Mrs. Medarda tries to turn away once more, but Jinx grabs her chin and spins her head right back.

“Think about it!” Jinx exclaims. “They're looking left, but we're running to the right and scoring points. Boom, we win!”

“Okay, but how do we get them to look left?”

You don't hear the rest of the conversation as you leap forward onto the large tree. You let out a yelp as you land. Just as you settle on one of the branches, a loud BOOM is heard from inside. A few seconds later, the window to the detention room lights up with a shower of multicolored sparks.

—

You watch as Jinx looks around, catching her breath. “She just left!” she pants. “I did all the hard work, and the dickhead left me.”

“Hey, sunshine,” you call down from the tree. “Look up.”

She cranes her head towards the tree, her eyes locking onto you.

“I have to admit, I'm afraid of heights,” you add.

“Oh,” Jinx looks up at the tree, shielding her eyes from the sun. “It's not that bad.”

“How would you know?” you ask, swinging your legs from the high branch you're perched on. “Try looking at it from my angle.”

She scans the branches and points to the one right below. “Put your right foot here-”

“Forget it,” you refuse. “I'm staying right here.”

She scoffs, then glances up at you again. “You want me to climb up there and show you how to get down myself?”

“Maybe.”

She sighs and climbs up the tree until she's right next to you on the branch.

You grin at her, then swing your legs down and hop to the ground, leaving her stuck on the high branch alone. “Catch ya later, sunshine,” you call up.

“You little...! Get back here, you shithead!” She jumps down from the tree and sprints after you.

—

The small, rented pedal boat rocks under your weight as it glides through the water. Jinx is sitting right next to you, both of you laughing as you try to make the boat go faster.

“Frankie Valli?” she asks between giggles.

“I figured it had to be something ridiculously cheesy to win your respect and piss you off.”

She snickers and continues pedaling. “Good call.”

“You are a terrible co-paddler, you know that?” you tease.

“You're the one pushing all the water around.”

“It would go faster if you helped out.”

“I am helping out!” Jinx protests. “I'm keeping the boat from tipping over.”

“More like you're making it tip over,” you counter.

“Hey!” She smacks your leg. “We'd be moving a lot faster if you pedaled, too.”

“You can't hit the coxswain like that!”

“Stop whining and pedal!”

Both of you laugh. “So I gotta ask,” you begin. “How'd you get Medarda to look the other way?”

“I blew up the whole detention room,” Jinx says nonchalantly.

You blink. “You blew it up? with what?”

Jinx shrugs, turning to look at you. “Fireworks.”

“Fireworks. Seriously.”

“Yeah... but they're never gonna find out who did it.”

You're not sure if you should be impressed or terrified.

You continue to paddle around the sea together. You pause, looking around the sea before looking back at Jinx. “So what's your excuse?”

“Excuse for what?” Jinx asks, eyebrows raised.

“For acting the way you do,” you clarify.

She purses her lips in thought. “I just dislike meeting people's expectations.” She looks off to the side, out to the sea. “Why live up to other people's expectations when I can live the way I want to?”

You ponder her words, thinking over the way her mind works. “So you disappoint them from the start, and then you're covered, right?”

She nods. “Pretty much.”

“Then you screwed up.”

She frowns, her brow wrinkling. “How so?”

“You never disappointed me.”

Jinx turns and meets your gaze. After several seconds, a smile slowly forms on her lips, and soon a chuckle escapes her.

You look away, suddenly finding your shoes much more interesting. You try to fight back a smile of your own.

Your eyes flicker across the coast, spotting a paintball field in the distance. “You up for it?” you ask, nodding towards the field’s direction.

She follows your gaze. “Hell yeah.”

—

SPLOP

The paintball bursts against your chest, splattering paint all over you. With a smirk, she sticks her tongue out at you.

You tilt your head and take aim. And then, FWUMP. The paintball hits her square in the stomach.

She gasps and grabs her stomach, looking at you in shock. “You asshole!” she yells, giggling. She runs toward one of the obstacles and ducks behind it. She then pops her head out from the obstacle and takes aim at you.

The paintball hits you on the shoulder, adding yet another blue splotch to the paint already decorating your protective clothing.

“Hey!” You quickly chase after her, the two of you running between the obstacles. She turns a corner, and you quickly round the corner after her, only to find… ah hah. There she is, cornered like a rat.

She holds up her hands in surrender, grinning at you. “Caught me.”

“Yeah,” you reply, stepping closer. “You bet I did.” You sling your arm around her shoulders.

And then, without a second thought…

You smash a paintball against her head, leaving behind a bright blue splatter of paint on her hair.

She squeals and hides behind a nearby obstacle. “No fair!“

But you follow, throwing paintball after paintball, not letting her get away.

She pokes her head out to throw a paintball back at you. It hits you on the chest.

You both laugh as you run around the field, throwing paintball after paintball. You chase her around, she tries to run away, but you're faster. You lunge at her, taking her by surprise. The two of you fall onto a nearby bale of hay, you landing on top of her.

You both throw your protective goggles aside, laughing breathlessly while you both catch your breath.

You look down at Jinx, and…

Her face is flushed and streaked with paint. Her hair is tousled, some strands have fallen out of her braids.

You slowly reach out and cradle her face in your hand, running your thumb across her cheek. “Can I…”

She nods in response. Her eyes flutter shut as you lean in. Your lips meet Jinx's, and it’s…

It's like fireworks. Why does it feel so right?

Her lips are soft, and they taste like cherry lip balm. The fingers on her left hand slowly trail up your arm, making their way up to the back of your neck. The other hand clutches at the fabric of your paint-splattered clothes as she kisses you back, her tongue slipping into your mouth.

Her bangs swing forward, getting in the way of your kiss, causing her to pull away with a groan. You watch her brush her hair to the side and fix it back into place. “Here,” she huffs, pulling you back in with a tug around your neck, “let me try that again.”

You barely manage to get the word “sure” out before her lips are back on yours. Your hand slides up to the back of her head, your fingers slipping between her braids, grabbing a handful of hair, and tilting her head back to deepen the kiss.

It… it feels good. Really good.

She smiles against your lips, then pulls back, her eyes hooded as she stares up at you.

You lean in to kiss her again when BAM! A paintball suddenly smashes against the side of your head.

What the fuuuck?! “Wha—Hey!” you shout. “You!”

Jinx laughs as she scrambles to her feet and runs off.

“I swear to god I am going to get you back for this,” you curse as you get to your feet.

—

Jinx walks out onto the paintball field, her forehead smeared in bright blue paint. “I think I should cut my hair,” she says, tossing her braided hair over her shoulder.

“Why's that?” You wipe a sweat off your forehead.

Jinx scratches her cheek. “Just kinda thinking about it,” she replies.

You walk beside Jinx, the paintball field disappearing out of sight behind you. “Why have you got it so long?” You gesture to her braided hair.

“I've had it since I was a kid.” She reaches behind, grabbing one of her braids and resting it under her chin. “Never cut it after I…” Jinx pauses, then shakes her head. “Doesn't matter.”

“After what,” you ask, bumping your shoulder into Jinx's.

She glances back at you and lets go of her braid, letting it fall into place at her back. “Nothing, nothing,” she says, waving her hand.

“Your hair looks fine now. Why do you want to cut it?”

“I dunno... it's getting kinda long, I feel like it's holding me back.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Holding you back from..?”

“From changing.”

“Changing?”

Jinx nods. “Changing,” she repeats. “It's just… a fresh start, I guess.”

You hum, kicking a small rock with your foot as you follow Jinx's lead. “Anything specific you're thinking of?”

—

You stand outside the local hair salon, waiting impatiently for Jinx to come out. Jinx had shooed you out of the salon to wait while she freshened up her “look” as a surprise, or so she said.

Just when you're about to reach for your phone, you suddenly hear a voice behind you. “What do you think?”

You turn around and-

You blink. And blink again.

Wow.

Her long blue braids are now cut to her chin. She wasn't kidding when she said it was a surprise.

Goddamn. She's beautiful.

“Well?” Jinx asks, hands on her hips. “What do you think?”

You gawk at her for a moment too long, completely speechless. How can you even put your thoughts into words?

“It's-” your mouth feels dry. She looks... different. But the same. “Wow. That's-” Wow. “That's... Wow.” Your eyes scan over her shorter hair, down her face, her arms... everywhere. Everything about her looks just so… damn perfect.

Jinx grins. “You like it?”

Like it? Hell yes, you like it. You nod mutely, still at a loss for words.

“You look like you've been struck dumb,” Jinx jokes. She lightly punches your shoulder, making you stumble backwards a couple of steps. “Seriously, no comments?”

You try to form a sentence, but the only two words that come to mind are “holy” and “shit”.

Jinx laughs at you—either her laughter is adorable as hell, or you're completely losing your mind. Might be both, to be honest.

You quickly regain your wits and manage to regain control of your mouth. “Sorry,” you reply, sheepish. “You just... look really good. And the haircut… it's really-” You pause to gesture vaguely at her hair before continuing. “You look... different.”

“In a good way?”

Your ears grow hot. “In a good way.”

“I thought so.” Jinx slings her arm through yours. “Soooo,” she drawls, looking at you sideways, “about this massive collection of 2,000 CDs you have…”

Fuck. You forgot about that.

“I wanna see em,” she continues.

“Yeah… about that.” You laugh nervously, rubbing the back of your neck. “I uhh… I mayyyyy have exaggerated a bit?”

—

“What is thiiiisss?”

“It's…” you start, before faltering mid-sentence. “My… grandmother’s birthday present.”

She looks at the CD and smiles widely. “No way.” She turns the case to show you the cover. “Madonna? Really?” Jinx looks at the cover in her hands—Celebration. Then she looks back up at you. “Aww,” she coos mockingly. Ugh.

You think back to the many times you’ve been forced to listen to Madonna songs when visiting your grandmother. Even now you can almost hear Material Girl playing in your mind.

“Ehhh, well, you know how it is,” you say awkwardly. “My grandma loves Madonna, so...” you finish lamely, shoulders lifting in a shrug.

She slowly walks as she looks at a few other items around your room. “You know,” she begins, “when you said you had a massive collection of CDs, I kinda got excited. I was like, maybe she's got a band I don't know. Or some really underground artist only people with good music taste know about. But…” she holds up the CD again. “Madonna? really?”

“It's not like I actually ever listen to this…” you complain, gesturing to the CD.

Jinx smiles and lifts an eyebrow at you.

“Okay, fine. When I'm cleaning my room, I always listen to that CD, but—listen—only to remind me of my grandmother. Not because I actually like it,” you continue.

She snickers, opening the jewel case with a click and removing the CD. When she walks to your stereo, you suddenly realize what she’s doing.

“Whoa, hey-!” you start, but Jinx is already inserting the CD into your stereo. You quickly rise to your feet, trying to stop her. “Maybe we should watch a movie or-”

A click echoes as Jinx closes the top of the stereo. A moment later, Madonna's Crazy for You begins playing, and you can feel yourself die inside.

You can imagine your grandparents dancing along to the music, singing along to the lyrics.

“God, no,” you say faintly, watching as Jinx moves to the center of the room and starts to swing her hips.

“Shh, come on!” she calls over her shoulder as she begins dancing. “Live a little!”

Is she drunk? no, she doesn't smell like alcohol, and you didn't see her drink anything. She's not exactly unsteady on her feet, either, her moves are too perfectly timed to the beat.

No, she's a hundred percent sober.

This was simply her.

‘Live a little,’ she says. Live a little.

Jinx is facing away from you, still dancing and moving her hips to the beat, but her head is turned to the side.

She looks… cute like that. Her eyes are closed, her face is upturned toward the ceiling, and she giggles as she dances.

She spins around, facing you at once. “Come on,” she says, a huge grin gracing her lips. She slowly extends her hand, reaching out to take yours in hers. “Dance with me.”

You know what? Screw it. You've come this far.

You may as well embrace the insanity.

She sees the moment you give in, and she takes full advantage of it, using her hand to pull you into the center of the room, where the light from outside is stronger.

She turns the volume up more. Her hands are still around yours, and she keeps them there for a moment before she lets go, leaving you to stand and dance awkwardly.

You have no idea what you're doing.

You're fairly sure your dancing is on par with drunken uncle at a wedding who hasn't been able to find the rhythm since the 80s, and if Jinx has noticed how terrible you are at dancing, she hasn't made any comment.

She just grins.

Despite your dance skill, or lack thereof, you're still dancing with Jinx.

Dancing with Jinx.

With Jinx.

This didn't even seem real.

Your mind starts to drift. You can picture yourself and Jinx, thirty years from now, old and grey, dancing around a family room in your future home.

You think about dancing with her, years from now. You think about growing old with her, dancing together around the room. Holding her hand, even as she's old and wrinkled and grey.

You wonder if your kids or pets or grandkids or whatever-the-fuck-you-have would be watching you two dance like crazy people like you are now.

You wonder what she'd look like decades from now, and you find yourself surprised at the fact that she'd be just as beautiful. Just as attractive. Maybe even more.

You think about how to make her smile like she's smiling now.

Because that smile is worth a hell of a lot.

You wish you could see that smile more. Every single day, every single night, all you want to do is see her smile.

No, not 'want'

Need.

Wait.

What are you thinking?

You're getting ahead of yourself. Way, way ahead of yourself.

Jinx is still dancing, completely oblivious to the strange direction your thoughts are taking.

But even as you try to focus on the present—on what's happening now—your mind is refusing to cooperate.

Your eyes move on their own, traveling over her.

On her hair. On her face. On her hands. On her hips. On her legs. Her body, silhouetted in the bright light from the outside world.

She grins at you as she does a turn and swings her hips, and you try your best to keep up. She's so… so… herself.

She's not scared. She's not angry. She's not hiding herself behind layers upon layers of sarcasm and anger and hostility.

She's happy.

Jinx is happy. Not just “kind of” happy—fully, completely, unequivocally, truly, honestly happy.

That smile. That laugh. How she's so damn effortlessly herself and how goddamn carefree she is.

And she's so… beautiful.

You've dated girls before. You've had girlfriends before. You know what it's like to get close to someone, to be intimate, to kiss and hold each other in private.

But was it like this?

You've never felt like this before.

Never.

Nothing all-consuming, or overpowering, or soul-destroying, or devastating. There was never an intensity to them. A rush. A drive. There was never a connection, never a feeling of need.

But with Jinx...

This felt completely different. This felt so much more.

Like you were standing in a room with destiny.

Like you'd just seen the face of God.

Like your stomach turned into an entire gymnastics team.

Like your chest started feeling like a furnace.

Like your heart was suddenly playing a beat with a hundred times more BPMs than before.

Is this...

This.

Is this what love feels like?

...

If it's not love, then it's definitely an early sign of a heart attack.

—

You drive to her house. Jinx rolls down the car window, letting the wind blow through her short hair.

The song ‘Chasing Cars’ plays from the car radio.

And of course, Jinx wore one of your jackets. She must've snatched it right out of your closet when you weren't looking.

Not that you mind.

She happily chows down on some cotton candy you'd bought her from the gas station earlier and glances over at you. “I kinda like this,” she says between bites.

“You really like everything, don't you?”

“Who doesn't like sweet, sugary treats?” She holds the cotton candy out towards you. “Want a bite?”

You keep your hands on the wheel as you drive. “I'm good.”

Jinx shrugs and returns to munching on her cotton candy.

The wind is still blowing through her hair, occasionally blowing a few strands into her face, and Jinx keeps pushing them back. She groans, gives up and just lets the wind blow her hair around.

She finishes her cotton candy and crumples the empty paper and tosses it into the cup holder between you two. She leans back in her seat, her head tipped back as she looks at the clouds through the open window. “One day, I'm getting away from here.”

Did she mean away from the city? or away from her life?

“I wanna see the world,” she continues. “See everything.”

“What's stopping you?”

“My sister.” Jinx turns to look at you. “She... she hasn't quite found her place yet. I don't want to leave her on her own.”

“That's kind of you.”

She looks back out the open window. “I guess. When you don't have a lot, you don't want to leave people.”

You turn onto a side street, the car bumping along the bumpy road. “So where do you wanna go, if you could go anywhere?”

“Anywhere.” Jinx's hand sticks out the window, her fingers spread like she's catching the passing clouds. “I have a list of places I want to see.”

The car turns onto another street, and you look away to watch where you're driving. “And what's at the top of that list?"

Jinx's hand slips back in through the window, and she holds up a single finger. “Northern lights.”

“Northern lights,” you repeat.

“Northern lights,” Jinx affirms. “Have you ever seen them?”

You haven't. “Just in movies.”

“They're beautiful, and... I guess I want to see something breathtaking. I want to see something that'll take my breath away, because…”

“Because?”

“I've been feeling kinda... suffocated,” she says finally. “Like... Like there's this... pressure in my chest, a weight on my shoulders.”

You glance at her out of the corner of your eye. She's hunched over in her seat, her hair hiding her face. She's looking down at her hands.

“I just wanna see something that feels... I dunno. Freeing, I guess,” she says slowly. “Something that makes me feel light, like I can breathe without struggling or drowning.” Jinx glances up at the sky again. “Something that makes me feel like I can fly.”

You don't want to pry, so you keep your eyes on the road ahead of you. The car drives out of the city and onto the highway, the road much smoother under the wheels.

Suddenly, Jinx jerks forward and sticks her head out the open window. She holds herself up by grasping onto the edges of the windows, the wind ripping through her hair and clothes as the car gains speed. “YEEEEESSSSSSSS-”

“Wha—what the hell are you doing!?”

“I'M FLYING!” Even though you can't see her face, you can hear the grin in her voice.

“Get back in the car!”

“NOPE!”

You grip the wheel harder, trying to keep the car steady as Jinx lets one arm out the window. “You think I want to see you get decapitated by a passing semi-truck in the mirror?”

“Do you always think about me getting decapitated on the freeway?”

“It's what you'll end up like if you don't buckle up in the next three seconds!”

“YOLOOOOOOOO-”

“One-”

She leans out the window even further, now her stomach resting on the edge of the window rather than her head and shoulders.

“Two-”

She closes her eyes, a huge grin across her face.

“THREE-”

“OKAY OKAY! I'M DONE, I'M DONE!” She falls back into her seat, laughing as she throws her head back against the headrest. “That was fun!”

You glare at her through the mirror. “You're crazy.”

She scoffs. “I just want to live life to the fullest. Live fast, die young, and leave a pretty corpse.”

“The fuck? That's a bit morbid.”

“That's a lyric from a Social Distortion song, idiot.”

—

The two of you keep yourselves occupied by talking.

You've talked a lot. She has a lot of random and interesting information about a lot of topics that she seems to remember effortlessly. She's like a walking encyclopedia.

Eventually, the conversation turns to rumors about you two.

You twist the key, turning off the engine, and watch as Jinx steps out of the car and heads up to the front of her house. “None of that is true.” You follow her, shoving your keys into your back pocket.

She chuckles. “I've heard that you've broken several of a teacher's fingers.”

“Rubbish,” you respond, shaking your head. “Kicked out of your last school for setting the chemistry lab on fire?”

“Maybeee.” She grins. “Got it on with a teacher's daughter.”

“Rumor!”

“Mhmmm.”

“That was a rumor!” You throw your hands up in the air.

“Uh-huh.”

“Totally fake.” You groan. “I heard you beat up an entire football team by yourself at your last school.”

“Not entire,” she clarifies, smirking. “Just the quarterback. He started it.”

“Alright,” you say, climbing the steps and stepping onto the porch alongside her.

“I heard you've gotten an entire class to drop out.”

“True.”

“Oh yeah?”

You sigh. “Two years ago,” you clarify. “A couple of assholes decided they were going to prank me every chance they got. I got fed up and paid them a visit in the middle of a math class.”

“How many people?”

“Half the class.”

“God, you're terrible,” she says, “I like you.”

You both settle down on the porch steps, sitting side by side and facing one another. Your knees are touching.

“Tell me something true.”

“Hmm… something true?” you murmur, rubbing your chin. “I hate peas,” you state, glancing over to her with a smirk.

She chuckles. “No, not that. Something real. Like something nobody else knows.”

You nod, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Your hand trails down to her neck, fingertips brushing against her bare skin.

You press your lips to her neck, just below her jawline. “You're sweet,” you continue, moving to the other side of her neck. “And sexy.” Pulling back, your eyes meet hers. “And completely hot for me.”

Jinx scoffs. “You're wonderfully presumptuous,” she remarks. “Anyone ever told you that?”

“Every day,” you quip. “By myself in the mirror.”

You lean in, pressing your lips against hers. You pull back, foreheads touching, leaving just enough space between you to speak. “Go to the prom with me,” you whisper.

“Is that a request or a command?” she murmurs, bumping your nose with her own.

You rest a hand on her knee. “Come on,” you urge. “Just go with me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It's just stupid. Prom is stupid.”

You sigh. “It's not stupid.”

“It really is,” she insists.

You press your lips together, trying to think of something to get her to change her mind. “People won't expect you to go,” you counter, scooting closer to her and bumping your shoulder against hers. “No one will bat an eye.”

She glares at you, leaning away from your touch. “Why are you so hellbent on this?”

“What? I'm not,” you protest with a chuckle, shifting awkwardly. “Come on,” you try, “it's not that big of a deal.”

“But it is to me,” she says. “What's in it for you?”

You scoff in response to her accusation. “So you think I need something to want to be with you?”

“You tell me.”

You turn away, avoiding her gaze. “You need therapy. Did anyone ever suggest therapy for you? Because if not, they should,” you blurt, struggling to maintain composure as your heart thrums in your chest.

“Answer the question,” she snaps, eyes narrowing.

“Nothing!” you exclaim in frustration, turning to face her again. “There's absolutely nothing in it for me, if that's what you want to know. I just-” you pause, catching your breath. “I just want to spend time with you, okay?”

You pull a cigarette from your pocket and raise it to your lips, fumbling with the lighter. Just as you're about to light it, Jinx snatches the cigarette out of your mouth and flicks it to the ground.

She heads towards the front door, and without looking back, slams it shut.

You rub your temples, seething at your own stupidity. You didn't mean to say those things to her—your frustrations were bubbling over, that's all.

You pull yourself up from the porch and kick the abandoned cigarette.

You really shouldn't have agreed to Caitlyn's deal.

taglist: @axolotl-arsonist, @crvcified-kinx, @axoluxy, @dyslexic-dreamer, @urdeadpoet, @iluvshifting, @shootingc, @freementallyillkid, @tr3nzit444s, @powderbomb-jinxed, @chickennuggetsaresootasty, @multiliker, @rick-grimes-girl, @angelsglitch

#arcane #jinx #arcane x reader #arcane jinx #jinx arcane #arcane x female reader #arcane x you #jinx x reader #jinx x female reader #jinx x you #jinx x y/n #jinx imagine #10 things i hate about you #fluff #slight angst #not even at all

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meidiary · 1 year ago

Text

( 📁 ) THINGS THEY DO TO MAKE IT UP TO YOU

synopsis: they can't apologize like normal human beings, so they do their quirky acts to make you forgive them

characters: sanji (shocker), zoro & luffy!

warnings: swearing, (unintentional) angst for luffy..

a/n: my new hobby is making cute character banners oops 🫢 banner inspired by @sixosix <3! happy ending for luffy here !!

☆ whenever you and SANJI have had a fight or disagreement of any sort, he folds first. he is always the first one to give the 'cold-shoulder' act up.

☆ usually, he wouldn't ever stop talking about how much he loves you and how absolutely drop-dead gorgeous you are, but the moment he should talk about all that, he doesn't.

☆ he knows he fucked up.. but he can't bring himself to charm you up like usual.. so- he decides to bake his way out of this problem!

☆ your favorite cake, fruits, drinks, chocolate, and anything you ever mentioned to enjoy will be made and presented to you by your truly apologetic sanji <3

☆ he'd be standing in the kitchen for hours on end. not taking a break because he feels like it's 'his responsibility' to make you forgive him the hard way.

☆ eventually, after being presented more than a month's worth of desserts.. you got worried about the state your charming blonde lover was in.

"not that i forgot our fight.. but you should take a break, sanji.. you've been overworking yourself since this morning!" you tell him, trying your hardest not to sound worried. he gives you an exhausted smile, dropping the cutlery he had in his one hand and the spatula he had in the other one. "you talked to me," he spoke, barely louder than a whisper, before he let out a sigh of relief.

you felt your heart ache, seeing him in his current condition; sweat dripping from his forehead, hands cramped up from all the work he had done, and his apron splattered with a mixture of flower and melted chocolate.

your eyes met his almost immediately, which resulted in him instinctively noticing your sorrowful eyes. "what's wrong, darling? you alright?" he dusts his hands off with the kitchen towel before making his way to you swiftly. "my love why are you giving me your sad puppy eyes right now?" he chuckles as he cups your face in his cold hands, caressing your cheeks with his thumbs.

"because you overworked yourself because of me.. your hands are all cramped up because i was too stubborn to forgive you right away! i don't deserve you sanji.." he gasps, almost offended. "now that is the bullest crap i've ever heard. darling, i've gone way longer with way more pressure on me to complete dishes for a full-house back at baratie." he chuckles yet again, this time more relaxed. "what i did today was a mere exercise to make sure i was still able to perform under some pressure," a big smile growing on his face.

"sweetheart, if anything i don't deserve you.. i'm sorry for upsetting you earlier.. i was deep in the wrong, yet i'm only apologizing now. forgive me, my love." sanji gives kisses your forehead while grabbing your hands, interlocking them with his. "then let's say we're even now.." you two make up and after forcing sanji to let you help clean up the kitchen, you do just that.

☆ sanji tells you he won't 'bake his way out of a fight' anymore, but knowing him, you didn't believe that statement one bit. you told him to "just make sure you don't overwork yourself anymore.. wouldn't want your pretty hands to hurt.." ~ which ended with him teasing you the whole afternoon.. "you think i have pretty hands~? how very endearing, my love."

☆ now anytime you and ZORO fight, with him being in the wrong, his pride always gets in the way of him owning up to his shit and apologizing. that's all you need from him, an apology. you don't expect him to bake you desserts or write you a poem declaring his live for you, no you just want an apology that isn't forced out of zoro by sanji or nami, or even usopp!

☆ you ignore him because he messed up big time and won't even acknowledge it? ha, child's play, he ignores you. you don't even know how this petty fight escalated so far that both of you haven't talked for a good couple days.

☆ usopp is basically begging you two to make up. considering he had been forced given the role to communicate things between the two of you. zoro needed to clean his sword but didn't know which cleaning agent to use, because you always gave him the right cleaning agent? ⟶ usopp is sent to you asking you which cleaning agent is best to clean zoro's swords with. receiving the dirtiest glance from you, you tell him to tell zoro "he should pay attention more to what others say, instead of staring at his reflection off of his sword 24/7!" ⟶ usopp goes to zoro and delivers the message. zoro scoffs and chuckles lightly before angrily giving usopp yet another message to deliver to you. ⟶ after a while usopp started hiding from the both of you, not wanting to get sent to other anymore.

☆ nami is on your side, of course, sending dirty glances to zoro any chance she gets. she doesn't give him the silent treatment, but instead aggressively tries to let him acknowledge his faults so he could own up to his shit and just apologize!

"y'know zoro, i'm not even in this relationship, yet your ego still somehow found a way to suffocate me! fucking realize you've been acting like a child and just own up to the fact that you messed up, damn it." nami blurts out, all in one breath, before she walks off annoyed.

zoro let's out yet another scuff before sanji makes his way to the moss head. "don't you even start-" zoro sends him an angry glance which has sanji raising his hands in defense, chuckling slightly. "i just can't stand seeing my beloved y/n in distress like this. i don't know the details, i don't want to know the details. all i know is that if you don't want to lose her, i'd act fast if i were you.." he just as quickly turned away and resumed his kitchen activities.

out of all the things the crew told him, hoping to convince the stubborn moss head to apologize to you, this stuck with him for the rest of the day.

after having a rather silent diner with the crew, the same as the past few days, you finished first, leaving the table immediately. "thank you, sanji, the soup was delicious, as expected," you tried to smile at him which resulted in your lips becoming a wobbly line.

"anytime, darling, i'm glad you enjoyed.." sanji noticed your sorrowful expression, as did the rest of the crew. you sent him a forced smile again before leaving the kitchen, heading for your and nami's room.

zoro sighed before standing up from his spot, leaving the kitchen to follow you. reaching your room's door, he notices you locked it. "hey! open the door," zoro leans against the handle, his forehead against the door. "come on now, just open the door for me baby.." his voice softens, realizing how fucking stupid he's been acting, neglecting you in so many ways. "listen.. i'm sorry for being such an ass- you didn't deserve my shitty attitude, i shouldn't have acted so stubborn, i'm sorry. i- i just can't lose you okay? please open the door and talk to me, yell at me, scream your lungs out, just please let me see you baby.. " with that he balled his hand that was leaning on the door into a fist, remorse dripping out of his mouth as he finally realizes how wrong he has been acting, how bad he's been treating you, how much more you deserved.

what surprised him was that the moment you opened the door, you weren't carrying an annoyed expression. no, your eyes were teary, your upper lip was trembling, cheeks a red shade, and your eyebrows furrowed. "h-hey, don't cry now.." zoro wrapped his arms around you, whispering endearments into your ear whilst caressing your back.

you two ended up cuddling on you small framed bed, that barely kept the two of you on it. not a word communicated between the two of you. just you laying on his chest, playing with his fingers while his chin rests on top of your head, still caressing your back.

"i'll do better for you.." zoro breaks the silent, planting a kiss on your head. "i can't lose you, i won't lose you.." you look up at his last statement, putting your hand on his cheek. "you won't lose me.. you'll never lose me."

☆ yeah, fights with this man sure are extreme.. but you two make it work

☆ every once in a while, on a full moon, you and LUFFY experience a disagreement lead to a big fight. of course your relationship isn't always all rainbows and butterflies. but considering luffy's nature of not taking most things serious, lots of fights were prevented. you thought luffy was flirting with a waitress when you left? he laughed so hard, getting cramps in his stomach, because he thought it was the most stupid thing ever that you believed he would flirt with someone other than you. he made you feel ridiculous, thinking of such a thing! ⟶ fight prevented!

☆but sometimes, this very nature of his was what lead to some of the most dreadful moments of your life.

☆ anytime such an event would take place, luffy would be the furthest away from it, the furthest away from you.. it's not that he's angry at you, per se. he just needs his time alone to review all his actions leading up to the fight that may have caused for it to get this big. most of the time he'll be dozing off, too tired to look back on his actions. he doesn't even know himself why he always ends up avoiding you for a couple hours after a fight. all he knows is that he, somehow, always ends up understanding what went wrong between the two of you.

☆ but this routine action of his doesn't always receive a positive reaction from you..

there he went, yet again, neglecting his responsibility in this fight. it was petty, you knew it was, still you wanted him to own up to it! it wasn't fair that he'd leave you shaking, crying, screaming at the top of your lungs, out of nowhere. you were talking, well actually arguing, about how luffy had been avoiding you lately, how he'd turn around once he'd see you, sit at the other side of the table, leave the room the second he saw you enter it, but what hurt the most was that he'd shake off your touches..

you finally confronted him about this, not wanting to bottle up your emotions any longer. luffy reacted as usual, disregarding the issue jokingly, he assured, "it's not a big deal~ you're just seeing things." and then you snapped, everything you bottled up 'till this moment, unleashed. you were a sobbing mess. he had never seen you in this state, shit even you have never seen yourself like this.

you asked him what happened, what you did wrongfully. why was he ignoring you? why did he act like he was allergic to your touches, your voice, your conversations, to you? why all of a sudden? what changed between you? you wanted, no, needed him to answer; you hoped he would realize how stupid he was acting, how neglecting he had been. you needed him to take you in his arms and assure you he still loved you, that he still cared, that he always will..

as if all your sobs were disregarded. instead of talking to you, he stood up wordlessly and walked out of your room, gently closing the door behind him. which resulted in your cries escalating as you tried muffling your sounds with a pillow.

where did he go? why did he leave all of a sudden? does he not care about you? all of these thoughts were racing in your mind, overwhelming you to the point you were gasping for air. at this point, nami came sprinting to your shared room, worried about your condition. "what did that boy do?!" she questions with a mix of distress and anger.

all the while, luffy was sat on the figurehead of the going merry, the sheep. he was enjoying the cold breeze as he kept breathing in and out, trying to understand what had just happened. he soon realized he walked out on you the moment you needed him most. and oh how it should've hurt him, how his heart should be aching right now. instead, he feels nothing except the subtle chilly breeze flowing against his skin, through his hair, moving his flip-flops. he knows he should care, he knows he should run back to you, embrace you in his arms, and tell you he loves you. but he doesn't because as much as he wants you to feel loved and cared for, he can't be the one to make you feel that way. it's not fair to you, you deserve someone that means it when he tells you he loves you and always will be there for you.

he can't put on this facade anymore. he stopped caring a while back, but he believed it to be a decent thing to have you believe he was still the guy that would comfort you when you had a nightmare, the guy that would give you his last piece of meat to show you he cares, the guy that would cuddle you to sleep whenever it was too cold..

he thought it'd be easier for you. oh, how it turned out to be quite the opposite. because he faked your relationship this long, and it had come to an end like this; you didn't only lose your lover tonight, you lost your friend.

MEI'S NOTE: uhm.. yeah idk what happened at luffy's part- but I hope you enjoyed ☺️💓

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phyrestartr · 9 months ago

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Divine Favour | Sukuna x Kitsune!Reader (Pt.2) NSFW

W/C: 3.2k #NSFW, THEY FUCKIN', bottom!reader, top!sukuna, mild yuuji/reader, yuuji and gang are v early 20s, heian sukuna, male reader, typical kitsune shapeshifting, canon typical violence, morally grey reader, sukuna ignores feelings through the force of sheer willpower, unhealthy relationships, power imbalance, dubcon elements, blood as lube (SORRY), Sukuna unhinged horknee, ABO elements

A/N: I wanted to make this include more parts, but I am so flabbergasted and in awe of the response to this fic that I feel the need to feed y'all feral creatures LMAO. JKJK but 👀 Thank you for all the feedback and support! It really gives me the motivation to continue writing and to interact with the JJK community. I'm having a lot of fun!

tags: @kamote-kuneho @kamote-kuneho @nyanwko @kamote-kuneho @better-imagination-9 @3zae-zae3 @chibiduck @kiiyoooo @lukaijah

“What the fuck is this?” Sukuna drawled, an intense fury simmering through his being. His gaze couldn't tear free from you, not even to size up the blindfolded weirdo watching him intently.

He shattered the coffin, freeing you from the makeshift cursed bath some freak had forced you into. He smoothed damp hair from your sickly face and searched for sparks of life somewhere in the cold stillness that'd overtaken you. And there was something. He found it, a little glimmer of vitality in the smallest, shakiest inhale.

“Good,” he praised, brushing your hair back more and more to get a better look at your face. You looked like the frail little thing he saved all those decades ago.

“You know,” Gojo interrupted, but Sukuna paid him no mind, “If I didn't know any better, I'd think you actually cared about that kitsune.”

“Then you don't know what this is,” Sukuna decided blandly. “Figures.” Kenjaku kept him off the record, huh? Guess that's a bonus.

“Oh? Do you wanna enlighten me before Yuuji comes back?” Gojo smiled, as if he really expected Sukuna to play nice and be honest with him. “Come on, come on, it's your chance to be vulnerable~”

“Tch. Pretty damn sure the fox'll be the one to tell you.” His hand smoothed over your stomach and rubbed slow, gentle circles against your skin as reverse technique sought to bring you all back to him. “He yaps about as much as your insufferable ass does. Granted, he talks a lot nicer.”

“Wow, rude.” Gojo sighed and clapped twice as if clapping on a light. “Okay! I've had enough bullying. Yuuji–”

“Brat, don't you fucking dare–”

Yuuji inhaled sharply. He blinked owlishly at your calmed expression, your eyes now closed and breathing now steadied thanks to Sukuna's aid.

Aid. That wasn't something the king did.

“Sensei,” Yuuji managed, voice quivering under the weight of memories’ emotion. “Can you fix this?”

Somehow, you were stuck in the throes of flirtation with the malevolent king of curses.

“It may be courtship,” Uraume guessed, soft smile brightening their cold exterior.

(They'd been smiling more recently, actually, ever since you completed that overcoat and presented it to them. Nary a day went by when they did not don the sentimental garb.)

But you weren't so sure; the event of courtship was serious business across all lucid creatures. Animals and creatures of primal existence sought out partners with favorable genes and strong constitution, whereas humans and the like yearned for merit or love in their coupling. You didn't quite grasp the way humans thought. Not yet.

Well, save for flirting. You decided it was a sort of pre-courtship where nothing became serious and nothing was on the line, but frivolous touches and haughty words of praise ran rampant when those concerned crossed paths.

Much like today.

(Much like the days before and after.)

You walked along the stone-paved path most mornings, lost in thoughts and mumbling to yourself bits and pieces of poems. Most were unfinished, but in their own time, verses would find one another and complete the incomplete.

A groggy yawn hummed from the palace entrance. And moments later, Ryoumen Sukuna fell into step with you, grumbling and mumbling complaints about the nippy Spring morning while he tucked his arms away into his sleeves.

He followed you, idly looking around the expansive space you'd helped curate and maintain when you weren't busying yourself with the girls or decorating clothing. The gardens weren't a mess before, not at all, but now they had a certain taste–trees and flowers were planted with specificity, stones were moved, paths reworked. You took the outside over completely. The king didn't mind.

“Sukuna-sama,” you said, voice melting in kind with the morning frost. “I'll need to leave for a short while.”

Sukuna quirked a brow and looked at you. You gazed upon the large, thick koi flashing their beautiful scales and ornate patterns of orange and white as they swam and followed you. Tch. How come even the fish were drawn to you?

“And how do you think you'll accomplish that?” Sukuna tossed a rock into the koi pond, making the fish scatter. “Getting away from me isn't something you can do.”

You huffed and looked at him. “I understand. I simply seek your permission.”

“Denied.”

“Ah.” You deadpanned. “Why?”

“You're mine; I decide where you go, how you breathe, if you eat. Or are you forgetting that?”

You sighed and let your ears droop sadly with your tails. “Surely you jest.”

“Are you laughing?”

You whined like a sad, sad street pup before cozying up to him, slipping your hands up his stomach and chest like you were supposed to. “Please?”

“No.”

You chittered and pressed your face against him, but didn't protest and complain much more.

Sukuna’s thoughts whirled. The show was amusing, sure, but you didn't do anything without reason, especially when it had to do with breaking character and acting out like this out of–

Oh?

Sukuna leaned down and sniffed you, searching for the intriguing coil of flowery citrus he nearly missed on the warming breeze. It was so, so faint, but decadent and alluring in a way that made the master of toxins cautious–most poisons tasted sweet, after all.

You pulled your head back, shrinking down the slightest bit with your ears flattened against your skull. Your eyes, wide as a full moon, stared up at him, expectant. The touch of your hands on him never left, though.

“Brassavola nadosa.” Sukuna tilted his head. “You smell like it.”

You blinked curiously, relaxing. “Is that so?”

We don't have that orchid in the garden. Sukuna hummed and lifted a lock of your hair, catching another weak waft of the flower's faint scent.

It's coming from him, then. Hm.

“Tell me again why you want to leave the palace?” Sukuna asked on a hunch.

And that hunch doubled down when you fidgeted with the cloth of his haori and looked aside.

“I wish to bear children," you admitted, shy and quiet. "To try, at the very least. Perhaps find a mate, too.”

Children. You wanted children. After everything those sorcerers put you through for who knows how many years, you still wanted to mother a runt of your own. And you were willing to run off into the wild to, what, let some random man knock you up? Fill you with seed of unknown origin, unknown value, unknown potential?

Sukuna's ego flared. He leaned down to you, tilting your chin up to make you look him in the eyes regardless how small you felt in that moment. He deserved to witness you. You deserved to witness him.

“You're not leaving,” he breathed, and he swore he could hear your heart break. “If you want a brat, you'll get a brat–only if you stay here 'n give up on those shitty thoughts of finding a sire out there.”

Your eyes scanned his face, tracing over serious lines and honest creases. Clearly, you searched for an answer–

“How?”

–one that Sukuna didn’t have. Or maybe he did. Perhaps he just couldn't find the words for it.

He scoffed and ruffled up your hair, unable to answer you. “You're not leaving. Not unless I say so.”

The first time he let you go, he left scars.

He found you in your chambers come early evening. Your tails swished and flicked as you sat amidst a nest of his robes and the missing linens from his chambers while you futzed over the embroidery of another haori, this time adorning the plain thing with the darkest scarlet one could find. Sukuna could already guess why.

Your being burns as wildfires do. Lively. Emphatically. Devouring more and more so long as the earth lets you. Yet where you do not lay ruin, you grant warmth and light in a divine way. Wildfires are not such horrible things if one stays a respectable ways away.

Your poetic nonsense irritated him to no end, but he fell enamored all the same; you spoke to honor him with every utterance of his name. You didn't try to kiss his feet nor did you bask him in compliments–you only spoke into existence that which hummed through your mind, unprovoked. It just so happened to be everything Sukuna liked to hear.

So when he found you secluded away, beckoning so sweetly with intoxicating scents of citrus and gardenia, what choice did he have but to lay claim, to give you the brat you so sorely yearned for?

You sensed him. Your gaze flicked to him, stoic and unmoved as ever, as the energy in the room built into suffocating silence, something like tectonic plates caught in deadlock, holding their disastrous energy, waiting for the right moment to devastate the world with a single, cataclysmic shift.

And of course, it was the impatient predator that moved first, setting a catastrophe into motion.

The hours blurred together.

Every minute of the chase was thrilling, invigorating, surprising–you were filled with tricks and traps, never slowing down for a second to think or doubt as the beast of a sorcerer pursued you through his palace, through the city below, and now into the looming forest in the mountains.

Admittedly, he'd gotten carried away. He lost himself in the rush of it all, the adrenaline and pure, destructive desire pushed his self-control into unraveling just the slightest bit; honest attacks tore through space and time, hoping to maim and cripple you if they were to hit. And, honestly, the way you avoided his attempts to strike you down enthralled him as much as it enraged him–he was seconds away from unleashing his domain until a less-than-satisfying ripple of cursed energy tore across your thigh and put you down.

It was then, walking up to you, to his prey, that Sukuna remembered you weren't a sorcerer. Most would be able to stand and walk it off, maybe even heal with reverse technique, but you could only grasp at your weeping wound and grimace. Because you were not a sorcerer, you were a kitsune: a trickster, a creature full of mischief and void of cursed energy.

Yokai. Not a human. Not a curse. Not like the rest of the boring souls wandering his earth.

Sukuna pinned you the second you tried to make a break for it. Fangs and claws gnashed and tore into him while his hands strained to keep you down and rip those damn clothes free from your burning skin.

Mating's never a pretty thing when it comes to nature. Humans like you made it something more.

Sukuna clasped a hand over your mouth and forced his weight onto you, ripping reedy yowls from your core as you twisted and turned, primal mind urging you to run, run, run, don't make this easy, make him prove his worth–

Rip.

Ribbons of what were once your robes fluttered to the ground, useless and unsalvageable. They were plain black, so unlike what you usually wore. You wouldn't miss them.

“Make this as difficult as you want, pet,” Sukuna whispered as he loomed over you. His hand slid from your mouth to your throat when you stilled.

“You know how this ends.”

His pants were pulled down while another hand wiped slippery blood against your pliant entrance–and that was the only warning you got before he pushed into you.

Where you should have screamed, you instead sighed. Your back arched off the ground like a work of art. Two hands gave up on holding you down in favour of gripping your waist and hips, pulling you closer to him, forcing you flush against his body.

He noticed it then: a litany of old scars and discoloured marks shining against your skin. Marks left by those who did not deserve to taste such a delicacy.

Unsightly.

Blood painted the grass. Cleaves and slashes ate away at those tainted scars, painting over the ugliness left hidden for too long–now, his marks would decorate you. Now, those hidden scars would mean something. They’d mean everything.

Yet Sukuna's selfish maiming wasn't fitting the bill, and your antsy-ness was proof of it. You tried for the last time to pull from him, but his grip tightened around your throat. You gazed at him, then, eyes so wide and hungry, eager to fight or fuck–whichever came first.

He braced over you and nearly winced as he dragged out of your suffocating heat. A sharp snap back inside loosened you, the glide of blood and slick aiding him.

“I'll take you the way you need it,” he drawled as he built the pace quickly, already feeling his own obsession and excitement reverberating through his body, filling every fibre of muscle with electricity.

“Then,” he growled, leaning closer to your face. “I'll fuck you the way you want it.”

“More,” you sighed, digging your nails into the pillow you had your face buried in while the beast fucked you from behind. Sukuna groaned in compliance and lanced into your guts deeper, harder, faster than before–you were the only one that could handle the brutal way he let loose, and he was more than willing to indulge in that privilege.

The hands all over you rose to the occasion, too; one had your tails fisted in his ruthless grasp, rudely holding you still and pulling you back against his hips; another rested on the curve of your ass, only moving to give a sharp slap or to knead your soft, perfect skin; the last two held your hips in a crushing force, his calloused fingers digging into your plush sides and sharp hip bones like you might disappear at any second.

A sharp, sweet whine signaled the beginning of the end, as did the restless fidgeting and shifting in the king's grasp. Seeing you, a poised, powerful, mischievous being, come undone beneath him came to be one of Sukuna’s favourite sights, especially knowing it could only be because of him--only him.

He leaned over you, his heavy chest pressing into your back as one hand released your waist in favour of fisting in your hair and tugging your head back and out of the futon you so desperately clung to.

“Ah-ah,” he scolded breathily. “No hiding.” It was a familiar sentiment, one he had no problem reminding you of now and again. You had a horrible habit of trying to vanish when overwhelmed, after all.

“Terrible beast,” you snapped back, scoffing indignantly when the deep bassy laugh of the man rolled through your body. “Horrible.”

“You love it,” Sukuna growled back, grinning through every word.

Something about it clearly struck a chord with you, judging by how fast you choked on your voice and came undone, legs trembling and body tightening around the too-big intrusion. The king groaned and bit at your neck, licking whatever blood beaded at the surface in between rushed, hushed words of praise for you and your efforts–most, if they heard the things he said, would call it out of character for the beast. Most didn't get to see beyond his raw power and crippling cruelty, however.

Sukuna grunted and spilled inside you, pulling you back by your hair, hips and tail to ensure he forced every bit of his offerings deep into your core. Your body rocked and twitched against his, accepting all he had to offer you at the end of yet another coupling, before he let go of your locks and let you collapse face-first into the futon.

He pulled out slowly, watching as every inch slipped from your abused hole before popping free and uncorking a dribble of whiteness from inside. He tutted and scooped it up with two fingers before stuffing it back in.

“Oi, oi, are you even trying to keep it in?” He teased, smirking as you huffed.

“You've exhausted me. I have no energy to attempt the impossible,” you lamented, nuzzling your nose further into the soft sheets smelling of cedar and fresh blooms–something so uniquely Sukuna.

Your king sighed and gave your ass a firm few pats. “Guess I'll have to spoil you even more.” He settled onto his back and easily pulled you onto him, yanking you up to straddle his waist right where that second mouth laid open and eager to taste you.

“This is uncouth,” you sighed. But you rocked back against the thick, heavy tongue pressing into your pliant heat, licking deep into you with a mind and hunger of its own.

“Seems couth enough for you,” he commented, watching you ride his centre with rapt attention. “Little harlot's getting off on this, hey? Such a needy little brat.”

His hands smoothed up and down your legs and sides as you shamelessly chased a second high. Your hands clasped over his as he took you into his hand and stroked you back to ample stiffness, the soreness of too many rounds of fucking making you far too sensitive to touch.

“S-Sukuna-sama,” you stammered. “I can't–”

Sukuna's head tilted with a pleased smirk. “Ho? I thought you wanted to bear children? Are my offerings not enough for you?”

You scrunched your face up into something of a prissy glare, but the shine clinging to your lashes and the shuddering of your body against his betrayed your crumbling demeanor. Of course, he was impressed with how his fox was fairing considering everything he put you through.

He maneuvered you onto your back, grinning as you growled and weakly struggled against him. You looked perfect–stomach swollen, hair fanned out behind you, eyes teary but unable to tear away from the creature that’d tormented you for hours upon hours with no desire to give you a break.

“Greedy god,” Sukuna lamented. One hand came to rest on your bruised neck again, fitting around so perfectly. “Nothing’s ever fucking good enough for you.”

“You are.”

That gave Sukuna pause. He stared down at you, all eyes looking over you with rapt attention as he tried to think. Tried to understand. Tried to parse those words and uncover what exactly you tried to convey.

But it didn't click.

“Tch. You're lucky I'm a generous god,” he scolded, releasing you from your torment in favour of collapsing down beside you for some much-needed rest. Not only did your beautiful body wear him out (not that he'd admit it), but your whimsical words wore his sanity thin. The worst part was you didn't even intend to damage him so.

“I am truly honoured to merely be in your presence,” Your voice, light and dreamy as petals fluttering, laughed, and Sukuna's soul did something odd.

He stared at the ceiling as you shuffled beside him, quickly returning to his side, donned in one of his haori and determined to make a comfortable nest of blankets and clothes around you both for the rest of the night–ah, morning? Huh. What an ordeal.

You curled up next to him, shoving your back firmly against his side the way you often did when resting as a fox, and Sukuna huffed.

“Turn to me,” he commanded, and you obeyed.

He, too, turned to face you to envelope your lithe form with invincible arms and divine protection. Your soft purrs rolled through him, settling his wild spirit into a lazy tempo of an early morning stroll through a garden filled with one sort of white orchid:

Brassavola nadosa. “Lady of the Night.” Your calling card. Your divine essence.

"Brassavola nodosa (Lady of the Night) is a medium-sized epiphytic or lithophytic orchid species boasting extremely fragrant flowers throughout the year. The blossoms, 4 in. across (10 cm), emit a citrus fragrance at night. Each flower features long, slender, pale green or creamy-white sepals and petals and a large, heart-shaped lip sometimes adorned with purple or dark red spotting." - gardenia.net

#sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x male reader #sukuna x m!reader #sukuna x you #jjk x you #male reader insert #male reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen reader insert #jujutsu kaisen x male reader #jujutsu kaisen x you

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iamgonnagetyouback · 4 months ago

Text

what are these feelings? ⋆˚࿔

synopsis ⭑.ᐟ charlie dalton x reader who can't figure out her feelings

warnings: none

word count: 1,039 words

navigation┆charlie dalton masterlist┆request here 𝜗𝜚

You were used to it by now—Charlie Dalton’s constant flirting, his smooth lines, the way his hazel eyes gleamed when he was about to say something utterly ridiculous. And you? Well, you never let him get away with it, always armed with some witty comeback that made the boys around you laugh.

"Hey, beautiful, ever wonder what it’s like to kiss a poet?" Charlie smirked, his voice dripping with that usual arrogance.

You raised an eyebrow, rolling your eyes. "Not quite. Maybe I should kiss Todd and find out?"

The boys howled in laughter, Todd burying his face in his hands as Neil playfully nudged Charlie’s shoulder. But, as usual, Charlie wasn’t fazed. He only leaned closer, mischief dancing in his eyes.

"You know," he said, voice lower, "one day you’re gonna run out of sass and finally admit you’re in love with me."

You opened your mouth, prepared to give the perfect retort, when something strange happened. Your cheeks grew warm. No, scratch that—they were on fire. You blinked, suddenly hyper-aware of how close Charlie was standing, how his teasing smile wasn’t just playful anymore, how his eyes were fixed on you, waiting.

What the hell? Why were you blushing?

You quickly muttered something half-baked, barely coherent, and walked away before Charlie could notice the redness that had surely taken over your face. You didn’t understand. You had always been able to brush him off, but now, for some reason, your heart was racing like it was trying to beat out of your chest.

This was new. And horrible.

What was worse? Charlie had noticed. His teasing eyes followed you all day, smirking like he knew something you didn’t. It was unbearable.

You needed help. Desperately.

So, naturally, you sought out the only person who could possibly understand your predicament—Todd Anderson.

It wasn’t hard to find him. Todd was sitting on the lawn by the lake, writing something in his notebook while Neil was off trying to convince Knox to join his latest idea. You marched over, sitting down in front of him without ceremony.

“Todd,” you said, a bit more forcefully than intended.

He looked up, startled. "Yeah?"

"I need your help. It’s about Charlie."

Todd’s eyes widened. "Charlie?" His voice squeaked a little, and his hand twitched, as if just mentioning Charlie’s name brought anxiety. You could relate.

You groaned. “I think I’m broken or something because today, he said something to me, and I—I blushed, Todd. I blushed. Do you have any idea how horrifying that is?”

Todd’s face softened, but he looked like he was trying hard not to laugh. “Uh, maybe it’s not so bad?” he offered, weakly.

You groaned, collapsing backward on the grass. "It is bad. It’s very bad. You know what it’s like. You blush when Neil says… anything remotely nice to you. What does it mean? Am I… Am I in love with Charlie Dalton?"

Todd hesitated, his face growing red at the mention of Neil. "I don’t know," he mumbled. "Maybe. Or maybe he just got to you. He flirts with everyone… right?"

That hit you like a punch to the gut. You threw your head back, laughing, but there was no real humor in it. “Yeah,” you muttered, a bitter taste creeping into your mouth. “Yeah, exactly.”

He flirts with everyone. Why was this any different?

Why did it suddenly matter?

"But it never bothered me before. Why now?"

Todd looked down at his notebook, fiddling with the pages. "Sometimes," he said quietly, "it hits you when you least expect it."

His words stuck with you, echoing in your mind all day, all night. Hits you when you least expect it. Could that really be true? Could you—no, you weren’t about to fall for Charlie Dalton, of all people.

The next day, Mr. Keating announced a new assignment: "Each of you will present an original poem tomorrow. A poem that reveals a part of yourself you keep hidden."

Great. Exactly what you needed.

The whole evening, you tried to write something, but every word felt forced, every line too… wrong. How were you supposed to write about a feeling you didn’t even understand? You stared at the page, and the only thing that came to mind was Charlie. His grin. His stupid, smug face. The way your stomach twisted every time he called you "beautiful" now.

So, you did the only thing you could think of. You wrote.

The next morning, you walked into Keating’s class with your heart in your throat, clutching the folded piece of paper as if it would burn you.

“Ah, (Y/N),” Mr. Keating greeted warmly. “Ready to share with us?”

“Not really,” you muttered, but stepped forward anyway. The boys were watching, but most of all—Charlie was watching, leaning back in his chair with that lazy grin you hated. No. You didn’t hate it anymore. That was the problem.

You unfolded the paper and took a deep breath.

“A boy with words like arrows, Sharp and playful, but always shallow. Until one day, his arrows land, Not in jest, but in my hand.

How do you laugh when you’re struck? How do you breathe with no air? What do you do when the jokes stop feeling like jokes, And start feeling like… something else?”

Your voice faltered, but you kept going, feeling all the confusion and frustration pour out.

“The world tips sideways, Colors all wrong. Why does he make me stutter? Why do I feel like I’m walking on a tightrope, One wrong word from falling into his arms?”

The room was quiet now. You could feel every pair of eyes on you, but none more than Charlie’s. You didn’t dare look up.

“Maybe this is what love feels like: Messy, sharp, unexpected, Like an arrow in the dark.”

Your eyes met Charlie’s, and for the first time in a while, there was no teasing in his gaze. He looked... serious.

Todd gave you a small, supportive smile as the silence hung in the air. And then, without saying anything, you took your seat.

But the confusion? It remained. Maybe you’d never understand it. Maybe it didn’t even matter if Charlie flirted with everyone.

What mattered now was how you felt.

#dps x reader #dps fandom #dps fanfiction #dps boys #dps #dead poets society fandom #dead poets fandom #dead poets society x reader #the dead poets society #dead poets society #charlie dalton x reader #charlie dalton #ivy writes ⋆.˚#dividers by bernardsbendystraws #dividers by enchanthings #charlie dalton fluff #charlie dalton angst #charlie dalton imagine #charlie dalton dps

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haikyu-mp4 · 3 months ago

Text

Surprises for Father's Day

You and your son surprise Daichi for Father's Day, for my Parenting event<3

requested by @act-nat-ural. word count; 553– f!reader

To say your husband deserved to be spoiled for a day was the understatement of the year. You knew Father’s Day was coming up, and your young son heard about it in school, so there was no lack of preparations this year from either of you.

In previous years, it had either been spoiled by little mister Blabbermouth, or something had gone wrong in your planning. Not this year!

While you prepared dinner and retrieved an exclusive set of fancy beers wrapped up in paw patrol wrapping, your son lay forth a homemade card with a drawing of his cool dad in uniform on the front. Inside it, he had written a short scribbly greeting from the two of you on one side. On the other side, you had glued a ‘poem’ your son brought home from school where they were instructed to write about their dad.

Sure, he wrote “poloicemen” instead of policeman, but he also detailed his admiration for his dad who keeps him and his mom safe, as well as all his friends (and their pets, he put emphasis on that).

You were hoping for at least one tear from Daichi.

His keys jingled in the door and you signalled for your son to hush and come over to stand beside you.

“Happy Father’s Day!” you yelled when he stepped inside, your son following on about half the words (he said day).

He looked up in shock, not expecting you to be waiting for him like that. “My babies.”

You high-fived your son before letting him run over to pull his dad into the house. He could only keep a surprise for so long, and Daichi had to get his shoes off in a stumble as he was pulled along. He barely managed to peck your lips while passing by before he gasped at the setup.

“You got me presents?”

“Of course, Dad!”

“Thank you. So much.” The soft look lay heavy on his face as you came over to join them, letting your husband pull you closer by the waist while he ruffled your son’s hair. “I’m so lucky.”

He loved the present, obviously, no one knew your husband as you did, but the card was still the best part.

Daichi pretended to naturally lean his chin on his hand so he could try to control his facial expression, but the gloss on his eyes gave it away. You got a tear.

“This is the second best thing I ever got,” he said, the waver in his voice leaving the room in a tender aura.

“Second best?” your son complained with a scowl.

“After you two.”

You cooed, squeezing his cheek like you so often did to your son before walking off to the kitchen. “You sap, change and come back for dinner.”

“Will do, boss.”

And you smiled as you stirred the food, hearing your child laugh as Daichi probably picked him up and squeezed him in a hug like he did when he got overwhelmed with emotions.

The father of your child, so deserving of this love. There was one more present, and you hoped he would be just as happy for it, resting a hand on your stomach and whispering a little encouragement.

Both your babies managed to keep the presents a secret until today.

masterlist

for the requester: thank you for requesting again sweets<3

#parenting event #haikyuu #hq x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyu x reader #fanfiction #hq #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x you #haikyu #haikyu fluff #dad!daichi #dadchi #daichi x reader #sawamura daichi #haikyuu daichi #daichi sawamura #karasuno

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200markies · 2 months ago

Note

Heyyy!! I love your work <3 Can you write a 'Mark is the type of boyfriend to...' and/or something about: idol!mark and reader as a regular person (full time job+college student) maybe with a little bit o angst since they are so different from each other etc?

　　　　mark ♡ is the type of boyfriend to ... ⁺

mark soft hours & headcanons. all are fictional.

pairing: mark lee x fem!reader

genre: romance, fluff

requested by anon !

author's notes: i did NOT expect all of you guys to like the jeno headcanons so much to the point that an anon requested a mark ver which convinced me enough to make another one for the week 😭 y'all do indeed enjoy the headcanon series. anyway, to the anon who is reading this, i have to be honest with you but i genuinely enjoyed writing this and i hope you enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing this. PLEASE. this took me hours to write and i don't expect JUST the anon to like this but all of you too! i can't even say "i hope you enjoy" in the author's notes now that i'm expecting a thousand notifications on my activity tab in this platform.... 🤓

p.s. let us all thank mark lee for making the most boyfriend material instagram that could ever exist.... without r_e__m___ this headcanon wouldn't be BORN!

reminding all of u guys that my ask inbox is open so don't hesitate to drop a request or an ask !!!

mark is the type of boyfriend to write you poems whenever feels like it, or whenever it's a special occasion that's all about you. whether it be your birthday or your anniversary together, mark tries his absolute best to find all the words and combine it to make a poem that will surely make you happy. he wants to make you feel loved and safe with him, especially since he's your boyfriend.

"hey, beautiful, i left something on your desk," mark walks to you in the living room, sitting beside you while you work a deadline. you turn to him and chuckled, looking at your room which had a yellow folded note. you knew immediately that mark wrote a poem, and you can't wait to read it. you stand up to get the note on your desk, unfolding it to see an entire script of a poem which was all about how sweet your personality is. you walk back to mark, reading it while he lies his head on your shoulder to read a bit of what he wrote. "'you're so sweet that i can't stop coming back to you as if you're like candy, i take it, i'm the luckiest man in the world because of you, my fancy.'" you read the 3rd line in the 4th stanza, giving mark a little peck after you read it.

mark is the type of boyfriend to definitely rehearse being a husband to you. even though you two may not be ready yet or you can't bring yourselves to commit, he loves to do things a loyal husband would do. would you complain? no, because you loved it when mark would act that way. it's quite silly of him to do that, but trust me, you will need it when the both of you are married.

"good evening, future wifey," mark leans on your doorway while you're putting accessories to your outfit, looking at him once you heard his voice. tonight, mark is taking you out on a date, as part of his "husband rehearsals". he notices you're wearing the yves saint laurent dress mark gave you on your first anniversary, which made him smile and giggle. "looks like you're wearing your favorite dress on our date today, hm?" you nodded, giggling softly. "you truly love rehearsing your husband duties, it's silly." you say, walking to him as you put on your fur coat and kissed him on the lips. "it's not silly when you're gonna need more of me acting like this when we get married."

mark is the type of person who tends to stay with you almost every hour of the day. even when you don't need him, he's gonna be beside you until sunset, he can work with you, or he can cuddle, or he can comfort you while you work. (that's for later) he wants to keep you close to him no matter what, so that he could take care or help you whenever something happens. it's his obligation, and he's happy to take it.

"what... are you doing?" you look up at mark who's massaging your legs, confused and a little startled at the sensations he's giving you. he's right in front of you, trying his best to probably keep you soothed and comfortable while he has nothing to do for the day. you couldn't even make him leave because, you can admit, you loved this. "i know how tired you are after the gala you had with your friends, and i'm trying to soothe you so that you won't feel any more pain walking later. i know you love it, baby." he continues massaging you while you're working, making you giggle as you stared at him. "well, matter of fact... your massages are doing great work."

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classypauli · 1 year ago

Text

She’s the Man

Pairing: Jenna Ortega x fem Reader A/N: I don’t even have words, I definitely wasn’t expecting this feedback, you guys made my day. Thank you for all the likes, rebloggs and comments!! You are the best!! Warning: alcohol, drunk people, grammar mistakes, bad punctuation in complex sentences, spelling errors Word count: 4.8k

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Y/N was walking down the hallway with Mason, they didn´t share many classes except literature. It was one of her favorite classes. Y/N becomes a little nerd if someone asks her about history, paintings, architecture, or literature. When she was a kid, she wasn´t into this kind of things. She used to do a lot of sports and her grades weren´t great but also not worse.

When she started to go to a high school she stopped. Her grades became better and soon she was topping most of her classes. Her classmates saw her as someone intelligent, she wasn´t just book smart, she had good opinions and when she started talking people listened to her, she didn´t know why, maybe because she didn´t talk much so they became interested in her talking.

But she never talked about herself. She was always trying to avoid any questions about her. Y/N didn´t know why she did that. She felt more secure that way, less on target. She likes to keep things like this together. When she used to tell someone about her problems she didn´t feel relief, it was the opposite, she was scared that it wouldn´t end with that person or that they actually didn´t care and just listened to her cause they didn´t want to be impolite. So she found peace in her silence.

When she struggled she picked up a pen and notebook. She kept writing and writing until she forgot why she started. She never read it. Felt ashamed of her words and her feelings. She wasn’t alone after all, she had her family and brother, so why did she still feel so lonely? Y/N knew she wasn´t good with words but she wanted to be better.

When she became older she found herself in poems. Sometimes she was writing about her feelings, other times she was writing about things she likes, saw during the day, or just about her day. In some way they made her realize that being focused on bad things won´t bring her good feelings. And she felt stupid, of course, it was like this but talking about it and behaving according to it were two different things.

„How was your weekend?“ Mason asked as they walked side by side to their class, passing by some of their football teammates, shooting them nods.

„It was pretty good, got some sleep, how about you?“ she shot him a glance. Y/N still can´t believe that someone like him exists, he is so kind and helpful. Today after school they are having practice, she was kind of on the edge of her toes because on saturday they have the game but Mason supported her and calmed her nerves.

„Me too, there was a party going on, it was quite good but it would be even better if you were there.“

They walked into a class and took a seat, chatting about some festival going on this week when suddenly Percy came into a class. He saw her shot her a quick nod and started to make his way to them.

„Hey, Charlie! I didn´t see you almost all weekend!“ Yeah, they were always avoiding each other but not on purpose, Y/N was always somewhere and when she came to the dorm Percy wasn´t there yet, he was sleeping or it was the other way around.

He turned to Mason but didn´t say anything. It was weird, like some tension between them. They just kept looking at each other till Percy asked her about her Friday night.

„How was your hang out with your teammates?“

Mason shot her a questionable look but Percy didn´t seem to notice that. Y/N got stuck. Now there was no way she could keep lying because clearly, Mason was sitting beside her, she could say that she felt sick so she canceled the plans or-

„It was great.“ Mason said from beside her. „Why are you interested? You wanted to join us?“ he asked and kept looking at him for an answer. Y/N knew he didn´t mean the question that way but silently thanked him for saving her. Percy looked at him, stunned, as he wasn´t expecting his statement.

„No, of course not.“ After that, he walked away somewhere behind them to find a free chair to sit on. Mason looked at “Charlie” again with a slightly raised eyebrow.

„I´m not going to ask, if you want to tell me you can, just so you know, I don´t want to force you.“ He said softly. Mason can see the way his teammate is. How she only talks when someone asks her something. He sees how she acts and holds herself. He also can see that something is off but can´t really say what. But still, he has this urge to hold a protective wing above his new friend.

„Thank you, Mason.“ Y/N shot a small smile his way and he gave it back to her. Class began and she can only hope that Percy will forget about their small but tense interaction.

Soon the mentioned festival came. Y/N was walking around by herself not really sure where to head to. There were all the students from her school running around. She saw Georgie on the bench, he was holding big candy floss in his hand looking excited at it. The girl wanted to laugh at him, he looked really funny. Slowly she came to him with a small teasing smile on her face.

„Aren´t you a little too old for this?“ Y/N asked him looking at his change of face at her question.

„There is not something like an age barrier in eating cotton candy!“ Georgie shouted and turned his face around, acting angry at her. Of course, he was right, she liked it too, she just saw the opportunity and took it.

„Yeah, believe whatever you want“ Y/N smiled „Where is the rest?“ she was hitting on Hunter, the two boys were always together, they truly were like brothers, always bickering but supportive of each other. Percy was also a lot of time by their side but Hunter and Georgie were glued by the hip.

„I don´t know I´m waiting for him.“ He said as Y/N slowly took a seat by him. „And what brings you here? Shouldn´t you train for your upcoming match?“ he looked her way.

„Today we have a free day, coach was talking about him having some show at the festival.“ Y/N was looking forward to her match and wanted to be ready, hoping he would let her play for at least a couple of minutes. She wanted to find out how her body would react. She was a little nervous but this stress was healthy. It kept her going.

„Me and Hunter will come to watch you.“ The girl looked at him shocked. He was eating his candy floss with his fingers all sticky.

„You like something else besides eating and taking photography?“ she teased him and he looked at her with lowered eyebrows.

„I didn´t say I enjoy watching it, I just want to see how you lose your first game.“ Georgie laughed then Y/N punched his shoulder. „Ouch! I was only joking you know!“

She stopped and looked around her, feeling like someone was watching her and she was right. There was a girl not so far, looking at her with folded arms and a smirk on her face. She had long brown hair and was short. She started to make her way to the two of them. Y/N straightened her back and waited for what this girl had to say.

„Hey, I don´t think we know each other but my roommate talks a lot about you.“

Now that made the girl sitting on the bench stop. Roommate? She had never seen this girl and Y/N wasn´t sure where she should know her roommate from. The only girl she talks to is Jenna but she´s almost sure that she has no reason to talk about her.

„She is working in the photo booth, I´m sure she would be on top of the roof if you came to see her.“ She still has that teasing smile on her face.

„Uhm... yeah, sure“ Y/N lets out looking at Georgie who´s trying to hold his laugh. The girl left and he lets it out.

„Shut your mouth and keep eating.“ She hissed at him but he only continued with his laugh.

Soon she found Mason and some of her other teammates, they talked about the game how excited are they and how they would smash their opponent. Her brother called her again, saying how his tour was going and he wished her luck. Their parents luckily aren´t suspicious so everything is going according to plan. She takes her walk around the festival, looking at all kinds of booths and how people are enjoying themselves. She stopped by one and just stared, she saw Jenna, and she sat in one of the booths on her face her significant smile. Suddenly the brown eyed girl looked up and saw Y/N. She smiles wider and she indicates with her eyes at the side of the booth. Y/N slowly walks there are is greeted with Jenna´s hug. This was the first time they hugged and Y/N couldn´t focus on anything. She was shocked by the girl´s body language but also glad cause this meant their friendship became stronger.

„Hey, I was looking forward to seeing you today.“ Jenna backed her way out of their hug and looked up at her, still with their bodies close to one another. Y/N looked where they were and she saw that Jenna was working in a... photo booth.

„Uhm... yeah? Why? Do you need something?“ the other girl asked looking down at her again.

„No, I just wanted to see you.“ There goes her dimples again. They are so cute. Her whole face is too pretty. Y/N wanted to say something but was cut off by another voice.

„Hey football player glad you finally decided to come.“ She turned to Jenna „I found her when I went to the toilet, couldn´t hold myself from inviting her to our booth.“ She shot her teasing smile. Jenna face palmed herself, she could already imagine how she approached you and what she said. Gideon was like that, she is a big matchmaker but also really attentive and sweet when it's convenient.

„Charlie this is Gideon, Gideon Charlie.“ She pointed her hand from one to another.

„Hey Charlie, I heard a lot of things about you.“ She smirked and Jenna pushed her away, awkwardly looking around as she stood in front of Y/N.

„Ehm...so, I heard you have an upcoming game this Saturday, are you excited yet?“ the shorter girl asked as she looked at her feet, arms folded. Y/N found her cute right now, how she couldn´t look at her like she did before her roommate interrupted them.

„I pretty am, even though I don´t even know if I will play, I´ve been training only two weeks, and I’m not sure if the coach will let me play.“ She shook her shoulders.

„Oh I´m sure you will be playing, you are one of the best on your team.“ Jenna winked at Y/N and smiled at her. „I saw you a couple of times.“

Now, Jenna was acting as if she had seen her just a couple of times but the truth is, she saw her every practice. She doesn´t know why, at first she just went there cause she didn´t feel like going straight to her dorm, but when she saw you she knew that she wanted to see you again. You were so good. You acted like a totally different person on the field, you were confident and energetic, and your every move was calculated. You could easily catch someone´s attention. You caught Jenna´s attention.

Y/N felt a lot more confident because of Jenna´s words. She wasn´t the first person who said this to her.

„Will you come to see us?“

„Are you inviting me to watch you on your game?“ Jenna teased her.

„Well, if you already have some plans you don´t have to, I mean you probably have better things to do than to watch some stinky players running around the field chasing the ba-“ Y/N didn´t even finish her sentence and the other girls cut her off.

„I will come“ Jenna wouldn´t miss your first game, she was excited to see you being competitive. There was something about you that was always bringing her thoughts to you. You were such a good listener, a soft speaker, and intelligent. She doesn´t think she has ever met someone like you in her life. You were like a fresh air to her stereotypical life. She wanted to be with you cause every time you are together, you give her something new.

Jenna watched Y/N. She couldn’t tear her eyes off her. You were like someone else like they switched you. In-person, you were sweet, quiet, caring, and soft. On the field, you were almost aggressive but not in a bad way, you knew what you were doing. This was definitely your alter ego and Jenna was here for every second of it, you put on quite a show. Running back and forth in your jersey, defending than attacking, the ball moved exactly where you wanted it to move. You were fast, probably the fastest one on the field.

Jenna enjoyed it so much. She used to play football when she was a kid with her family when they spent time together and also in school. But that was a long time ago, she may not play it anymore but she still likes to watch it.

The girl moved her eyes as you got the ball on your foot and started to run trying to get near the opponent's net. Players trying to stop you, running after you, trying to slide their way to you, nothing works. When you got near the goal area you tried your luck and shot the ball into the net. The opponent's goalkeeper couldn’t see the ball because of his teammates standing in front of him, making the ball straight to the top corner. Whistle. Goal.

Jenna stood up clapping her hands big smile on her face as she watched you running to your teammates to celebrate your success. The whole tribune of the students from your school is clapping, yelling supportive words, happy that they are winning against a different university. Your coach is standing near the field with his arms folded and a proud smile on his face. It was definitely a good idea to put you in the first lineup.

“Charlie! That was so good!” Mason tapped your back, he had the biggest smile, and he was so happy for you. You were a big talent.

The game went on and it was almost the end, Y/N became calmer because they were leading. She shot her gaze a couple of times at the tribune and every time she could see Jenna looking at her, she hoped she was enjoying this. Y/N also saw Georgie and Hunter, both boys beside each other smiling widely at her with their thumbs up, Georgie with a hot dog in another hand.

Soon the game ended, and they won 3:0. Y/N was glad that her first match was successful and hopefully, she impressed others. In the changing room, her teammates were chanting, happy about their first match. After that, she walked out of the changing room, bag on her shoulder, still in her football jersey, she’s planning to take a shower in her dorm. She knew that they were a bit suspicious about her cause every time after practice she just took her bag and left, unchanged. But they thought maybe “Charlie” was just shy which was okay not everyone liked showing off skin, even if it was in front of the same gender. Y/N was near the entrance looking into her phone, texting her brother about her game.

„Hey football player.” She looked up from her phone and saw Jenna leaning on her side into the doors looking at her.

„Oh hi, wasn‘t expecting you, did you enjoy the game?” the girl asked as she got closer to her. Now they were looking at each other holding gaze, Jenna looked up biting her lip. You look good right now. Still being in jersey, sweaty forehead, hooded eyes from the energy you gave on the field. If this was someone else she was sure she wouldn’t find them as attractive as you right now.

Jenna nodded her head „Congratulations on your first successful game, pretty cool goal if I have to say.” She says softly still looking at the other girl.

„Pretty cool? It was awesome! Didn’t you see how I ran through half of their players and still shot it?” Y/N started defending herself „I was unstoppable.”

Jenna threw her head back letting out a laugh. She grabbed Y/N by the arm and started to pull her outside of the building.

„Come, we need to celebrate your first win”

„Wait, but I’m still in these clothes, I can’t go anywhere like this.”

Jenna shot her a look „There isn’t any problem if you ask me, but we can stop by your dorm?”

They walked out, still holding each other's hands, Y/N didn’t want to be rude and tear up their hands, she liked this feeling, Jenna’s hand was so soft and warm. Y/N felt good with Jenna, like she has finally someone just for herself.

But her thoughts went to her words, what if her roommate was there and saw them together? He would beat her up. But it was afternoon and he used to be at this time somewhere in the amphitheater.

Y/N agreed as they started making their way towards the dorm rooms. They chatted about some party going on tonight. Jenna’s friend Gideon invited her. Jenna was about to decline but her roommate said there would be also a football team probably celebrating their win. That made Jenna say yes to her offer which Gideon only laughed at.

To Jenna “Charlie” was special, she didn’t know what caught her attention, something inside of her wanted to be with you, by your side.

Luckily for Y/N, Percy was nowhere to be found. She invited Jenna to their room she took her new clothes and went to get a shower. Jenna was sitting on Y/N’s bed, looking around trying to find something which would only make her closer to her friend. Your bed smelled like you, she loved your scent it was like citrus with cedar or something like green tea, she couldn’t describe it in one word. On your desk were books and a notebook, you had it perfectly organized, and everything had its own place. Yeah, you are definitely a perfectionist. When she looked at the other side of the room she could exactly say who was the owner.

The paintings and papers spread around the desk and floor, different types of art. She found them a couple of times in her locker, at the table where she sat, or in her mailbox. Paintings of her. At first, she found it cute but it kept graduating as she got them almost every day. And it was always herself.

But maybe she would be glad, if it ended just with this.

She was in a room where lived two people. One that makes her most pleasant in their presence and the other one she feels most uncomfortable with.

„So what´s your plan for today?“

They were eating in some corner restaurant, Jenna got herself some vegan food, and Y/N sat in front of her with a plate of big burger and some fries. It felt good seeing them like this, both out of student uniforms in their civilian clothes, enjoying each other´s company.

Jenna wanted to know, inconspicuously, if her friend in going to the local party that night. If she said yes then Jenna would also have some plans, that´s for sure. Even though she doesn´t like parties, not anymore.

„Well, some of my teammates are going to some party, I don´t know where, they asked me if I´ll join them.“ She said as she kept eating her fries. „I haven´t decided yet, I´m not really into parties, too loud for me.“ That really didn´t answer her question.

„What about you? Any plans?“

„Gideon was saying something about today´s night but I´m not sure yet.“

„Oh, cool.“ And just like that they continued eating their meals, both hoping, at some point they´ll see each other today. Jenna looked up from the table to Y/N, the girl looked flawless right now, with her invincible walls down, silently eating a burger. Jenna pushed her hand up and stole some fries from her plate. Her friend looked at her with her head not moving from her meat, unimpressed. Softly shook her head from side to side.

„You are lucky it´s you, if it was someone else they wouldn´t have a hand by now.“ She said. She didn’t mind sharing food, sometimes, and she definitely didn´t mind sharing food with the brown-eyed girl.

Y/N was thinking. About Percy to be exact, about their deal or more like his, because he isn´t doing anything to repay. But she promised him she would at least try. And she also tried. When she and Jenna had classes together, like when they were lab partners, she could feel Percy´s stare. His eyes were boring into her skull so hard that sometimes she could even feel a headache. When she looked up at him he moved his eyes to the other girl and back to her. Signalizing what he wants from her.

So she asked. She asked Jenna if she was dating anyone or if she ever thought about going out with Percy. Jenna only laughed at her and shook her head, trying to avoid any questions about him. Y/N could feel something was off, the brown-eyed girl knew the boy and still didn´t even look at him or say hi to him. But Y/N doesn´t know why is she like that. Something happened between them and she wasn´t sure if she wanted to know. It wasn´t her business after all.

After Y/N´s questions, Jenna felt conflicted. She was used to guys asking her out, trying something with her but not you, you were different. You are the only guy who hasn´t tried to get with her. And she liked that. But when you asked her about Percy and said that she would be perfect for him, she almost wasn´t sure if she heard you right.

Perfect for him. But would he be perfect for her? Jenna knew the answer to that question. She disliked him. For what he made her feel. Jenna didn´t want to be perfect for him, she wanted to be perfect for you. And it took her quite a long time to realize that she liked you more than a friend. She talked to Gideon and Emma about it, they told her the same thing.

But did you feel the same?

Jenna was now standing in someone´s living room. Loud music and drunk students were escorting her thoughts. She was looking for her friends, they agreed that they would meet there. She saw Gideon sitting on the sofa, cup in her hand. She was talking to someone Jenna recognized from school. She sat beside her and her roommate looked her way.

„Hey, glad you could make it.“

„What are you drinking?“ Jenna grabbed Gideon´s cup and smelled it.

„Vodka, I got it from the kitchen, down the hallway to the right, you want me to go with you?“ Gideon was sweet, she knew Jenna didn´t enjoy such a thing as a party.

„No it´s okay, I´ll get it, maybe I´ll see Emma or Joy somewhere.“

So with that, she picked herself up from a sofa and started to go into the kitchen. There were a bunch of teens, she barely could make it through them. Some were really drunk and the scent of strong alcohol could be smelled from them. Some guys who saw her shot her flirtatious smirk. She brushed them off and was trying not to make any eye contact on her way. When she saw football players she immediately started looking around if you weren´t somewhere over there. No, you weren’t. She was looking forward to meeting you today but still with no luck. She hoped you would decide to go there.

She made it to the kitchen took a cup in her hand and started looking for some juice. She didn´t feel like drinking, maybe if she was at home with some close friends or you, she would drink but she was at a party, by herself in a stranger´s kitchen.

„Hey.“

Jenna heard a voice from the back. The girl turned around and saw someone she was trying to avoid at all costs. She hoped he wouldn´t be there today but of course he would, they are in the same school after all.

Percy was standing by the kitchen entrance, eyes low, looking at her. They were alone there and loud music could be heard from the other room. Suddenly she didn´t feel safe. The last time they met they were in a room full of people and it still didn´t stop him. Now they were alone and she felt even more scared cause there was nothing that could stop him from doing whatever he wanted.

„H-Hey.“ She shot him nodding with her head and continued with whatever she was doing, with her shaking hands, acting like he wasn´t even there in the first place. But she could feel his cold presence closer behind her. She turned around and was met with his face. He smelled like he just drunk a whole bottle of alcohol. She took a step back from him.

„Is there something you want?“ Jenna asked him. He never broke the eye contact, slowly smirking.

„Yeah, actually, you could help me with something.“ He went to grab her hand but she pushed him.

„Stop, you know what happened last time-“ he cut her off.

„I don´t care! Why can´t you just give me a chance? We could be so good together. You like that, right? You like it when guys are chasing you, it makes you like you are in charge, well Jenna, now it´s different, now I´m in charge here.“

„Please get away from me you are scaring me.“ She felt like crying like she got stones in her throat. Still walking away from him, praying that someone will show up and save her. She felt so small in front of him, no one had ever made her felf like this, like she was some prey.

„What are you doing?“

She turned her head to the new voice that was heard in the kitchen. And she was so glad, felt like she could breathe again. There was you looking at him, no emotion in your face, then you walked up to them and looked right into Percy´s eyes.

She had never seen you like this, you were so serious and didn´t show any emotion. You continue your stare down without blinking. Even though you were shorter than him, not much, you still had a bigger and stronger aura than him.

„Is there a problem?“ Y/N could smell the alcohol from his mouth and could see that he didn´t know what he was doing. So that´s why she knew she couldn´t show that she was scared. It would make him even more confident.

His eyes changed when he realized you were here to get him away from Jenna.

„Charlie, what are you doing? We had a deal! You promised!“ he shouted at his roommate. He knew he shouldn´t trust you. He is sure that you like her. You want to take her away from him!

He started to breathe harder and his eyes became more dangerous. You weren´t scared of him, you were calm and waiting for his next move.

„Leave.“ Y/N said with a low voice, face unimpressed. But before he could say anything else Mason and a couple of others of your teammates came into the kitchen.

Mason walked up to the three of you and stood even taller than Percy. Percy was now in a corner and had nothing to do. So he smiled dryly and walked away.

When he left Y/N turned her gaze to Mason and silently thanked him for standing beside her, he smiled at her with his soft eyes and left with their teammates. You turned down to Jenna and saw her already looking at you. She was hugging herself and looked so gentle and small.

„Hi, you good?“ Y/N asked, almost whispering, waiting for the other girl's answer.

„Yeah.“ She softly let out. She then threw her arms around the taller girl. Head buried in her chest. Y/N hugged Jenna strongly, letting her know that she was there with her.

Yeah, Jenna was sure that you were perfect for her.

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