#Student Rent Strike

[undergroundrockpress]

Student Rent Strike, Ann Arbor (1969) Photo : Wayne Scott jr (for the Underground Press Syndicate).

[octarineblues]

ok so if you live in the uk, you might have heard of the student rent strike at the university of manchester.

(its all pretty badass, actually. theres over 600 people witholding rent for official student accomodation. the main strike group occupied several buildings, including the main administrative offices, for weeks)

here's the bbc northwest report on the strike from a few months ago (showing both the occupations and conditions in student accomodation). and a bbc article about student strikers being forcibly removed from the occupied building.

and the wikipedia entry on the strikes, which i didnt even know existed. it has all the sources you might need, tbh, tho it doesnt cover the most recent stuff from what i see.

a few days ago the news went out that the university will seek disciplinary action against some of the students - something that the uni is, according to their own rules, not allowed to do, but is a stalling tactic that might prevent the students from passing the year or graduating. this is after the uni fined those withholding rent and violently removed strikers from occupied buildings.

please consider supporting the rent strike - here is a letter in support of students undergoing the discicplinary action (you dont have to have to be in the UK or have anything to do with UoM to sign it!) and you can also support the strikers financially!

[stllmnstr]

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

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

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.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

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. ♡

[sideysvault]

ೀ｡˚ Patching Deadpool up years after he left you ೀ⋆｡˚

Pairing: Wade Wilson x fem!reader

Part two here

Wordcount: 2,9k

Tags: Canon typical violence, angst with a happy ending.

────────

The rusty silver plate read in an almost playful manner "The sisters Margaret home for wayward children". It was a colorful name, and it belonged to a not so colorful bar. That was the place where the two of you had met.

Back then, you were nothing more than a student. Constantly struggling to manage the very limited funding given to you. All you wanted was to finish your thesis, get your masters degree, and make it to the end of the month. Your paychecks had cornered you into the only half decent apartment you could rent: The one built in the shittiest neighborhood in town, in a building held up solely by divine grace and poor construction.

That particular night was the end of an extremely rough week. Work piled up, homesickness struck you every time you had a chance to relax and think, and you were the living proof that nobody could make any meaningful connections if you only strictly went to work and home with no rest in between.

And for Christ Sake, you hated to admit it, but you really missed home and the crippling suspicion that you were close to breaking down was settling in.

The only logical next step you could take popped into your head just as you were walking into your neighborhood. You needed to blow off some steam. Have a drink. Or two. Or three. So, your steps seemingly redirected themselves towards that ugly bar that was close to your uglier apartment. Sure, it seemed super sketchy. But right this second, all you needed was to get a drink.

Wade was in that bar too. As he usually was. He immediately took notice of the woman who seemed clearly out of place. You looked like some kind of stuck up librarian. And it was obvious that your mood was extraordinarily dispirited. Sitting there staring at the wall with a piercing stare. Paying no mind to the environment you were in. Furrowed eyebrows adorned your face seemed concerned. Before Wade even realized what he was doing, he found himself striking a conversation with you.

He tried to reason with himself. There were no ulterior motives, no meaning behind his accretion. Wade has always had a soft spot for damsels in distress. And you were hot as fuck. Nothing else.

"What's a nice place like you doing in a girl like this?"

Strangely, that's all it took to make you laugh. The absurdity of the corny comment immediately got to you and a loud burst of laughter came out of your mouth. Wade's face softened with a certain sense of pride when he saw he could make you laugh.

The stuck up girl with a stick up on her ass had just let out not a forced and polite giggle, but an all teeth and gums type of laugh.

The poorly dim light in the bar did not stop him from trying to take all your features in. And a sense of warmth began to surface under his skin. He was the one who made your night better.

Ever since the event, you would visit that horrid place regularly. Only to see the charming guy who would make you laugh. Your little hangouts quickly evolved into something more. A friendship of sorts. He would walk you home when you stayed late working. "To protect you from all the homicidal freaks". Wade would take you on private tours around the city, so its streets wouldn't feel so foreign to you. He could notice that you genuinely had a great time whenever he was around. And that was all he needed to keep showing up.

One late night, laughter turned into teasing, which transformed to kissing, which later turned into a hookup that evolved into having sex on a regular basis and going out routinely. Wade and you couldn't be more different, it was true. But it seemed to be the key to your relationship. You guys clicked together, balancing each other out.

The insidious realization came to you on a random afternoon. You were in love with Wade Wilson. And he probably felt the same for you.

As cruel as life is, something terrible happened. Just as things were getting serious between the two of you, on one cursed night, he just decided to pick up all of his things from your apartment and leave. All Wade left behind was a tiny note stating that he had terminal cancer and that he loved you. With a little doodle of a heart with crossed out eyes and a tongue sticking out of its mouth.

You were out doing research the first time he fainted. A full time professor had the kindness to name you as a co-author in an important research paper that was being published in some big shot magazine. Wade felt extremely proud of you. On some late nights he couldn't believe that a woman like you could be head over heels over a low stakes hit-man.

The decision felt simple at the time. He ran straight to the clinic and never told you about the incident. Wondering why he would bother you with something that was probably nothing. On that day, in a confined room with sterile air, with its gray walls and the constant sound of the old air conditioner, that’s where the doctor hit him with the whole terminal cancer ordeal. Wade knew you would automatically make a billion plans and extensive research. He knew you'd stay with him all the way through the end. Even if it affected your career, even if it would wreck you emotionally, even if your routine together was reduced to a mere nurse-client relationship, you would stay with him all the way. That was the reason he had fallen in love with you after all.

So, he made a choice. Albeit, one that was a little less simple. He was leaving before tarnishing your life, your memory of him and your time together with his sickness. He couldn't do that to you. The woman who actually had goals. And a shot for a promising future. If he told you about the situation, Wade was certain that he wouldn't have the heart to say no to you. He would stay. And you'd forever remember him as a lost puppy who you loved but had to put down mercifully.

The other option was to be the asshole who left. But he could live on your memory forever. As the person he once was. So that was that.

━━━━━━━━━

You decided to take a shortcut to your newly renovated home. You were wearing your favorite heels today. And they really weren't walking shoes. Brand new, stiff, and ridiculously blue. The scrappy and dark alleyway was well illuminated, and it would take you directly into the street your building was in. After weighing the options, you decided it was safe enough to make a run for it.

The loud noises that you increasingly heard coming from the dumpster worried you. The dumpster was located just before being able to get out of that creepy lane, and you tried to stop the flux of thoughts about homicidal maniacs that suddenly plagued your mind. But, the thought of injured animals that people abandoned on the street came to you as well. Getting closer, hearing the early sound of the echoe of your shoes against the cement, you tried to swallow your fear. Something in there could really need a vet.

But there was a mutilated man wearing a red suit. You instinctively froze and began to step back, the scene was so gruesome that you were sure you would puke on the body and ruin the DNA evidence. Just as you were typing the emergency number on your phone you heard that voice.

"Bad Deadpool" it mumbled. You heard some nonsensical phrases before you could make out a "Fuck. That was, like, my favorite arm"

Your heart began to pound so strongly you could practically feel it on your ears.

He hadn't noticed you yet, continuing to lose a shit ton of blood and trying to balance himself upward without the missing limbs and several shot wounds.

Not without a second thought, you ran to help him stand up. As soon as he felt your firm touch, he turned around violently, holding a defensive position. But the man in the red suit stopped dead in his tracks when he saw you were the one holding him.

This was not the neighborhood you used to live in.

You sighed at the sight and quickly took him back to your apartment. You knew it was him. You were sure of it. The lame jokes had given it away. And that voice had haunted you for a long time. You'd recognize him anywhere. His remaining arm felt the same, the inflections of his tired voice sounded the same, and the shock he’d felt at seeing you was indiscutible belonging to him. You had heard rumors about the red suit. But never wondered who could be behind the mask. Wade was supposed to be dead by now, anyways.

Wade, on the other hand, was focusing on not making a sound. He really really hoped breaking your heart had left you clinically insane. Insane enough to rescue random mutilated men off the street.

As soon as you entered the apartment it became tainted with carnage. A trail of crimson red adorned your freshly painted white snow walls. Little chunks of skin would occasionally fall. Accompanying the already gruesome blood. Your heels had been lost somewhere along the way and with great effort you had managed to throw him into a bed that he wasn't yet familiar with.

Fuck it. As if losing an arm and a leg wasn't enough. This was breathtakingly fucked.

The shock left your body as soon as you saw your not-dead ex boyfriend mutilated on your bed. And shock was the only thing keeping you together.

By that moment he was certain you knew it was him. Your eyes began to tear up at the sight of his wounded body, your cheeks were trembling with fear, or disgust, or a combination of both. Before he could try to get up, a pool of blood came shooting out of his mouth without warning. Some of it must have filtered through the mask because you somehow looked more terrified than before. He felt ditzy. And before Wade could do anything about it, you took out his mask on a whim to try to avoid him choking on his own blood. And that was it. All that pain, all the abandonment, the secrecy. It all meant nothing now. You had seen his face.

You were definitely taken aback. And he felt his heart break a little when you instinctively removed her hand from his face. You swallowed with difficulty, shook your head and got up. There were more pressing matters at hand. You had heard things about the vigilante regenerating. But you weren't taking any chances. Not with Wade. Never again.

It didint matter how fucked up he looked now. He took the opportunity of you leaving the room to put his mask back on as quickly as he could. As he was trying to process everything that had just happened, through the door he could see your crying face moving up and down around the apartment. And there you were. Carrying it all into the bedroom.

It was a massive, fancy emergency kit that you had saved up for back in the day. When he was still beating bad guys for money and living with you. You had kept it all this time. And it was still perfectly stocked.

Wade couldn't lift his gaze to meet yours. But he noticed that you seemed relatively unfazed by his new face now. Or by the fact that you had seen him lacking two limbs and with some extra holes. The tears had stopped, but the mortifying look on your face never left. You always knew what he did for a living, you weren’t stupid. But he had always managed to keep it out of home. Or at least he tried to. Never to this extent. You weren't really used to it.

After all he had faced, he thought he did not need any care anymore. Just his healing, getting high and his unicorn. After all, his body would mend all the damage he had done to it and grow itself back together. But it still hurts. And you still tried to make it better. You begin to patch him up as best as you can, taking your time disinfecting, sewing, and fixing him. He knew you well enough to be absolutely certain that you were trying not to gag at the sight of the wounds. And he appreciated your efforts.

When you finished, you softly traced your fingernails on his bandages. He was too tired to talk. And you were still too shocked. How the fuck is he still alive after those injuries? What had happened to him after all these years?

Without saying a word you got up and went straight to the kitchen. You returned after some time, with his favorite tea, soup, and all the analgesics you could find. Your kindness gave him courage to stop being such a weak pussy and actually try to talk to you. You had seen him. Even if you wouldn't want anything to do anymore, the worst had passed.

"So... Sorry about your walls. Didn't know you had a fancy place now. I would've totally died in another alleyway, I promise. And, sorry, for- uhm, you know. The character shattering abandonment"

He coughed some blood. You just furrowed your eyebrows and as slowly as you could, so he could actually stop you this time if that was what he wanted, you removed his mask again. Your eyes pierced him with earnest intensity.

"You are a fucking asshole. And I fucking hate you. And I'm so glad you are alive"

"I know, I know, baby. And thank you for going all mother Teresa on me. Well, wrong comparison. But, yeah. I'll be okay in no time. It's hard to explain right now. But, I will do right by you and paint your walls bright white when my leg and everything grows back! Pinky promise. I'll also buy you new shoes. It's kinda gross that you are footless. Or, well, it could be h-”

"Oh my lord, Wade. Just shut up and get some rest. Eat when you feel better. And scream if you need something"

And just when you were about to leave the room he softly said "Hey. I'm sorry. I-, I didn't want to bring you onto the whole cancer show. I was going to fix myself and come back. And then everything got fucked. I couldn't let you see me like this. Understand that. I'm a monster now. Inside out. I would have never left if there had been a way of staying without ruining your life"

You just looked at him for a long moment. Tears began to appear in your eyes, threatening to come out again. As soon as he saw your face, he immediately tried to lighten up the mood. "Hey, how long have you been obsessed with me?

Still keeping that old thing?" He said as he gestured at the now empty emergency kit.

He didn't have the heart to explain to you that it was a waste in him.

Saying nothing in response to Wade's dumb joke, you just rolled your eyes. Hearing him talk that way about himself hurt your soul. You couldn't help yourself anymore, so you walked towards the injured man with tears running down your face. You sat down on a chair beside the bed and rested your head on his lap.

He called your name softly “there's no need to cry. I know I belong to a fucking circus but this is getting a little offensive" Wade finally got a chuckle out of you. You smile at him and wipe out your tears. Wade winces slightly when you tenderly leave a kiss on his forehead. He feels ashamed of the tact his ruined skin probably had left on your soft lips. It has truly been so long. You notice how he reacts. So you put your hands around his face and gently kiss each of his cheeks, and then the bridge of his nose. As softly as you can.

"I'll go now before you make some lame Greek kiss joke. Get some rest. We'll talk in the morning. I know you are sorry." With a more serious voice, you added

"Just no more running away in the middle of the night. Okay?"

Wade softens. He really missed you. As much as he liked Al's old ass, his true home was with you. Even after all these years. Even after what he did to you. Even with how he looked. Wade was certain he would be able to sleep soundly for the first time in years. He was safe now.

"Never again. I promise. I'll do right by you. Okay? We'll be friends with a ton of disgusting unexplored sexual tension in no time and who knows where that could lead to"

You laughed again. And there it was. His favorite sound in the world. It sounded just like the first time he heard it all those years ago.

"By the way, you do owe me those heels. And white walls. You pinky promised it. Oh, and you also owe me the biggest fucking explanation of the century.”

"Sounds like a start to me"

Notes: OMG my first big one! I’m excited to post this. I hope it makes sense, if it doesn’t, feedback is always welcomed! -Sidey xxo

[Edited on October 2024! This was poorly written and I was fully proud of it 😭 shoutout to @nikkiwho, who I fixed this fit for] btw, I’m working on your request for part two even if it’s been a while! Hope you like it.

[whereonceiwasfire]

If you're game to write a cheese melt (Vlad & Dani father-daughter dynamic) ficlet, I'd love to read one. If not, that's cool :)

*vibrating with excitement* My friend. Your cheese melt art has been living rent free in my head for WEEKS. It's my sincerest pleasure to write a ficlet for this. I hope it's okay that it's an outsider POV, I just had an idea and my brain went brrrrrrr LOL

May I offer you a dysfunctional parent-teacher interview?

Parent-teacher interviews are always a nightmare, but there's one in particular that’s making Amity Middle School’s beloved Ms. Burnell sweat through her shirt. As the time slot nears, her gaze keeps flickering to the clock, her classroom door, back to her nervously interlaced fingers on the desktop.

It’s going to be fine. Perfectly fine.

“This one! Over here! Dad! This is my class!” The excited words, shouted in the syrupy sweet voice of a little girl, sets every nerve on edge, Ms. Burnell’s heart plummeting straight into the pit of her stomach.

Oh lord. Maybe it’s not going to be fine. 

Her student comes bounding into the classroom, eyes bright and excited, oversized blue sweater sleeves slipping over her hands, even as she gestures emphatically for her father to follow. Black hair spills out of her ponytail, whipping across her face as she throws herself into a desk across from Ms. Burnell’s with a bright smile. 

Her father, on the other hand… 

The heel of his expensive Italian loafers strike against the linoleum as the man stops at the threshold of the classroom, cool gaze doing an assessing sweep of the space, expression crinkling in distaste as it does. He doesn’t say a single word, doesn’t make any move to actually step inside the classroom. 

Ms. Burnell is the one who clears her throat, pushing to an awkward stand as she extends a hand out to the man. 

“Hello, Mr. Masters. Thank you for making the time to come discuss your daughter’s education. I know you’re very busy.” 

The man’s eyes slip to her outstretched palm, and for a motifying second, she doesn’t think he’s going to take it. When he finally does, he just gives a brief, cursory shake before swiping his palm off on his suit jacket and striding past her toward his daughter. 

Ms. Burnell’s face is all kinds of warm, chest tight with embarassment as she fumbles back to her desk, trying to wrestle herself back into some kind of composure. Still, she barely looks up as she pulls out a folder with Danielle Masters scrawled across the tab.

“Dad! Dad! That one’s mine! Do you see it? Do you like it?” Danielle calls proudly, tugging on her father’s suit sleeve and pointing toward the paintings that are spread out beneath the windows to dry, paper wavy and crinkled.

“Oh, er. That’s actually a good place for us to start,” Ms. Burnell cuts in apologetically. 

Mr. Masters gaze snaps from where he’d been examining his daughter’s project, over to her, brows dropped low. 

“Why? Is there a problem with my daughter’s work?” The question is sharp, accusatory, and she’s pretty sure her soul shrivels up a little bit at the unguarded disdain in the man’s eyes.

Swallowing hard, sweat beading against the back of her neck, Ms. Burnell resists the urge to immediately take it back. Surely he can see the problem with the piece—isn’t going to make her say it? 

It's too scary.

When his challenging gaze doesn’t waver, she forces the words out. 

“Uhm. Well. It’s just. Not quite. Appropriate for a sixth grade class?” It pitches up into a question as she gestures vaguely toward Dani’s painting. 

It’s a bit sloppy, the layers of paint caked upon each other, the lines hasty and uneven, but the scene itself is clear enough—a little, smiling, white-haired girl in the shadow of some kind of hulking creature, its skin blue, eyes red, sharp fangs bared as its cape flares out to take up the rest of the page. 

Ms. Burnell almost set up an appointment for Danielle with the school counselor when she saw it, wondering if Dani felt like she was the little girl, trapped amongst nightmares and “monsters.” She decided against it for the time being, until she could speak with the girl’s father, but that’s proving rather unhelpful so far if the contemptuous way the man is looking at her is any indication.

“Did Danielle complete the assignment?” he asks finally. 

“Uhm. Yes.” 

“And adhere to the grading criteria?” 

“Sh-she did,” Ms. Burnell answers reluctantly.

“Then I don’t see the problem,” he answers, finality in the words as his gaze turns to his daughter. He takes a much softer tone with her, brushing the disorderly strands of hair off her face, an absent domesticity in the way he straightens the ponytail gone lopsided. “I think you did a lovely job, dear.” 

“Thank you! I used Alizarin Crimson,” she answers proudly, hair flopping right back into her eyes.

“Excellent choice.” 

“Uhm. Well, there’s also the matter of Danielle’s conduct,” Ms. Burnell cuts in.    

The man lets out an irritated sigh, arms crossing over his chest as he leans back against one of the desks, one ankle crossed over the other, unimpressed gaze finding Ms. Burnell once more. 

“What?” he says, like it’s an inconvenience.

She swallows hard. “She’s been…uhm. Not getting along with some of the other girls.” 

“That is so unfair, Mackenzie started it!” Danielle shouts abruptly, popping up to her knees on her chair, palms slapping down against the desktop. 

“Well that’s not what Mack—” 

The girl keeps going, cutting Ms. Burnell off. 

“She said the only reason Eli agreed to play with me at recess was because Joshua dared him too, and I said nuh unh and she said yuh hunh, and I asked how she knew that, and she couldn’t even prove it, it was so obvious she was making it up!” 

“Mackenzie told me that you said some pretty unkind words to her, Danielle.” 

“Barely! I just said it was a bad look for her to be so jealous of me and just because she looks like she fished her outfit from the same trash bin she got her personality from isn’t any reason to be a jerk.”

Her father’s expression twists into a sharp smirk, amusement lighting his blue eyes, and Ms. Burnell thinks she’s starting to get a better sense of why Danielle is proving to be one of the most challenging students in her class this year. 

“We treat people with kindness and respect in this classroom, Dani. Do you think what you said to Mackenzie was kind and respectful?” 

“Well…” Dani’s gaze drops, expression pinching in thought, and Ms. Burnell thinks she might actually be getting through to her.

“It doesn’t sound as though this other girl was treating Danielle with kindness and respect,” Mr. Masters answers, the words coming out with a mocking turn, like he finds the concepts incidental at best.

“That’s true. She did start it,” Dani reasserts, turning her gaze up to her dad.  

“I’ve spoken to Mackenzie about her part in everything,” Ms. Burnell answers tightly. “But we’re here to talk about Danielle’s conduct. That’s not the only incident of its kind that’s occurred this year and—” 

“You know, it sounds to me as though Danielle’s doing just fine,” Mr. Masters says, pushing up to a proper stand, tugging the bottom of his sleeves and smoothing the dark, wrinkleless fabric.

“But—” 

“Did she make this girl cry?” 

“Well. No, but—” 

“And how are my daughter’s academics?” he asks, gaze fixed on hers, sending a chill creeping down her spine. 

“Fine, but—” 

“Has she gotten into a physical altercation with anyone?” 

“Not exactly, but—” 

“Started any fires?” he asks, sarcasm and derision dripping from the words. 

“No, she hasn’t started any fires.” 

“Then I believe this meeting is finished. Thank you for your time, Ms…”

“Burnell,” she answers weakly.

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Burnell. Danielle, are you ready to go?”

“Yup!” She pops up to an enthusiastic stand, rushing over to the windows to snatch up her painting, twisting it toward Ms. Burnell. “Can I take this home?”

She gives a heavy sigh, massaging her temples with her fingertips. “Sure, Dani. That's fine.” 

“Thanks, Ms. B!” As the girl traipses after her dad, a bounce in her step, horrifying painting swinging at her side, Ms. Burnell can hear the girl still chattering away, even as they pass out of her classroom, voices growing distant. “Do you think I should have made Mackenzie cry?” she asks.

Ms. Burnell is glad she can’t hear the man’s response—she doesn’t even want to know his answer.

[irisintheafterglow]

in a world of boys, he's a gentleman

summary: a creep walks up to the shake stand window. your favorite customer scares him off. (college au!iwaizumi x you)

wc: 1.9k

cw/tags: college!au iwaizumi, creepy dude but he gets scared off don't worry, buff iwa gets nervous around you

note: so there's a protein shake stand like right outside my school's gym and that's where the inspiration for this little brain fart came from. also this is wholeheartedly dedicated to @shotorus my favorite iwa simp. i really hope you like this, it's my first time writing for your man but it most definitely will not be the last :D

likes, replies, and reblogs are appreciated <3

You didn’t anticipate finding a gym crush outside of the student rec center. Yet, there he was, every day at 5:00 passing the stand and every day at 6:30 ordering his usual, strawberries and bananas with chocolate protein powder. It’s a wonder how strictly he stuck to his schedule and you made it a point to have his order queued up in the system by the time he got to the window. To your detriment, it seemed that your infatuation had become obvious enough to your usually-oblivious coworkers. 

“At this point, I think you took this job just to ogle him,” one of your friends points out as she runs a colander of fruit under the faucet. You give her a lighthearted glare and she flicks a few water droplets at you. “I’d guess you like seeing him more than the tips that other guys put in the jar. You really do so much for this company,” she says patronizingly and you roll your eyes. She had a point; you tended not to notice the phone numbers written on dirty napkins or social media handles hastily drawn on dollar bills. None of them interested you. None of them, except for the dude with a body like a Greek hero that made you want to get kidnapped by some mythological being. 

“I just think he has a nice physique; is that such a bad thing?” She shoots you a skeptical look and you turn away sheepishly to check the clock. Thirty seconds to 6:30. “He should be here in a little bit,” you say quietly to yourself, hoping she doesn’t hear. It’s a nice sentiment, but ultimately futile. 

“You’re counting down the seconds? Man, you’re worse than I thought.” She pats your shoulder sympathetically as she passes behind you and you lean your hands on the register counter. 

“As if you’ve never had a gym crush before,” you fire back. 

“You’re supposed to actually be inside the gym to have a gym crush,” she reminds you and you groan. “Why don’t you just switch your shift so you can see him while you workout?”

“I tutor before this, remember? Plus, I need to be able to charm the evening regulars so I can keep paying rent,” you admit. She nods in understanding and a glance at the clock shows ten seconds until 6:30. Your other usuals had come and gone for the day: the guy in the blue tank top that only seemed to work his forearms and biceps, the girl with the silly socks that had the most muscular calves you’d ever seen, the two frat bros with their backwards caps and arrogant voices. It hits 6:30, however, and your favorite regular isn’t behind the glass. He isn’t anywhere around, you realize. You can’t help the frown that draws the corner of your mouth down and, when you look to your coworker for support, she merely shrugs before grabbing a tub of powder from the top shelf. “It’s odd that he isn’t here yet.”

“Only you would think that,” she teases and you refocus on pulling up his usual order on the payment screen. “Maybe he got sick. There’s that frat flu going around right now.”

“Why would he be in a frat, though? And also, he’s definitely the type to wipe the hell out of every machine he uses.”

“If he uses machines; personally, he strikes me as a free weights-only kind of guy.” Before you can reply, a knock on the glass startles you back into customer-service mode. The man in front of you looked relatively normal, but the way his eyes looked you up and down several times made your stomach queasy. It wasn’t the first time creeps had checked you out through the window, but maybe you were feeling a little extra vulnerable waiting around for a regular who didn’t even know your name. Avoiding the man’s intrusive gaze, you shakily pull up his order, swipe his card for payment, and let him know that his shake would be ready soon. 

“I have a question,” he says slowly before you can run and hide in the back. “What time are you out of here?”

“I’m not done for a while,” you state vaguely, praying that he wouldn’t ask about the remaining two and a half hours of your shift. “I work until closing.”

“I can come back and get you when you close.” His voice makes your skin crawl and his eyes feel like knives on your body.

“Excuse me?”

“Let me take you out to dinner. A nice looking person like you shouldn’t be alone at night.” Your heart drops into your stomach and your feet remain rooted to the floor, terrified in place. Was he gonna try to do something after you were off?

“Look, I’m not interested in any–”

“Hey, man. Are you done ordering yet? You’re holding up the line,” intrudes a voice that feels like a warm blanket wrapping around your shoulders. Somewhere between his usual order time and the creep asking you out, your favorite little crush came to stand in line to pay. His shoulders seemed extra broad today and the muscle of his biceps flexed under his compression shirt as he crossed his arms over his chest, staring daggers down at the guy who was freaking you out. He’d never looked so handsome, all sharp jawline and flexed muscles and piercing eyes. The creep recoils and scurries away, allowing you to take a deep breath that helps relieve some of the tension in your forehead. By pure muscle memory and running on adrenaline, your fingers swipe over the tablet and pull up his usual order before he can even say hello. 

“Strawberry and banana with chocolate protein powder, right?”

“Yeah, that…that’s mine,” he says, slightly taken aback by the lingering expression of panic on your face. While he eyes you warily, you swipe his card and hand him his receipt, suddenly desperate to just disappear into the back for the rest of your shift. “Hey, are you okay?”

“What? No, yeah. I’m fine, totally fine,” you lie and give him a weak smile. His eyebrows furrow slightly and you can feel him try to analyze you, but not in the dehumanizing way as your previous customer. His eyes searched your expression worriedly and you caught him biting skin from his lip in concern. “It’s just that the guy before you was being a little weird.” Calling him “weird” was an understatement, but you didn’t want to inconvenience him more than you already have. “I’m fine, really.” He watches you for a moment more and then nods, murmuring a thank you under his breath and finding a spot to wait for his shake. 

“This fell on the floor by the trash can,” he says plainly when he walks up to the pickup window after you call out his drink. The creepy guy hadn’t left the area yet, so your fight or flight instincts were still going haywire. Your gym crush, however, momentarily takes your attention by subtly sliding a dirty piece of paper across the counter to you as he picks up his cup with the other hand. “Thanks; I’ll see you tomorrow.” Before you can blink, he’s gone, leaving you with a cryptic folded message that makes your head spin. You sputter out an awkward farewell and hastily unfold the piece of paper. 

I’ll be studying in the computer lab until the stand closes. If he’s still bothering you, come find me and I’ll walk you to your car or your dorm or wherever. -Iwaizumi Hajime 

A sturdy rectangle of plastic falls from the paper and you stare at it in disbelief. It was an ID card for the university’s after-hours patrol division with his picture, full name, and student number printed on it. Iwaizumi, you echo mentally, you’re too good to be true. And, true to his promise, he’s a respectful distance away and stands with his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants at 9:00 when you lock up the shake stand. You’d lost sight of the creep an hour after Iwaizumi picked up his drink, but the paranoia didn’t leave your body and you’re only able to relax when he approaches you. 

“This is yours,” you say, handing him his ID card with a small smile. “Thank you for looking out for me.”

“Of course. I’m sorry you had to deal with him,” he replies regretfully, uncomfortably adjusting his water bottle tucked into the crook of his elbow. “None of the guys at the gym like him. He’s always hitting on girls and giving them weird looks.” 

“Looks like he was forced to look outside the gym, then,” you laugh lightly, feeling the tension release from your shoulders as you walk next to Iwaizumi in the direction of the parking lot. “Did your drink still taste okay? Or did my nervousness make it taste funny?” When he chuckles, it sounds like sunshine. 

“It was just as tasty as it always is, thank you. You’ve really figured out how to make me the perfect drink every time.”

“Anything for my favorite customer,” you say without hesitation and your face feels like it’s been lit on fire. To your surprise, however, it seemed that Iwaizumi was just as flustered by your words. His eyes widen and his pretty mouth gapes a little bit, blinking rapidly to fix the short circuit in his brain. “I just hope he doesn’t come around here again. He makes my stomach churn.”

“Yeah, I get that,” he forces out and he’s silent for a while until your car is in sight. “Hey, sorry if this is super off-base, but do you wanna workout with me sometime? I can change the time I go but, if it means you don’t feel scared by that guy anymore, I’ll gladly rearrange my schedule.” 

“You want me to workout with you?”

“I’d like to meet you for lunch sometime, too, but I figured I’d start with baby steps,” he admits, running a hand nervously through his hair while you fish your keys from your bag. “If you don’t want to, that’s totally fine–”

“No, no, I’d love to,” you reassure him and he looks visibly relieved. “I’ll change up my shift so you can still go around the same time you usually do, and I can just meet you outside. I’ve been needing a new spotter since mine picked up extra shifts in the library.” 

“Great, yeah, awesome,” he says, a little dumbfounded by how eagerly you would give him a chance. If he was being honest, he’d wanted to ask you your name for months since you memorized his order, but he didn’t want to come off as pushy and ruin his chance with you. “Do you, uh, mind if I give you my number? Or I can give you a social media handle too if you’re not comfortable sharing your number.” God, he’s so good. He is so, so good. “Can you let me know you get home safe?”

“I will,” you promise. “Thank you for everything, Iwaizumi.”

“You can call me Hajime, if you want,” he offers softly and the fondness in his voice makes your heart flip. “Iwaizumi is fine too. Anything is fine.” 

“Right,” you smile. “Well, goodnight, Hajime. Get home safe.”

“You too. Talk soon, okay?”

“I can’t wait.”

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

[highvern]

Ateez in Different NSFW Careers

Pairing: ot8

Genre: smut, 21+

Warnings: lots of sex, masturbating, porn, domination/submission, fetishes, lmk if i missed anything egregious

Note: this is an idea for a miniseries but idk and thought id put it out there to see if people are interested (dont bring up the ateez mixtape series, im working on it!) thank you @wingsofimagery @yessa-vie for listening to this brain rot

read more here

Hongjoong:

onlyfans creator, solos of him masturbating or nudes. weirdly artistic? like camera angles on point, edited to perfection, color graded. rarely, if ever, collabs with others. occasionally posts erotic photography of one unidentifiable woman. his subscribers aren't sure what to make of it but pictures of them together are some of his best work. daylights as a photographer and has some of his work in small galleries across the city.

Seunghwa:

amatuer porn star, makes homemade couple porn or something with a close female friend. domestic/bf vibes in every video. v soft with each other even when they're having rough sex. people assume they're actually dating bc of the insane chemistry even though they never show their faces. its his fun dirty little secret no one in the office knows.

Yunho:

boyfriend for hire. specializes in "turn your brain off for the night, i'll handle it." rent him to be your date to an event or just for a night on the town. doesn't always sleep with his client (his discretion) but usually cuddles and will spend the night. just trying to pay off his student loans since being an analyst pays shit. big yunho bc he has a big... u kno? and loves hearing the women he sleeps with rave about it. has had several repeat customers and older women that recommend him to their friends.

Yeosang:

audio erotica. just aside hobby for him. tbh 9/10 times forgets to record or that he even has the account. started bc a girl he was seeing freshman year of college told him she wanted a video with the sound on and he didn't know what that meant but she liked his voice enough to let the completely black screen slide. posts sporadically but always makes waves when he does. people have offered him money for custom audios and he always turns them down.

San:

fetish model. shibari, leather, latex. you name it, he's most likely modeled it. has portrait of himself (unrecongnizable, facing away just his back criss crossed with ropes, hands bound at the base of his spine) hanging in his apartment. his friends think its weird since they know he's the one in the picture but most of the girls he brings home just think he's into some freaky stuff. started bc he would nude model for the art classes at his college when he needed fast money for weed. people assume he likes really kinky sex bc of his job but he prefers vanilla sex most of the time bc his job is so kink heavy. works as a fitness instructor as his 9-5, and had a few people recognize him but most are cool and leave him alone

Mingi:

nsfw twitter creator. videos, pictures, sliding into dms. mingi does it all and enjoys the comments of people thirsting over him even if he's one dick among thousands. for his day job he works in a sex store and flirts with the exotic dancers who come in to buy their costumes (turned down every single time, there's even a pool for how quickly he'll strike out). the one girl that flirted back still lives in his brain rent free bc all she did was smile and he folded like origami. now when she comes in mingi has to remind himself not to drool.

Wooyoung:

cam boy brat, sugars on the side. likes being degraded by his audience when he's bad. lover of milfs, and has a sugar mommy he sees once a month. loves being wined and dined by her and then loved on at her fancy apartment uptown. started doing both in college to pay rent, now works at a dance studio and keeps it up bc the extra cash is nice. enamored with taking pictures during sex. has a collection of polaroids with his current FWB that he cherishes more than anything (always carries one in his phone case). toyed with the idea of having her come on his streams but he doesn't want to share. he should probably look into that more.

Jongho:

dungeon dom (IDK), the kind thats a look don't touch dom. if you need a session to work through your stress, go to him. sexy spanking, punishment spanking, therapy spanking. he's got the knowledge and know how. has a strange collection of vintage dvds and magazines. rare stuff that he treats like art rather than smut. jongho i never want to speak on your name im sorry

-

Taglist: @tomodachiii @cvpidyunho @miniseokminnies @ddaengpotate @arycutie @gaebestie @primoppang @gyuguys @mine-gyu @doremifasire @missminhoe @toplinehyunjin @crvs4vldtn @prettygyuuu

© highvern. copying/reuploading/translating my work anywhere is strictly prohibited.

[astupidweeb69]

You know x-virus don’t get enough love…. Do you have any head cannons regular or nsfw (maybe both)??

I've been thinking about this guy a lot lately for some reason. Also I've never written for Cody before so hopefully this came out okay.

I was going to work on Toby's but.... I have more inspiration for Cody at the moment. He absolutely doesn't get enough love!

X-Virus Headcannons

SFW

Isn't related to Toby at all. In fact doesn't really look like him either. Sure, he's got the brown hair, but he looks waaay more dorky than Toby does. While Toby has kind of a boy-next-door-from-hell look to him, Cody is more slender and works out less. He looks like your typical STEM student (sickly complexion, poor nutrition, etc.). His whole schtick requires him to stay indoors most of the time, in a make-shift lab.

Has a refrigerated van, which he paid to be converted to safely transport whatever science experiments he's got going on in a temperature-controlled environment.

He tries to stay in one place. He's less of a drifter than most of the other creeps but sometimes... the things he does requires him to uproot his life and start over in another town. (No Cody you can't just infect your landlord with a mutated form of tuberculosis when they raise your rent! There will be consequences!)

Has kind of a nasally voice. I feel like he always has a bit of a cold too.

Ironically has a shitty immune system, and probably drinks those Airborne Immune Support drink mixes like it's his job. Also a germaphobe, wearing medical gloves all the time, and his hands are dry and cracked from overusing sanitizer.

LOVES Re-animator. He's rewatched that movie more times than he can count. But he has a love for science fiction movies in general, with horror elements to them. Like Alien.

Also loves zombie apocalypse movies, but that's an obvious one. Specifically 28 Days Later and World War Z.

Sometimes he's like... should I try to make a zombie virus? nah.... unless...?

I also think he was raised by a single father, who worked for a large pharmaceutical company.

Antisocial. I know Toby and him are compared a lot and people give them similar 'hyperactive' personalities, but I don't see that for Cody at all.

Cody's more focused, and is less inclined to interact with others. He doesn't really get lonely?

I'd say he'd get along okay with someone like EJ (both like science, ya know?).

Toby and him hang out a bit - they'll stay in and watch movies together. Or Cody will tag along with him to a bar and watch as Toby fails to pick up anybody. Cody wouldn't say it to his face, but it makes him feel better about his own social skills to see Toby strike out like that.

NSFW (Under the cut!)

I don't know how he'd find himself in this situation - but if he DID have a partner.... the sex would be kind of bland at first?

He doesn't know what he wants and frankly is too much of a germaphobe to get up close and personal with someone he doesn't know well.

You'd have to spend months getting to know him for him to feel comfortable to engage in anything sexual.

I think at the start of the relationship, he'd want to experiment with voyeurism.

He'd be across the room watching you touch yourself, giving you directions while he slowly strokes his cock, loving the feeling of ordering you around.

But as things escalate, of course, he'd give in to his urges. However, the voyeurism would become how he likes to foreplay.

Out of all the creeps (most of whom I view as being dominant) he's actually pretty tame.

He whimpers a lot, and it sounds almost pathetic when he moans. He's been holding out for so long for the right person, and when he finally gets to fuck he's absolutely drunk off of you.

That said, his sex drive is about average.

One of his roleplay fantasies is him being the experienced scientist, and you being his lovely little assistant.

Probably started after the first time you helped him in his lab.

He just kept thinking of you in a tiny little lab coat, bent over his desk - papers and test tubes falling to the ground while his hips piston into you.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The new globalism is global labor

For the rest of May, my bestselling solarpunk utopian novel THE LOST CAUSE (2023) is available as a $2.99, DRM-free ebook!

Depending on how you look at it, I either grew up in the periphery of the labor movement, or atop it, or surrounded by it. For a kid, labor issues don't really hold a lot of urgency – in places with mature labor movements, kids don't really have jobs, and the part-time jobs I had as a kid (paper route, cleaning a dance studio) were pretty benign.

Ironically, one of the reasons that labor issues barely registered for me as a kid was that my parents were in great, strong unions: Ontario teachers' unions, which protected teachers from exploitative working conditions and from retaliation when they advocated for their students, striking for better schools as well as better working conditions.

Ontario teachers' unions were strong enough that they could take the lead on workplace organization, to the benefit of teachers at every part of their careers, as well as students and the system as a whole. Back in the early 1980s, Ontario schools faced a demographic crisis. After years of declining enrollment, the number of students entering the system was rapidly increasing.

That meant that each level of the system – primary, junior, secondary – was about to go through a whipsaw, in which low numbers of students would be followed by large numbers. For a unionized education workforce, this presented a crisis: normally, a severe contraction in student numbers would trigger layoffs, on a last-in, first-out basis. That meant that layoffs loomed for junior teachers, who would almost certainly end up retraining for another career. When student numbers picked up again, those teachers wouldn't be in the workforce anymore, and worse, a lot of the senior teachers who got priority during layoffs would be retiring, magnifying the crisis.

The teachers' unions were strong, and they cared about students and teachers, both those at the start of their careers and those who'd given many years of service. They came up with an amazing solution: "self-funded sabbaticals." Teachers with a set number of years of seniority could choose to take four years at 80% salary, and get a fifth year off at 80% salary (actually, they could take their year off any time from the third year on).

This allowed Ontario to increase its workforce by about 20%, for free. Senior teachers got a year off to spend with their families, or on continuing education, or for travel. Junior teachers' jobs were protected. Students coming into the system had adequate classroom staff, in a mix of both senior and junior teachers.

This worked great for everyone, including my family. My parents both took their four-over-five year in 1983/84. They rented out our house for six months, charging enough to cover the mortgage. We flew to London, took a ferry to France, and leased a little sedan. For the next six months, we drove around Europe, visiting fourteen countries while my parents homeschooled us on the long highway stretches and in laundromats. We stayed in youth hostels and took a train to Leningrad to visit my family there. We saw Christmas Midnight Mass at the Vatican and walked around the Parthenon. We saw Guernica at the Prado. We visited a computer lab in Paris and I learned to program Logo in French. We hung out with my parents' teacher pals who were civilian educators at a Canadian Forces Base in Baden-Baden. I bought an amazing hand-carved chess set in Seville with medieval motifs that sung to my D&D playing heart. It was amazing.

No, really, it was amazing. Unions and the social contract they bargained for transformed my family's life chances. My dad came to Canada as a refugee, the son of a teen mother who'd been deeply traumatized by her civil defense service as a child during the Siege of Leningrad. My mother was the eldest child of a man who, at thirteen, had dropped out of school to support his nine brothers and sisters after the death of his father. My parents grew up to not only own a home, but to be able to take their sons on a latter-day version of the Grand Tour that was once the exclusive province of weak-chinned toffs from the uppermost of crusts:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grand_Tour

My parents were active in labor causes and in their unions, of course, but that was just part of their activist lives. My mother was a leader in the fight for legal abortion rights in Canada:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/doctorow/8882641733

My dad was active in party politics with the New Democratic Party, and both he and my mother were deeply involved with the fight against nuclear arms proliferation, a major issue in Canada, given our role in supplying radioisotopes to the US, building key components for ICBMs, testing cruise missiles over Labrador, and our participation in NORAD.

Abortion rights and nuclear arms proliferation were my own entry into political activism. When I was 13, I organized a large contingent from my school to march on Queen's Park, the seat of the Provincial Parliament, to demand an end to Ontario's active and critical participation in the hastening of global nuclear conflagration:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/doctorow/53616011737/

When I got a little older, I started helping with clinic defense and counterprotests at the Morgentaler Clinic and other sites in Toronto that provided safe access to women's health, including abortions:

https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/morgentaler-honoured-by-order-of-canada-federal-government-not-involved-1.716775

My teens were a period of deepening involvement in politics. It was hard work, but rewarding and fundamentally hopeful. There, in the shadow of imminent nuclear armageddon, there was a role for me to play, a way to be more than a passive passenger on a runaway train, to participate in the effort to pull the brake lever before we ran over the cliff.

In hindsight, though, I can see that even as my activism intensified, it also got harder. We struggled more to find places to meet, to find phones and computers to use, to find people who could explain how to get a permit for a demonstration or to get legal assistance for comrades in jail after a civil disobedience action.

What I couldn't see at the time was that all of this was provided by organized labor. The labor movement had the halls, the photocopiers, the lawyers, the experience – the infrastructure. Even for campaigns that were directly about labor rights – campaigns for abortion rights, or against nuclear annihilation – the labor movement was the material, tangible base for our activities.

Look, riding a bicycle around all night wheatpasting posters to telephone poles to turn out people for an upcoming demonstration is hard work, but it's much harder if you have to pay for xeroxing at Kinko's rather than getting it for free at the union hall. Worse, the demonstration turnout suffers more because the union phone-trees and newsletters stop bringing out the numbers they once brought out.

This was why the neoliberal project took such savage aim at labor: they understood that a strong labor movement was foundation of antiimperialist, antiracist, antisexist struggles for justice. By dismantling labor, the ruling class kicked the legs out from under all the other fights that mattered.

Every year, it got harder to fight for any kind of better world. We activist kids grew to our twenties and foundered, spending precious hours searching for a room to hold a meeting, leaving us with fewer hours to spend organizing the thing we were meeting for. But gradually, we rebuilt. We started to stand up our own fragile, brittle, nascent structures that stood in for the mature and solid labor foundation that we'd grown up with.

The first time I got an inkling of what was going on came in 1999, with the Battle of Seattle: the mass protests over the WTO. Yes, labor turned out in force for those mass demonstrations, but they weren't its leaders. The militancy, the leadership, and the organization came out of groups that could loosely be called "post-labor" – not in the sense that they no longer believed in labor causes, but in the sense that they were being organized outside of traditional labor.

Labor was in retreat. Five years earlier, organized labor had responded to NAFTA by organizing against Mexican workers, rather than the bosses who wanted to ship jobs to Mexico. It wasn't unusual to see cars in Ontario with CAW bumper stickers alongside xenophobic stickers taking aim at Mexicans, not bosses. Those were the only workers that organized labor saw as competitors for labor rights: this was also the heyday of "two-tier" contracts, which protected benefits for senior workers while leaving their junior comrades exposed to bosses' most sadistic practices, while still expecting junior workers to pay dues to a union that wouldn't protect them:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/25/strikesgiving/#shed-a-tier

Two-tier contracts were the opposite of the solidarity that my parents' teachers' union exhibited in the early 1980s; blaming Mexican workers for automakers' offshoring was the opposite of the solidarity that built transracial and international labor power in the early days of the union movement:

https://unionhall.aflcio.org/bloomington-normal-trades-and-labor-assembly/labor-culture/edge-anarchy-first-class-pullman-strike

As labor withered under a sustained, multi-decades-long assault on workers' rights, other movements started to recapitulate the evolution of early labor, shoring up fragile movements that lacked legal protections, weathering setbacks, and building a "progressive" coalition that encompassed numerous issues. And then that movement started to support a new wave of labor organizing, situating labor issues on a continuum of justice questions, from race to gender to predatory college lending.

Young workers from every sector joined ossified unions with corrupt, sellout leaders and helped engineer their ouster, turning these dying old unions into engines of successful labor militancy:

https://theintercept.com/2023/04/07/deconstructed-union-dhl-teamsters-uaw/

In other words, we're in the midst of a reversal of the historic role of labor and other social justice movements. Whereas once labor anchored a large collection of smaller, less unified social movements; today those social movements are helping bring back a weakened and fragmented labor movement.

One of the key organizing questions for today is whether these two movements can continue to co-evolve and, eventually, merge. For example: there can be no successful climate action without climate justice. The least paid workers in America are also the most racially disfavored. The gender pay-gap exists in all labor markets. For labor, integrating social justice questions isn't just morally sound, it's also tactically necessary.

One thing such a fusion can produce is a truly international labor movement. Today, social justice movements are transnational: the successful Irish campaign for abortion rights was closely linked to key abortion rights struggles in Argentina and Poland, and today, abortion rights organizers from all over the world are involved in mailing medication abortion pills to America.

A global labor movement is necessary, and not just to defeat the divide-and-rule tactics of the NAFTA fight. The WTO's legacy is a firmly global capitalism: workers all over the world are fighting the same corporations. The strong unions of one country are threatened by weak labor in other countries where their key corporations seek to shift manufacturing or service delivery. But those same strong unions are able to use their power to help their comrades abroad protect their labor rights, depriving their common adversary of an easily exploited workforce.

A key recent example is Mercedes, part of the Daimler global octopus. Mercedes' home turf is Germany, which boasts some of the strongest autoworker unions in the world. In the USA, Mercedes – like other German auto giants – preferentially manufactures its cars in the South, America's "onshore-offshore" crime havens, where labor laws are both virtually nonexistent and largely unenforced. This allows Mercedes to exploit and endanger a largely Black workforce in a "right to work" territory where unions are nearly impossible to form and sustain.

Mercedes just defeated a hard-fought union drive in Vance, Alabama. In part, this was due to admitted tactical blunders from the UAW, who have recently racked up unprecedented victories in Tennessee and North Carolina:

https://paydayreport.com/uaw-admits-digital-heavy-organizing-committee-light-approach-failed-them-in-alabama-at-mercedes/

But mostly, this was because Mercedes cheated. They flagrantly violated labor law to sabotage the union vote. That's where it gets interesting. German workers have successfully lobbied the German parliament for the Supply Chain Act, an anticorruption law that punishes German companies that violate labor law abroad. That means that even though the UAW just lost their election, they might inflict some serious pain on Mercedes, who face a fine of 2% of their global annual revenue, and a ban on selling cars to the German government:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/10/an-injury-to-one/#is-an-injury-to-all

This is another way reversal of the post-neoliberal era. Whereas once the US exported its most rapacious corporate practices all over the world, today, global labor stands a chance of exporting workers' rights from weak territories to strong ones.

Here's an American analogy: the US's two most populous states are California and Texas. The policies of these states ripple out over the whole country, and even beyond. When Texas requires textbooks that ban evolution, every pupil in the country is at risk of getting a textbook that embraces Young Earth Creationism. When California enacts strict emission standards, every car in the country gets cleaner tailpipes. The WTO was a Texas-style export: a race to the bottom, all around the world. The moment we're living through now, as global social movements fuse with global labor, are a California-style export, a race to the top.

This is a weird upside to global monopoly capitalism. It's how antitrust regulators all over the world are taking on corporations whose power rivals global superpowers like the USA and China: because they're all fighting the same corporations, they can share tactics and even recycle evidence from one-another's antitrust cases:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2024/05/big-tech-eu-drop-dead

Look, the UAW messed up in Alabama. A successful union vote is won before the first ballot is cast. If your ground game isn't strong enough to know the outcome of the vote before the ballot box opens, you need more organizing, not a vote:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/23/a-collective-bargain/

But thanks to global labor – and its enemy, global capitalism – the UAW gets another chance. Global capitalism is rich and powerful, but it has key weaknesses. Its drive to "efficiency" makes it terribly vulnerable, and a disruption anywhere in its supply chain can bring the whole global empire to its knees:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/21/eight-and-skate/#strike-to-rule

American workers – especially swing-state workers who swung for Trump and are leaning his way again – overwhelmingly support a pro-labor agenda. They are furious over "price gouging and outrageous corporate profits…wealthy corporate CEOs and billionaires [not] paying what they should in taxes and the top 1% gaming the system":

https://www.americanfamilyvoices.org/_files/ugd/d4d64f_6c3dff0c3da74098b07ed3f086705af2.pdf

They support universal healthcare, and value Medicare and Social Security, and trust the Democrats to manage both better than Republicans will. They support "abortion rights, affordable child care, and even forgiving student loans":

https://prospect.org/politics/2024-05-20-bidens-working-class-slump/

The problem is that these blue-collar voters are atomized. They no longer meet in union halls – they belong to gun clubs affiliated with the NRA. There are enough people who are a) undecided and b) union members in these swing states to defeat Trump. This is why labor power matters, and why a fusion of American labor and social justice movements matters – and why an international fusion of a labor-social justice coalition is our best hope for a habitable planet and a decent lives for our families.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/20/a-common-foe/#the-multinational-playbook

[charlieg1rl]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝐇𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐉𝐈𝐍 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐄!𝐀𝐔 𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐀!𝐀𝐔

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐇𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐉𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 𝟏𝐊

𝐒𝐒:𝟓

You were minding your own business at the bustling student café, immersed in a mountain of textbooks and scattered notes as you prepared for your upcoming exams. The café was your sanctuary during this chaotic period—an oasis where the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the lively chatter of your classmates. The sunlight streamed through the large windows, casting a warm glow on the polished wooden tables and creating an inviting atmosphere that often made studying just a little more bearable.

As you took a sip of your steaming drink, letting the warmth seep into you and invigorate your senses, you couldn’t help but momentarily lose yourself in your thoughts. Your eyes drifted over the pages filled with highlighted notes and scribbled formulas, your mind racing with the daunting weight of upcoming assignments and exams. You sighed softly, trying to push away the creeping anxiety that threatened to overwhelm you. Just as you were starting to lose focus, a sudden presence broke your concentration.

You looked up, startled, to find Hwang Hyunjin standing beside you. He was one of the most popular guys on campus, a member of the illustrious dance crew known for their dazzling performances and charismatic presence. Today, however, there was something unusual in his eyes—an intensity that suggested he had something important on his mind. His hair fell perfectly over his forehead, framing his face in a way that made him even more striking. He flashed that trademark smile that made your heart race, but today, it sparked more curiosity than the usual flutter of attraction.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, leaning casually against the edge of your table, his presence suddenly making the café feel smaller. His confidence radiated, and you could sense the allure he exuded, a combination of charm and mystery that was hard to ignore. “Can we talk?”

“Sure,” you replied, your voice slightly hesitant but tinged with intrigue. “What’s up?”

Hyunjin shifted his weight, his casual demeanor faltering just a fraction as he hesitated, as if gathering his thoughts. “I have a… proposition for you.” He paused for a moment, his confidence seemingly wavering. “I need a fake girlfriend.”

You blinked, taken aback by his bluntness. “No.” You answered without a second thought, surprised at how quickly the word had escaped your lips. The absurdity of the request hung in the air, and you couldn’t help but wonder why someone like him would even think of you.

“Please, Y/N,” he urged, his voice almost pleading, a hint of desperation creeping into his tone. “Just hear me out.”

You raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched on your features. “Why on earth would I pretend to be your girlfriend?” The question was heavy with disbelief. It was hard to wrap your mind around the idea of being associated with someone so well-known and revered.

“Because,” he said, leaning in a bit closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper as if sharing a secret, “I’ll pay you, and we both know you need the money.” His eyes searched yours, trying to gauge your reaction.

Your heart raced—not because of his looks, but because of the shock of his unexpected offer. You had heard whispers about his family’s immense wealth and the extravagant lifestyle he led. Living on a student budget had its challenges, and with your student loans piling up and a part-time job that barely scraped by to cover your rent, the allure of extra cash was undeniably tempting. The idea of being able to afford a few luxuries, or at least lessen your financial burden, was hard to resist.

“Why can’t you just ask someone else?” you challenged, trying to resist the pull of his proposition. “I’m not exactly the first person that comes to mind for something like this.” You crossed your arms defensively, hoping to mask the internal struggle of interest and reluctance battling within you.

He smirked, clearly entertained by your initial resistance. “Everyone else would want something more from me. I need someone who won’t get all starry-eyed and will just… play the part. Plus, we both know you’d be perfect at it.” His gaze locked onto yours, and you felt a mix of annoyance and intrigue bubbling inside you.

You paused, weighing your options carefully. The prospect of some extra money was certainly appealing, but getting involved in a charade with someone like Hyunjin—what could possibly go wrong? Or right? It was a gamble, and you couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that there was more to his request than met the eye. Did you really want to dive into the complexities of a fake relationship with someone so out of your league?

“Okay, let’s say I’m interested,” you said, trying to maintain an air of composure. “What’s in it for me?”

“Besides the money?” he asked, a mischievous glint sparking in his eyes. “You’ll get a taste of my world—exclusive parties, a bit of respect, maybe a few free meals. Plus, I promise to make it entertaining.” His enthusiasm was infectious, but you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of caution.

“Entertaining how?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, genuinely curious. The thought of being swept into the glamorous world of college elites was both exhilarating and daunting.

“You’ll see.” He grinned, leaning back slightly, clearly pleased with himself. “So, what do you say? We can kick off this little arrangement next weekend?” His confidence was intoxicating, and the prospect of adventure was hard to ignore.

You took a deep breath, your gaze drifting momentarily to the stack of notes on your table, a reminder of the reality you were trying to escape. “Fine. But if I do this, you better keep your end of the deal. No funny business.” You felt a mix of excitement and apprehension wash over you, as if you were standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to jump.

He extended his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, you took it, sealing the agreement with a firm grip. As you did, little did you know that there were requirements he hadn’t disclosed yet.

"Good.

Because my parents want to meet you."

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 | 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 | 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

[digenerate-trash]

Inner city freaks!!!!!

this is the last one I'll be doing for a while. peace.

Disclaimer Bailey has been heavily influenced by @ashersanity here's the Link they got to my man's first.

✦•····················································•✦•···················································•✦

Bailey 

Bailey is uncharacteristically needy when you guys are alone. It's strange how much he wants to touch and hold you. he's also very quiet when this happens and if you speak up, he will pinch you pull on your hair, or bite you to get you to shut up. 

he's really into making sure you're trapped with him at all times. He’ll pull you out of school if you've been avoiding him too much. 

he's installed a lock on the outside of your door. He uses it to keep you in at night and sometimes on days when he thinks you'll be up to no good. 

Cockwarming, constantly. If he calls you into his office it's to cockwarm him while he works. 

No other orphans get to come near you. Ever. he's broken Robin's wrist over this. 

Constantly objectifies you calling you “valuable” “precious” and “pet” 

Your debt is just to keep you in check and struggling at this point. he's stopped renting you out and instead keeps you captive on the weeks you can't pay.

Bailey swears he's not as bad as the rest of this stupid town but when the mood strikes him he's breaking into your room in the middle of the night to wake you up and fuck you. He usually gags you but a part of him wants the other orphans to hear you screaming and crying. He’ll leave bruises and worse if you struggle.

Even people who have offered to buy you out for outrageously high prices are turned down by Bailey always telling them that someone is paying double what they can afford. 

Bailey of course gets to the point where he can't even let you leave. He can't handle it anymore. People keep asking about you. People keep wanting to take you away. He eventually just snaps. Starts telling people you died. Rips down missing posters in hopes this whole town forgets you ever existed. Anyone who comes sniffing around is taken care of. And you stay with Bailey. In his cornered-off apartment in the orphanage. Just a couple of doors down from your old room. 

✦•····················································•✦•···················································•✦

Leighton 

Creep. Dudes a super creep and it only gets worse when his obsession rolls in. 

Huge corruption kink and if you start off innocent he just adores ruining you. 

he's not really subtle about how he feels either. You get detention twice as much. Your pictures fill up his computer files very fast. He even brings you to the brothel for dates and makes you sit on his lap while he gropes you. 

He gets his way through blackmail mostly. Man is not strong.

Forced fem looking as. No matter your gender he just loves you in girl clothes. He even likes to tear leggings/tights at the crotch for easy access. 

Is always feeling you up. can't keep his hands off of you. 

Will keep your panties/confiscated clothes separate from other students because they're just oh so precious to him. 

This man licks panties. All the time gets off on it. 

He will force you to have sex with another student and film it. Especially if neither of you are into it. he's a real freak about reluctant sex. 

Hell makes you blow him under his desk. But hell yank on your hair the whole time.

If you get the chance to blackmail him first he's not taking it. Instead, he's going to try and worm his way out of it. If he can't do that he's going to seethe. Dude is not comfortable with you having the upper hand

Piss kink. (can't explain it.) 

✦•····················································•✦•···················································•✦

Avery 

Also a forced fem fucker. Doesn’t matter your gender he's getting off on the idea that he has control over everything you do including how you address yourself when you're with him. 

Will use money to manipulate you. 

Constantly talks about marrying you??? Especially if you've been the ideal little socialite 

You boost his image at parties and he's a big fan of that. At first, he denies having feelings for you. he's just paying you after all it's all for show. Bet it gets harder and harder to let you climb out of his car and head back to the orphanage. 

He even offers to buy you outright from Bailey but Bailey knows you're more valuable if you keep getting Avery's money every week. 

Big on controlling you and who you talk to. Isolates you and takes up all your time on the weekends and even during your rides home. He purposefully keeps you for longer than necessary 

At High Rage Avery is a monster. Dude is constantly cornering you. Even when you break up with him he still shows up for your “dates” outside of the orphanage and tries to grab you. 

he's constantly trying to force you into his life even when you're being defiant. He will break your wrists/fingers to get his way. 

He knows he can't fight Bailey outright but his offers to buy you get more aggressive. 

When that doesn't work he withholds money from you even if you go on dates with him. He makes it harder for you to get regular work by trashing your reputation. He’ll make sure you have no one to rely on. And within a couple of weeks when you're desperate and broke. 

Avery will be there outside the orphanage. Ready to take you on a date. Just like always. 

✦•····················································•✦•···················································•✦

Quinn

Quinn has so many things wrong with him. 

You barely notice Quinn. he's not a big presence in your life until he wants you. 

Then suddenly you're the mayor's new intern. The pay is good and you don't have to whore yourself out so it's really a good gig. 

Baley hates your job but hell never tell you why. 

Quinn is pretty touchy. Likes to hold onto you tightly and show you off like a little pet. 

he's also big on making sure you work in his office with him. Even if you don't have any work to do. he's keeping you in the office with him. 

he's always very careful that the door is closed and music is playing while you both work. 

He stares a lot. Way too much to be healthy. You start to question whether he is actually getting any work done. 

He also makes sure that you have anything you want while you work with him. Coffee, breakfast. Anything you like he insists. 

it's only when you've been working for a couple of weeks that he finally asks you something that's a bit off. Personal questions. That makes you uneasy. 

He brings up that he knows Bailey charges you rent every week. And he says he can start to cover it if you just do him a couple extra favors on top of your regular work.

This quickly spirals into late-night ‘meetings’ where he ends up fucking you over his desk while the building is empty. 

he's careful not to leave marks. you're as clean and neat as you were when you walked in and he's so very careful as he pets your head before letting you leave. 

Over the next week, you get a promotion and a raise. You start working more late nights. 

[fans4wga]

August 4 - Hollywood Food Insecurity Spikes Amid Strikes

The entertainment industry’s most vulnerable workers are increasingly unable to feed themselves amid a historic double strike with no clear end in sight, according to non-profits tasked with addressing the food insecurity crisis. They describe Hollywood’s ongoing work stoppage — prompted by the contractual impasse between the writing and acting guilds on one side and the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers on the other — as a humanitarian emergency broadly affecting the community, not just striking union members.

The Los Angeles Regional Food Bank, which runs pantries for those in need throughout the county, attributes a meaningful portion of its nine percent uptick in year-over-year distribution to the strikes’ impact. “When income stops immediately, the demand rises very rapidly,” explains chief development officer Roger Castle.

“This is happening right after the pandemic, which drained a lot of people’s savings,” observes Keith McNutt, executive director at the Entertainment Community Fund, which has distributed $3 million to more than 1,500 workers as of Aug. 1. “So, you have the financial burden on people who’ve already been depleted.” As a result, his organization — whose donors include Seth McFarlane, Steven Spielberg, and Greg Berlanti — has seen an unprecedented wave of immediate requests for basic living expenses, including groceries. “Before this started, we would do about 50 grants out of the L.A. office a week. Now we’re getting 50 applications a day.”

On July 28, below-the-line unions IATSE and the Teamsters Local 399 held a drive-through food drive for industry members affected by the strikes at IATSE’s West Coast headquarters in Burbank. It drew about a thousand vehicles throughout the day.

According to the relief nonprofit Labor Community Services, which helped to organize the event and is planning another in August, the organization distributed 1,740 food boxes, feeding an estimated 8,700 people, that day.

In California, striking workers are ineligible to receive unemployment assistance, while nationally, they cannot receive SNAP food benefits unless they qualified pre-strike — something Sen. John Fetterman of Pennsylvania is aiming to change with a new bill, introduced July 27. One place that striking actors in particular can turn to for help during the work stoppage is the SAG-AFTRA Foundation, which offers emergency financial assistance and other resources, including grocery store gift cards, to union members. SAG-AFTRA made a seven-figure donation to the Foundation early in its strike to assist these efforts. (The WGA West does provide its own members with emergency financial loans from its strike fund and Good and Welfare fund.)

Cyd Wilson, its executive director, has seen an explosion in demand for the organization’s help. “People are making these decisions: Should pay my rent, or should I put food on the table? Should I put food on the table, or should I pay my utilities?” she explains. “There’s a great deal of suffering that’s happening.” By Wilson’s estimate, the foundation is now handling 40 times its typical number of applications per week, and it has already distributed as much in grants since the beginning of the WGA’s strike three months ago as it typically would in the span of a given year.

Meanwhile, Groceries for Writers, a direct aid project administered by Humanitas, a non-profit focused on film and television writers, has distributed more than 1,100 gift cards to WGA members since the onset of its work stoppage in early May. Humanitas executive director Michelle Franke says that “many of these writers have left notes indicating they’re in very urgent financial situations. Writers describe struggling with student debt, falling into eligibility gaps with CalFresh and EDD [state unemployment assistance], eviction notices, writing teams splitting low pay, having only just moved to Los Angeles and not having a large local support network as a consequence, dwindling savings.”

Groceries for Writers is hardly alone in addressing the growing need. In July, L.A.’s World Harvest Food Bank founder and CEO Glen Curado estimated to The Hollywood Reporter that his organization, which is offering free food to striking writers and actors, was serving an average of 150-200 members of this group per day. That effort was inspired by The Price Is Right host Drew Carey’s gesture of paying for all striking writers dining at Bob’s Big Boy in Burbank and L.A.’s Swingers Diner for the duration of the work stoppage.

THR asked both the AMPTP and the talent unions whether they bear any responsibility for the worsening situation. In a statement, a spokesperson for the AMPTP said: “Like those negotiating on behalf of the guilds, representatives from the AMPTP and its member companies came to the table in good faith, wanting to reach an agreement that would keep the industry working and prevent the hardships caused by labor strikes.” SAG-AFTRA didn’t respond to a request for comment, while a WGA spokesperson said in a statement: “The public knows that working people are putting everything on the line in order to negotiate a fair deal with the studios who have caused this strike and the resultant suffering by refusing to address the reasonable proposals that writers brought to the table over 90 days ago.” Neither the AMPTP itself nor any of its major studio and streamer members responded when THR asked if the companies or their philanthropic arms had made any contributions specifically to address the industry’s food insecurity crisis since May.

Support staffers — early-career workers who fill roles such as assistants and coordinators and tend to be low-paid — are especially at risk at this time. “So much of the compensation that they receive is, no one’s going to say it, but it’s implied to be food-based,” notes Liz Hsiao Lan Alper, the co-founder of advocacy group Pay Up Hollywood and a WGA West board member. Alper says that support staffers are often paid the “bare minimum” but access complimentary food through writers’ rooms, craft services on sets or in agency kitchens and conference rooms. And so, when the strikes occurred, the need was “overwhelming,” she explains: “It’s invisible compensation that just went away when the work stoppages happened.”

For that reason, on June 7 Pay Up Hollywood relaunched its COVID-19-era Hollywood Support Staff Relief Fund. So far, the fund has distributed around $45,000 in one-time financial need grants up to $1,000 apiece, according to organizer and support staffer Alex Rubin, who says she’s encouraged support staffers to obtain free food distributed on picket lines. “I think that there is a little bit of embarrassment and insecurity about not being able to feed yourself,” she says. “It is the reason why we give our grants as just like, ‘Here’s a one-time grant. You don’t have to tell us how you want to use this.’”

Helping people in entertainment with food during work stoppages is a “tangible message,” says James Costello, a Teamsters Local 399 driver and an IATSE Local 44 prop master, who was volunteering at IATSE’s July 28 food drive. A second-generation Teamster, Costello still remembers a union strike in the 1980s that prompted his parents to warn their children that their Christmas holiday would be affected that year, and the Teamsters emergency relief that arrived in the fall, offering groceries and a Christmas tree.

As the strikes drag on and both the WGA and SAG-AFTRA have yet to formally reprise negotiations with the AMPTP (although the Writers Guild is set to have a preliminary meeting with the studios’ organization on Aug. 4), the non-profits on the front lines of the industry’s food-insecurity crisis are girding themselves for a long period of need. SAG-AFTRA Foundation’s Wilson says it’s pursuing a “very aggressive fundraising strategy” to meet the demand. (Already, it’s netted over $15 million in emergency assistance from stars like George Clooney, Nicole Kidman, Matt Damon and Dwayne Johnson, who are donating $1 million or more apiece.)

The Entertainment Community Fund’s McNutt notes that pocketbook pain will outlast the current conflict. “Just because the strike ends, it doesn’t mean the need will end. Everyone doesn’t go back to work the next week. We’re going to be looking at this [elevated] level of need for months afterward.”

Give to the Entertainment Community Fund

Give to Humanitas' Groceries for Writers

Give to the Green Envelope Grocery Aid mutual aid fund

[tf-boi]

Maybe a story of a guy transforming his boyfriend into an almost completely inanimate mannequin, renting out his body to store while he takes his boyfriend's head and junk home, the only parts of him that are animate.

(Finally after being in my inbox for a million years~)

"Sign here . . . and here . . . aaaaaannndd here. There we go thats everything!" A medium build man wearing some square glasses (Tom), standing by a slightly taller man (Andy). "My boyfriend is yours for two weeks." the smaller man says with a smirk.

"Babe you gotta stop saying that when you rent my body out." Andy said sighing.

A girl passes the clipboard back to Tom and giggled "Oh don't worry we'll take great care of him~". The girl walks away and returns with a box of clothes. "Just get changed into these and you'll start right away!"

Tom and Andy walk into a changing room as Andy starts stripping. "grrrrowl. . . " Tom said admiring his boyfriend.

Andy blushed "You have to be in the room while I change?"

Tom chuckled "Well we don't have too much fun when we do our thing so why not take it all in while I have you?"

Andy sighed "That's true I guess, but renting our our bodies to these popup stores does making ends meet easy. Plus the after pick-up sex is amazing too."

The two college students embrace and kiss. As Andy and Tom walks out of the changing room, the popup store manager eyed Andy and gave a nod of approval. "Okay you'll be in the front of the store soooo lets get to posing!" The three make their way to the front of the store as Andy strikes a few pose, they eventually settled on a neutral pose.

"Alright, perfect! Lets go home~" Tom said as holds Andy's hand. Andy's body started to turn a shade of grey and blue his body started shining a nice glaze like a fine plastic, his joint's becoming like a doll's. This spread until it reaches Andy's head. Tom then reaches up and puts his hands on Andy's head, that has remained the same, and gives it a nice tug as it pops off his body. "Ahh, babe!" Andy exclaimed. "Ahhh sorry don't know my own strength~" Tom chuckled, "well we can't forget this!" He reaches down Andy's pants and gives another tug as he pulls off Andy's unchanged manhood.

"Thanks for renting, we'll be back in a few weeks!" Tom said walking off.

"Hey feel free to come back if you want to loan us your body too!" The manager waved at them.

Tom and Andy make their way home, Andy's head under Tom's arm, getting a few stares from people. Some thinking its a realistic head commenting on it, but the others who are in the community looking at it lustfully. Renting out their bodies for these stores was a convenient way for them to make some money and good way for them to make new friends. As they entered Tom's apartment, many other mannequins could be seen around the apartment. Some of them are their exes, most of them willingly gave their bodies to them.

Tom set Andy's head on the bed as they both lie there watching TV. It was an awkward silence for a bit before Andy spoke up "What's up babe?"

"W-what? Nothing!" Tom stuttered.

"Please, you were quiet on the way back and you are quiet now. That only happens when something's on your mind."

"Ughhh fine. . . you always know how to read me. Remember what I said at the store? About not having fun while one of our bodies is being rented out?"

"Mhm?" Andy said interested.

"Well what if . . . we changed that?" Tom said blushing.

Andy looked intrigued now "Ohhhh what did you have in mind?"

Tom said "Well . . . well . . ." "You know what? No need to ask, just do babe. My powerless head is under your control~" Andy winked.

Tom gulped but knew Andy was serious. Tom dropped his pants and picked up his blonde prince and put his mouth against his rock hard cock. Andy knew what to do and started out with a whiff of Tom's cock. Tom's dick was smaller than Andy's but his nerdy brunette boyfriend was still packing a decent size. "Ohhh . . ." Tom moaned as Andy started to suck Tom's dick. "mmmm . . . mmmmm . . ." Andy moaned as he savored Tom's cock in his mouth. Andy suddenly felt his head being moved forward and back as Tom started to fuck Andy's head. "Ahhh ahhh" Tom moaned as he let out his inner beast. For years he's been the bottom but now he finally found a boyfriend to let him be on top. He laid face down on the bed, Andy's head still sucking on his dick as he pound's Andy's head. He moves faster and faster but couldn't hold back as he lets out a load into Andy's mouth. Andy moaning as he slurps it up. The cum flows into his head but out of his neck soaking their bed. Tom's cock retracts out of Andy's mouth and he lies next to his boyfriend.

Andy gasped for air. "That was pretty good, but I wish it could have lasted a bit longer . . ." He said with a pout.

Tom looked a bit embarrassed "Sorry it was my first time topping . . ."

"But you were great with your cock, it felt so good and hard . . . when we get my body back, this time you're definitely topping!"

"really?" Tom grinned.

"Yup . . . but first round 2" Andy said lustfully.

"But I'm out of cum . . ." Tom said confused.

"Oh you are but, my cock is ready~ And by the way babe, its my turn."

Tom was shocked by the sudden request but walked into the living room to retrieve Andy's dick. He walked back into the bedroom and gulped. Tom lied next to Andy as he used his power on himself. His body having a nice plastic sheen as he detached his dick and replaced with Andy's massive cock. He winced a bit at how much more testosterone he had as it fills him up. He was tempted to fuck his boyfriend's head again but decided to follow through with his command. Tom put his hands on his body and popped his head off placing it next to Andy. The two share many kisses as Tom's hands reaches for Andy's head and places it onto his neck stump. Instantly Tom lost control of his body as he see's Andy feel his new body.

Andy felt up his new body admiring every inch.

Tom blushed "What are you doing??"

" Just admiring my new self. Having all my muscles is great but sometimes I want to try a slimmer body you know? Besides this is the first time I had your body while you are awake."

"Awake?? How many times have you done this?"

Andy ignored this question and picked up Tom's head and started making out. Their tongues wrapped together as they moaned into eachother's mouth. Tom suddenly felt his head get pulled away as it is placed in front of Andy's rocket. Tom started to suck Andy off wrapping his tongue around Andy's meat. "Ohhh babe you know all the good spots..." Andy moaned as Tom's head serviced him. Just like Tom, Andy started to use Tom's head as a fleshlight stroking his rock hard dick with him. Tom loved being used by his boyfriend and it even aroused him knowing it has his body being used. Tom gladly played the role of a toy and pleassured his boyfriend.

Once again Tom felt himself pulled away as a new sensation filled his head. Andy had slid his cock into the bottom of Tom's neck hold and started fucking him. Tom wanted to moan but Andy's cock filled his throat. His mind went blank as he eatches his boyfriend fuck him through the neck. Tom tightened his throat to squeeze Andy's cock. From the corner of his eye, Andy saw Tom's disconnected dick had gotten hard again and he picked it up and shoved it into Tom's mouth. "Mmmmmmm mmmmm mmmm" Tom moaned as he sucks his own dick. As Andy kept fucking Tom's head Tom came into his mouth, the streams of sperm lubing his throat for Andy's still hard member. Wanting this to continue, Tom got his cock hard again and kept sucking himself off. He came several more times until he felt it. Andy's cock releasing his love juices into his throat. The sensation made him cum once more as pools of cum pour out of both ends of his body. As they finished cumming Andy leaned back on the back of the bed a bit too hard and his head pops off Tom's body landing next to his boyfriend covered in their cum.

"That was amazing babe! We should definately do this more often." Andy said.

Tom didn't respond. His mind completely blanked out.

Andy still in control of Tom's body picks himself up and reattaches himself to Tom's body. "Well guess we went a little too hard..." Andy picks up Tom's head by the hair. "I guess its me and his body for the next couple of weeks."

Andy stared in their closet filled with their exes petrified bodies. "Well maybe I'll give our exes' body a spin too so it won't just our cocks being shoved in you~" Andy says picking out a body for round three.

[thegreenlynx]

I Bite, Pretty Boy

Chapter 1: Nerdy Obsessions

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: Hope you guys like it, personally I am super excited for this story.

Han Jisung isn’t just your typical everyday nerd. Sure, he gets top marks in all of his classes. And really he’s ahead in all of them; above all of the other students academically. He has never felt the loving touch of a woman that wasn’t his mother, never known how it feels to have a girl even LOOK in his direction for more than a few seconds without it being a rather judgmental acknowledgment. Because well, Jisung isn’t JUST a nerd. He’s a weird and obsessive nerd.

You see, Jisung doesn’t even particularly care about his studies. It’s not as if doing statistics or biology are fun for him in any meaningful sense. He does it because he has to and it’s pretty easy anyway. He is a genius after all. However it’s not simply a matter of intellect that makes Jisung a nerdy recluse, no. It’s the fact that he is unreasonably, unapologetically, and honestly rather concerningly obsessed with the supernatural. It’s to an alarming degree really, how much it occupies his mind.

Han Jisung really only has 3 hobbies; Hacking, Delving into supernatural lore and stories, and making up little scenarios in his head of the supernatural concepts he so loves. If you think about it, Jisung is just a typical everyday student. Except for the fact that the idea of living in a world where werewolves, fairies, and witches reside appeals to him in a way it does no other. He longs to be a part of a fantasy world that everyone knows does not exist. That is what fantasy is after all, made up imaginary stories. ‘Nothing more than delusions’; his bullies, friends, and even his own mother would say.

He just can’t accept this reality, however. Perhaps it is too boring and dull for dear Jisung; who craves a life with more flare, more meaning than your typical human life. Or perhaps he wants to play the hero; save a pretty damsel and be loved by all or die in a selfless act of righteous glory. No matter the reasoning, Jisung craves that level of dreamy fantasy that you only read about in novels. To the extent that he can’t much be bothered with most other things. No interest in forming new relationships; platonic, sexual, or romantic.

Even if there were a girl on campus that took an interest in the weird boy with little potion and wand pendants hanging down from his beige bag with a large dragon printed in the center and pretty little fairies surrounding it, he wouldn’t even notice nor care because he’s too busy daydreaming about his little fantasy lands.

Contrary to popular belief, the strange boy does actually have friends. His roommate Seungmin was the one to introduce them to him. Seungmin is a bit of a nerd himself, but even more than that he’s a bit of a drifter. He’s a pitcher on the baseball team, one of the best students at the school, he’s a photographer for the yearbook club and he works at the school library.

Working at the library is where Seungmin met Han, he eventually striked up a conversation after seeing him obsessively check out the maximum number of books (all of varying fantasy concepts) every single week. His interest was immediately piqued, especially because although it’s not his life passion, Seungmin also likes fantasy stuff. Although Unlike Han he doesn’t actually believe any of it, he just thinks it’s fun.

With Seungmin becoming his friend it was only a matter of time before his two best friends also became Jisung’s. Jisung’s not even really sure where Seungmin met the other two, but in their second year of college Seungmin had offered to become roommates with Han. A nice roomy little house they’d split the rent for. Apparently the librarian hated living in the dorms just as much as he did and well… Jisung wasn’t going to refuse such a wonderful opportunity. It didn’t take long after moving in together for Seungmin’s friends to adopt the weird kid into their friend group. It would have been hard not to with how much time they spent taking over their space. And like in any friend group they each have their own roles and personalities within the group.

Changbin is the responsible one, he wants Jisung to stop with his obsession because he thinks it to be pointless and unhealthy. He doesn’t understand why he likes those kinds of things in the first place but there is no malice behind it. He just doesn’t see it the way Han or Seungmin do. He thinks Han is wasting his intelligence and potential and that he should put that energy into something like producing like him.

Seungmin is the smart sarcastic one who makes fun of Han most but also worries over him most. He also happens to be the one who indulges Han’s passion most frequently, since he actually finds his hobby fascinating. He still thinks Jisung takes it a little too far but he doesn’t think his hobby is dumb. He often gets in fights with Changbin about it because he believes his hobby is fine and that they should let him be passionate about it, he thinks Jisung should avoid taking it to any dangerous lengths like hacking but he strongly disagrees with Changbin’s desires to have Han completely give up on the ‘ridiculous’ interest and thinks he should continue to read his books and do his research and stuff. He loves listening to him rant for hours and hours about it too but he’ll probably never admit that out loud.

And then we have Hyunjin. The goofy scaredy cat friend, he finds Jisung’s hobby terrifying and it usually gives him the chills. He has a hard time listening to him talk about it because of that but generally is indifferent on whether or not he keeps the hobby. He’s kind of in the middle of Changbin and Seungmin. He doesn’t particularly care either way as long as he stays uninvolved but does wish he would be more careful and take care of himself.

With meeting them Jisung went from being a complete nobody with no one to rely on to having three whole best friends that he feels like he’s known his whole life. While they are quick to make fun of him for his interests and bizarre behavior, the second anyone else does they become his biggest defenders. After all, no one else is allowed to make fun of their nerd. Of course people think it’s bizarre; a friend group of three relatively popular guys and one mega geek. None of them seem to care much; hanging out during lunch, walking together to and from classes, and even having fun sleepovers at the Seungsung house.

The house is a comfortable home, filled with plants and cute little framed photos of the besties neatly placed through the main room of the house. However when you get to Han’s areas it’s like a whole new world. Dark rooms with fantasy paintings and cool trinkets he has impulsively boughten because he absolutely HAD to have them. He has a cool office room with action figures and posters lining the walls. There’s bookshelfs with enough fantasy books to nearly put the library Seungmin works at to shame. On his desk sits a high tech computer he uses for his research and hacking. Oh and well, his programming job, of course.

He also has an extensive amount of folders and documents, both on his PC and in paper form neatly organized in a locked filing cabinet. They contain files and articles of all of the evidence and proof he has ever found to suggest supernatural beings and phenomena exist. Including confidential government records and documents he’s hacked into that could get him in some serious trouble if anyone ever found out about them.

His friends don’t know about these files of course. If they did they’d probably have him enrolled in the nearest psych ward. They’ve joked about it before, saying he is much too similar to a mad scientist obsessed with research to the point of it being a large safety concern. Despite knowing they were only kidding, merely poking fun at his baffling behavior, he would rather not risk it. Not like they would understand anyway.

He can’t really blame them for not understanding either. First of all, it is pretty crazy to want to live in a world with creatures and scenarios that a normal person would find terrifying, not to mention actually believing in such a far-fetched concept. Secondly, it’s not like he understands their hype of sports, photography, or fashion either. A bunch of sweaty guys running around and wrestling over balls? Standing there trying to find some perfect angle of some very basic uninteresting everyday object? Trying on a bunch of bizarrely styled clothes because it’s ‘so in right now’? Yeah, No thanks. Jisung usually zones out and goes into his (much more entertaining if you ask him) daydreams when they start talking about that kinda thing or somehow force him to attend one of their silly little events.

Which is exactly what is occurring right now. Walking a step behind his friends as they discuss a big baseball game coming up this week, perhaps a tournament of some kind. Jisung wouldn’t know, he’d tuned them out a good ten minutes ago now. Mindlessly fidgeting with the little pendants on his bag as the group of four made their way to the library to have a bit of a study sesh.

“Hey, Jisung…”

At the beginning of the term they had decided they would have little study dates at least twice a week. Hyunjin had had a tough semester at the end of the year, facing mental challenges and a rather difficult breakup of a two year relationship that had left him spiraling. This severely impacted his motivation and made it hard for him to stay on top of his coursework, thus his grades suffered severely. After failing two classes and barely passing the other two, his academic advisor had contacted him and warned him that if he did not do better this year and improve his grade point average he may be at risk of losing his art scholarship and perhaps even be remover from the art club or even his program all together.

He had come to his friends sobbing, completely heartbroken and disappointed with himself. He felt stupid and worthless and was fully convinced he was doomed, destined to fail and never amount to anything past being nice to look at. However Seungmin was having none of it, he insisted that it was only a bad semester. Hyunjin is not stupid, he’s not exactly Seungmin or Jisung level smart but he’s got the work ethic and creativity to make up for it and just because he struggled one semester due to some personal circumstances doesn’t mean he’s a complete failure and he can’t fix it. Therefore, Seungmin suggested that they all meet up two days of the week to just study. That way they can help each other out when someone is stuck on something and they can hold each other accountable for getting their work done.

And it was an excellent plan, really. Three months in and Hyunjin was already seeing significant progress in getting better grades and understanding the material. That paired with the extra time with his friends seems to have greatly improved the art major’s mental health too.

“..Are you even listening to me?”

Quite frankly, Jisung can’t really complain about it either. As much as he’d probably rather be buried in some fantasy books, he still enjoys spending time with his friends and it’s a good opportunity to get all his homework out of the way so he has more time for more important things like pretty mermaids.

“Han Jisung!” With a loud yell into his ear and a hefty smack upon the top of his head Jisung is broken out of his thoughts and he turns his head to the right to be met with aggravation filled dark brown eyes already trained on him.

“Ow! What the fuck?! What?” He stares at his tallest friend with a look of absolute offense and bewilderment.

“We’ve been trying to get your attention for the last 5 minutes!” He huffs annoyed and ruffles his hair while he watches Hyunjin shake his head and push open the door to the library.

“We should just leave him out next time.” His roommate chimes in unhelpfully, casting a mischievous smile Jisung’s way as he attempts to close the door in his face while he walks through. Jisung can’t stop his eyes from rolling in response.

He pushes the door back open and sticks his tongue out at the younger male. “Leave me out of what, exactly?” He tosses his bag on the floor and plops down lazily in a chair at their usual spot. Hidden from most of the rest of the library in a little cubby they have rented out for every Monday and Friday for the entire semester, curtesy of Kim Seungmin and his librarian privileges. The library is homey, quiet and it’s filled with plants, dark blue chairs and couches that are actually surprisingly comfortable.

“Oh we were just planning a hang out for this Saturday, your place obviously. We’re gonna have snacks and drinks and play some games.”

Jisung snaps his head towards Changbin in excitement. “Wait really?! I’ve been dying to do a smash bros tournament again!”

“That game sucks..” Seungmin groans, slouching in his seat.

“You only think that cause you’re shit at it.” Hyunjin’s giggle rings out through the small enclosed space as he jabs at the sulky younger male. “King of spamming random buttons and hoping for the best.”

“Oh shut up, you refuse to play as anyone but Peach Zelda or Kirby and throw a fit when anyone else plays as them. I don’t even wanna hear it out of you.” Jisung stiffles a laugh at their bickering and watches in amusement as Hyunjin gasps dramatically and lifts a hand to his mouth in offense while Seungmin rolls his eyes and groans for the second time. “Whatever this is stupid, does that mean you’re in or what?”

“You bet I am! I’m gonna beat all you losers!” He puffs his chest out in pride, a giddy smile creeping onto his face.

Changbin laughs, looking over at his friends with an expression softened in fondness. “Those two aren’t gonna be much of a challenge for you. But just know, I’ve been practicing.”

“Oh yeah? You know I love a challenge!” The nerd returns his fond smile with one of his own as they finally take out their books and laptops to begin their day of studying.

Prev | Next | MasterList

Taglist: @estella-novella @jisuperboard

[lovelybucky1]

Neil trying to be cool to get the attention of a client (disinterested in him) being totally cringe and geeky with his movie recommendations

im a filmbro just like neil so i really resonate with this

my inbox is open for requests!

warnings: one mention of sexual content, mild mentions of violence, neil being a geek with zero rizz

masterlist

It’s not often hot people walk into Gumshoe Video. There’s the regulars, the families, the loser film bros who are there at least four times a week, the teens who try to rent pornos, and old people looking for the classics.

When you walked in, Neil almost dropped his fast food cup filled with Dr. Pepper. You’re exactly his type, and he pushed the other employees out of the way so he could be the one to help you.

“Hi, I’m Neil. How can I be of service?” he greets you, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. You look down at his name tag and note that it says owner underneath his name.

“I don’t need any help, thanks,” you smile politely and continue walking. You aren’t trying to be rude, but you had a long day at work and this puppy dog of an employee is only going to get on your nerves.

“Are you looking for anything specific?” he asks, following you down the aisle.

You sigh. “No, just something to watch.”

“We have a huge selection. What’s your favorite genre?”

You resign yourself to the fact that this man is going to be up your ass until you leave the store.

“I don’t know. Action? Comedy?”

“Well, right over here we have Fast and Furious.” You wrinkle your nose. “We also have The Dark Knight.”

“Uh, no thanks. The villains in those movies are always so cheesy.”

Neil hums and scans the shelves, looking at the collection of videos for rent. “If you want a comedy we have Daddy Daycare, Superbad, American Pie…”

“I think I’ll just look around myself-”

“Or if you want something classic, we have Citizen Kane, Casablaca, The Godfather, Apocalypse Now-”

“Look, Neil,” you sigh. “I appreciate the suggestions but I really don’t need any help.”

Feeling rejected but not letting it show, Neil nods and steps away. “If you need anything, I’ll be behind the counter.”

You nod and watch him walk away before turning to browse the movie selection by yourself. It takes you a while to find anything that you were interested in, but you settled on Friday the 13th. It’s not what you’d usually go for, but your life needs a little excitement here and there.

From across the store, you could hear the other employees ridiculing Neil for “striking out”, though you’d have to argue that he never even got up to bat.

When you walk up to the counter to rent the movie, no one is to be found. You look around and find a bell on the counter labeled ring for assistance. You hit the button and the bell rings, and immediately following the chime is a thud and a curse. You peak over the counter to see Neil crouched underneath it, rubbing the top of his head.

He stands up and looks at you, putting on a charming smile like he didn’t just embarrass himself.

“All set?” he asks.

“Yep,” you reply shortly, handing him the box.

“Friday the 13th,” he reads. “That’s a good one. You didn’t tell me you’re into horror.”

“I’m not really. Just wanted a change,” you reply, figuring if you engage in his small talk, he’ll let you off the hook sooner.

“Did you know this was filmed at a real summer camp in New Jersey?” You shake your head. “It’s still operational, actually. The only set piece they had to build was the bathroom; everything else was already there.”

“That’s really interesting,” you smile, lying.

Unfortunately that was the wrong thing to say, because it made him perk up. “If you think that’s interesting, wait until you hear this…” He ducks under the counter again and comes back up with another movie in hand. “Scream was based on a series of real murders in the 90s. Ghostface was based of the Gainesville Ripper who killed five students in Florida. He wore a black ski mask, which was the inspiration for the movie.”

Neil must have noticed your concerned face and stopped.

“Uh, sorry. I guess giving a stranger facts about a serial killer is kind of weird,” he chuckles.

He scans your movie, swipes your card and prints out your receipt. Before he handed it to you, he scribbled something at the bottom.

“Thank you for renting from Gumshoe Video. Have a nice day,” he smiles.

You give him a polite smile back and on the way out of the door, you look down at the paper in your hand. He wrote what looks to be a phone number, but his handwriting is too messy for you to make out the digits.

[dracox-serdriel]

OMitB Season 4 Theories

Spoilers for all episods of Only Murders in the Building Season 4 up to episode 6. (If you want to skip it, please strike the 'J' key to jump past this post.)

Sazz knew about another murder in the building (likely the "sensitive topic" she meant to discuss with Charles at the end of Season 3) and possibly also knew about the cameras hidden in Oliver's and Charle's apartments.

Obviously, someone else knew Sazz knew about the murder and that she planned to spill the beans to "the podcasters"

The spy cameras must've been placed sometime before the start of Season 4 (how else would the killer know that it was safe to enter Charles' apartment to get Sazz's body?)

My theory is that the cameras were somehow placed by Marshall Pope or someone helping him spy. (Mostly because of his stage direction -- he describes Oliver as "flitting around" -- not something that would be obvious actions given the OmitB trio are podcasters who rely way too much on hidden cameras -- so more sound than video.)

When did Dudenoff die?

In theory, he could've died before Tim Kono.

The Brother/Sisters said that Dudenoff cut off all contact with them three years ago. (To the best of my knowledge, they are the only ones who gave a firm time about when they last spoke to Dudenoff.)

The "old incinerator" is banned because it causees a very noticable power surger in the entire building whenever it's used. Andn, according to Oliver & Charles, that kind of power surge hasn't happened in a while (since the old incinerator was banned).

It's possible Dudenoff died three years ago. His body could've been stored in any number of secret corners of the Arconia - though my guess is that he was hidden in the bricked up walls that cut the West Tower off from the rest of the Arconia.

Dudenoff's death predating Tim Kono's has a number of thematic components/call backs:

In episode 1x01, Charles' opening monologue: "Here's a thing I don't get. People who worry about living in a big city because of all the crime. As any true crime aficionado will tell you, it's the boondocks you need to worry about. I mean, let's face it. Nobody ever discovered 19 bodies buried in the backyard of a 14-story apartment building."

In episode 2x03, Oliver says: "Bunny and I, we're lifers. She's probably gonna be buried in the Arconia. And on hot days, the whole building will be able to smell you."

It makes sense that the killer would want to burn the body after someone cotton onto Dudenoff being dead.

My theory right now is that Dudenoff wasn't murdered. The illegal sublets are all under his name; his death would nix the rent control entirely - so all of the Westies with illegal sublets have cause to cover up his death. So his death could've been accidental or natural, and plenty of people still had tons of reason to cover it up. Not to mention there's someone is cashing Dudenoff's checks on 125th street - that could be part of the cover up or it's just another reason to keep his death a secret.

It would be easy for Sazz or literally any outsider to see evidence of the coverup (and maybe even the body itself) and conclude - well of course this was a murder! Especially if they didn't know about the illegal sublet thing going on.

Missing Pieces

The student film, "The Desecration of Alice", almost certainly had another actor from Dudenoff's classes -- a woman, the person who played Alice. I'm guessing that this is Rudy's ex-girlfriend, Helga -- the one who abandoned Hammy Faye Baker (the pig) in the Dudenoff's studio apartment.

What's with the Ham Radios? Seems like a way someone keeps in contact while staying off the grid.

Who is cashing Dudenoff's social security checks? I have zero reason behind it, but I truly think it's Lester the Doorman. He's been doing it as a favor, cashing the checks, then dropping the cash off to someone, per Dudenoff's request. Again, zero reason for me to suspect this. Just thinking.

Or... is Dedenoff actually dead?

Dudenoff has allowed people to illegally sublet from him for decades. Would it be so wild for him to have allowed someone he cared about to use his health insurance coverage to replace a shoulder? That could easily explain how the serial number traced back to him -- without him actually being dead.

This would also explain the Ham Radios.

Who is the killer?

Not enough information about who is the killer/shooter of Sazz, but people I'm keeping an eye on:

Bev Melon - the producer

Marshal Pope - the writer

Helga

Ana - Inez and Alfonso's daughter

Rudy aka Christmas-all-the-time-guy - easily the most atheltic of the Westies, could almost certainly handle the ubertight window of he shooter + the cleaner

Scott Bakula - ok, not really, but why not? Super sus how he turned up in 4x01 and was like, "Ho-hum, TOTALLY not like Sazz, right?!"

Sazz's Agent - unnamed character, see next section

Why Sazz?

Sazz has a ton of connections - she's the reason Charles had friends when he worked on Brazzos. Most people at the stunt bar seemed to know her fairly well. She is clearly far more competent at keeping interpersonal connections (especially those critical for her job) than most of the other characters in OMit-B.

The relationship Sazz was keen on quitting (she gave more than she got) -- I know Charles thinks it was himself -- but I don't think so. I think the person Sazz was keen on quitting was actually her agent. This is a character we've only heard about in passing, with Sazz talking to them on the phone -- but it makes a lot more sense than it being Charles.

The Theory of Season 4

While there's no real limits to the question "Who has access to Charles and Oliver's apartments?" Because of all the secret passage ways and stuff... but my theory is that Sazz's agent is in complete cahoots with Bev Melon (the producer) and leverage Sazz to plan cameras in Oliver's and Charles' apartments, among other things, to help Marshal (the film writer) and Bev get a full jump on the OMit-B.

Oliver is 100% right to be surprised at how far along the project is when they go out ot California in 4x01. That didn't happen by accident. This production had a crapton of inside sources to draw from to get it to where it is.

If Sazz's agent used blackmail or even just basic power pressure to get Sazz to participate in this kind of spycraft, then I could easily see how Sazz would want to get out from under that thumb.

At least, that would explain why Sazz is suddenly pushing to retire, even though there was a recent reboot of Brazzos giving her plenty of work (even if the show is on hiatus ATM).