#also the wounds are more around the eye not on it
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
specsthesecond · 1 day ago
Text
°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:・°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:・°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:・°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:・°
A cosy warmth engulfs you when you push open the big wooden door of the little stone cottage. You push the door open for the orc behind you so he can finally put down the heavy trunk he’s been carrying. He sets it down with a grunt before stretching and heading to the hearth to start the fire. You shrug your coat off and untie your snow boots, leaving them by the door like the last time you came into his home, except this time it’s for good.
You stand in the doorway, looking around his living room, the space is oddly intimidating to you now. He sets the last log on the now billowing fire, dusting off his hands, he looks over to you and smiles almost as warmly as the fire itself. He motions for you to sit on the couch, clearly wanting you to make yourself comfortable. You hesitate before walking over and sitting next to him on the worn out two-seater. You’ve obviously done this before, hell you two have fallen asleep in each others arms, almost fully naked as well, yet you hesitate to get truly comfortable in his home. Maybe because it’s also your home now. That degree of separation has been shattered and the reality of the situation is ever present in your mind now.
You rest your head back on his couch, looking at the ceiling. The orc takes his snow boots off as well, a smile gliding across his face when he bends down and sees your two sock clad feet, heels digging into his carpet. When he looks over to your face and sees the creases on your brow, his smile dampens. He doesn’t want you to feel this way but he also doesn't want to minimise or ignore what just happened.
He gently takes your hand, tearing your gaze from the ceiling to his gorgeous brown eyes. He brings his hand to your chest, where your heart should be, and feels the heartbeats behind the flesh. He takes your hand and puts it right over his heart, letting you feel the constant pulse. He nods at you solemnly and you nod back in understanding. You’re both alive. Something that wouldn’t be true if you hadn’t taken the actions you did. Maybe you could have found a better way, but any regret left in you is smothered by his beating heart, right in your palm. Your hands sweep over to his wound, reminding yourself why you did it, and that you would do it again if needed.
He must see that determination flare in your eyes because he suddenly leans in for a kiss, before parting to look at your face, which is probably an amusing mix of surprised and embarrassed. He chuckles and stands up, heading over to the large trunk in the middle of the room. He opens it with a creak and stares at the contents thoughtfully. He looks at his bookshelf, then at you and waves his hand to encourage you closer. You rise from the couch and kneel next to him where he gently takes your books out of your trunk and onto the carpeted floor. The thick rug is so soft and warm on your sock clad feet.
He takes a few books from the stack and hands them to you, you sit there dumbly, with the books in hand. He glances at you and you get the feeling he’s trying to hide his amusement, he points towards the shelf in the corner of the small living room. You tentatively get up and walk towards the shelf, passing the table you both ate at when you brought him that stew. The memory eases you a bit, leaving space for confusion as to why you were so tense in the first place. When you reach the shelf unease flickers again, you look back at the orc, who is still unpacking your books into neat stacks on the floor.It seems you packed way more than you thought.
After a moment you gently push his books up straight to make more space on the shelf then shelve your books one by one into the spaces left. You finish the stack and silently head over for another, shelving your favourite books on higher shelves and placing books sideways on top of others when there’s no space left. While doing this you try and read the titles of his various books, to little success, though you do notice that quite a few of the covers have maps on them or cartography themes, a hobby, perhaps. In the end you have to leave a stack on the shelf above the mantle but otherwise all your books have found space right next to his.
He grins at the overpacked shelf, looking back into the trunk with new vigour. He sets his sights on your mugs next, wrapped hastily in a blanket to avoid cracking. He gently removes them, visibly relieved that none of them are chipped, and carries them all to the kitchen. You grab your ceramic pot, which you stuffed your dried meats and tea in, and follow behind him. He places your mugs, your four favourite mugs, into his cabinet. He opens up the bottom cupboard and motions for you to put the pot in with all his other pots and pans. He puts your tea in a container and puts the meat in his cold box. At least you’ll have your favourite tea for maybe another year or so.
He heads back to the living room and starts dragging the trunk over to the only other doorway in the cottage, pulling it down the hallway. You shuffle behind him as he opens one of the two doors in the hallway and steps inside the dark room to light an oil lamp. You peer into the room from behind him and are quite shocked to see a bathroom that looks very similar to the one you had. It’s just a sink and a toilet so you suppose not much could be that different. You bend down to grab your toothbrush, soaps and other bathroom items before shuffling inside with him and placing them around the room, you wonder if there is a nearby lake or river that he washes in or if he prefers bucket baths even in the summer. The sadness you feel when you realise you won’t be able to wash in your usual lake makes you feel incredibly silly.
His warm hand engulfs yours as he brings you to the other door. You peer into the illuminated bedroom, assessing the small space. It's cosy, like the rest of his home. Thick blankets cover the large bed in the middle of the room. Thick brown curtains hang over the window, blanketing the room in darkness. There is a desk pushed up to the wall next to the door, scraps of paper and ink stains cover the old wooden surface. You step closer to the desk and notice a huge map hanging on the wall in front of it, It's huge and would be difficult for you to discern even if it was in Human Common. When you look down on the desk you see more maps, smaller and sketchy, some written over, some crossed out. It seems your orc is somewhat of a cartographer, by hobby or trade, you wonder. A little voice in the back of your mind remarks scornfully on how little you actually know about your new lover.
This strange orc who you’ll now be sharing a bed with, it seems. You hear him drag the trunk into the room, setting it beside the bed. He opens up his closet and starts rearranging things, taking clothes out to make space for yours, you assume. Wanting to be helpful, you sit on the end of the bed and take out the clothes in your trunk. Once he’s done reorganising and making space for you, you place your clothes in his cupboard and hang up your coats next to his. He sits on the bed and watches you do this.
Once you’re done and the trunk is empty, you close the heavy lid, dust your hands off and turn to face him with a satisfied expression. He looks back at you with admiration as he leans back on the bed, supported by his hands. You suddenly feel overcome with irritating timidness, you’re still not used to being looked at like that and you have no idea how to start getting used to it. You awkwardly avoid his gaze but step towards him, there's no use in trying to avoid him, you need to learn how to overcome these hesitations if you’re going to be living with this orc.
When you step close enough to be in touching distance, he leans forward like a magnetic force compels him to, like second nature. He lifts his hand to your hip, hovering over the material covering the skin, only making contact when you look him in the eyes. The touch burns like fire even through your clothes, and when you look deeper in his eyes, you see a deep relief in them. He rests his head against your chest, letting out a deep breath, he looks so tired. As he rests more of his weight against you, you also feel the weight of the day fall heavy, it feels like the exhaustion of fighting for your lives fully hits you as you rub your hands down the orcs back and let his weight slump onto you.
You slowly move out of his grasp, he seems too tired to even fight you that much. You turn around to grab a thick night gown from the newly packed cupboard and he seems to be pleased at the idea of tucking in for the night. You hesitate for a minute before stepping over to the right side of the bed and shuffling off your tunic and chest wrap. He starts undressing himself, getting into his sleep attire without paying you much mind as you change, how gentlemanly.
You fold up your dirty clothes from the day and leave them on the floor for now, tomorrow's problem. Your orc has changed into comfy sleeping pants and you can see him eyeing a shirt, debating if it would be more appropriate to wear it or not. From what you gathered he probably doesn't wear a shirt to sleep, he probably doesn't even wear pants but he is very politely wearing them for you as to not overwhelm his very new and very apprehensive lover, how kind. You huff amusedly at yourself before shuffling the thick sheets and climbing into bed.
He brings the oil lamp over to the bedside and gets into bed himself, only half covering himself with the sheets, whereas you’ve already bundles yourself up in the soft warmth of them. You lay down facing each other, just staring for a while, it seems neither of you really want to close your eyes. The excitement or novelty of this new environment still keeping both of you awake. After a while you’re the one to crack first and lean over to kiss him on the lips and then lean over him to blow out the candle on his bedside table. The orc chuckles as you lay back down, you can barely see him now that it's pitch black but knowing he’s right there will distract you from some much-needed sleep so convince yourself to turn over.
Your back to his front, you feel behind you for his hand and bring it over your waist to hold it in your hand. He slowly melts into the touch, relaxing closer to you, his warm chest against your back. This is by far the first time you've slept together but the times before were always under abnormal circumstances. Freezing to death in front of the hearth, bleeding out on your couch. Now it's just you, neither of you are injured or reeling from some life-threatening event. It's just you, together, in bed, and it’s peaceful. His breaths are deep and slow and his skin is warm and you melt into sleep holding his hand to your chest.
°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:・°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:・°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:・°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:・°
<- Previous
Next ->
274 notes · View notes
ca1tlynsgf · 2 days ago
Text
pitfighter!vi after a breakup with you
Tumblr media
warnings: angst, descriptions of injuries, substance abuse
an: i just farted this shit out idek if it’s good not gonna proof read
——————————————————————————
the bottles seem to keep falling empty out of her hands and rolling onto the rotted wood of her bedroom floor, clanking into each other as vi downs them one by one. it’s been two weeks, fourteen goddamn days since she saw your tear-stained face, cursing at her, “i never want to see you again!” as you left her standing there in the cold, dark street. fourteen days.
in these days, vi has been nothing but drunk and bloody. she upped her fights to three matches a night, four if she’s high enough. her body aches from the amount of trauma it’s been through; a few broken ribs, knuckles bloody and raw almost to the bone, her left eye greenish-blue and slightly swollen.
nothing really hurts though, as long as she keeps putting the bottle to her lips—
“vi?” your voice called out, low and soft in her darkened bedroom. the light from the moon shined onto the floorboards and clutter. vi sat, knees bent and hands resting on them, back against the few cushions she called a “bed.” she didn’t really remember how she ended up on the floor, but she also didn’t even know what day or time it was, either.
she blinked a few times, seeing an outline of a body in the doorway.
she had to be hallucinating. it was the alcohol, it was… no way in hell you would show up here, how did you even get in? how did you find her? how in the fucking world did you-
“violet, what did you do…” your face came into the light, your eyes bore right into vi’s. she tightly shut hers and shook her head, trying to get you out of her mind.
warm hands cupped her face. you knelt down to be face level with her, your thumbs caressed her makeup-stained cheeks. “vi?” that little crease in between your eyebrows that vi loved so much was prominent as you worriedly surveyed the wounds and injuries all over her body.
“are you real?” vi’s voice was coarse, it didn’t even really sound like her. it was like she was talking through water, outside of her body.
you felt tears welling up in your eyes as you heard the broken woman sitting slumped in front of you. “yes, yes i’m real.. i’m here.”
vi’s opal eyes looked into yours, a certain yearn and heartbreak in them.
“i’m so sorry..” she slurred her words, “i fucked up so bad, y/n. you were the best thing that ever happened to me, and i destroyed it just like everything else.” her head hung low on her shoulders as she looked to the floor, hiding her face in her blackened-pink hair. “you loved me in a way no one ever had, saw through all my bullshit. you-you even fucking showed up right here, right now, after all of the shit i yelled at you.. all the things i did….” a sob racked through her body. she was tipping over, the weight on her shoulders becoming too much, and you found yourself catching her with your body. vi clung onto you, wrapping her strong bandaged arms around your lower waist as she buried her head into your stomach. you stayed on your knees, making you just a little taller than her.
vi broke in your arms. she (tried) to hold it in these past couple weeks, not allowed herself to think too much or be alone for too long. of fucking course, as soon as you come in, all of it comes back to her. (it doesn’t help that’s she’s incredibly drunk or how tired she is, either)
“you came back, why did you come back?” vi’s voice was shaking as the inky tears stained your shirt, causing your heart to break even more for the girl in your arms.
“loris came to me, told me you were.. you weren’t well. you’re doing three fights a night, vi? why the hell would you do that, huh?” your fingers gently caressed her head, holding her broken body to your chest.
when vi didn’t answer, you carefully lifted her head. her eyes were closed, eyebrows furrowed.
had she fallen asleep in her drunken state?
“violet, baby, wake up” you stroked her cheeks, but she was out like a light.
you helped her get into her bed, took off her shoes and carefully wiped off her makeup with a wet wash cloth from her dirty sink. she didn’t stir once, not until you got up from her to leave. her hand softly grabbed onto your forearm, and she slurred something that sounded like “stay with me” but you weren’t completely sure.
——————————————————————————
MY SHAYLAA😭😭😭😭🚬😪
172 notes · View notes
sapphira-mydnyte · 7 hours ago
Text
🐍Blond Bombshell Snake King🐍
Ominis knew he had a reputation to keep up, but not what everyone thought it'd be entirely. Although he came from a family of dark witches & wizards, the few things that Ominis even considered keeping up were his manner, his pride & sharp dress sense. True, he was blind, but his wand allowed him to see everything like anyone else could & with great detail when it came to clothes. He was THE pickiest of guys when it came to outfits because of his heritage, but that was understandable. Salazar, for as dark as he was, still had a sense of style about him & that wasn't lost to Ominis. He'd at least do the founder right by dressing well like the rest of the professors, if a bit more high end like Headmaster Black did.
Those that were lucky enough to see him out in town? Oh, the jealousy among the men was higher than any game in the world. Why? Ominis left thousands of ladies aching in his wake, but not out of hatred... no. Ominis' other four senses were sharpened to make up for his lost eye sight & as such, he had the BEST smelling cologne that money could buy. A lot of what he had were actually gifts bestowed upon him by the Sallow twins, especially Sebastian. Whatever Sebastian couldn't wear because it either gave him a headache, made him break out, or didn't mix with him very well, Ominis wound up getting. Needless to say that Sebastian was also left a bit jealous about all that Ominis got out of him because it smelled better than Honeydukes most of the time! In the end, though, Sebastian's jealousy was put to rest since it was going to good use & Ominis loved every single bottle of it that he got. For the few that he did buy, they were the most expensive of scents, but, in Ominis' opinion, his family didn't deserve their riches for hurting the innocent.
Ominis didn't keep those riches to himself though. He spoiled his girl like the queen she was to him & bought her whatever outfit, perfume, shoes, parasol & hairstyle she wanted. Granted, he kept the bills paid in full as well, but his girl deserved to be treated right & nobody in his family was going to ruin it for him! Although she teased him at times & made him burn with a fever when he didn't want to be in such a mood, he couldn't help but turn into a kitty around her.
Those that saw Ominis with his lady out on the town were left in shock because none of them had ever known a Gaunt to be... nice. He was even nice enough to the other ladies in town to leave them in tears. Whether they were pureblood or not, even the muggles were treated well by him at his job. Word did get back to Hogwarts about him on the daily too, but the professors couldn't help but smile & sometimes cry over seeing it. Ominis was truly the sweetest of the heirs, sweeter than everything in Honeydukes & he deserved the world for finally redeeming the dark house of Slytherin. 💚🐍
Tumblr media
Adult Omi dressed in Victorian aristocratic fashion must be cool...🫠
468 notes · View notes
oceanicwriting · 3 days ago
Text
matilda.
summary: it's your first birthday away from that place you once called home. you were miles away from all the things that hurt you, and although melancholy eats away at you, you knew there was one person who would always be there for you.
pairing(s): theodore nott x fem!reader
a/n: today is my birthday! i always get a little melancholy about it, so here is a story inspired by the song matilda by harry styles.
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
. . .
Tumblr media
ㅤㅤㅤyour hair moves with the mountain breeze, camouflaging itself with the movement of the tall, green undergrowth. you are given over to the embrace of nature, making your heart jump every time it surprises you with birds stopping by your side and tickled by the wind lifting your clothes. the valley before your eyes was beautiful.
ㅤㅤㅤa few meters from where you're sitting is your house, a small cabin that you share with your boyfriend. day to day, you spend growing vegetables, taking care of animals, and building. that whole place had become your most precious possession because it was full of love. the quiet life that you had wanted to have for years.
ㅤㅤㅤtoday was your birthday and, like every now and then, you remember the past stuck in the depths of your soul. there was a time when you surrounded yourself with people who didn't appreciate you, filling your days with hurtful words and actions that marked the life of a little girl. you had been able to bear it, but all wounds must stop hurting one day.
ㅤㅤㅤ—love.
ㅤㅤㅤyou turn around, filling your mind with that theodore nott standing behind you. his shirt is open at the first few buttons, messy at the edge of his baggy pants, and his hair blowing in all directions. a soft smile decorates his lips so familiar to you.
ㅤㅤㅤ—what are you doing here?
ㅤㅤㅤyou pat the floor beside you, inviting him to sit down and say—: i'm... thinking.
ㅤㅤㅤtheodore sits with you, covering the breeze from the side with his wide and well-worked torso.
ㅤㅤㅤ—thinking? —his hand searches for yours, interlacing them and resting on your lap—. thinking about what?
ㅤㅤㅤthe way his hair flies in all directions makes you smile quietly. there was a usual magic in his serene presence that always managed to silence the tornado of disordered thoughts in your head. your free hand can't help but approach his face, caressing the beauty of his well-defined features under the sunset light.
ㅤㅤㅤ—you're thinking about them, right? —he asks, closing his eyes at the feeling of your caresses against his skin—. are you thinking about your family? you know you can tell me anything...
ㅤㅤㅤyou nod, looking in the direction of the valley in front of you.
ㅤㅤㅤ—when my father left, on my tenth birthday, he always said he would come back for me. he never came. —the sour laugh you release into the air feels like a relief—. why would he come back? he would write me saying that something had happened, that something much more important had come up or that something happened with the car. i trusted his words over mom's...
ㅤㅤㅤyour head rests on his shoulder, feeling the tears slowly run down your face and fall to the dry floor.
ㅤㅤㅤ—and we would argue about it right before i went to bed, because i would always be the spitting image of him. i would always be the carbon copy of the person who left her, betrayed her, and hurt her.
ㅤㅤㅤ—it's not your fault that your mother couldn't see that you are also the image of love, sincerity, and honesty —he says, his soft, calm voice embracing the sadness of your soul. he forces you to sit facing his direction, adjusting himself to face you—. the image of a girl who needed more than reproaches.
ㅤㅤㅤtheodore brings his forehead to yours, allowing both of your breaths to mingle. he caresses your cheek, silencing the soft sobs that escape your lips. the boy's caresses on your arm don't hurry you, they just accompany your tears until you stop.
ㅤㅤㅤ—do you know they can't catch you again? —he says. you flutter your eyelashes, and theodore smiles, kissing the bridge of your nose—. i won't let them catch you.
ㅤㅤㅤyou smile, moving closer to leave a peck on his smiling lips. he looks at you, and one of his hands reaches out to your cheekbone to catch a small eyelash that has fallen.
ㅤㅤㅤ—a wish. —he squeezes the eyelash between his thumb and index finger, placing it in front of your eyes—. today, you will make a wish. you will tell me where it is stuck, up or down, and if you get it right, your wish will come true.
ㅤㅤㅤyou raise your eyebrows, laughing and then asking—: what if i’m wrong?
ㅤㅤㅤhis calm gaze shines, telling you that he’s about to tell you a lie.
ㅤㅤㅤ—you’ll tell me your wish, and i’ll make it happen. do you underestimate me?
ㅤㅤㅤtheodore nott had saved you in every way possible. he had taken care of your feelings, peace, home, and happiness in a way that no one had before. he had taken the time necessary to heal all the wounds on your bruised body with such tenderness that your wounds were now war marks.
ㅤㅤㅤ—never.
ㅤㅤㅤ—so? —you connect your eyes with his, without understanding—. come on, ask the universe for your wish.
ㅤㅤㅤand you think about how safe you feel when you wake up with him sleeping carefree next to you. you think about the happiness that runs through your body when you cook side by side in the kitchen where only the two of you fit. you think about all the things you had to give up to be in a place like this. you think about that cabin full of the love you feel, memories, and experiences.
ㅤㅤㅤ—a wish?
ㅤㅤㅤhe nods.
ㅤㅤㅤbut there was no wish because the universe had sent you everything you ever needed in the form of theodore nott. so, instead of making a wish you ask for an answer, you ask the universe to be right if this was what would make you happy for the rest of your life.
ㅤㅤㅤ—ready? —theodore asks, smiling—. up or down?
ㅤㅤㅤ—up.
ㅤㅤㅤhe separates his fingers, and the eyelash comes to rest on top, right in the middle of his index finger. when he orders you to blow, your body lets go with that hair the last worries on your mind.
ㅤㅤㅤyou turn to look at him, noticing how his long eyelashes move over his eyes. it is impossible to hold back your desire to have him close, so you throw yourself at him, hugging him tightly.
ㅤㅤㅤ—what's wrong? —he questions, laughing and returning the hug.
ㅤㅤㅤ—nothing —you say, resting your chin on his chest—. i just appreciate it, love.
ㅤㅤㅤhis smile widens, caressing your back and opening his mouth to answer. nothing manages to leave his lips because the sound of other voices approaching get ahead of him.
ㅤㅤㅤ—there! —lorenzo, one of your friends, shouts, appearing on top of the mountain with the rest of the boys.
ㅤㅤㅤyou look at theodore, who helps you up and leans close to your ear to say—: surprise.
Tumblr media
93 notes · View notes
focusonkayjay · 2 days ago
Text
Tumblr media
between the ride and the roses (15)
Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader
Genre/Tags: biker/ motorcycle shop owner! jungkook x flower shop owner! reader, enemies to lovers, opposites attract, slow burn, angst, smut, fluff
Word count: 5.4k+
Series summary: There's an insane turn of events when your calm and peaceful life is intruded by Jungkook, a biker boy who sets up his loud business right next to your own. Your paths cross under unlikely circumstances, starting with a clash of personalities but gradually you find yourself establishing a deeper connection with the annoyingly attractive biker jerk. You both have no idea what's in store for you guys as you try your best to put up with each other.
Chapter Warnings: angst, angst and angst, mature language, mention of injuries, stitches.
A/N: happy taehyung day !! <3 it's still the 30th where i live and i truly hope that tae had a day filled with love and happiness.
in light of everything, i also want to acknowledge the heartbreaking tragedy of the plane crash in korea. my heart goes out to all the victims and their families, and i am sending my deepest condolences. may they find peace, and may those we've lost rest in peace🕊️
part 15: carnation crash
The second Jungkook pulls the door open, his eyes land on you, and the sight sends a sharp pang through his chest. Your disheveled state, the bandage wrapped around your head and the one on your hand doesn’t escape him.
His mind races with questions. He wonders how you got here at this hour. Did you walk all this way? The very thought carves an ache deep into him, one he struggles to name.
“Y/n?” he finally manages, his voice low. “Kook…” you breathe out, and the sound of your voice... so drained, so heavy with fear and unease sends his heart into freefall. You don’t wait for him to say more. Stepping forward, you wrap your arms around his torso, clinging to him.
Jungkook freezes for a moment, startled, but then he exhales and wraps his arms around you, pulling you close. With one hand, he carefully reaches behind to shut the door, cocooning you both in the quiet of his apartment.
“Did you walk here?” he asks softly, his voice laced with concern. You nod weakly against his chest. “I missed you.” you whisper, and the raw vulnerability in your words almost undoes him.
He bites down on his lower lip, hard, fighting the urge to crumble. He knows he can’t let himself weaken… not now, not when he feels like the very reason for your pain.
“Let me get you some water.” he says quietly, carefully removing your hands from his torso. His touch lingers, hesitant, but he doesn’t meet your eyes as he turns and walks towards the kitchen.
You trail after him, your gaze fixed on his figure. You can’t help but notice the tension in his shoulders, the way he avoids looking your way. He searches for a glass, his movements slow yet restless, and his teeth worry at his lower lip.
“Kook...” you call out softly, breaking the suffocating silence. “Why didn’t you come to the hospital?” The question lingers in the air, heavy and unyielding. He freezes mid-motion, an empty glass in his hand, and finally turns to face you. The light from the kitchen spills over him, illuminating every detail you hadn’t noticed before.
Your breath hitches. His face, bruised and battered, tells a story you know he won’t voice. The gash on his lip glints faintly under the overhead light, but it’s his eyes... red, swollen, brimming with a guilt so profound it seems to engulf him. The physical wounds are merely the surface, it’s the storm raging beneath that terrifies you.
“Did you get into a fight?” you ask, your voice trembling as you step closer. He doesn’t answer. His jaw clenches, and he turns away, his shoulders taut as if trying to bear the crushing weight of your question. He sets the glass down on the counter, gripping it tightly, as though it’s the only thing grounding him.
“Kook, look at me.” Your voice wavers, raw with the strain of emotions you’ve kept bottled up. When he still doesn’t respond, you close the distance, gently cupping his face in your hands to make him look at you. His skin is warm beneath your touch, but his expression remains cold, distant.
“I told you to stop this.” Your voice cracks. “You promised me you wouldn’t get into fights—”
“How could I not?” he snaps suddenly, his voice sharp, the edge of it cutting through you. You pull your hands back, startled by the intensity of his tone. His hands clench into fists at his sides as he looks at you, his eyes ablaze with a fury born of anguish. “After what Mingyu did? After what happened to you?”
Your chest tightens as the weight of his words sinks in. “Kook, I never asked you to fight him—”
“You didn’t have to!” His voice rises, breaking under the force of his emotions. “Do you think I could just stand there and do nothing? Let him get away with it? After I saw... your shop, the ruins, the broken pots... do you have any idea what that did to me?” His voice trembles, and his fists tighten further. “I saw what he tried to do to you, Y/n. To us. Do you think I could just let that go?”
“Kook, you’re not listening to me—”
“No, you’re not listening to me!” he yells, his voice shattering the fragile space between you. “I couldn’t come to the hospital because I couldn’t face you, okay? I couldn’t... I couldn’t see you like that, knowing it's all my fault.”
You step back, stunned. “Your fault? Kook, none of this is your fault. Mingyu is the one who—”
“But it started with me!” he cuts you off, his voice breaking. “If I hadn’t moved next door to you, if I hadn’t been such an ass to you from the very start, if I hadn’t—” His voice falters, his breath hitching as he tries to steady himself. “You’d still have your peace, Y/n. Your shop wouldn’t be in ruins. You wouldn’t be hurt.”
“Kook, stop.” Your voice trembles as you take a step closer, desperate to reach him. “You can’t blame yourself for this. Mingyu’s actions are his, not yours.” you explain.
But he shakes his head, his eyes glistening. “He came after you because of me. Because he figured out what you mean to me. Because he realized that hurting you was the easiest way to get to me.”
Your breath catches at his words. His voice softens, but the pain in it sharpens every syllable. “I... I promised myself I’d protect you, Y/n. But look at you now... bandaged, bruised, broken... all because I couldn’t keep you safe.”
“That’s not true.” you whisper, your voice thick with tears. “You didn’t do this to me, Kook. Mingyu did.” you try again, desperate to make him understand.
He exhales shakily, running a trembling hand through his hair. A bitter laugh escapes him, heavy with self-loathing. “It’s so hard for me to look at you…” he mutters, as if confessing to himself more than to you. His words hit like a hammer, and your heart feels on the verge of shattering.
“To act like I’m not the reason for the chaos in your life...for everything wrong that has happened to you... I've always been an ass to you... made you cry... and it scares me because I just—” He stops abruptly, his words hanging unfinished, but the weight of what he wants to say is almost suffocating.
“You just what, Kook?” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “You just what?”
His eyes lock with yours, and for a fleeting moment, you think you can see everything he’s been holding back. His lips part, but then he steps back, retreating from the vulnerability threatening to spill over. “It doesn’t matter...” he exhales, his voice cold and detached now, the walls he’s been trying to build, slamming back into place.
“It does matter.” you cry, your voice breaking. “It matters to me, Kook. You matter to me.”
“No. Not anymore.” he says firmly, his tone void of the warmth you so desperately seek. “What matters is that... that I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending like I’m good for you.”
“You’re wrong.” you sob, stepping closer, but he moves back, the distance between you widening like an unbridgeable gap. “You’re so wrong.”
“You deserve better. Someone who doesn’t bring chaos into your life. Someone who—”
“Stop it!” you plead, your voice trembling under the weight of your sobs. “Stop trying to decide what’s best for me! You don’t get to do that, Kook.” Your chest rises and falls with each shaky breath as you lock eyes with him, desperately hoping to find a flicker of understanding, a shared agreement. “You are good for me.”
“I really... I really wish I was.” he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. The words hang in the air, an unwelcome silence settling between you, and as he looks at you one final time, his expression is a heart-wrenching blend of longing and devastation.
Then, before you can respond, he takes a step closer, grabbing your wrist... not harshly, but firmly enough that you know he’s not letting go.
“Kook, what are you doing?” you ask, panic creeping into your voice as he begins pulling you towards the door. “Let me go! Kook, stop!” you protest, trying to dig your heels into the floor, but his grip remains steady, unyielding.
“We’re done talking.” he says, his voice low but resolute as he steps out of his house and drags you down the stairs of his apartment building. Within seconds, the cool night air hits your face as he pulls you outside. Your heart pounds, confusion and heartbreak intertwining in a chaos.
“Kook, please, just let me—”
He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at you as he steps onto the curb and flags down a passing cab. The car screeches to a halt right in front of you, and before you can process what’s happening, he’s opening the door and guiding you inside.
“Kook, stop this!” you plead, your voice shaking as you push against his arm, but he doesn’t budge. His grip on your wrist is firm yet gentle, his jaw set with an unwavering determination.
“Please don’t do this, Jungkook.” you plead, your voice cracking as you reluctantly slide into the backseat, your gaze fixed on him through the window. You reach for the door handle, but he presses his palm firmly against it, stopping you from opening it.
With his hand still on the cab door, he leans towards the driver, his body tense. His voice is steady, yet it trembles with the weight of his emotions. “Please take her home safely.” he says, quickly rattling off your address, his urgency leaving no space for refusal.
Through the glass, you see him standing there, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, his head bowed low as he steps away from the car. He doesn’t look at you, not even when the driver starts the car and pulls away from the curb.
You twist in your seat, craning your neck to keep him in view for as long as possible. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t look. Doesn’t chase after you. He stays rooted to the spot, growing smaller and smaller in the distance.
Tears blur your vision, streaming freely down your face as the reality of his actions sinks in. The ache in your chest intensifies, a searing pain that feels like it could tear you apart. You press a trembling hand against your mouth, trying to stifle the sobs that grow louder with each passing moment.
The driver glances at you through the rearview mirror, his expression softening at the sight of your distress. Reaching near the gear shift, he carefully pulls out a small packet of tissues. Without saying a word, he extends his hand towards the back seat, offering the tissues to you.
You take them weakly. “Thank you...” you whisper, though your voice is barely audible over your quiet sobs. The kindness only makes you cry harder, and you clutch the tissues tightly, using them to wipe your face.
The throbbing stitches on your forehead and the sting of the cut on your hand are nothing compared to the fire raging in your chest. Every breath feels like a struggle as your mind replays the last few minutes over and over again.
What just happened? How did it come to this? How could someone who held you so gently let you go so forcefully?
You sit there trembling in the backseat, tears streaming down your face as the weight of it all crashes down on you. The faint hum of the car engine fades into the background as your thoughts spiral, mourning the loss of something that burned so brightly yet lasted so briefly.
Your hands clutch the tissues the driver gave you as the trembling in your fingers betrays your fragile state. You try to understand Jungkook... his guilt, his torment. You try to make sense of his words, of his actions. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t understand why he thinks this is the solution when it so clearly isn’t.
Why couldn’t he just hold you tonight? Why couldn’t he just ease your fears instead of letting his own guilt push you away?
The questions churn in your mind, each one cutting deeper than the last. Your chest feels tight, every breath a battle as you remember the look on his face... the way he couldn’t even meet your eyes, the way he chose to make you leave instead of trying to comfort you.
After the day you’d had, the chaos, the fear, the pain, all you wanted was him. You needed him to be there for you, to remind you that you weren’t alone, that things would be okay.
But instead, he let his guilt dictate his actions, and now here you are, alone in the backseat of a cab, the town lights casting fleeting shadows across your tear-streaked face. A bitter ache blooms in your chest, spreading through you like wildfire as the betrayal of his decision sinks in.
How could he not see what you needed? How could he think that leaving you like this... so harshly, so suddenly... was what would make you happy?
Your trembling grows worse, your body reacting to the storm inside you as the cab continues its journey through the quiet streets. You don’t even notice the driver’s occasional glances of concern anymore... you’re too lost in your thoughts, replaying every moment, every word, every touch that led to this point.
Meanwhile, Jungkook barely makes it inside his apartment before his knees give out the second he enters. Sliding down against the door, he collapses, his body trembling as sobs tear through him.
For the first time in years, he lets himself break completely. The sound is raw, jagged, his cries dragging painfully through his throat as he struggles to catch his breath.
The weight of his actions crashes over him, bitter and relentless, like thorns piercing every corner of his soul. He hates himself, hates the choice he made, hates the pain he saw etched into your face as you looked at him, so fragile, so vulnerable.
But the guilt, the overwhelming culpability, feels even worse. He tells himself he did this for you, to protect you, to spare you from the chaos he seems to bring.
And yet, every fiber of his being aches for you, but to love you, he believes, comes at a cost... a cost that risks your peace, your safety.
And if he has to love you from a distance, from the shadows of a life apart, then so be it. He clings to that thought like a lifeline, convincing himself that this is what’s best, even as the emptiness gnaws at him.
For now, he decides, this is what is right. This is the sacrifice he must make.
//
You stay in bed, cocooned under the heavy blanket, clutching a pillow tightly to your chest as if it could somehow hold you together. The morning sky outside is gloomy, gray clouds mirroring the shallow darkness of your room.
Tears stream steadily down your face, your blocked nose and dry throat adding to the discomfort that seems to settle in your very bones.
Just fifteen minutes ago, Taehyung called, his voice warm and reassuring as he informed you that he and the others were already at your shop, overseeing the repair work. He told you not to worry, that everything would be taken care of. But honestly? Worrying about your shop is the last thing on your mind right now.
Because a shop can be fixed. It can be refurbished, repainted, and restored to what it once was. But your heart? That’s a different story. You’re not sure if this ache in your chest can be repaired, not after last night.
You haven’t slept a wink since the minute you got home. The blanket feels suffocating yet necessary, the only thing holding you together against the cold mattress beneath. You sniffle, burying your face deeper into the pillow, as if it could absorb the emotions tearing you apart.
Jungkook. His name, his face, his voice... it’s all you can think about. The way he looked at you, the way he slammed the cab door shut, and the way he didn’t look up once as the cab drove away. It’s like a cruel replay in your mind, over and over, until it physically hurts.
You’re sad. You’re angry. You’re confused. You’re everything at once, and it’s overwhelming. Part of you wants to scream at him, to yell and demand answers about his cruel decision.
The other part of you aches for him, misses him with an intensity you can’t describe. It’s a mess... a tangled, aching mess. And all you can do is lie there, tears soaking into the pillow, as the weight of it all crashes over you again and again.
Hours stretch endlessly, a haze of grief and exhaustion anchoring you to the bed. You feel lifeless, too weak to eat, to shower, even to redress your wounds.
The world outside darkens, shadows spilling into your room as the sky shifts to twilight. By now, your cheeks are dry, though your eyes burn from endless tears, and your body feels heavy, hollow, like a corpse waiting to be claimed.
You never thought you’d be like this over someone.
But this is Jungkook.
The realization hits you, sharp and painful, as the weight of his absence settles like a boulder in your chest. He means so much to you, more than you even allowed yourself to admit before.
This unrelenting ache, this unbearable toll... it's the answer to a question you never thought to ask yourself. You never imagined you could be so consumed by the loss of someone, so utterly dismantled.
With a sudden surge of determination, you sit up abruptly. Your hair is disheveled, and your shirt hangs loosely off your shoulder, but you don’t care. You can’t just sit here, drowning in sorrow because of his hasty, senseless decision. This isn’t fair... not to him, not to you.
He doesn’t get to walk away like this. He doesn’t get to make this choice alone, to break something that doesn’t deserve to be broken.
You need to see him.
You need to tell him everything... the hurt, the love, the anger, the ache. You need closure. You need to fight for this, for him, for yourself.
Hastily, you climb off the bed, the disheveled sheets a testament to your restless hours. You don’t care about the mess, your tear-streaked face, or the wild tangle of your hair.
The thought of fixing yourself up doesn’t even cross your mind. You grab your sandals with trembling hands, slipping them on in such a rush that you don’t even notice they’re both on the wrong feet, and storm out the front door without a second thought.
The cold evening air bites at your skin as you run, your breath puffing in small clouds in front of you. But you don’t stop. You can’t stop. Your heart pounds with every step, driven by an urgency that blocks out everything else.
When you finally near your shop, you catch a glimpse of workers moving about, carrying tools and materials. Taehyung’s voice echoes faintly as he supervises the repairs, but you barely register it. Your focus is locked on the shop next door.
The lights are still on.
Without hesitation, you stride to the entrance. Your hands tremble as you grip the door handle, pushing it open with more force than necessary.
Jungkook stands behind the counter, busy with a crumpled receipt in his hand. The moment you step inside, his head snaps up, eyes widening at your sudden, unannounced presence.
He looks startled, unprepared, but you don’t stop. Your steps are uneven, your breathing labored, and the weight of everything you’ve been holding in presses down on you as you approach him.
“You think you can just walk away from everything? From me? From us?” Your voice cuts through the silence, trembling yet forceful, raw with emotion.
Jungkook freezes, his face unreadable, but his eyes betray him. They scan you slowly, taking in the worn-out t-shirt slipping off your shoulder, the wrinkled sweatpants clinging to your frame, and the mismatched sandals on your feet.
You look disheveled, undone... but it’s the tear-streaked face and red, swollen eyes that hit him the hardest.
“You want to take the blame for everything?” you cry, your voice growing louder as the pain spills out. “Fine, Jungkook! Take the blame. Be the hero. But guess what? Walking away doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t fix me, it doesn’t fix you, and it sure as hell doesn’t fix whatever you think you’re protecting me from!”
Your voice cracks, and you clutch your chest as though trying to hold your heart together before it shatters completely.
“I needed you…” The sob tears its way out of you, your voice breaking as tears stream down your cheeks. “I needed you, Jungkook. Yesterday, I was… I was so fucking scared… I thought I was going to lose my mind. I thought—” You falter, struggling to find the words, but push through. “I thought you’d be there for me. I thought you’d hold me and tell me it was going to be okay. But you—”
Your voice wavers, anger seeping into your tone as you glare at him through the tears. “You didn’t show up. You shut me out, and when I came to find you, you wouldn’t even look at me. And if that wasn’t bad enough, you just decided to force me to leave and then walk away? How could you do that? How could you just… be so... so harsh?"
Jungkook’s jaw tightens, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. But he doesn’t say a word. He just stands there, rooted in place, his guilt and anguish written all over his face as he sees you unravelling.
“You think this makes you noble?” you shout, your voice rising with every word. “You think breaking me like this is some grand gesture of love? Newsflash, Jungkook... it’s not! You can’t just destroy someone in the name of protecting them!”
Your fists clench at your sides as you step closer, standing right in front of him. “You say you want to protect me, but do you even realize what you’re doing to me? You’re killing me, Jungkook. Every second without you feels like I’m being ripped apart, piece by piece.”
Your fists come up, weak and shaky, and you hit his chest... not to hurt him, but because you don’t know what else to do with the storm raging inside you. “You’re a coward.” you sob, hitting him again. “You’re such a jerk!”
“Such…” Another hit.
“A…” And another.
“Jerk!”
Your hands fall limp against his chest, and your tears flow harder. “I can’t do this...” you whisper, shaking your head as your voice trembles. “I can’t keep pretending I’m okay when I’m not. You’re breaking me, Jungkook. You’re breaking me, and I don’t know how to stop it.”
You clutch the fabric of his shirt, your hands trembling, your forehead pressed desperately against his chest. “I love you…” you sob, the words breaking free before you can stop them. “I love you so much it hurts. And you—” your voice cracks as you pause, choking on your tears.
Jungkook’s breath catches in his throat, the sound sharp and pained. You said it. You said the very words he’s been carrying on the tip of his tongue for what feels like forever.
Usually, this should’ve been a moment of joy, a moment where the world stood still in happiness, but instead, it’s devastating.
He should’ve been the one to say it first, to hold you close and profess the depths of his love without hesitation. But now, here you are, unraveling in front of him.
The words fall from your lips not as a declaration but as a plea, a raw, desperate attempt to keep from losing everything. He feels the weight of your emotions, the depth of your vulnerability, and it cuts him deeper than he thought possible.
In another life, another time, those words would have lit up his world. But here and now, they tear him apart because they come wrapped in heartbreak, in the unbearable fragility of this moment.
Your voice softens into a trembling whisper, heavy with anguish. “You’re just standing there, letting me fall apart. I don’t understand why. I don’t understand how you can do this to us.”
The silence that follows is unbearable, suffocating in its weight. Jungkook doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
His silence presses down on you, crushing and unrelenting, until it feels like the very air between you has turned into a barrier you can’t break through.
You let out a bitter, broken laugh, shaking your head as you take a step back. “You can’t even say anything, can you? You can’t even tell me why you’re doing this.”
Your chest heaves as you draw in a shaky breath. “You know what, Jungkook? If you want to be a coward, then just be one. If this is how you think love works… if this is all you’re capable of… then maybe I was wrong about you all along.”
The words hang heavy in the air, sharp and cutting. You see him flinch, but you don’t stop.
“You’re selfish. You’re nothing but a scared little boy who runs the moment things get hard. So go ahead, Jungkook. Walk away. But don’t you dare think you’re doing this for me. You’re doing this because you’re too much of a coward to fight for what really matters.”
Your voice cracks, and without waiting for a response, you turn and storm out of the shop. The cold air hits your face, but you don’t stop walking, your tears blurring the path ahead.
Jungkook stands frozen in the middle of the shop, the silence suffocating. His hands shake as they curl into fists at his sides, your words reverberating in his mind.
A soft cough breaks the stillness. Yoongi steps out of the storeroom, hands shoved into his pockets as he leans against the doorframe. He watches Jungkook for a moment, the tears streaming down his face and the turmoil etched into his features.
“Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.” Yoongi mutters as he steps into the room, his tone calm but cutting. His sharp eyes land on Jungkook, who remains frozen, staring at the door you just stormed out of. “But… damn, Kook, you really outdid yourself this time.”
Jungkook doesn’t answer. His chest feels like it’s caving in, each breath heavier than the last as your words echo relentlessly in his mind. Yoongi sighs, stepping closer, the sound of his boots faint against the shop’s worn floor.
“You’re a goddamn idiot.” Yoongi says, though his voice carries no malice... just weariness, disappointment. “There’s a fine line between protecting someone and pushing them away, and you’re not walking that line. You’re sprinting straight into the void.”
Jungkook’s jaw tightens, his shoulders slumping under the weight of Yoongi’s words.
“So let me get this straight...” Yoongi continues, his tone sharper now. “You fought Mingyu yesterday, got yourself beat to hell, didn’t visit her... didn’t even check on her... knowing she was hurt. You let her come all the way to your place, injured and worried, and then you forced her to leave... just so you could throw more salt into her wounds?”
Jungkook flinches, guilt painted across his face.
“And for what, huh? What did you think you’d accomplish?” Yoongi demands, stepping closer. “What did you think you’d prove by punching a guy who thrives off chaos? Mingyu? That bastard doesn’t give a fuck. He won’t change.”
“I—” Jungkook starts, but Yoongi cuts him off with a harsh laugh.
“No. Don’t give me excuses.” Yoongi snaps, his calm exterior cracking just enough to show the frustration bubbling underneath. “I’ve known you long enough to see through that. Just tell me... what the hell did you think would happen after fighting that motherfucker?”
Jungkook’s voice is barely above a whisper. “He said he’d leave her alone if I gave him my bike.”
Yoongi freezes, his brow furrowing as the words sink in. “Your bike?” he repeats slowly, the disbelief clear. “You gave up your bike to that scumbag?”
Jungkook nods, shame pulling his head down like a weight.
Yoongi exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair as realization dawns. “So that’s why you came walking to the shop today? You actually gave it to him?”
Another nod.
“Unbelievable.” Yoongi groans, leaning heavily against the counter. He closes his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose before looking at Jungkook again. “You’re the most self-sacrificing fool I’ve ever met.”
Jungkook sniffs, wiping his face with the back of his hand, but Yoongi isn’t done.
"You think giving up your bike was noble? Maybe it was. But do you think it made her feel any less hurt? Less abandoned? Less... unloved?” Yoongi’s voice softens, though his words remain as sharp as ever. “Because that’s what this all boils down to, doesn’t it? You think hurting yourself makes you the hero of this story.”
Jungkook looks up at him, eyes rimmed red. “He said he’d leave her alone.” he whispers, his voice trembling. “He said if I gave him my bike, he’d back off.” he tries to prove his point.
Yoongi sighs, disbelief clouding his face. “And you believed him?”
Jungkook looks down, shame pulling his head lower again. “I just wanted her to be safe.”
“You think safety is all she needs ?!” Yoongi’s voice rises, his frustration spilling over. “Jungkook, you don’t love someone by giving them walls to live behind. You love them by standing beside them, even when it’s hard.... especially when it’s hard.”
Yoongi exhales sharply, his frustration barely contained. “You’ve got a good heart, Kook, but you’re an idiot when it comes to love. You think hurting yourself makes you some kind of hero, but all it does is make her feel more alone. And you? You look like a coward. Because that’s what you’re doing... running. Hiding behind guilt and these grand gestures no one asked for.”
Jungkook tries to speak, but Yoongi cuts him off with a sharp glare.
“You need to stop running, Kook.” Yoongi says, his voice firm but laced with an odd gentleness. “You’ve been running ever since the moment you realized you liked her. Afraid to show her the depth of it. Afraid to let her see you vulnerable. And what has it gotten you? Nothing but pain.”
Jungkook swallows hard, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “I just... don't want her to get hurt again...” he murmurs, his voice cracking.
“And yet, you hurt her yourself.” Yoongi counters softly. “Look, I get it. Love is messy. It’s terrifying. But it’s also the only thing worth fighting for. And not with your fists, Kook. With your heart.”
Jungkook’s tears spill over, his hands trembling at his sides. Yoongi steps closer, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got one chance to make this right.” he says. “Stop thinking about how to protect her and start thinking about how to be there for her. She doesn’t need a savior. She needs you.”
Yoongi lets the silence linger for a moment before sighing and straightening up.
“Also… about your bike...” he adds, his tone softening slightly. “I’ll take care of that. You? All you need to think about is how to make it up to Y/n. If you really don’t want to lose her, Kook, you need to fix this.”
Jungkook looks up at him, a flicker of hope mixed with despair in his watery eyes. Yoongi squeezes his shoulder once more before stepping back, his gaze steady and unwavering.
"Love isn’t supposed to be easy." Yoongi says quietly, his voice steady and resolute. "But it’s worth every damn scar. Don’t run away from it, Kook. Don’t throw it away just because it’s hard."
<- part 14 // final (coming soon) ->
series masterlist
taglist:@kimyishin @ghijkd @dolligguk @mimi1097 @jksusawife @yooforeaa @abbie1847 @myjungkookthighs @thesarcasmqueen-22 @fairypjminie @lovelytaes-blog @jjeonjjk7 @daddyjeonnn @vantelover1306 @jeeykey @shellyyy177 @daskewl @blackswan18 @korian97 @minimoninini @ericawantstoescape @rpwprpwprpwprw @tokkiggukie @jaytheatiny
97 notes · View notes
thisapplepielife · 14 hours ago
Text
Tumblr media
Written for the Third Annual Spicy Six Fanworks Challenge hosted by @thefreakandthehair.
Sometimes Dreams Change
Prompt: "There’s no rule against just looking!" | Word Count: 4930 | Rating: T | CW: Language, Lingering Upside Down Trauma, Mentions of Therapy | Tags: Future Fic, Thanksgiving, Old Friends, Reconnecting, Friends to Lovers, Personal Growth, Found Family, Non-Famous Corroded Coffin, Platonic Stobin, Good Uncle Wayne Munson
Also right here on ao3.
Tumblr media
"You're staring," Wayne says.
"What?" Eddie asks, but he's still focusing on the action happening across the room. Steve's carving the turkey at the kitchen counter, Robin flitting around, giving what Eddie is sure is unnecessary, and nearly certainly unhelpful, feedback.
"You're staring," Wayne repeats, nudging Eddie in the ribs.
Eddie jerks his head, gaze changing directions.
"There's no rule against just looking!" Eddie snaps, and Wayne just keeps staring at him, unimpressed.
This is stupid. 
Steve Harrington ran into them at the Big Buy, invited them to Thanksgiving dinner, and now Eddie is looking at his handsome ass in a pair of very well tailored khakis and a dark teal sweater, carving a fucking turkey that he cooked himself. This shouldn't work for Eddie, but it is.
He's matured. He's a goddamn man. He looks it, sounds it, and by this house, lives it.
The house is his now, his parents moving onwards and upwards, apparently. Leaving Hawkins for good. Lots of people did, though, after that spring of '86. Eddie being one of the first out the door. But looking around, Steve has remodeled this house into a home, something that looks warm and lived in, unlike it did back when Steve was a teen. It clearly has the fingerprints of Steve and Robin all over it, and it's for the better.
In a world where Eddie is still living out of his duffel bag, and spending his nights in crowded smoky bars, Steve has gone and become a real grown up. Who'd have thought? 
When Eddie thinks of Steve, of Robin, they are still frozen as they were that summer they all spent together healing. 
But that's not the truth of it, not anymore. No, now Steve's carving a turkey. Eddie's not sure he'd even be trusted with a paring knife.
He isn't even sure of the last time he's had an actual turkey for Thanksgiving that didn't come pre-sliced on a sandwich from a gas station. He's definitely never cooked one.
Gareth and Mama Jones are at the table, chit-chatting, and it's just the six of them. Apparently, Robin had demanded a turkey, and the only one they had left was too big for two people, so the invite to Eddie and Wayne ended up being extended to Gareth and his mom, too. 
And here they are. A hodgepodge of pairings that didn't really have anywhere else to be for the holiday.
Eddie hadn't even laid eyes on Steve Harrington since the band fled town, Eddie freshly healed from his wounds after his week in hell. And now they're spending the holiday together. It makes no sense.
The band hasn't made it big, but they've made it work. They play regularly, make enough cash to get by, and that's more than he'd ever expected, honestly. They're serviceable musicians that have gotten more polished with practice and time, but they're not good enough to be stars, that's for damn sure. But the gigs are fun, and pay the bills, at least some of the time, so they've kept at it just because they still love to do it.
Eddie tears his eyes away from Steve before Wayne gives him more shit, and goes to sit next to Gareth, his back to the kitchen so he'll stop gawking.
It's just good to see old friends, that's all.
After dinner, they sit around a catch up, and Eddie has honed in on something that he doesn't like. Not at all.
Getting Wayne alone, he stares him down.
"What?" Wayne drawls.
"Don't what me," Eddie hisses.
Wayne laughs, and Eddie has to nip this in the bud.
"Don't you dare," Eddie says, yanking on Wayne's arm, fingers digging into the plaid sleeve of his shirt.
"What are you on about, kid?" Wayne asks, playing dumb, and Eddie gives him the best version of stink-eye that he can muster.
"That's his mom," Eddie bemoans, and Wayne laughs.
"I'm just being friendly. You're reaching."
Eddie is not reaching. Wayne doesn't sit around and laugh like a loon, but he's damn well been doing it all afternoon. He is not hitting on Mama Jones. That's…that's against the law. Several, probably.
"Don't," Eddie warns.
"You could be brothers," Wayne says, goading Eddie, and Eddie takes the bait. He always does. 
"Stop it. Right now. Or I'm telling."
Wayne laughs, "Telling who? My mother? She's been dead for a while, kid. Sorry about that."
Eddie huffs out an annoyed breath, "I'm gonna go smoke. You mind your own goddamn business, old man. Or I'll tell Gareth, and well, those will be your consequences to deal with."
It's cool outside, not really cold, but definitely breezy. Eddie pulls his jacket tighter to his body. He lights a cigarette, and takes a deep breath, looking over at the winterized pool and the woods beyond.
It's weird being home in Hawkins, and even stranger being at Steve Harrington's house. He's stayed away for nearly a decade, not really ready to face the town that would have been happier to see him strung up in the town square, innocent or not.
"Eddie Munson," Steve says from somewhere behind him, and Eddie jumps, then laughs.
"Steve Harrington," Eddie responds, offering his hand. Steve takes it, giving it a firm shake and it feels weird. They aren't handshake guys. 
"That's me," Steve says, "nice to meet you."
Eddie laughs, at least Steve thinks the handshake was as ridiculous as Eddie does.
"Thanks for inviting us, man. It was really good. I had no idea you could cook a turkey."
Steve smiles, "Well, honestly, me either. I just found a cookbook in the cabinet and winged it. Luckily I didn't burn the house down or anything."
And then Steve laughs. 
Somehow, Steve Harrington at thirty-two is even more gorgeous than he was at twenty. Life is truly unfair. Eddie's not sure how this man isn't married with the half dozen kids that he'd once wanted. But he looks happy, settled. His face seems free of the trauma they once shared, while Eddie feels forever destined to be treading water. 
He wishes he had the secret to that, because out of the blue he'll still have nightmares. Gareth has to wake him up, and reassure him he's fine, that everything's fine, that it's not real.
But it was real. He lived it. 
And it has fucked him up, irreparably.
"Catch me up, tell me everything," Steve says, hand snaking out and stealing his cigarette, taking a long drag. Eddie's body thrums with a want that he hasn't felt in a good long while.
"Don't tell Robin," Steve says with a wink, handing the cigarette back and then looks at Eddie expectantly. Eddie really doesn't have a lot to tell.
"Well, we're on the road. We get gigs, solid work, but it's not like we're gonna break into the mainstream anytime soon. Anytime at all, honestly."
"But you enjoy it? The gigs? The travel?" Steve asks, and isn't that a string of loaded questions.
"Yes," Eddie says, "most of the time."
Steve cocks his head to the side, like a curious dog, "And the other times?"
"It's rough, sometimes. Still. Always." 
"What would it take for you to feel better on the road more often?" Steve asks.
Fuck if Eddie knows. If he did, he'd already be doing it. He just shrugs.
"What kind of support system do you have while you're away from home?"
Eddie doesn't really have a home, but that's a can of worms he's definitely not cracking open.
"Um, Wayne's always a phone call away? And the guys are there," he says, then adds, "Gareth has made it his life's purpose to make sure I'm not alone for longer than five minutes. Makes bathroom time fun, let me tell you."
Then he feels his face flushing. He's rambling. He tried to make it seem like it's a joke, but it's not. Not really. He just doesn't know why he's admitting to any of this. It's like Steve turned on a faucet and now Eddie's leaking out all his private business, full-flow.
"I'm almost never alone. By design," Eddie adds.
That's the cold, honest truth. 
"Why do you think that is?" Steve asks, looking like he expects Eddie to have an answer. Good god, that's a lot of questions, a lot of expectations. 
"What are you, my therapist?" Eddie teases, trying to turn the tide away from seriousness, and Steve laughs, head tossed back, hair flying.
"Well. Not your therapist. But a therapist," he says, and no fucking way. Eddie didn't know that. How did he not know that?
That's one way to fix yourself he supposes.
He grins, leaning closer, leering a little, "You gonna psychoanalyze me? Find out what my damage is?"
Steve doesn't back away, instead he reaches out and cups Eddie's shoulder, squeezing, "Unfortunately, I know what your damage is."
And fuck. He certainly does, at least the biggest, hardest chunk of it. Eddie casts his eyes to the ground.
"But if you want to talk," Steve says, and Eddie is already shaking his head, but Steve keeps going, "off the record, off the books, just me and you. Old friends. Shared experiences. All that. Definitely not as your therapist. That's unethical. But, believe it or not, I've been told I'm a good listener."
He smiles, and it's so warm Eddie wants to word vomit all over him. He won't. But he wants to.
Steve keeps talking, "I'm always here if you want me to be. But that'd be true no matter what I did for a living."
And Eddie nods at that. He knows it's an honest offer, no strings attached. Because he knows Steve Harrington. He's a good dude.
Back on the road, Eddie didn't think he would, but he calls Steve. From motels. From pay phones. And he answers, carving out time to hear about Eddie's day. It must be draining for him to hear people talk all day about their problems, their damage, and then make the time to listen to Eddie do more of the same at least once a week for free.
Eddie tries not to take up his personal time, but Steve is a good listener, as advertised. He gives solid ear, which is probably good since that's his job. But mainly, he just listens and then sounds like he actually cares.
He does care. Eddie knows he does. Steve Harrington has always cared about all of them.
"You're really a therapist to the people of Hawkins?" Eddie asks.
Steve laughs, a snorting thing that sounds delighted, "Absolutely not. No, no, no. I have an office in Muncie. I'm not touching the problems of the people of Hawkins with a ten foot pole. They're a lost cause."
Eddie laughs. He knows that's hyperbole, but still. Yeah. Steve Harrington can't be a therapist in Hawkins. That'd be playing on hard mode, for sure. He knows too much about all of them, and they surely have opinions on him as well. Correct, or not.
"Well, did becoming a therapist help you get rid of all your baggage?" Eddie asks, because he's been curious. Steve seems so upbeat, so happy, that Eddie wants in on the secret.
"No," Steve laughs, "I've still got a few suitcases in the closet. But it has made me accept myself and my history more. But I went to therapy first, and that's what helped me process what we all went through."
"How in the hell did you tell a therapist what we went through without ending up committed in Pennhurst?"
Steve chuckles, "Dr. Owens set it up. He would have for you, too, if you hadn't flown the coop so damn fast."
"I wouldn't have trusted them," Eddie says, and that's the god's honest truth. No way, no how.
"I get it. It was hard. Robin went first. She survived, and so I thought, well, why not? It helped. Then, I wanted to do that for other people, to help them, too. Pay it forward. Whatever you want to call it."
"And that's what you're doing for me? I'm your project?" 
Steve laughs. 
"No, I'm your friend. I'm not your therapist."
He tells Eddie that at least once per call. 
"But I'd help you find one, if you ever want that. Because what I tell you isn't my professional opinion, it's my personal one. I'm not objective. I can't be. Because I was there. Because while I didn't experience the exact same thing as you, I know. I remember. You're not crazy. You're not overreacting. What happened to you, to all of us, sucked. It was unfair. And I'm sorry for the younger versions of us."
Eddie is quiet for a moment. 
"Me too, Steve. Me, too."
Another call, in another city, in another motel room that doesn't feel like home.
"I have sex to fill the holes," Eddie blurts out, totally unprompted. 
Steve cackles in his ear, and even from several states away, Eddie can feel the amusement on his face. Can picture it, clear as day. 
"Well, that is one of the main ways sex happens." 
Eddie laughs, "You're an asshole." 
"You teed me up. That's on you," Steve teases, and it makes Eddie feel better. He prefers that to feeling stripped raw. 
"There's nothing wrong with having an active sex life," Steve says.
"Gross," Eddie teases, then after a long pause, "Most of the time I feel worse after," Eddie admits, and he doesn't know why. 
"Then that could be a concern," Steve says. "Why do you think it can make you feel worse?"
"I want to feel safe. And I'm never gonna get that on the road from random hookups. I want a home to return to. I want to be loved, I think." 
"That's normal, Ed. I want you to have that, too." 
"But I can't meet someone on the road. And I don't want to just go home to Wayne and be a drain. I need space to recharge, not feel obligated to put on my bravest face." 
"Wayne doesn't want your bravest face, he just wants you, as you are."
"I know," and Eddie does know that. But it's easier said than done, "but I can't. He can't know how bad off I am, sometimes. He'd worry."
Steve lets the silence sit, he's gotten good at that, and that's always to Eddie's determent, because Eddie will fill any silence offered up to him.
"Why don't you have a family?" Eddie asks, and then immediately regrets it. It's too blunt, even for old friends.
Steve doesn't seem to miss a beat, though. Eddie guesses that's fair. If Steve can ask probing questions, so can Eddie. Even if he has far less tact about it.
"I mean, I have Robin. She's my family."
"But you didn't get married? Didn't have kids? You really wanted that. That was your dream," Eddie says, because that's something he's always felt sure about. Steve wanted to settle down, and Eddie wanted to fly free. 
"Well," Steve says, "sometimes dreams change. And that's okay."
And that cuts Eddie to the quick, because he damn well knows that's true. He's been feeling like maybe his dream has changed, but he's been tamping it down for months. Years, maybe.
But he can't tell the guys that he dreams of hanging up his guitar. Of going home, wherever home may be. He can't let them down like that. They were there when he needed them the most, and he's determined to be there for them now. 
It's just exhausting, and he hates that he feels that way. It's supposed to be fun.
"Okay, how about this? Come here, then," Steve says, "come home here. Anytime. Lay low, recharge your batteries with me. And Robin. We'll let you be. Let you step away from the music for a day, a weekend, a week, a month at a time. Whatever you need." 
"Steve, I can't just crash your life," Eddie says. 
"You won't. We'd love to have you. I promise to not 'therapize' you," he teases, using Eddie's own words against him, and Eddie imagines he even did the sarcastic air quotes.
"I-"
"You can."
And maybe Eddie will.
Steve opens the door to the guest room, "It has its own bathroom, so you've got your own space. But the whole house is free range. Go where you want. Do what you want. I get home at about six, Robin at seven. We usually eat then, and you're welcome to join us. Or eat before we get here to avoid us, or after we go to bed. Leftovers will be in the fridge. Help yourself."
"Steve, this is-"
"Nothing. We're glad you're here. And if I don't see you before you leave, it's been good to see your face. Twice in one year, now we're talking."
Eddie laughs, and leans forward to rest his forehead on Steve's shoulder, "Thanks, Steve."
"Anytime."
Eddie stays holed up for three days. He hears Steve and Robin, but never sees them, and true to Steve's word, they don't try to draw him out of his room. He sleeps, and writes, and just the sounds of them moving around the house makes him feel not so alone.
On the fourth day, he's sitting at the kitchen counter when Steve walks in, grocery bags in hand.
"It's chicken parm night," Steve says, not making a fuss about seeing him for the first time in days.
"Sounds good."
He eats with them, and he feels so much better, that he regrets it when it's finally time to get back to the band.
After that, the room becomes Eddie's, somehow. He leaves stuff, and comes and goes. Tonight he drops his bags at the door, and immediately barrels over the back of the couch. Steve protects his crotch from a stray knee, but otherwise catches him, laughing.
He's home. 
Somehow, this is his home, even if he's scared to admit that to himself.
They haven't talked about it, have barely even breathed it, but it's the god's honest truth: Steve Harrington is his home.
Steve smooths Eddie's hair back from his forehead and then rests his cheek against Eddie's exposed skin.
"How was the gig?" Steve asks, and Eddie makes a non-committal noise. It was fine, but he's tired and doesn't want to talk. He just wants to lay here.
And Steve lets him do exactly that.
He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knows Steve is rousing him.
"Bed," Steve says, and Eddie reluctantly climbs off of him. Steve has to work tomorrow, but Eddie wasn't done. Life's unfair like that. 
Eddie follows him up the stairs, and down the hall, and detours into his room as Steve keeps walking. 
Eddie brushes his teeth, washes his face, and then lays in the bed staring at the ceiling. 
He can't sleep like this. 
Finally, Eddie gets up, walks down the hall and taps on Steve's door.
"Come in," Steve answers, muffled.
Steve says nothing else, asks no questions for once in his life, just throws back the sheets, an invitation. Eddie takes it, and crawls in his bed, pressing his face into Steve's bare back, arm wrapped around, squeezing him tight. Steve just rests his hand on Eddie's arm, squeezing briefly, before he falls back asleep.
After that, his own bed stays empty. He shows up, crawls in bed with Steve, and neither of them mention it. It is what it is.
Instead, they talk about everything else. Eddie spills his guts, and tells him everything under the cover of night. All his biggest fears, all the pain that still digs at him, down deep.
And Steve listens.
It's becoming a pattern of good days and bad days. He has good days with Steve, and bad days anywhere else. It's unfair to the band, and he doesn't know how to tell them that he's been thinking things they aren't going to like.
"How's Steve?" Gareth asks. 
Eddie nods, non-committal, "Good. The same." 
"Jeff got the new stack of contracts. Five shows a week, all over the country." 
Eddie doesn't wince. Doesn't move a muscle. Nobody told him they planned to hit the circuit that aggressively. 
It's fine. 
"Some weeks six," Gareth adds.
"That's cool," Eddie says, neutral. Cool as a cucumber. 
"Won't have much time off anymore," Gareth says. "Probably won't get to go home for a while."
"At least we'll be making some extra cash," Eddie says, aiming for the bright side. 
"Well, they aren't big offers. But enough to keep us on the road with some beer money to spare." 
Eddie nods, and says nothing. 
Gareth flops down next to him, "All that sounds good to you?" 
"Sure, whatever we've got scheduled is great."
Gareth whips around, grabbing his arms and shaking him, "Goddamnit, Ed! Fight back! Stand up for yourself!" 
Eddie just stares at him. What the fuck is he talking about? This kid is gonna give him whiplash. Figuratively, and literally, if he doesn't stop shaking him.
"Say you want to quit, or take a break, or just see Steve! At least tell me the truth if you won't tell anybody else!" 
Eddie grabs at his hair and pulls. 
Gareth doesn't let go of him, saying, "None of that is true, I was just trying to get you to tell me the truth for once. Since when did you start lying to me? To me." 
"We don't have new contracts?" Eddie asks. 
"No. We all talked. We're taking a break. Stepping back to see if this is still what we want. And you need to do that, too. At home, with Steve, with Wayne, wherever you need to be." 
"I need you," Eddie says. 
"I'll go where you go, if you want me to. Just. We can't keep doing it like this. You look miserable." 
He is miserable.
"I've tried to keep my head in it," Eddie swears, because he has.
"I know that. We all know that. We love you, that's never gonna change." 
And Eddie leans forward, pressing his forehead into Gareth's shoulder. Gareth pets his head, and lets him lean against him, "It's gonna be fine. No matter what."
"Thanks, kid."
When Eddie turns up this time on Steve's doorstep, it's late, and he has extra baggage. 
Gareth looks like he's moving in for good with his luggage and drums, but Steve looks completely unfazed. 
Robin, on the other hand, "Why are you here?"
"I don't want to talk about it," Gareth mumbles, and climbs the stairs.
"And why are there drums? There'll be no drumming in this house!" Robin yells, but Steve seems nonplussed and just keeps guiding them upstairs.
"Pick a room, or hole up in Eddie's. It's got its own bathroom," Steve says, and Eddie feels like that's an engraved invitation for him to keep crashing with Steve. Good. He wants that. 
Everybody is tired, and splits off for the night.
Once in bed, Eddie rolls onto his side, "He went home to surprise Mama Jones, and he's the one that got surprised. Wayne was in his old man boxers on the couch. Gareth may need intensive therapy. Shock therapy. Exposure therapy. Something."
Steve smiles, "Not it."
And Eddie laughs, rolling closer to Steve. He already feels better just being next to him.
He's looking forward to this break. 
The next morning, Eddie's sitting at the kitchen counter doing the crossword. Gareth's still in bed, Robin and Steve are cooking breakfast, bickering, in front of him. He's learned to tune it out for the most part. He's shared rooms in motels with paper thin walls for over a decade. He can ignore anything at this point.
"Ask your boyfriend, I sure as hell don't know," Robin says, and Eddie freezes. Well, he can't ignore that.
"Oh, like he knows," Steve answers, not missing a beat of their banter. 
Are they boyfriends? Did Eddie miss that memo? Holy shit. Does he have a boyfriend he's never even kissed? 
Then his stomach swoops, maybe Steve has a real boyfriend, one Eddie's just never met because he's never here, because he's self-centered and lost in his own—
"Earth to Eddie, I'm talking to you," Robin says, snapping her fingers in Eddie's face. 
Oh. He is the aforementioned boyfriend. 
He laughs, and it sounds shrill to his own ears, "What? I was off in my own world." 
"Well, what else is new?" Robin chides. 
He has a boyfriend, and he's just not sure how.
That night, Eddie is tossing and turning in bed. He can't sleep. Not with this hanging over his head. It's all he's thought about all damn day. Is Steve his boyfriend? Does Steve want to be his boyfriend? Can they fuck? Can they get married?
"What's up?" Steve asks, voice thick with sleep.
"Are we boyfriends?" Eddie asks, blunt and direct. Well, at least he didn't ask him if they could fuck. Small miracles abound.
Steve rolls over at that, "How would you feel about being boyfriends?"
Eddie wants to scream, "Can you, for once, not answer my questions with more questions?!"
Steve reaches out and takes both of Eddie's forearms into his hands, "I love you. In any way you'll let me."
He surges forward and kisses Steve, too hard, too fast, and it's awful. He's awful. Everything about this is awful. Steve deserves better than whatever the fuck this was.
"I'm sorry, goddamn, what the fuck is wrong with me?" Eddie asks, and he hears the blood rushing in his ears. He's embarrassed. 
"Nothing's wrong with you. Robin shouldn't have said that. I don't expect anything from you. No strings are attached here. But, yeah. I feel like whatever we've got going is something, but if you aren't interested—
Eddie cuts him off, "I've been interested since before you knew my name back in school. I just didn't think you would ever be."
"Eddie," Steve says, "I had feelings after everything that happened that spring. I just didn't have time to work through them, or understand them, until you were already gone."
What is Eddie supposed to do with that information? 
Eddie reaches for his hand, and laces their fingers together.
He's such a mess he got into some kind of relationship with Steve without even meaning to, and now he's got to navigate that. He wants to though, he really, really wants to. Even if he's bad at it. Even if he's never had a long-term romantic relationship, ever. 
Maybe he'll be bad at it, maybe he won't. But finally, with the band on hiatus, he'll have the luxury of time to try to do it right. 
And he'll get a second-crack at that kiss if it's the last thing he does.
Six Months Later
Eddie slings his bag over his shoulder, all smiles. Pressing his lips to Steve's. Once, twice, a third time just for good measure, and Steve grins against his lips until Eddie kisses his teeth by accident.
He's leaving home, but he'll be coming back again in just a few days.
"Hold down the fort," he instructs Steve, and Steve salutes him, and then Eddie's out the door.
On stage, he has fun, so much fun, in fact, that he hesitates to leave the bright spotlights at the end of the set. It hasn't been like that in a long, long time. They've gotten some bigger gigs, still nothing life-changing, but an opening act slot that is putting them in a handful of larger venues they've never stepped foot inside until now.
It's pretty goddamn cool.
He's found a balance, somehow, and he knows it's all thanks to Steve's patience.
And when he walks back through the door at home, Steve is wrestling a turkey into a disposable pan. Getting ready to start the days-long thawing process. Eddie watches him put it in the fridge, and then wash his hands.
It's been a year, and Eddie feels like his whole world has changed. One random meeting in the grocery store changed the whole trajectory of his life, he's pretty damn sure.
"I got the dining room table leaf out of the attic," Steve says, "we should have plenty of room for the Williamses and the Goodwins now."
Eddie grins. Their tradition is growing, and he couldn't be happier that more people he loves will all be under one roof for Thanksgiving this year.
"Wayne and Mama Jones are bringing the mashed potatoes," Eddie informs Steve. He'd just talked to Wayne this morning, and the old man was complaining about all the potato peeling in his future.
"Robin would cry and whine if we made her mash that many," Steve says, and Robin yells "Hey!" from the other room, and they just laugh together.
It's going to be a family affair, the whole extended family. Anybody that's in town. Dustin and Claudia. Joyce and Hop. 
Anybody that doesn't want to cook at home, or just wants to be with old friends, are more than welcome. Eddie thinks this is gonna be their tradition now, and he loves it.
"I actually got two turkeys," Steve says, leaning against the kitchen counter, crossing his legs at the ankle as he tosses the dish towel over his shoulder. 
"You sure that's enough?" Eddie asks, teasing.
"Here's to hoping," Steve answers. 
He's home. Steve's here. Robin's here. Gareth's here.
Everybody else that he loves will be here in a few days time. He feels really thankful.
And most importantly, he finally feels very loved.
Tumblr media
Notes: Coming in hot with that new couple alert!! Go Wayne and Mama Jones, haha. I couldn't resist. It seemed like such fun, and Gareth would hate it.
When I wrote Take the Money and Run I had to figure out where Hawkins was on the map to me. I'd picked the location of Renner, and I've kind of just kept with that as I've written other things, this included. So, Muncie sits about 26 highway miles southeast of Hawkins, and that seemed like a reasonable place for Steve to commute to work. I wanted Steve in "Harrington House" as I nearly always do, lol, but he could not be a therapist to Hawkins. It was fun to imagine though. Karen Wheeler on his couch talking about Ted? Tommy H. discussing his third divorce? The possibilities were endless, if surely unethical, haha.
For better or worse, if I need a Macguffin for how they got money or help or anything from the government after the events of S4, it's probably gonna be Dr. Owens. And that was true here as well. Thanks, Dr. O. You've been real helpful to me, and the characters! You're a clutch dude, lol.
70 notes · View notes
myvoiddreams · 1 day ago
Text
Fragments of Starlight (4)
Tumblr media
Pairing: Azriel x Reader
Summary: With the bond she had held tightly to her chest known now by Cassian, she fights for her own life alongside Azriel. 
Word Count: 3,069
Warnings: ANGST, violence, dark themes, self-mutilation?, some fluff
A/N: I’m backkkkkkk anddd I am so grateful for everything you have all said about this little series of mine. It’s something I wanted to start up just for fun and so many of you have left me such kind words about it. I’m planning on this being the last part. I might follow up with a little epilogue of sorts if there is any interest in that! I do have some plans for different one shots I’ll be getting into soon!
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
---
Now
“He’s what?” Cassian went wide eyed. He was covered in dirt and blood. His hair, which was once tucked neatly into a bun, had pieces falling that framed his distressed face.
“You heard me Cass,” I quickly sucked in shakily, not believing I had finally admitted it. Admitted it to fucking Cassian of all people. 
Cassian’s face softened and his eyebrows knit. He slowly started to lean down to check his brother’s injuries when the ground started to shake around us, and a booming noise followed suite. The battlefield was only getting messier. A sense of urgency pricked his face.
“Fuck,” he stood, “It’s Nesta.” He looked between Azriel’s form and my own as I still held the injury, I had delt myself. There was conflict covering his face. He was not able to hide his emotions.
“Go Cass,” I said even though my heart spiked at my own words. A fear, the same fear of being abandoned flooded my chest, overwhelming the aching mating bond that usually held itself there. “She needs help more than we do, now that we’re healing. Go.” I spoke these words even though I was unsure if I was healing fast enough.
“Be safe, keep each other alive. I’ll be back.” Cassian said simply, his face hardening as he stood. He leaped from the ground, his great wings taking him into the sky. Red flashed across the sky as he followed the booming. The ground shook again as he took off.
A groan sounded behind me stopping my heart dead in its tracks.
I turned as quickly as my body could manage without throwing myself back down. My hand found the side of Azriel’s face as he began to stir. I kneeled in front of him and I stroked my thumb down his cheek as the bond in my chest thrummed with anticipation and anxiety.
“Az,” I shakily said his name, “Azriel, please open your eyes.”
He did, slowly, but he opened them. I let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding. A sad smile also crept up my face, as I found his hazel eyes with my own.
“W-what happened?” he swallowed as he tried to sit up further against the tree. Hearing his voice was like a light in this fucked up bloody dark. It was cut short with a wince.
“Stay still, please. You’re a bit worse for wear.” I held back the tears that somehow found their way springing to my eyes. I couldn’t find it in myself to let go of his face as I continued to speak to him, leaving more blood from my ravaged hands upon him. “You were struck down, I saw you falling. I came to help.” I finally tore my hands from his dirt covered face and looked to his abdomen.
It was still bleeding. Why was it still bleeding? The wound had knitted the muscles slowly back together, but his flesh, the skin, was still open, still oozing.
Panic crept back into my being.
“Y/N,” Azriel began as he moved to hold my arm, but I cut him off.
“Your wings are still intact, Az, they are just fine. Your limbs too. It’s only this wound on your abdomen that remains open, and it will shut. You will be just fine.” I was spitting out my words at a rapid pace as I moved my hands from his face to the wound on his abdomen. I was shaking, becoming dizzy once again at the prospect. At the reality that we might not all make it out of this. At the fact his blood was bubbling around my hands. 
“You’re shaking,” he rasped, “and paler than a ghost.” He cried between whines. He moved his head back to the tree, once again leaning on it for support.
“Cassian was just here,” I breathed out, “he was just here, and he’s okay too.” Panic was biting at my tone as I tried to calm myself down.
Azriel had used so much of his strength already in battle. His body couldn’t keep up.
More blood. My mind spat at me.
Azriel had started to teeter again with his consciousness. I could feel it deep within that bond stringing us together. It was loosening, his end was losing.
“Y/N,” his voice came out as a croak, his eyes were closed now. “Promise me something.”
“No, Azriel,” I nearly barked, “Shut up and open your fucking eyes again.” Panic laced my every word, my every breath as I ordered him around.
“Promise me, you’ll keep going. Don’t let this be the end for you. You’re stronger than you know, and this world needs you,” His voice was trailing off now. His lovely, deep voice has become nothing more than a whisper.
“Well, I fucking need you!” I grabbed onto his leathers, not caring about the state of my ruined hands, the tears now pouring down my face. My head made its way to his chest, as his hand rubbed my back. It ever so slowly stopped rubbing and fell.
I gripped onto him tighter. I sobbed into his chest. He was no longer conscious, but I could still hear, feel, his heart beating. Slowing down its rhythm, but still beating.
This would not be the fucking end of him. This would not.
Stifling my tears, I grabbed a dagger sheathed at his thigh and plunged the blade into my own arm. Rage and adrenaline fueled me once again. I was not going to let Azriel leave this world while he was fighting for his family, his court. I was not going to let my mate leave this world before me.
I do not care about the fear, the abandonment, how alone, how pitiful I felt. I cared more for this beautiful male to stay here in this world that needed him, whether he or it needed me or not. 
As the blood surged from my wound, I tilted his head back and opened his mouth. He unconsciously drank.
There had to be a chance. I told myself.
The world began to tip on its axis, and I could no longer hold my arm to his mouth. My body had had enough. From the beatings, lashings, slices, burnings, and fighting. I was drained, in every sense of the world.
My body fell next to Azriel’s. With my last fragment of strength, I reached for Azriel’s hand and interlaced his fingers with my own.
My own consciousness dwindled away, but I could still hear his heart beating.
Good.
---
Before
I crashed through the woods. My bow was attached to my hand as I reached for an arrow that was in the quiver on my back. The air was beginning to grow colder, thicker. A piercing cry once again shattered the air around me. I had no choice but to drop my weapon and cover my ears.
That Gods forsaken noise. They were getting too close for comfort.
The Harpy I had the unfortunate luck of running into trailed me. I don’t know why the creature who typically hunted for valuables followed me of all people. All I had in my possession was my bow, quiver with some arrows, a couple of food rations, and the clothes on my back.
Maybe for sport this time. Awesome.
As soon as I could force my body to endure the cry once more, I scattered for my belongings and ran with all my might. I couldn’t get a sight on this infernal creature, and I’m sure it might take more than a couple of arrows to bring it down.
I just had to make it to the border. To the Night Court. The Court of Nightmares.
Also, awesome. Trading running for my life from a Harpy to a Court that would sense my presence in their walls in no time and also come tracking me down.
The Harpy was the bigger threat right now.
I felt a tug at my lose hair, at my lose clothes as I stumbled over root and rock. The creature was literally nipping at my heals.
The burning feathers of the winged beast, and sharp talons were in arm’s length now. I could feel it.
I made the mistake of looking back, but as I did, I raised my bow above my head. The beast has gnarling teeth that gnashed my way.
I brought my bow down, too close now to make any kind of shot with an arrow. Before my strike could hit the creature, a blast of blue energy passed me and knocked the creature away. It cried as it was demolished, almost incinerating in the rich light.
I scrambled back from it, my ass hitting the ground. What the fuck?
My breath hitched as my gaze locked onto the source of the power rippling through the air.   A towering, winged male stood several feet away, shrouded in an aura of quiet dominance that demanded attention. His dark, leathery wings, flared wide and menacing, cast jagged shadows across the ground, their sheer size and sharp edges enough to make even the bravest falter. 
A scent of mist and ceder floated towards me as he spoke, “Are you okay?”
Am I okay?
“Y-yes.” I choked out.
As he made his way closer to me, I scrambled to my feet. I dusted off my pants as properly as I could.
“What’s your name, girl?” His voice was so low and resonant.
“Y/N,” I again, could barely breath out.
He brought a slight smile to his face, “What brings you to the Night Court, Y/N?”
---
Azriel had brought me to a small village in snow covered mountains where he told me there would be a healer. This was not the behavior I was expecting from any in the Court of Nightmares, let alone who I learned afterwards was the Shadowsinger for the High Lord himself.
I spent many months in that village, surrounded by other travelers, but mostly lesser fae called Illyrians.
I poured drinks in a taven, hunted, and helped in the healing structures. Anything that would help keep my head down as I decided where to head too next.
I had run from Dawn. From a close past that did not need me to return to it. That I wanted anything but to return to.
Azriel showed up to the village months later with another Illyrian, Cassian. There was some kind of accident training, and Cassian had been sent away from their war camp to, “heal on his own.” I had a feeling this Cassian had insighted something he shouldn’t have. He had had a broken nose, ribs, and all the bruises to show for it.
There were more visits like this. I slowly grew closer to the pair, learning of Cassian being a bastard, but a budding warrior. I learned that Azriel was a Shadowsinger who worked closely with the High Lord of Night himself. It wasn’t until I was given the opportunity to work in the healing tent at Windhaven that I met Rhysand. The heir to the Court of Night himself.
---
Now
The first thing I noticed when I woke was the sound of his breathing—steady, deliberate, and too close. My eyes fluttered open to find him sitting in a chair pulled close to the bed, his elbows on his knees, his chin resting on his steepled fingers. Shadows curled lazily around him, flickering like restless spirits.
There was no sign of his injury. It must have been healed or bandaged under his fresh set of leathers. Light bruises littered one side of his face. 
My hands and both arms were covered in wrappings. My head pounded as the light fluttered in my eyes. 
"You're awake," Azriel said, his voice low and gravelly, laced with something I couldn’t quite place. Relief? Anger? Both?
I tried to sit up, but his gaze pinned me down. The intensity in those hazel eyes stole the breath from my lungs. His wings, usually so tightly controlled, flared slightly behind him, a testament to his unrest.
“You fed me your blood.” The accusation was quiet but searing. It jarred me awake.
I swallowed hard, my mouth dry. “You were dying. There wasn’t time—”
“You should have let me die.” His words were harsh, but the way his hands trembled betrayed him. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
My heart hammered in my chest. He knew. Of course, he knew. He’d felt the bond. The bond that I’d been trying to ignore, to run from. I had forced this bond onto him now. I had forced him into this while he was chasing someone else.
“I saved you,” I whispered, my voice trembling.
“You bound us,” he said, rising to his feet. He began pacing, his shadows swirling more violently now, but his voice cracked on the next words. “You’re my mate.”
I flinched at the word, and he froze mid-step, his wings half-furled.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, quieter now, his tone heavy with something that sounded like betrayal.
“Because I didn’t want to be your burden,” I admitted, clutching the blanket as if it could shield me from the weight of his gaze. “I didn’t want you to feel trapped. I—I thought I could run from it.”
His expression softened, and he sank back into the chair, dragging a hand down his face. “A burden?” he repeated, incredulous. “You think you’re a burden to me?”
I looked away, but he wasn’t having it. He leaned forward, cupping my chin gently but firmly, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“You showed me I was a burden when you abandoned me in that camp and took your dear Elain instead. You showed me long before that, when I become an afterthought to you while I was drowning.” At my words, I felt regret ride down the bond.
“You are not a burden,” he said, his voice breaking with conviction. “You are my mate, my equal. You are—” He exhaled sharply, as if the next words cost him something. “You are the reason I’m still breathing. How could you ever think I’d see you as anything less than... everything?”
Tears blurred my vision. “I was scared,” I admitted. “Scared of what it would mean. Of what you’d think of me. We’ve been nothing but friends,” the word sour on my tongue, “for centuries.” 
His thumb brushed a tear from my cheek. “What I think of you?” he murmured, a faint, disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “I think you’re the bravest, most maddening person I’ve ever met. And I think... I think I was a fool not to see it sooner.”
I let out a shaky laugh, but his expression turned serious again as his hand moved to cover mine.
“Don’t ever do something like that again,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “Don’t ever risk yourself for me like that. I can’t—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I can’t lose you.”
The bond shimmered between us, a fragile thread tightening into something unbreakable. I felt it now, as if for the first time.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
His wings drooped slightly, the tension bleeding out of him as he exhaled. And for the first time, I saw it—the unguarded relief in his eyes. The love.
Azriel pressed his forehead to mine, his voice a broken murmur. “Thank the Cauldron.”
I shut my eyes at the contact. Breathing in his scent. Relief flooded me as I pushed my feelings of love, devotion, towards him through the bond that now did not end in a wall. 
Of course, I had not forgotten the time I had spent in that camp. Had not forgotten all the wrong he had done to me as of late. I wanted to be so angry with him. I wanted to yell and scream and hit him, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t when he was tugging at this bond in my chest.
His hand met my chin again, tipping it towards him. My eyes opened and I met his. His beautiful, hazel orbs scanned me. 
“Azriel,” I sniffled, moving to wipe away any remaining tears, “I’d really like for you to kiss me now.” I all but whispered. 
He shifted slightly, his fingers brushing against my jawline, featherlight yet deliberate. His touch sent a shiver down my spine, the bond between us humming with newfound awareness. My heart pounded against my ribs as his thumb traced a gentle path along my cheek, as if memorizing every detail of my face.
“I’ve waited lifetimes for this,” he whispered, his voice rough and raw, barely more than a breath.
Before I could speak, before I could think, his lips captured mine. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like he was afraid I might disappear. But the moment I leaned into him, he deepened it, his hand sliding to the nape of my neck, pulling me closer.
His shadows curled around us, cocooning us in a world where only we existed. The kiss was fire and starlight, a melding of every unspoken word, every hidden desire. It was a claim, not of possession, but of belonging—of two souls finally finding their home.
I threaded my fingers into his hair, anchoring myself to him as he poured everything he couldn’t say into the kiss—relief, joy, need, and something infinitely more profound. When we finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine again, both of us breathing heavily.
“You’re mine,” he said, his voice trembling with certainty.
“And you’re mine,” I whispered back, my lips brushing his in a promise.
The bond that had fluttered and beat in my chest exploded. It had gripped onto my heart and forced it to beat. It had shown me what it was like to float on solid ground. To sink into pure bliss and oblivion.
There was time later, to be upset. To work through all the crap. There would be time for me to do all the yelling and screaming I wanted to. To work through if I was going to leave like I had threatened or if I was so weak from one kiss that I didn’t have the stomach to follow up on my threats.
But right now, I have Azriel. And he was all I needed. 
-----
Taglist: (so sorry if I missed anyone!!)
@saltedcoffeescotch @thirstyroses-world @kingshitonly @spidersfrommars15 @mariahoedt @missromantasy @breadsticks2004 @cleverzonkwombatsludge @vhjlucky13 @helo1281917 @i-am-infinite @emptyporsche @quiet-loser @watermelomsuger @anxious-cactus @rcarbo1 @latinxbipride @chelsiemp @lilah-asteria @yeonalie @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @marina468 @kennedy-brooke @myromanempiree @craftytrashprincess @fairydustblossom @st4r-girl-official @darkbloodsly @kitsunetori @historygeekqueen @ivy-34 @optimisticbabydreamer @fightmedraco @maruiin @thefandomplace @bxtchopolis @annamariereads16 @whosmys @toobsessedsstuff @ineffablywriting @uncontainedsmiles @metaphysicaldoom @darksideofthemoooon @myrtle-thai @avocadorablereader @byyalady @vhjlucky13 @anxious-cactus @evergreenlark @alainabooks143 @be-your-coffee-pot @booksbypisces @chaconnelatte @cazrielfairygf @sometimeseverythingsucks @angstylittleb1tch @littlegirl-bd @watermelomsuger @zanaorian @arssunshine @buttermilktea11
116 notes · View notes
to-thelakes · 1 day ago
Text
who's been at your apartment?
pairing; carmy berzatto x reader
content warnings; MINORS DNI, 18+ ONLY (pls), angst turned to smut, afab!reader, oral (r!receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, light dom/sub dynamics
summary; you and carmy had ended things a month ago but you just couldn't keep away from each other.
this has been sat in my drafts for far too long, like last month i was obsessed with 'your apartment' by wallows (i saw them on tour, hearing the song live was insane), and this was born, it's probably one of the more horny things i've released so please enjoy <3 my little end of the year treat for you all <3
also i have a whole ass playlist for this dynamic with carmy and it's eating my brain up when if i think too hard
Tumblr media
You and Carmy had been dancing around each other for months. Your situationship - that neither of you had ever been brave enough to call a relationship - had ended messily but mutually. It hurt you both but as you both did, you bottled it up and pretended like nothing had happened.
You were amicable with him inn person but when you got home, you cried on the phone to your best friend about how much you missed him. And then you went back around, doing it all over again the next day. 
Your best friend had tried to get you to move on, think about someone else but it never happened. Nothing seemed to distract you from him.
Carmy had similarly been struggling. Even the stress of opening The Bear hadn’t distracted him from you. Even Syd and her refusal to sign the partner contract hadn’t distracted him. Seeing you every day made him crazy and seeing you laugh and smile and seem so care-free drove him even crazier.
He didn’t understand how you weren’t falling apart at the seams. He was. Even if he hid it, he was falling apart without you. And he would lie awake at night thinking about how you were moving on and imagining all the ways you had moved on. It was his own unique form of self-harm. Or that’s what he thought because he didn’t know that you were also falling into that same pattern.
You knew that Carmy didn’t sleep around but he had gotten closer to Claire recently. He had been friends with her for as long as you had known him - so your entire lives - and that made it even worse.
Was he sleeping with her? Did she hold him like you had? Was he moving on? 
It drove you crazy.
And service at the Bear was driving you crazy. It was stressful, the new menus every day basically made it impossible to be efficient. Everything was difficult and the company was drowning and Carmy was drowning. He was stressed and you could see it but you couldn’t do anything because you were drowning too; drowning in your own feelings and your own self-inflicted mental wounds.
Service was the most stressful you’d had since Carmy had joined months ago and the intensity in the kitchen seemed to increase with every passing second.
Every second counts.
That was becoming increasingly true as you rushed your way through dinner service. When the last order went out and everyone cooled off and Carmy had stopped asking for food to be re-fired over and over and over and everyone began to clean up, you felt like your head had finally come up from under the water.
The tides were calming but then you made eye contact with Carmy and it was like you were drowning again. He was anxiously chewing on nicotine gum as he quickly averted his gaze from you. You looked away and ran your hands across your face.
“Fuck,” You mumbled to yourself before you turned away and went straight to the back door. You couldn’t exist in that kitchen, you felt like you were drowning. The night air was soothing as you dropped onto the bench next to the back door. Your hands rested in your lap as your whole body slumped back into the brick wall.
You couldn’t get the thoughts out of your head. Carmy with Claire, Carmy fucking Claire, Carmy touching Claire. It was driving you fucking insane. You let out a rough breath.
“Fuck,” You muttered again. You leant forward, elbows on your knee as you rested your head in your hands, “Fuck!” You shouted before you let out another rough breath, kicking your heel into the bench. 
It felt impossible to think. Nobody could distract you enough to keep him off your mind. Sydney, Marcus, Tina, even Ebra had tried to help but nothing. He was stuck in your head, invading every bit of free space, sinking his claws in.
The memory of him was branded into the deepest part of you. The genuine look of relaxation when he was asleep beside you was seared into your mind, his smile when you said something funny, his laugh that you rarely ever heard, the way he became pliable and obedient after a stressful service and his face when you kissed and praised him was burnt into the very deepest parts of you. The reminder of how good he felt between your legs and how easy he slipped inside you and fucked you until you couldn’t think persisted in every corner of your mind.
It was like every part of you was clawing, desperate to get back to him.
But you couldn’t talk to him, you couldn’t speak, any time you went to text him, you couldn’t do it and the words clawed at your throat, desperate to spill out but they never did. Instead, your throat was left sore.
“Yo, Chef, gonna finish cleaning your station?” Carmy asked as he appeared outside the door. His voice was a little awkward, trying to be casual but both of you could sense the tension that needed desperately to be broken.
“Yeah, uhm, give me a sec,” You said as you lifted your head out of your hands. You cleared your throat and wiped your hands down your apron - force of habit. You glanced at him, giving him a small smile. That was a mistake. He was looking at you so softly. It made your head spin and you had to look away, “I’ll be there,” You added, hoping he would take the hint and walk away.
“Yeah, take your time,” He responded. You nodded and when you didn’t hear him move, your body felt like it was burning up. This was so much. There were words on the tip of your tongue, desperate to get out but finding no way, “Everything good?” You didn’t even know how to respond to that as you stared blankly at the night sky.
“Are you fucking Claire?” The words fell from your lips before you even knew what the fuck you were saying. But they were out there. It wasn’t what you wanted to say but you needed to say it, to do something about this because fuck, you were losing it. With or without him you were losing it.
Carmy was baffled by your question, pausing and not entirely sure what you wanted to hear. He cleared his throat and glanced at the kitchen before he stepped down out of the restaurant into the back alley.
“No,” He retorted. You nodded and rested back against the wall, “Are you?” He asked. Your eyebrows furrowed.
“What? Fucking Claire?” You asked, unable to help the way you teased him as an amused smile spread over your lips.
“No, fuckin’ hell, no. I meant, fucking anyone,” He quickly corrected, stumbling over his words.
“No.” You didn’t feel the need to elaborate. Both of you knew why. It was fucking obvious to everyone.
You both fell silent and a soft breath escaped your lips, somewhere between relief and annoyance. You felt like you were being tortured by this, by him. It wasn’t exactly all his fault but you fucking needed him. You wanted him so badly and you had no idea how to tell him, how to do it.
“Want me to help with your station?” He asked after a beat. You nodded and he nodded back in response. You then got up from the bench and the two of you headed into the kitchen. The silence that lingered between the two of you was somehow comfortable as you cleaned. You worked in tandem, together, perfect and in rhythm. It was easy. 
The two of you had always been easy, well, until it wasn’t but it had been mistake to quit just because it wasn’t fucking easy anymore. You felt so stupid.
Once you were done with your station, you took the trash out together. You were both deep in thought, not needing to speak to understand what was going on here. Carmy held the bin open as you chucked the black bags inside. 
Your mind was running around in circles. You felt like you were going crazy and every time you looked at him, you wanted to scream and cry and kiss him all in the same instant. It was mind-numbing and dizzying and you didn’t know what to think. And his hand was on your back when you stood on your tiptoes, supporting you as you threw the bags into the trash. 
His hand was on you, his eyes never left you. It was making your head spin and he wasn’t saying anything. 
Granted, neither were you, but he wasn’t saying anything. You didn’t know what to do. You wanted to kiss him and when you made eye contact, you caught the way his eyes briefly glanced to your lips. 
You were halfway picking up a trash bag when you let out a ragged sigh.
“Fuck this,” You stated. Carmy’s eyebrows furrowed and you dropped the bag. You were done, done with this fucking back and forth bullshit. You turned to him and kissed him.. He let out a sigh of relief into your mouth as he kissed you back. His hand kept the bin lid up, frozen and yet relieved all in the same instant. After a moment, you pulled back, “My apartment or yours?” You asked bluntly.
“Mine.”
You threw the last few bags out, washed your hands, grabbed your shit from the locker and got into Carmy’s car - heading straight to his apartment.
The tension was only growing and neither of you really speaking as he drove.
“You really haven’t been fucking Claire?” You asked as you stared out the window.
“No, not fucking Claire,” He retorted. You nodded and let out a breath of relief.
“So I was the last one to touch you?” You questioned as you turned to look at him. He nodded, glancing at you from the driver’s seat. You nodded, letting your hand slip over the console to rest over his thigh. His head snapped to you again, taking in your face.
Your mind was screaming good, good, I’m the only one who should touch you but you kept those thoughts to yourself as he continued to drive.
The second Carmy had the apartment door closed, your hands were on his face, pulling him in. You were kissing him, arms wrapped around his neck as you tugged at the curls at the nape of his neck. He gasped and you used it as an excuse to lick into his mouth, pulling him towards the couch. You didn’t care about getting to the bedroom, you just needed him, right fucking now.
You pushed him until he was sitting on the sofa and he groaned into your mouth as his hands roamed up your sides. His hands slipped under your t-shirt, his cold fingers slipped over your warm skin. It made you shiver as you whined softly into his mouth. He smirked against your lips and tugged you down so you could feel how hard he was.
You whined just a little louder, grinding down against him but his hands snapped to your hips, keeping you still.
“No,” He panted against your mouth as he gently began to kiss across your cheek and jaw. His nose nudged your jaw up as he sucked and nipped and kissed at the skin of your neck. His arms wrapped around you, keeping you pressed against him as you let out breathy whines, “Good girl,” He praised softly when you threw your head back so he had better access to your neck.
You were needy and compliant in his arms as he flipped you both over so you were lying across the couch beneath him. He used his knees to nudge your thighs open. His hands slipped over your crotch and he could feel the heat, glancing up at you. A shit-eating grin was spreading across his face.
“Really fucking needed this, huh?” He asked. You whined, using your heels to wrap around him and tug him closer. He quickly grabbed your calves, holding you back as he looked at you, “Words, baby,” He reminded.
“Take them off, please,” You begged as you wiggled in his lap, desperately trying to get something from him. You needed him. It had been too long.
He needed it too which is why he was quick to strip your jeans off.
“Fuck,” You said softly as he threw your pants to one side. He moved so fluidly and the look in his eyes, the desperation was making your head spin. 
His thumbs then hooked under your panties and he glanced at you, seeking permission again. You nodded your head, “Yes, please,” You reaffirmed, desperate and needy. He pulled them off and threw them in the direction of your pants before his head was between your thighs. His tongue was licking up across your inner thighs, kissing and biting and nipping at the skin as you whined and squirmed under his ministrations. Your fingers were quick to bury into his hair, gently tugging them closer to where you desperately needed him as you squirmed.
“Please,” You begged softly. Carmy hummed, smirking against your thigh as he pressed kisses along the skin. Whenever a little whine escaped you, he took his time to bite and nip at the spot.
“Carmy,” You were fucking breathless and needy, unable to think straight and he had given you nothing. “Stop- stop teasing,” You whined, just as he pulled your thighs a little wider. His hands moved to your pussy, using his thumbs to gently push your folds open. He leant forward and used the flat of his tongue to lick from your opening all the way up to your clit. The feeling made you grip his hair even tighter, a needy whine escaping your lips. Tears formed in your eyes, desperate and so beyond needy.
“Forgot how good you tasted,” He murmured against your pussy before he began to lap at your opening like a man starved. The mix of his saliva and your wetness coated his face as he reacquainted his tongue with every part of you. His tongue then moved to your clit. He gently sucked it into his mouth and your back arched off the couch.
All that fell from your lips were whines of his name as he sucked and lapped at your clit. He used his hands to pin your hips down to the couch, not giving you even a moment of reprieve. You couldn’t decide whether to watch him or stare at the ceiling or close your eyes. The pleasure was so overwhelming; you didn’t know how to think. One hand gripped his hair, nails digging into his scalp while the other gripped the couch cushions for dear life.
He gave a particularly harsh suck to your clit before he began to lap across your cunt again. His tongue licked across your entrance before he traced it all the way up again. His fingers replaced his tongue at your entrance, one finger gently nudging past your walls. It took him with ease, greedily sucking him in. You whined softly.
“Oh, Carm,” You let out as your head fell to the side. The feeling of having someone else inside of you - even just his fingers - was a new kind of euphoria. You let out a soft whimper when he began to curl his finger, pulling in and out.
“Such a pretty pussy,” He murmured as he pulled away to watch his finger sink in and out of you. Once he was sure you were ready, he added a second one and glanced up to see the way your face contorted. You were squirming, desperately shoving yourself further into his fingers, “So fucking desperate.” You looked down at him, using your hand to tug him towards your mouth.
He swallowed your moans as he kissed you, his fingers starting their brutal pace inside you. Every time he thrusted them in and out, he crooked them at just the right angle to make you see stars. You could barely think straight, let alone kiss him. Carmy swallowed every moan as he licked into your mouth. Your eyes closed, head thrown back as he pulled you closer and closer to orgasm, just from his fingers.
“Baby,” He whispered against your skin as he trailed his kisses across your face and towards your ear, “Feel good?” He whispered directly against your ear. Your loud moan as he crooked his finger at just the right angle was the only way you could respond as your thighs began to shake. 
“Please, please, please,” You begged as you gripped his hair, pulling him into your neck as your back arched. You could feel the coil tightening and then you were hit with a blinding orgasm. You were panting and whining and moaning as you released around him, walls throbbing around his fingers. He gently coaxed you through before pulling his fingers out. Your grip on his hair had loosened almost completely as he sat up, taking his fingers into his mouth.
You watched with wide eyes as he slowly licked up your wetness from his fingers. You had forgotten how dirty Carmy could be and watching him had your head spinning.
“You look so pretty, baby,” He praised as he trailed his saliva-slick fingers across your thighs. Your cunt was throbbing and he watched with a smirk on his face, admiring how wet you were. It was all just for him.
“Carmy,” You let out, whimpering as you gently reached out for his arm. He looked up at you and you gently pressed a kiss to his fingertips, kissing up to his tattooed knuckles. The action made his heart melt and then you placed his hand on the hem of your shirt, silently begging him to strip it off. He did, without hesitation. He was quick to trail kisses along your stomach, taking in every inch of the exposed skin. He breathed heavily, transfixed by the taste and smell of having you this close. His tongue slowly licked up and across the skin of your stomach before he nuzzled his face back into your cunt. His nose pressed up against your clit which made your hips instinctively hump against it. The feeling made you breathlessly and Carmy chuckle against you.
“Needy,” He said as he pressed a kiss against you before licking his tongue all the way up to your clit.
“You’re the one who told me to leave, haven’t been able to fuck anyone else,” You murmured back. The smirk that spread across his face was dangerous and you felt the way his licks and kisses became more confident. His fingers held your thighs apart as he began to eat you out like a man starved.
“Fuck, Carmy,” You moaned out, not expecting the sudden stimulation. Your back arched as he sucked on your clit, his tongue flicking back and forth across the sensitive bud. Your eyes rolling back at the stimulation before his mouth moved down. His tongue nudged past your entrance, licking into you while his nose continued to press against your clit. The double stimulation was driving you wild, desperation clinging onto every whine and praise that fell from your lips;
“So good, Carmy, make me feel so good.”
“Tongue feels so good, keep doing that, please, please,”
“No-one else can fuck me like this, no-one makes me feel this good”
“Don’t want anyone but you.”
You felt like you were losing your mind as Carmy used his tongue and nose to slowly break you apart. You didn’t expect the orgasm until it was cresting over you. Your back was arched, pushing your cunt into his face, your hands gripping his hair, thighs wrapped around his head as you moaned out his name like a prayer.
Your thighs loosened around his head as he licked up the slick and cum that leaked out, cleaning you up before he sat up. He looked pleasure-drunk as he used the back of his hand to wipe the slick from his chin. You were staring, watching the way his mouth turned to a smirk. His hands slipped over your thighs, tugging you towards him.
“You okay, baby?” He asked softly. You nodded, following his lead. You dropped into his lap without a second thought and wasted no time, grabbing his face and kissing him. Carmy was a little breathless still but would never deny the kisses as he wrapped his arms around your waist. You kissed him over and over again before he tilted his head to the side, deepening the kiss.
You groaned out in satisfaction as you wrapped your arms around his neck, lifting yourself up to get a better angle on the kiss. You gently licked across his bottom lip, begging for permission. He opened his mouth, letting you lick your tongue into his mouth. It was hot and heavy and you felt dizzy from kissing him but this was all you had wanted.
For weeks, this is what you had craved. Your hands slipped down to the hem of his white t-shirt and you slowly began to tug it up, desperate to get it off him. Your hands clawing for any touch of skin. You broke the kiss, only for a moment, before your hands were wrapped around him again. The shirt was discarded somewhere with the rest of your clothes and your hands roamed his chest.
The strong muscles made you feel somehow even wetter and all you wanted to do was kiss and lick your way down his chest. But another part of you desperately needed him to fill you up, you needed him to fuck you like he always did.
You broke the kiss, whimpering his name. Carmy opened his eyes, pressing kisses here and there as he asked what was wrong.
“Need your dick,” You admitted shamelessly. Carmy let out a soft ‘mhm’, his hands moved down to your waist.
“Yeah?” He asked as he pressed kisses over your face. You whined, wiggling in his lap and pressing your still wet cunt against the fabric of his jeans. The grunt he let out was music to your ears.
“Let me take them off, please,” You begged softly as your hands trailed down to the waistband of his jeans.
“Okay, baby,” He responded. You smiled happily, dumb on pleasure and desperate for his cock. You unbuttoned the jeans and tugged them down, standing up off the couch to finish pulling them off his legs. Once they were gone, you could see just how hard he was.
The tent in his boxers was hard to miss and it made you smirk.
“Did I make you this hard, Bear?” You cooed, teasing him. Carmy looked up at you and he tugged you back into his lap.
“Don’t be rude or you won’t get this cock at all,” He snapped back, his voice right in your ear. The dominant way he spoke quickly put you right and you nodded, swallowing thickly. He cupped your face with his hand and gently but slowly kissed your lips. It was the kind of kiss that made your head spin which is why you didn’t notice Carmy nudge his boxers down or flick the tip over your cunt until he was pulling your hips down to sink into him. 
You let out a stuttering whine as you sank down onto him. You weren’t used to taking him so Carmy took to slowly pushing in but it wasn’t long before he had bottomed out. You felt so full, your forehead pressed against his as you panted, breathless. You felt so fucking full.
“Carmy,” You whined his name, high-pitched and needy as you buried your face into his neck. It felt so good.
“Good girl,” He praised, his fingers running through your hair. You whimpered at his words, slowly lifting off him. You followed his movements, letting him guide you up and down. You slowly got used to the movements, eyes rolling back, mind going blank as you felt him fill you over and over again.
“You take me so well.”
“I’m so proud of you, baby, look at you.”
He let out soft words of encouragement as he guided you. It was soft and slow, every thrust hit the spot that made you see stars. Your fingers dug into his hair and when the pace became too soft, you slowly began to speed up. Carmy smirked against your hair, your head still buried in his neck.
But your thighs were exhausted and he could tell from the needy whines you were letting out that you wouldn’t be able to keep this pace up for much longer. 
So, Carmy grabbed your hips and pulled you all the way down onto his cock before flipping you both so you were lying on the couch again. His arms caged you in as he began to fuck you. Every movement of his hip was quick and sharp as you threw your head back. His cock made you see stars as you grappled for anything to hold onto. His thrusts were speeding up, taking you quicker as he felt your walls throb around him. Part of him was chasing his own orgasm, desperate to cum in you.
“That feel good?” He asked as he pressed kisses along your chest and shoulders and neck, his teeth nipping at the skin as he fucked into you. Your eyes were squeezed shut as you gripped his shoulders, legs wrapped around him as you moaned and whimpered his name like a prayer.
You nodded, unable to let out anything coherent especially when he added a finger to your clit. The quick circles he ran over the sensitive bud made your walls throb around him. You were both desperately chasing your orgasm as you moaned his name and begged for him to take you, to cum inside you. You needed it.
And then you both fell apart.
Your legs were shaking, head thrown back, chest pushed up as you let out a loud moan of his name, devolving into heavy panting as Carmy filled you up. He worked himself through the orgasm, painting your walls white with his cum before he pulled out completely. A soft whimper fell from his lips and your eyes opened to take him in. He was panting as he watched a mixture of yours and his cum leak out of you.
Some carnal part of him wanted to scoop it up and push it back in but he held himself back. He watched it slowly leak out over your couch cushions as he panted, desperate to get his breath back.
“Carmy,” You said softly, grappling for his attention. His head snapped up as you looked at him, “Come ‘ere, please,” You begged softly. He followed your hand and then you tugged him down onto your chest, allowing you to move him however you wanted. Once you had settled him, you buried your face in his hair, “Missed you,” You muttered softly. Carmy nodded his head, pressing a soft kiss to your skin.
“Missed you too.”
Tumblr media
88 notes · View notes
moonselune · 2 days ago
Note
hi!! i’ve never requested anything on tumblr before so hopefully i’m doing this right lol (and hopefully reqs are still open) but i adore your work like so incredibly much! i’d love something fluffy with an astarion who becomes a tailor after the events of the game. also, would you consider writing a sequel to the dark!BG3 “my dearest assistant” or was that more of a one-off? i loved that one :) but yeah you’re my fav bg3 writer, it can be really hard to nail all of the characters but i feel like you characterize them so well every time. hope you’re well :)
yesyesyes this is so sweet, i decided to do the tailor one bcs I know everyone (including myself) adores this idea, I will probably post a second part to dearest assistant in the new year <3
Tumblr media
Tailor!Astarion x f!reader | Tailored to Perfection
Can be read as a follow up to this -> ⟢The Most Beautiful Mannequin⟢
Tumblr media
The sunlight streamed through the windows of your home, golden and warm, illuminating the flurry of activity that had overtaken your living room. Swathes of fabric in rich hues were draped over every available surface, accompanied by spools of thread, scissors, and a small sketchpad where Astarion had meticulously outlined his design. In the middle of it all, you stood before the mirror, wrapped in partially pinned fabric, trying not to laugh as chaos unfolded around you.
Astarion moved with his usual graceful precision, his deft hands tugging at the fabric, arranging folds, and securing pins. His brow furrowed in concentration, the picture of a master craftsman at work. But today, he wasn’t working alone.
“Darling,” Astarion said, his tone carrying that familiar dramatic exasperation, “if you move even a fraction of an inch again, I’ll have to start over.”
“It’s not my fault!” you protested, though your grin betrayed your amusement. “Blame your assistant.”
Your assistant—your six-year-old daughter—stood at Astarion’s side, clutching a pin cushion in her tiny hands, her white curls gleaming in the sunlight. She wore a miniature version of Astarion’s tailoring outfit, complete with a perfectly tailored waistcoat and a pocket for her measuring tape. Her eyes, so much like yours, sparkled with determination as she balanced on her tiptoes to hold the pin cushion closer to her father.
“Papa, you’re doing it wrong,” she declared, her voice small but confident as she frowned at the fabric.
“Excuse me?” Astarion straightened, placing a hand over his chest as though she’d mortally wounded him. “Wrong? My sweet, I am never wrong.”
“Yes, you are,” she countered, placing the pin cushion on the table and picking up a crayon to scribble something in her little notebook. “See? The drape should go this way.”
She held up her sketch, which was a colorful crayon rendition of the dress he was making, complete with sparkly stars and a bow that she had apparently decided was non-negotiable.
Astarion squinted at the drawing, then glanced back at the fabric. “A bow? Really? Do you know how passé that is?”
“Bows are pretty,” she insisted, crossing her arms in a way that was so reminiscent of him it made you laugh.
Your laughter broke what little stillness you’d managed to maintain, and the fabric shifted. Astarion groaned dramatically, pressing a hand to his forehead. “And there goes my perfect pleat. Truly, the gods test me today.”
“Stop being so dramatic,” you teased, biting your lip to suppress another laugh.
“I am not dramatic,” he retorted, bending down to retrieve the fallen pin cushion and handing it back to your daughter. “I am merely surrounded by chaos. Absolute chaos.”
Your daughter giggled, taking the pin cushion and dutifully holding it up again. “We’re not chaos, Papa. We’re helping.”
“Yes, helping,” he muttered, though his smirk betrayed his fondness. “Very well. Let us attempt this again, my dear apprentice.”
“Okay!” she chirped, bouncing on her toes as she watched him pin the fabric once more. Every now and then, she’d pass him a pin or a spool of thread, her tiny hands quick and eager.
“You know,” Astarion said, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, “if you keep up this level of dedication, you might just surpass me one day.”
She gasped, her eyes wide with excitement. “Really?”
“Don’t tell anyone,” he said in a mock conspiratorial whisper, “but yes. You have the makings of a true artist.”
She beamed at the praise, her curls bouncing as she nodded solemnly. “I’ll be the best tailor ever!”
“I have no doubt,” he replied, ruffling her hair before turning his attention back to you.
You watched the exchange with a warmth that made your heart ache. Despite the bickering and theatrics, the bond between them was unmistakable, and it filled the room with a joy that was impossible to contain.
After a moment, your daughter piped up again. “Mama, you’re moving too much!”
“I can’t help it,” you said, laughing as you adjusted your stance. “You two are too funny.”
“It’s a serious business!” she declared, though her giggles betrayed her words.
“And yet, you laugh,” Astarion teased, casting a playful look her way. “Clearly, we’ve inherited your mother’s inability to remain serious.”
“Hey!” you protested, though you were grinning too much to be offended.
By the time the dress was finally pinned and ready for stitching, the three of you were thoroughly entangled in laughter and shared triumph. Astarion stepped back, hands on his hips, admiring his work with a satisfied smile.
“What do you think, my dear?” he asked, gesturing for you to turn toward the mirror.
You looked at your reflection, taking in the carefully draped fabric and the beginnings of a masterpiece.
“It’s beautiful,” you said, glancing at him. “You’ve outdone yourself again.”
“Of course I have,” he replied smoothly, though his eyes softened at your words. “But I must give credit to my assistant.”
Your daughter clapped her hands, beaming with pride. “We did it, Papa!”
“Yes, we did, my love,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he added, “Now, go tell your mother she owes us both a very large reward for our hard work.”
“Cookies!” she exclaimed, dashing off to the kitchen in search of her prize. Without even thinking to even ask you, and Astarion just encouraged her, telling her to run like the wind.
You turned to Astarion, shaking your head with a fond smile. “You’re incorrigible. Especially when it comes to her.”
“Can you blame me? And yet, you adore me,” he replied with a smirk, pulling you close for a kiss. “Don’t deny it, my love.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you murmured, leaning into him as the sound of your daughter’s giggles echoed from the kitchen.
Tumblr media
This was disgustingly cute to write, tailor astarion you have my heart and soul. I hope you guys enjoyed this! - Seluney xox
If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x
56 notes · View notes
torntruth · 1 day ago
Note
Tumblr media
IT IS ALSO CERTAINLY NOT A WEAKNESS IF THE PERSON DOING THE HELPING ENJOYS IT IMMENSELY . it's especially more important during these moments where evie is battling a severe sense of guilt. PLEASE LET HER HELP . moreso , it's always such an act of trust. to just let your guard down and have someone help while you're vulnerable. AND EVIE TRULY DOES LIKE THE AFFECTION OF IT ALL . simple happiness.
Tumblr media
evie doesn't even need to think about translation for those words. FOR THAT ONE SAYING . it has now been used so frequently that evie hears it just the same as she's hearing english. ISN'T IT A BEAUTIFUL THING OF LOVE WHEN YOU JUST ADAPT TO YOUR PARTNER'S LANGUAGE ? evie just wraps the towel around kassandra's shoulders from behind , her eyes straying back to kassandra's body. at least for a few seconds , until they jump back up to kassandra's eyes. THE GOLDEN COLOR IS JUST AS BEAUTIFUL AS THE BROWN . it's the way red-flecked eyes just stare into golden. appraisal.
evie's hands adjust the towel so it won't slip from shoulders , then evie's fingers tentatively touch near the healing bullet wounds. THE BARE ONES , WITHOUT GLOVES . she steps into kassandra to do so before tilting her head upwards , letting time go back to being slow , and pressing a kiss to kassandra's chin. THAT WOMAN FOREVER REMAINS HER WIFE .
Tumblr media
Kassandra has lived long enough to know there is no weakness in allowing someone to help when she could not do it herself. In this case, it meant as simple an act as getting out of the bathtub. The laugh Evie lets out as she helps her out is infectious. It's good, to laugh at the absurdity of the situation like this, to alleviate the horror of the previous night. They can face the future, no matter what it brings.
Tumblr media
But she's not going to let Evie carry the entirety of her weight, she allows herself to move, Evie's new strength doing the rest of the work. Something she would have to comment on later, now is not the time. Feeling that arm wrap around her Kassandra leans more of her weight against the shorter woman, careful not to topple them both over in the process. Evie pauses, as if remembering Kassandra had other wounds, not just the ones from her. The bullet wounds had closed up, leaving only quickly fading scars, the wound at her stomach also leaving a nasty line across her stomach, this one red, but rapidly closing as well. Her eyes meet with Evie's once more, a softness behind their golden glow.
"That's better. We did exchange vows, after all." And Kassandra returns that sass in kind. It's reassuring, to hear her laugh, to hear her be her sassy self. Evie is tough, not even corruption could ruin her. Kassandra helps Evie position her against the tub so she wouldn't topple over, golden eyes then following her form as she moves over to the sink to get the towel to wrap around her. "Thank you, αγάπη μου."
104 notes · View notes
interlunium-opus · 10 hours ago
Text
►DANCING WITH THE DEVIL #004: Prelude [Sunghoon.]
Tumblr media
Abstract: Eight years have passed since you betrayed Park Sunghoon, leaving his fate shrouded in uncertainty. You thought you'd left that world behind, but the serial killings in the capital city —which bore a haunting resemblance to that in your past—pulled you right back into the shadows you once escaped. What began as a quest to prove your worth soon unraveled into something far more sinister: a labyrinthine network of power, deceit, and danger hidden beneath a veneer of opulence.Now, amidst the grandeur of a castle steeped in blood-soaked tradition, you find yourself, once again, entangled with Sunghoon—a ghost from your past whose motives remain as inscrutable as ever. The stakes are now higher, the games deadlier, and survival feels like chasing a mirage. As you navigate a web of twisted rituals and deadly alliances, the tension between you and Sunghoon ignites once again.But this time, the game is different. With whispers of betrayal and lingering wounds threatening to consume you both, you must decide if trust is a risk worth taking—because in doing so, you are not just exposing the truths they've hidden, but also the feelings you’ve fought so hard to suppress and bury.
Parts ‣ #001 | ‣ #002 | ‣ #003 | ‣ #004: Prelude | ‣ #004: Finale
Genre: vampire!sunghoon | horror | thriller | fantasy | romance (or is it? 😋) ||| wc: ~31.7k
Featuring: Anton from Riize. [ PSA! ] There's also a Jaeyun here -- this is actually Enhypen Jake lol. Soz, no one fits the role that Jaeyun has in here better than Dark Blood Jake so I plead you guys to just go along and imagine that the Jake in Part 1-3 and Jaeyun in this Part are two different people ((who happen to look alike)) HAHAH
Warnings: blood; violence; injuries (some are self-inflicted); suggestiveness (some are forced); mentions of crimes (missing persons, murder, serial killings); manipulation; toxicity; trauma.
© 2024 interlunium-opus. All rights reserved. Do not plagiarize, post or translate anywhere.
Tumblr media
— i
You have never for once thought you were safe from his clutches—not after he vanished; not after you’ve moved to the Big City and left it all behind; and not even after 8 full years had passed without any hint of him and his kind terrorising your life.
But 8 years was indeed a long time—long enough to make you almost want to believe that it was all just a fever dream especially when your traumatic memories have now been reduced to dubious patchwork of images in your mind. 
Until, that is, the odd happenings cropping up around the city in recent months began to bear an eerie resemblance to those from 8 years ago.
“You sure about this?” Anton’s voice cut through your thoughts as the van pulled to a stop near an abandoned alley. Your colleague’s expression was tight, his concern unmistakable. You didn’t look up, eyes fixed on the heatmap glowing on your laptop screen—a web of red nodes clustering around several locations with grey nodes showing your predicted ones.
You’d spent months perfecting this quantitative model and simulation, and this little incursion into the field was a risk you were willing to take to prove it worked, “this district is the next likeliest place. Just a glimmer of evidence from here can really set the whole ‘drug epidemic’ story down the drain.”
“I didn’t mean the location,” Anton sighed, “I meant about you being the bait. You don’t have to take things this far. What if, like they say the serial killings are just the product of yet another drug epidemic? It checks out—youth, homeless, poor, dubious backgro—"
“Then I’ll come out of this little project unscathed,” you cut him, “and you can say ‘I told you so.”
“And if you’re right?”
The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. If you were right and it wasn’t just a drug epidemic, then it is indeed something far worse. Something beyond the comprehension of mere mortals. Something you’d hoped never to face again for it was the very reason that had once brought you so close to death.
"then I get to say I told you so," you replied, forcing a grin that didn't quite reach your eyes. You, of all people, knew if what you suspected was indeed true and something goes wrong tonight then you might not actually make it out alive.
Steeling yourself, you stepped out of the van, pulling your coat tighter against the night’s chill. With a final glance at Anton and the rest of the unofficial team, you gave a curt nod—a silent signal that the plan was in motion.
Truthfully, you’d never planned to get involved in this case—or any case for that matter. You were just a data analyst, seconded to the Ministry of Justice to modernize their outdated systems. It was supposed to be a safe, back-office job. But fate had other plans.
When the first odd killings started cropping up, you’d recognized the signs immediately. The patterns were unmistakable—just like the ones from eight years ago. Still, you stayed quiet, trusting the experts to handle it. This was the capital city, after all—surely, the investigators here wouldn’t fall victim to the same manipulation and incompetence as your small town had before.
But you were wrong.
Just like how authorities back then easily latched onto a convenient red herring, the Criminal Investigations Department here, dismissed the deaths as nothing more than a string of drug-related incident. And that was when you decided to take matters into your own hands. The sloppy slashing on the victims’ necks to hide bite marks, the feral attacks perfectly timed with rising homelessness and drug abuse—it was all too deliberate. Someone was definitely orchestrating this. Someone who knew how to exploit public sentiment and navigate around the intricacies of public policies to mask their crimes.
The Criminal Investigations Department didn’t believe you of course. You could have all the data in the world and use the most expensive software to churn your model and still all they see is just another desk jockey—naive, out of touch, and blind to the so-called realities of the field.
And so, here you were, about to test your model in this so-called field that they held in such high regard.
You stepped deeper into the alley. All sounds from faraway city had disappeared by then—filling the empty maze with eerie silence. Shadows stretched and folded over you, growing heavier with every step. Then, behind you, the faint echo of footsteps began.
You tightened your grip on the dagger hidden in your sleeve.
Making yourself the bait tonight was a calculated risk, just like every other part of your plan. If the pattern in your simulation was correct—and that the culprit were really bloodsuckers—the scent of fresh blood would draw them straight to you.
So with swift resolute movements you quickly pricked your finger against the blade, just enough for a bead of crimson to well up. The shift was immediate. The air grew heavy, the faint echo of footsteps reached your ears, and the lights above flickered, one by one.
Anxiety clawed at the edges of your resolve, threatening to boil over. But you pushed it down—there was no room for error or stalling. You had to keep moving, to reach the junction as planned. The junction wasn't just any random spot; it had been chosen carefully. Its CCTV placements made it ideal for monitoring, and your team was supposed to be stationed at key points, ready to act if anything went wrong. Timing was everything because if you didn’t make it before someone—or something—caught you, the entire operation could fall apart.
Except when you reached the junction and rounded the corner, you didn't see any signals from your team. You looked at the other end, also none. Fuck, you thought, the dread coiling tight in your chest. If your backup wasn’t here, then you might really be alone—in the middle of a potential serial killer’s or bloodsucker hunting ground.
But there was no time or room for fear. So with sharp fluid movements, you pulled the gun from your holster, cocking it in one swift motion as you turned sharply, ready to fire at whatever might be following you. Except, there was nothing. Only an alley stretching out, empty and undisturbed.
A shaky exhale escaped your lips. Maybe it had been your own footsteps echoing after all. You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, scanning every shadow one last time before reaching for your phone. Your fingers hovered over the screen, ready to fire off a message to the team demanding their whereabouts.
Then suddenly, there was a blur of movements but just as you looked up, a gloved hand clamped your mouth, yanking you backward, causing you to drop your gun. You kicked, twisting violently in his grasp, but it was like trying to break free from iron. Another hand gripped your waist, lifting you off the ground before slamming you into a cold brick wall.
The next thing you knew the attacker pressed his forearm hard against your throat, cutting off your air and blurring your visions. Panic clawed at your chest as you thrashed harder, but even through the haze, you saw his eyes—glowing faintly in the darkness, flickering like embers of a dying fire.
For a split second, something passed through them. Recognition? Realization?
Whatever it was, you didn't spend any longer to ponder about it. Instead, you seized the moment of his momentary lapse, jabbing the dagger you concealed up until now, into his hand. He hissed, the sound unnatural and guttural, releasing you just enough for you to stumble free.
But then you saw it as you looked up: the way the wound on his hand was already healing, the flesh stitching itself together before your very eyes.
Not human.
You were correct, after all.
Then a sudden bloodcurdling scream tore through the alley, sharp and bone-chilling. Your head whipped toward the sound, the shock of it stealing your focus for a single, crucial moment. When you turned back, the assailant was already sprinting into the shadows, his pace unnaturally swift.
Cursing under your breath, you bolted after him, refusing to lose sight. But no matter how hard you pushed, he was faster—inhumanly fast in fact. He darted around a corner, but when you reached it, it was a dead-end and he was gone, leaving nothing but silence in his wake.
"What?" you muttered, bewildered, your breathing ragged as your eyes darted around, scanning the area for any hidden doors or passages. There were none.
Your phone suddenly buzzed; it was Anton. When you answered, his voice spilled out, panicked and strained—a contrast to his usual soft-spoken calm, “y/n! Please tell me you’re okay. Please tell me you’re—”
“Anton, I’m fine,” you cut him off, your voice tight.
“Fuck.” Anton cursed—a rare slip. “One of the agents found a body. Said it was bloodless. I thought- I-”
“Where?” you demanded sharply. "Okay, I'll see you there."
You spun on your heels, already halfway to bolting, when an odd crunch under your shoe froze you in place. The sound echoed unnaturally in the suffocating silence of the alley, sharp and out of place. It was something metallic that glinted faintly in the dim light.
Slowly, cautiously, you bent down and picked it up.
It was a brooch, heavy and ornate, its craftsmanship disturbingly perfect.
Your fingers traced the coat of arms etched into the metal: a spiked crown loomed at the top, flanked by a raven and a wolf poised like sentinels. Between them rested a shield, and at its very center, encased in intricate filigree, was a ruby—a dark, smoldering gem that glowed faintly as though alive. It pulsed, dim and irregular, like the heartbeat of something ancient and unspeakable. Beneath the crest, the words were etched in a precise, unnerving script:
"In shadows, we endure. In blood, we rise."
Your breath caught, your chest tightening with a visceral, unnameable dread. The ruby seemed to grow warmer against your skin, the faint light flickering as if responding to the fear blooming inside you.
That was when it hit you.
You’d seen this crest before. The realization struck like a blow, dredging up something long buried—a truth you had fought to forget.
No. It couldn’t be. Your mind grasped for another explanation, anything but the one clawing its way to the surface. But the brooch felt heavier in your palm, its ruby pulsing faintly, as if mocking your denial.
A rush of memories broke through the floodgates, sharp and disjointed flashes that cut through your resolve: bloodied lips, the metallic taste of iron, a pained gaze—and the weight of betrayal pressing into your chest.
“Sunghoon,” you whispered, the name falling from your lips like a curse.
Tumblr media
— ii
“Told you it would work,” you nudged Anton as you headed towards the meeting room where you were supposed to meet the Detective Chief Inspector.
“It made a ‘work’ out of you too,” Anton replied begrudgingly, clicking his tongue as his eyes trace the bruise on your neck and the cuts on your hand.
“I’d say it’s worth it,” you shrugged, looking awfully calm and happy for someone who had a brush with death just last night.
True, you got berated by your boss for acting recklessly on your own and putting your life in line but it was all worth it, you thought. Afterall not only did you manage to put a question mark on the current narrative but in doing so, you have also forced the Criminal Investigations Department to take you and your work seriously. After months of being treated lightly and as a joke, you couldn’t help but feel triumphant to see the Detective Chief Superintendent personally walking to your office this morning — requesting assistance on how his department can utilise the model you had built.
“Well let’s hope the Detective they send for me this time isn’t another boomer or misogynist as the rest of the lot has been,” Anton handed you the photocopies he had made, wishing you luck as he held the door of the meeting room open for you. You quickly set up the meeting room, turning on your laptop while setting the copies and relevant files neatly in the middle of the table.
You hadn’t slept all night but this was the most energised you have felt in months. In fact, so absorbed you were, you didn’t notice the figure at first. Your focus was on the documents, your pen tapping lightly against the table as you scanned line after line of text.
It wasn’t until the faintest flicker of movement passed beyond the glass walls of the meeting room that you looked up. At first, it was just a shadow—a fleeting outline that barely registered. Then, step by step, it came into focus.
Broad shoulders and a rigid stance that carried an effortless authority. Thick raven-black hair that caught the light like polished obsidian. Pale skin that seemed almost luminous under the sterile lights.
Your pen stilled in your hands, fingers unconsciously tightening around it as the door clicked open.
The scent hit you first—woodsy and citrusy. That cologne. The one you knew too well. It swept over you with a cruel familiarity, twisting your stomach as memories clawed at the edges of your mind, sharp and unwelcome.
You didn’t need to see his face to know.
And yet, when he stepped inside, bowing slightly—polite in a way that felt almost mocking—it still made your breath catch. By the time he straightened, your heart had already plummeted.
“Park Sunghoon,” you croaked, almost reflexively, your voice barely above a whisper. The name tasted bitter on your tongue, dredged up from a place you had tried to bury.
His gaze sharpened, dark eyes sweeping over you with clinical precision before his lips curved into a slow, deliberate smirk. His hand moved smoothly, locking the door behind him with a soft click that echoed far too loudly in the confined space.
“I don’t think we need introductions, then?” he drawled, his voice low and silken, every word laced with amusement.
Your hand moved instinctively to your back pocket, fingers fumbling for the dagger you always carried.
“Looking for this?" he asked nonchalantly as he pulled something out from his coat. It was a dagger – your dagger from last night. Before you could react, he flicked his wrist, sending it spinning through the air. It landed with a sharp thud, piercing through the stack of files in front of you. The deliberate impact echoed through the room, loud and accusatory.
“Don’t bother,” he said, his tone dismissive but firm. “You know you can’t kill me.”
You swallowed thickly, but forced your lips to curl into a dry, humorless smile. “Killing me here, in a glass-walled meeting room?” you asked, leaning casually back against the table as if you weren’t seconds from bolting. “That’d be messy, don’t you think? Hundreds of employees just outside. You’d need a whole army of PR vampires—or whatever you guys have—to cover it up.”
His smirk was slow, deliberate, like he enjoyed your attempt at bravado. “Even if my fury for you ran that deep,” he said, his voice a low purr, “I wouldn’t be that stupid.”
“Then why are you here?” you asked, your voice sharpening as you straightened, your fingers subtly curling into fists at your sides.
“Because someone has been causing havoc,” he said, his voice dropping to something colder. “And it turns out that someone is you. No surprise there—you’ve always been a thorn.”
You scoffed, “for a thorn you sure are taking your time eliminating me. Lingering feelings?”
His lips curved into another smirk, this one sharper, more dangerous. “You tell me,” he said, gesturing lazily toward your pocket. “You could’ve handed my crest over to the investigators. Why didn’t you?”
Your breath caught, realization dawning. He was right. The crest you’d kept instead of handing over to the Criminal Investigations Department—why hadn’t you? You’d lied to them, and for what?
“That’s not—”
“I’m not interested to hear your excuses actually,” Sunghoon interrupted smoothly, “let me just say if I want to kill you, I would have—be it yesterday or before. I’m letting you live because I need something from you. Your expertise.”
He fished out a file from his briefcase and slid it across the table towards you, “I’ve heard of the model you built. I think it’s brilliant.” His tone was casual, almost complimentary, but his eyes gleamed with something colder. “I have some additional data. It will definitely enhance your model. There is however a catch—whatever you find goes back to me. Not to your boss, not to the department. Just me.”
Your eyes flitted suspiciously from the file to him, “why would I do that? For all I know you’re just trying to mess the investigations up.”
“I mean you guys are already fumbling the investigations as it is," he scoffed. "Look. You, of all people, know that the authorities are powerless against my kind. If they meddle further, they’ll just get caught in the crossfire and make a bigger mess. Deadlier mess.”
“How do I know that you’re not behind it all?” you shot back, the accusation sharp. “It all clicks. You being here. You meddling in the investigations.”
His patience visibly thinned, his expression hardening. “If you hadn’t been messing around last night, that poor woman wouldn’t have been preyed upon,” he said, his tone like a blade. “Do you see it now? the implications of your tampering—of any human tampering?”
Your breath hitched as the weight of his words sank in: it was your fault. Your little game at baiting the undead last nigth had apparently led to the death of an innocent, “I wasn’t—”
“Save your guilt,” he snapped, his voice slicing through your stammered excuse. “I don’t have time for it. What I need is for your department to stop trampling through this mess so I can finish the job.”
You glared at him, still reeling. “Why do you need my model then? Don’t vampires have… superpowers or something? Shouldn’t you be able to track them down faster?”
His expression darkened, and for the first time, you saw something close to frustration in his eyes. “If it were that simple, you wouldn't even need to construct a quantitative model out of it.” he muttered. “Look, our worlds are not that different. We are scattered and fragmented but the more powerful you are, the more you blend in. The ones you have here is not like the usual. This is a network, vast and insidious, weaving itself into your world so deeply that even I can’t see where it begins or ends. They’re embedded in your systems. In your policies. This is why I can’t just go to someone or outsource it to a company to ask them to aid me in this—you never know who’s with who anymore, mortal or not.”
“And yet you trust me?”
“Trust? that’s rich coming from you,” he scoffed, his eyes narrowing with thinly veiled derision, as though he’d accidentally stepped on something unpleasant. “No I don’t trust you and I don’t need to. I need you to be useful, to be good. That’s your only insurance right now.”
“Actually you know what? you don’t have a choice,” he said, his voice unnervingly calm, as though he had already decided the conversation was over. “You can either help me clean up the mess you’ve started, or watch it spiral into something far beyond your control.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. The door clicked softly behind him as he left, leaving the faint echo of his words and the sharp scent of him—woodsy and citrusy, painfully familiar—lingering in the room.
It struck you then—how much he had changed. He was the same physically, but something about him felt far more oppressive now, his presence pressing down like a shadow too large to escape. His broad shoulders carried a weight that seemed heavier than before, not burdened, but deliberate—like the world bent itself to him, not the other way around. There was also a quiet gravity to his presence now, like a storm that hadn’t yet decided when to break.
In fact, even the smallest movements felt so charged and calculated. The tilt of his head, slight but purposeful, carried an air of disdain that cut deeper than any raised voice. His gaze was no less piercing than you remembered, but where it once burned with an intensity that sought to subdue, now it chilled—deliberate and calculating.
Now that you think about, he might not even be a storm looking for release—he was a tempest waiting to destroy.
You staggered backward, the sharp edges of the table behind you digging painfully into your spine, grounding you as the realization settled like a stone in your chest. Time hadn’t softened him; it had stripped him bare, refined him into something terrifying. He wasn’t just dangerous—he was inevitable.
Tumblr media
— iii
You couldn’t decide who was more foolish at this point—yourself, for agreeing to work with Sunghoon despite the nightmare he’d put you through eight years ago, or Sunghoon, for still not carrying out whatever vengeance he had surely plotted for you during all that time. While you should be grateful for the latter, you can never put the thought aside–not with Sunghoon at least.
“If you’re done, email it to me immediately,” Sunghoon muttered without looking up, his eyes glued to the screen of his iPad.
As unbelievable as it sound, this had become your normal 5-9 now, churning additional data from Sunghoon and refine your code—all the while he lounge at your office, waiting for you to finish like a headmaster. Or a vulture.
You tore your gaze from him, frowning at the heatmap on your laptop. You’d expected his “additional data” to sharpen your model, maybe even tie up some loose ends. Instead, the trends you’d been working on became a tangled mess—sporadic points, clusters dissolving into chaos. “It’s messier now, thanks to your data,” you grumbled, sneaking a suspicious glance his way. “You’re not just feeding me duds to throw me off, are you?”
Without a word, Sunghoon rose from the couch and strolled over. It took everything in you not to flinch as your fight-or-flight instincts are still hardwired to react whenever he was near.
Oblivious to your unease, he leaned down to take the mouse from your hand, his cold presence making you shift uncomfortably in your chair. The cursor hovered over a dense cluster of points as he swiped through something on his iPad. “Actually, it’s perfect. Send this over.”
“This is perfect?” you scoffed in disbelief before you found your eyes involuntarily shifting to his iPad screen nearby where rows of profiles stared back at you—some with ominous red slashes across their faces.
“They’re people I’ve exterminated,” he said flatly as if reading your mind before you could form the question.
“I wasn—" your mouth went dry. “Exterminated?”
“Don’t worry,” he said nonchalantly as he snatched the iPad back. “They’re not human.”
You hit send just as he moved toward the door, speaking into his phone. “I think there are some new leads. Yes, I’ll take the car.”
“Hey—” you called out, hoping to pry more, but he was already out of your office. You lingered for a moment, the uneasy silence filling the space he left behind. Though you hated dwelling on him, you couldn’t help but feel that there was something different about Sunghoon—something colder, more detached, even by his standards. He felt hollow—as if this was just a shell of the man who had haunted you eight years ago.
But then again, did it really matter, you shrugged the thought off, at least he hadn’t killed you yet.
You grabbed your coat and followed him, catching up just as he reached a sleek black Benz idling at the curb. “If this is related to the case, I should go too,” you said firmly. “We’re working together, after all.”
He stopped mid-step, turning to face you. For a moment, the barest flicker of amusement crossed his face, gone so quickly you almost doubted it had been there.
“Working together?” he repeated, his tone laced with derision. “Look, this isn’t a partnership,” he said, his voice cool and detached. “You’re not my equal. You’re a tool—a useful one, for now—but a tool all the same. Don’t get confused.”
You bristled, heat rising to your cheeks. “You—”
But before you could finish, he slipped into the car and shut the door in your face.
“—prick,” you muttered under your breath.
That should have been your cue to drop it. To turn back and call it a day. But that would be very unlike of you.
Undeterred, or challenged rather, you quickly flagged a cab nearby, sliding into the backseat. “Follow that car,” you instructed, your voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through you. “But keep some distance. He has eyes at the back of his head...” your voice trailed, grimacing at the memory of Sunghoon and his arrogance. Probably the only thing unchanged, you thought as you sink back into the seat.
The drive began uneventfully, Sunghoon’s car weaving through familiar streets of the central business district—all skyscrapers and corporate logos. You watched intently, expecting him to stop near one of the clusters your heatmap had predicted. But then he took an unexpected turn—away from downtown and into unfamiliar territory.
“Where’s he going?” you mumbled, staring out the window. Instead of decaying alleyways or abandoned districts—the usual spots you were tracking—the car rolled through rows of pristine streets where luxury cars were neatly parked outside glittering buildings. This wasn’t the kind of place you would associate with the victims of the recent serial killings—or with him, in fact. With the 1%, celebrities and socialites perhaps, but not him.
“Your guy just got out,” the driver called, jolting you from your thoughts.
Sure enough, Sunghoon had exited the car. But it wasn’t the Sunghoon you’d followed all evening. He was wearing a tailored tuxedo now, his raven hair swept back in a way that made him look effortlessly polished, like he belonged on the cover of a magazine. While others flashed passes to the doorman to gain entry into the towering, shard-like skyscraper, Sunghoon merely nodded—and the door opened for him, as if the place were his.
You stared, dumbfounded. A party? A date? You thought for a split second, even considering turning the car back around. Perhaps, he really wasn’t pursuing any leads tonight and you’re just being a nosy stalker.
“Miss, I’m not your personal chauffeur so if you can get off now—”
“You know what, I’ll pay you extra,” you said, handing the driver a wad of cash. “Wait for me here—I just need to confirm some things.”
“I’m not—” he started, but his protest died the moment you waved another wad of cash. He sighed, exasperated. “Fine. Ten minutes.”
“Deal,” you muttered, slipping out of the car and immediately regretting it. Clad in your office attire, you stuck out like a sore thumb as elegantly dressed guests brushed past you, the scent of expensive perfume lingering in the air.
The towering skyscraper ahead loomed like a beacon of opulence and exclusivity, its glass facade reflecting the city lights in dazzling patterns. The entrance buzzed with high society chatter—sweeping gowns, tailored suits, and muted conversations that felt worlds apart from your reality. Whoever was hosting this wasn’t just powerful—they were untouchable.
You tried to blend in, keeping your head low as you slipped into the flow of guests. But before you reached the doors, a burly security guard stepped into your path.
“Pass?”
“I—uh,” you stammered, scrambling for an excuse. “I’m with Park Sunghoon,” you lied, willing your voice to sound composed. “I’m his personal assistant,” you added, forcing yourself not to gag, “and he left his phone so I’m here to deliver it back to him.”
The guard’s suspicion was immediate. He squinted at you, then glanced at his colleague. “Wait here,” he said curtly, retreating to his desk and picking up the phone. As he made the call, his shifting expressions told you everything you needed to know—your story wasn’t holding up.
Before you could quietly slip away however, you felt the sudden grip of two guards seizing your arms from behind.
“Lord Park says he doesn’t know you,” the first guard returned, his smug expression practically oozing satisfaction. “Nor does he have a personal assistant. He has also requested that we report you to the nearest station for attempted trespassing. If you’ll follow—”
His voice faded into the background as panic set in. Your mind raced, adrenaline surging as you desperately tried to think of a way out. Perhaps show my work ID, you thought, but that won’t be ethical. Perhaps give them a kick, you pondered, come on, what’s a kick going to do against 2 buff guards.
“y/n?”
The voice cut through the noise like a lifeline, warm and familiar, yet so painfully out of place in a setting like this.
You turned sharply, and your breath caught.
There, standing in front of you, was someone you barely recognized.
“Sunoo?” you blurted, blinking as if your brain needed time to process what you were seeing.
Gone were the oversized hoodies and worn-out sneakers. The Sunoo before you now was practically dripping in luxury—a designer suit tailored to perfection, sleek leather loafers, and a watch you were pretty sure cost more than your apartment. His hair was immaculately styled, his face radiating the kind of confidence and wealth that turned heads.
“It is you!” he exclaimed, a broad grin splitting his face, softening his features to the Sunoo you remembered from eight years ago. Your best friend, Kim Sunoo.
You wanted to revel in the reunion, to cling to the warmth of familiarity, but the weight of the moment sank into you like a stone. Slowly, it dawned on you how ominous it all was—how Sunghoon and Sunoo could now be tied so closely. You remembered the tension between them eight years ago all too well, the lengths you went to keep them apart. The bargain you had struck with Sunghoon just so he’d leave him alone.
And yet, here they were, looking as though they were cut from the same cloth.
“Let her go. She’s with me,” Sunoo snapped at the guards, his grin vanishing in an instant, replaced by an expression of sharp disdain. The shift was jarring, his tone unrecognizable—cutting, cold, and entirely unlike him.
Tumblr media
— iv
“Wine?”
Sunoo gestured at the uniformed staff pushing a gleaming silver cart toward you. The plates were stacked high with decadent hors d'oeuvres, and some accompanying bottles of wines that looked like it cost three times more than your monthly rent.
You shook your head, watching as Sunoo casually reached for his third glass. “You used to hated drinking,” you muttered.
“Well, the world I live in now is different—" he smirked, “—so are my tastes."
Before you could respond, Sunoo grabbed you by the side of your arms, swivelling you toward the floor-to-ceiling window which overlooked the grand hall below. "Take a good look, y/n. This is the upper echeleons of society."
Your gaze fell on the scene below: a vast, glittering ballroom with a massive crystal chandelier casting golden light over an impeccably dressed crowd. Designer gowns swept the marble floor, and tuxedos gleamed under the light. Waiters glided like shadows, balancing trays of champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres.
“What is this place?” you asked, dragging your eyes back to him.
“It’s the Charity Gala of the year,” Sunoo said, his voice filled with a casual air you didn’t quite believe. “Officially, it’s a fundraiser for disaster relief in Southeast Asia. Unofficially—” he took a deliberate sip from his glass, his fourth, though he still seemed unbelievably sober, “—it’s a playground for the 1%. A chance to flaunt their wealth, rub shoulders with the powerful, and make backroom deals over overpriced wine.” He raised his glass in mock celebration. “Welcome to their world, y/n. The air up here is great.”
Your stomach twisted as you tried to reconcile this version of Sunoo with the one you’d once known. But before you could dwell on it, your wandering gaze caught something that made your blood run cold.
Park Sunghoon.
He was in the center of the ballroom, effortlessly commanding attention without seeking it. His raven-black hair was swept back, his tailored suit flawless, and a glass of wine rested lightly in his hand. But it wasn’t his appearance that made you freeze—it was the way he seemed to own the room, as though every person there unconsciously revolved around him. He moved through the crowd with an ease that was almost unsettling, exchanging words with men in expensive suits and women draped in jewels.
This wasn’t the Sunghoon you remembered. Back then, he was distant, deliberately anti-social, and disdainful of any social niceties when in a crowd. Now, he was polished, poised, and completely in his element—like a diplomat or a politician.
And yet, what truly froze you wasn’t his transformation. It was his gaze—for when he looked up, his eyes found yours in chilling precision. As if he knew you were there; as if he knew you had been staring.
Shit, you drew back instinctively, trying to stay away from his line of sight.
“y/n?” Sunoo’s voice jolted you out of your spiralling thoughts. “You said you were here because of someone is it?”
You forced a laugh, trying to sound casual. “Yeah, someone I know left some stuff with me, so I was going to return it. But, apparently, I needed a pass.”
“Who is it? I’ll help you find them,” Sunoo offered, clearly oblivious to the tension rolling off you.
“No, no, it’s fine,” you said quickly, waving him off. “I just got a text—they said they don’t need it anymore. I’ll just head out—”
“Go back? Are you kidding me?” Sunoo interrupted, his hand gripping yours as he started to drag you across the room. “Come on, y/n. There’s no way I’m letting you miss this opportunity. You’re practically at the nexus of power and privilege. Everyone who is anyone is in here. I’ll introduce you to some top brass. Permanent secretaries, directors—you name it. I’m pretty sure they’d love to meet someone as sharp as you. You deserve to climb the ladder faster.”
“Sunoo, I—just give me a minute,” you stammered, trying to stall.
But Sunoo was already weaving you through the glittering crowd, his excitement palpable as he introduced you to people whose names blurred together in your head. Your nerves prickled with every passing moment, the hum of conversations swelling louder, pressing in on you. Then, one of them—an ex-politician—broke through your haze.
“Oh! You said you’re from the Ministry of Justice? Then you must know—” His words trailed off as his gaze shifted, scanning the room.
When he turned back, the crowd parted just enough to reveal Sunghoon, standing tall and composed, clinking his glass with a man who radiated power and authority.
Your heart plummeted and instinctively you shrank back, hoping the dim lighting would shield you. But then Sunoo's grip tightened around your hand, a sudden and unwelcome anchor.
“Sunoo, just let go—” you wrenched your hand away, perhaps a little too roughly, for he looked at you all confused as if you had struck him. "Sorry," you stammered, your voice low and frantic, “—bathroom.” Before he could even say anything, you had already turned on your heel, letting yourself get swallowed by the crowd. Except instead of reprieve, the air grew heavier with every step, the clinking of glasses and muted laughter morphing into a sinister undercurrent. The wine in their hands seemed darker, richer, almost like blood under the golden lights.
Finally, you found a door and without even sparing another second, you slipped out, closing the door behind you. You pressed your back against the cool surface of the door, exhaling shakily as you fought to steady yourself. The chill of the corridor was a stark contrast to the stifling opulence you’d just escaped, yet the unease clung to you like a second skin. Even here, away from the crowd, you couldn’t shake the feeling that unseen eyes were still watching, waiting.
“Thought I smelled something that didn’t belong—"
You froze, turning to find yourself surrounded by a group of men—three to be exact. At first glance, they looked as though they had stepped off the cover of a glossy magazine, all chiseled features and effortless grace. But there was something off about them. Their beauty was uncanny, a little too perfect, too symmetrical—like sculptures that had come to life but had missed the soul that should have animated them.
Yet, it wasn’t their appearance that sent shivers racing down your spine—it was the way they moved. They encircled you with slow, deliberate steps, each movement fluid, almost predatory, like Hyenas.
Your pulse quickened as the weight of their gazes bore down on you.
“Yeah, this one probably weaseled her way in,” the other one murmured, giving you a once-over that made your skin crawl, “journalist? fangirl?”
“Maybe it’s one of those waitresses again,” the other one scoffed, “remember how someone stole a dress and paraded around as a socialite during last year’s gala?”
“Ah- right,” the first one drew closer, “well, guess what? We are feeling very generous tonight and would like to give you a personal private tour. How's that?”
You evaded his hand just as he was about to wrap it over your shoulder, only to bump into the other who had closed in from the other side, his hand seizing yours like talons, “she’s warm.”
You yanked your arm free, retreating instinctively, only to collide with the cold, unyielding wall behind you.
“Actually, the wines weren’t cutting it,” the third one said, turning to his companions, who exchanged knowing grins, as though sharing a thought without needing words, “—but you,” he continued, his gaze snapping back to you with an intensity that made your skin crawl, “might just do.”
“You guys are messing with the wrong person,” you spat, feigning confidence despite the tremor in your voice. “I’m with Park—Lord Park, and he won’t take too kindly to a bunch of lower beings harassing his guest.”
“Oh, Lord Park,” the first one sneered, leaning in closer, his breath cold against your ear. “Pretty sure he wouldn’t notice if one of his toys went missing.”
Laughter rippled between them, dark and taunting, and your stomach churned.
“You guys better piss off before—before I—” you broke off, your fumbling hands grazed something cool and solid behind you—a decorative vase perched precariously on a ledge. Without hesitation, you grabbed it and hurled it to the floor. The porcelain shattered with a deafening crash, the sound ricocheting through the corridor like a gunshot.
The distraction worked and the men recoiled for a split second—just enough for you to twist free and bolt.
You didn’t think. You didn’t look back. You just ran, your heels clicking frantically against the marble floor, heart pounding in rhythm with your steps. Their shouts grew fainter as you darted through the twisting hallways, rounding the corner when—slam.
You barrelled straight into something—or rather, someone.
The impact sent you stumbling back, but a strong hand shot out, steadying you with an iron grip. Dread pooled in your stomach as your gaze lifted, meeting a pair of dark piercing eyes.
It wasn’t one of them.
It was Sunghoon.
And frankly, you didn't know which one was worse.
He glanced past you to the commotion down the hall, then back to your flushed, panicked face. His eyes meeting yours in such inscrutable and cold way that it was entirely possible to you that he had sent those three men down your way.
“Lord Park,” one of the men murmured, their voices dropping into something that sounded both reverent and fearful. The shift in their demeanor was immediate. The playfulness vanished, replaced by something closer to submission. They exchanged glances, their earlier bravado crumbling under the weight of his command.
“Didn’t she say she is with me?” Sunghoon’s voice was quiet but lethal, each word laced with venom. His tone was flat, almost disinterested, but the menace beneath it was unmistakable, “and you guys still had the audacity to mess with what’s mine?”
The words hit you like a cold wind, cutting through your defenses. You didn’t flinch outwardly, but inside, you recoiled—the weight of his casual claim felt heavier than it had any right to be. While the possessiveness in his tone unsettled you, what struck harder was the irony: how the very lie you’d spun to escape trouble was now your lifeline. Worse still, it was being wielded by the one who was being taken advantage of.
“Of course not,” one of them stammered, his words spilling out in a frantic rush.
“We’d never dare,” another muttered, bowing his head slightly as if the act alone might spare him from further scrutiny.
The three men backed away, their movements stiff and deliberate, muttering apologies that barely reached the air before they vanished into the shadows.
The hallway emptied as quickly as it had filled, leaving only you and Sunghoon behind. But as the men disappeared into the shadows, the oppressive weight of their presence was replaced by something just as stifling—Sunghoon’s gaze, dark and commanding, boring into you like a spotlight, leaving no room for escape.
You instinctively tried to yank your arm free from his grasp, but his grip was vice-like—firm and unrelenting. “Let go,” you demanded, your voice steady.
“You’re the one who said you’re with me, aren’t you?” he countered, his brow lifting in mocking amusement. “Let’s go then.”
“Sunghoon—” you began to protest, but his hold tightened as he dragged you down the corridor. His pace was deliberate, each step unhurried, but there was no mistaking the force in his pull. Before you could fully processed it, the elevator doors slid shut behind you, sealing the two of you in a tense, suffocating silence.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he said flatly, his tone devoid of emotion, the words hitting like a slap. “You don’t belong here.”
Your chest tightened, the sting of his words sharp and deliberate. “Thank you for stating the obvious,” you shot back sharply. “You, on the other hand, look like you belong. Almost didn’t recognize you with all the mushy act. Maturing at last? Bit late for your age, don’t you think?”
His brow arched, the faintest flicker of amusement crossing his face. “Careful,” he said, his voice deceptively calm, “with that much interest, I might start thinking you missed me.”
The elevator dinged, and you expected him to release you. Instead, his grip only tightened as he pulled you across the lobby.
“Sunghoon—where are we—” you protested, your voice rising, drawing the attention of a few onlookers. “Sunghoon, let me go—let me—”
“You brought this on yourself, y/n,” he interrupted, his voice cutting clean through your panic. The dread hit you fully as you saw his Benz from earlier pull up to the curb. “You need to be taught a hard lesson—” he said, his tone dark, ominous, his grip tightening with every resistance from you, “—then maybe next time, you’ll think twice before running your mouth so carelessly.”
With unsettling ease, he opened the car door, shoving you unceremoniously into the backseat. You barely had time to twist toward the exit before he stepped into the doorway, his frame filling the space, blocking any chance of escape. Before you could shove him away, his hand moved as if he’d anticipated it—catching yours mid-motion with startling precision. The swiftness of it stole your breath, his grip unrelenting as it pinned your arm in place. The harder you tried to pull free, the more his hold seemed to tighten—like a quicksand—rendering you completely immobile with an ease that sent a cold shiver racing down your spine.
“Take her home,” Sunghoon ordered towards his driver curtly, his voice sharp and devoid of patience, his eyes never leaving yours.
“I can go home on my own,” you snapped.
“I’m sure you can,” he replied, his tone calm but razor-sharp. “But you won’t. Not after the havoc you wreaked earlier, with people you shouldn’t have.”
“But they—”
“—won’t let you go that easily. That's for certain.” he finished for you, his voice dropping low, slicing through your protest. His grip on your arm tightened one last time before he threw it back, the motion sending you off balance, your palms hitting the seat behind you to steady yourself.
Leaning into the open doorway, his eyes pinned you in place, his voice quiet but venomous. “He’ll take you home,” he muttered darkly, “or you’ll just never see home ever again.”
And with that, he slammed the door shut before walking back to the tower, the sound reverberating like the final nail in a coffin. No chance to argue. No chance to escape.
Tumblr media
— v
Things settled back into a strained rhythm after that evening at the Charity Gala, though Sunghoon had stopped lingering. He would appear occasionally, dropping off new data without a word, then vanish as swiftly as he came. You told yourself it was better this way. His presence was, afterall, suffocating—a storm cloud hovering just out of reach. But no matter how hard you tried to bury the thoughts, the elephant in the room loomed larger with every passing moment of silence: Why had he let you live this long?
You knew Sunghoon hadn’t forgiven your betrayal. And yet, here you were—alive, breathing, and watching the shadows too closely because of him. Perhaps this was his punishment for you—making the guilt gnaw you from inside and driving you to the brink of insanity.
Then, one day, an invitation came out of nowhere.
The oxblood-coloured envelope was thick and weighty, its golden wax seal embossed with an unfamiliar crest that glinted under the light like a silent threat. You stared at it for a long moment before picking it up, turning it over in your hands.
“Wait—” Anton’s voice broke through your thoughts as he leaned over your desk, wide-eyed. “Is that—?”
“What?” you asked warily, still staring at the envelope as if it might bite.
“Noctis Imperium,” Anton breathed, his tone reverent.
You frowned. “Noctis what now?”
Anton looked at you like you’d just admitted you didn’t know how to breathe. “Noctis Imperium. It’s an exclusive retreat for the 1% — total luxury and opulence somewhere in the Montes Obscuri—you know the mountain range you can’t even find on google map? Point is, It’s completely exclusive. Totally off the grid. No cameras, no leaks, no nothing. Just power brokers, decision-makers, and untouchables all in one place.”
“Sounds pretentious,” you scoffed, breaking the seal.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice as if the walls might be listening. “People call it a modern-day Bohemian Grove but... darker. Rumor has it that the deals made there don’t just change industries—they change entire nations.”
You shook your head dismissively as you pulled out the invitation. The embossed gold lettering shimmered faintly in the light:
To Our Chosen Few, The Noctis Imperium convenes soon, A place where maps end and silence consumes. Beneath the shadow of the Blood Moon, shapers and wielders come forge their runes. This is not a request, nor a courtesy—it is an acknowledgment of your place among those who command the currents of power. Your passage has been arranged. You will be expected.
“I’m a data analyst, not a billionaire,” you muttered, “perhaps they mailed it to the wrong room- ah—" your fingers brushed a small note tucked inside which read ‘From: Sunoo.’ “Well, perks of having connections, right?”
“Who cares?” Anton said, waving it off. “If I were you, I’d go. Network the hell out of it. Who knows? You might end up running this whole city someday.”
“To be honest, I’d probably die before I even get promoted,” you deadpanned, “My Reaper is just around the corner anyway—" you muttered nonchalantly. It was a casual claim, thrown carelessly into the air in reference to Sunghoon, but one that would echo with far more weight than you could possibly realize at that point in time.
The day passed in a blur, yet the envelope lingered in the recesses of your mind, a nagging presence you couldn’t quite shake. It resurfaced sharply at the end of the day, your steps faltering when the security guard stopped you just as you were about to leave the office.
“Madam, sorry to bother you, but did you receive your invitation?”
“Excuse me?”
“The red envelope, ma’am. There were only two sent to this building—one for you and one for the gentleman. I was told that it is very important that you receive and read it.”
“Yes. I got—" you halted, “—wait, the gentleman? Which one?”
The guard nodded. “The one who’s been visiting you. Mr. Park, I believe.”
Your stomach twisted. Sunghoon.
You mumbled a distracted thanks.
Of course, he is also invited.
The thought continued to gnaw at you afterwards, echoing in your mind as you climbed into the waiting cab. Your invitation had came from Sunoo but now that you knew Sunghoon, too, had been invited reframed everything. It meant that the Noctis Imperium wasn’t just any retreat of shallow opulence. In fact, the words in the letter, which you have dismissed as being far too pretentious and unnecessarily cryptic, now carried a weight that felt unnervingly and ominously real.
Had he always been part of this? Your mind flashed to him at the party, the ease with which he’d navigated the room, the smiles, the warmth—a performance so seamless it made your skin crawl. He very much look like he belonged.
You sank into the back of the cab, pulling out your laptop and flipping it open. You couldn’t shake the unease now that you look at the simulation your model had churned. The data—the tangled mess of trends and points you’d been staring at for weeks—felt like it was hiding something, just out of reach.
Sunghoon’s words from weeks ago echoed faintly in your mind: “They’re embedded in your systems. In your policies.”
“What if it’s a team effort?” you murmured to yourself as you pull up your coding window, inserting several data and refining the code to allow for some different sets of filtering. This time,  one layer of noise dropped. Another filter, another layer gone.
Slowly, patterns emerged where there had been none. The suspects—every single one—had histories that aligned: mental institutionalization, retrenchment, depression diagnoses. All of which conveniently could serve as motives behind drug abuse and the sudden violence as a byproduct of such addiction. The victims on the other hand were from the bottom rung of society – the homeless, the poor, the invisible – people whose deaths wouldn’t have made dent and wouldn’t have been fought for.
If it is a team effort and that they’re embedded in every sector, you pondered toggling with the filters, then the demand and supply can be carefully managed.
Eight years ago, a similar pattern emerged in your little town—but it was confined to a pureblood and a couple of strays.  But this? This was larger. It was a system beneath the system. An empire operating in shadows. Or perhaps, you thought, it's a collusion of system that straddle both worlds.
You sunk back into your seat, your head spinning as you realised the gravity of the situation if indeed true. Outside, the city blurred past, its twinkling lights reflected across glass and metal surfaces like fleeting stars. The golden seal of the invitation caught your eye where it lay in your bag, gleaming faintly. As if it was beckoning you.
You hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on you. In another life—one with stability, comfort, and certainty—you might have left that envelope unopened, dismissed it as someone else’s game. But that wasn’t your life, was it? Not anymore.
Not since Sunghoon's returned at least. For since his reappearance, your days had become a delicate balancing act, every step more precarious than the last, every shadow in corner felt more ominous by the passing day. With your data pointing toward something vast and insidious, the invitation felt less like a trap and more like an opportunity. Reckless? Yes. But what choice did you have? This was a chance to get closer to the truth, to the root of the tangled chaos that had consumed your life.
The seal gleamed as the cab pulled at a traffic stop—a quiet and unyielding challenge.
Your resolve solidified in that moment.
By the time the cab pulled up to your apartment, you had already submitted your leave request: two weeks, no questions asked. Moving on autopilot, you packed a small bag—your laptop, backups of the data, and whatever else you thought you might need.
You didn’t know if you were walking into a trap or uncovering the truth. But either way, you were determined to find out. You were, afterall, already walking a tightrope as it is.
Tumblr media
— vi
True enough, the farther the drive went, the more foreboding the journey became. An hour and a half in, the landscape had transformed into an endless expanse of towering ancient trees. The sun, so bright when you’d left the city, was nowhere to be found—as though you’d been transported into a realm of perpetual darkness.
You glanced at your phone, hoping in vain that you'd a get a signal. Nothing. Nada. But then it wasn't like the signal would have helped, Google Maps showed you that your destination is buried in middle of an unbroken expanse of green—no landmarks, no markings, not even a hint of civilization.
Anton wasn’t exaggerating, you thought, unease coiling tighter in your chest. It's one thing for the retreat to be shrouded in so much secrecy; but another for it to actually be able to evade global mapping systems entirely.
“We’re here, Madam,” the driver announced as the car turned into a gated lawn. Through the dense canopy of ancient trees, you caught glimpses of something massive looming in the distance. Its spires pierced the sky, clawing out from the forested expanse like talons.
“A manor?”
“A castle, Madam,” the driver corrected, the car’s tires crunching over the gravel path. “One of the few left. Very highly protected.”
The path wound sharply uphill, twisting like a serpent as it climbed higher into the forested slope. Ancient wrought-iron torches lined the way, their uneven intervals casting flickering pools of golden light that danced across the shadows of the towering trees. With each turn, more of the castle came into view, unraveling piece by piece. Its gothic silhouette loomed larger with every moment, the sheer size of it making the air seem heavier, as though the structure itself demanded reverence. "I can see why," you sighed, in complete awe.
By the time the car reached the final bend, the forest opened up completely, revealing the castle in all its glory. Perched atop the hill like a sentinel, its massive stone walls seemed to rise endlessly into the sky, adorned with spires and arches that looked almost alive in their intricacy. The grandeur of it was otherworldly, a masterpiece of both architecture and menace.
By the time the car slowed to a stop before the entrance, the sun had fully set—its descent perfectly timed, as if orchestrated to embody the very essence of the Noctis Imperium which aptly translated as 'The Empire of Shadows'. You checked back the agenda and true enough, every events were set to start once the sun sets.
“Madam y/n,” a pair of what looked like a maid and a butler, judging from the uniform, greeted you. “Please come with us, we have been assigned to you. We shall show you around and show you to your suite.”
As you followed the maid, you swallowed thickly, your steps faltering at the sight before you. The castle loomed larger up close, its presence more imposing and ominous than you had imagined. Crimson light seeped through the towering windows, bathing the weathered stone in an eerie glow, as though the building itself pulsed with a forbidden life force. At the grand entrance, blood-red flowers coiled up the walls, their tendrils creeping toward the arched doorway like veins, giving the unsettling impression that the castle was bleeding from within. The effect was grotesque yet mesmerizing, made even more chilling by the gargoyles crouched on the jagged edges of the roof, their wretched expressions seemingly serve as a warning.
As you ventured deeper into the castle, the emptiness and stillness seemed to press heavier around you, yet the unsettling sensation of being watched clung to you like a second skin. Faces in oil paintings—pale, sharp-featured men and women—appeared to shift in the corner of your vision, their painted eyes tracking your every move with unnerving precision. Shadows lingered in the corners, seeming to stir with faint, unnatural movement, and more than once, you swore you heard footsteps trailing behind you. But each time you turned, you found nothing but darkness pooling at your heels.
“Madam y/n,” the maid interrupted your thoughts as they stopped at the farthest corner of the fifth floor, “this will be your suite.”
She pushed open the massive double doors, revealing a room so grand it could have swallowed your entire apartment twice over. The space was opulent yet cold—ancient but well-kept. Rich, crimson drapes framed the tall windows, shielding the suite from whatever darkness lurked outside. The bed was enormous, its carved wooden posts supporting a canopy of deep velvet that seemed to absorb all light. The furniture—ornate dressers, armchairs, and a writing desk—looked like it had been plucked straight from a century long past.
Despite the beauty and grandiosity, the room was no less comforting than the dark corridors outside as it felt both untouched and meticulously staged—like a theater set waiting for its players to arrive.
“Madam,” the maid’s voice drew your attention. She moved to a dresser near the far wall and opened its doors, revealing a collection that left your mouth slightly agape. “These are from Mr. Kim Sunoo,” she explained, gesturing gracefully at the contents. “He has prepared a selection of designers for you to choose from. One for each evening.”
Designer gowns of every color and cut hung delicately, their fabrics shimmering faintly in the dim light. Silks, chiffons, and velvets, all rich and lush, stitched with gold and silver threads. Each one looked painstakingly curated, designed to command attention. A far cry from the practical wardrobe you were used to.
Far from being delighted and spoiled for choice however – the uneasiness you feel only grew. This did not felt like hospitality.
It felt like preparation.
Tumblr media
— vii
You stood hestiantly in front of the Hall of Ascendancy—the weight of the decision pressing down on you. You had considered skipping tonight’s welcome dinner altogether—after all, unlike everyone, you weren’t exactly here to mingle and shake hands with elites. But, given the circumstances, skipping would only attract unwanted attention and you weren’t about to make waves before you had a clearer understanding of what you were truly stepping into.
You stared at your reflection in a nearby polished surface, taking in the sleek black suede long-sleeved gown you had chosen for tonight. Its asymmetrical cut was understated but elegant—one shoulder covered, the other left bare, the smooth fabric dipping to reveal your collarbone. The golden phoenix embellishments—one over the shoulder and the other delicately positioned just above the curve of your chest following the neckline—shimmered faintly under the low light, resting on the rich fabric as if they were alive. It was a dress that does not scream for attention, but one that still whispered sophistication.
Just as you stood there, caught between hesitation and obligation, a butler appeared at your side, pushing a cart laden with Venetian masks. He glanced at you briefly, his expression polite but unreadable. “It’s tradition Madam,” he said, his voice smooth and practiced, beckoning you to pick any one of the masks. “Everyone is supposed to be equals once inside. The masks ensure that no one stands above the others, no titles, no status. Simply anonymity.”
Guests ahead of you eagerly snatched the most ornate masks—studded with jewels, embroidered in gold filigree, some even fashioned with feathers that curved skyward. You, by contrast, reached for the most unassuming one: a black Colombina Venetian mask with faded bronze detailing. It blended into the shadows, almost disappearing entirely. Just as you preferred.
As you step into the Hall of Ascendancy, the irony of its name strikes you almost as sharply as the chilling ambiance. The term, which typically conjures visions of rising to heights of glory and light, is subverted here into something far more sinister. Instead of ascending into brilliance, the hall seems to draw all who enter into a descent into shadow.
Above, towering Gothic arches stretch upward, but rather than reaching a grand zenith, they dissolve into darkness, the ceiling lost to an enveloping blackness. This architectural feat creates the disquieting illusion of an upside-down ascendancy, as if the very structure aims to pull the heavens down into the abyss.
The hall is dimly lit by countless candles clustered along its length, their glow insufficient to penetrate the upper shadows but adequate to cast a ghostly light on the faces of the masked guests. Each mask, elaborately crafted and grotesquely beautiful, appears almost spectral under the flickering candlelight. The play of light and shadows however twisted their features, turning what might be considered majestic into something distinctly macabre.
In this realm of reversed ascendancy, the guests move like phantoms against a backdrop of dark stone and darker shadows, their whispers echoing off the walls as if sharing secrets with the ancient stones. Their movement—gliding soundlessly in pairs, every step perfectly in rhythm with the eerie strains of the orchestra—makes your skin crawl.
They were too graceful. Too perfect.
You tried not to stare, reminding yourself that some among them might be bloodsuckers. But that was precisely the most unsettling part—you wouldn't know who. Everyone was perfectly hidden behind elaborate gowns and crisp suits, their expressions meticulously concealed behind eerie Venetian masks.
“y/n!”
The voice was familiar, bright—an anchor in this dizzying sea of masked spectre.
Sunoo.
You spotted him, his pale skin glimmering under the faint light, the grin behind his own half mask unmistakeable. He waved enthusiastically, threading through the crowd as though they weren’t even there. You lifted your hand, returning his wave, moving instinctively toward him.
But then—
The music swelled, deep and rhythmic, and soon the crowd, too, shifted. Pairs began to form, bodies turning in fluid precision. The crowd twisted and folded in on itself, the movements impossibly synchronized, cutting through the hall like tides.
Sunoo’s figure vanished, swallowed by the waves dancing guests.
“Sunoo?” you called, your voice dissolving into the music. You pushed forward but the crowd grew tighter. Dark gowns spun like shadows, masks turned toward you in quick, darting glances—just enough to unnerve you, just enough to make you feel watched. You tried to move away but like tidal wave, the dancing guests surged and swirled around you as if all conspiring to keep you tethered where you were.
Then—
A hand seized yours.
Before you could react, you were pulled sharply into the crowd, your body spun until you collided with someone—chest to chest. An arm snaked around your waist, strong and unyielding, holding you in place as the waltz swept you into its current.
“I’m sorry, I’m not—”
The words died in your throat. You recognized this grip—talon-like and suffocating, an iron cage clasping your ribs. The broad shoulders pressing against you and the sharp jawline cutting like stone beneath the Golden of the Colombina Venetian mask, were unmistakably familiar. And those eyes—the penetrating, intense gaze that seemed to probe the depths of your mind—left no room for doubt.
Park Sunghoon.
Of course, it was him. It was always him, you thought bitterly.
“Of course, it’s you,” you muttered, vivid memories starting to surge to the forefront of your mind—that of eight years ago during the Winter Ball when his grip had been just as unforgiving, his presence just as inescapable, and the proximity just as suffocating. It felt as though no time had passed at all.
His head tilted menacingly, the golden venetian mask he wore catching the flicker of candlelight. “—likewise, it is always you,” he murmured, his voice was quiet but edged with something darker.
The room, the people, the music—all of it faded to nothing. It was just you and him again, caught in a silent war that neither of you dared name. The waltz pulled you into its current, and Sunghoon led you with an ease that only reminded you how effortlessly he always took control.
“I told you to stay away,” he said softly, though there was no kindness in the words—just quiet steel.
“And I told you I don’t take orders,” you shot back, forcing steadiness into your voice despite the way his presence pressed against you, suffocating and all-encompassing. His proximity, the unyielding strength in his hold, stirred memories you had buried too deep to ignore. “Besides, I didn’t come here uninvited.”
“You let yourself be invited into a lion’s den,” he scoffed, the sound barely audible above the swell of violins.
“I trumped the rat maze you set for me eight years ago, didn’t I?" you retorted, "clearly, survival is my forte.”
His fingers curled tighter around your waist, vice-like against your ribs. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who led this dance. “Take your penchant for mind games elsewhere, y/n. This isn’t a playpen—it’s a gladiator ring.”
“You should be the one taking your mind games elsewhere, Sunghoon. I know your game, so if you’re thinking of orchestrating everything around me just to play the savior—don’t bother,” you hissed. “Just come as you are. If you’re here for vengeance, then do it. Stop being cold one second and trying to save me the next.”
The music swelled again, a crescendo that made the floor seem to tremble beneath your feet. His fingers dug into your side—almost punishing—as though your words struck deeper than you expect it would.
As the piece surged toward its thunderous finale, Sunghoon’s hand shifted, guiding you into a sharp turn. But as you spun, the momentum of the movement carried you further than intended—too far for his grasp to reclaim you. The music fractured into a new, chaotic melody, the dancers around you shifting like tides in time with the change.
Before you could regain your balance, another hand caught yours, pulling you into the rhythm of the new dance. The hold was gentler this time, firm but reassuring, a stark contrast to the suffocating grip you’d just escaped. The voice that followed cut through the stifling tension, light and teasing.
“Sorry about that. You looked like you needed rescuing.”
You turned sharply, blinking up at the man who’d swept you to the edge of the room. He was slightly shorter than Sunghoon, his build lean and lithe. Where Sunghoon exuded impenetrable strength, this man moved with a kind of devil-may-care ease as though he thrived on chaos without ever letting it touch him. His blonde hair fell in deliberate disarray, a tousled mess that only added to the impression that nothing in this world—rules, expectations, or danger—could weigh him down.
His half-jester mask concealed the upper half of his face, but the smirk pulling at his lips was impossible to miss. It was wide, sharp, and full of boyish charm, a grin that danced the line between amusement and provocation. The silver lip ring he wore at the centre of his lower lip only enhanced the air of mischief he seemed to carry effortlessly.
“Jaeyun,” he introduced, his voice smooth but carrying the kind of playfulness that made you wonder if he ever took anything seriously. Spinning you out of the crowd with a dancer’s grace, he watched you closely, the weight of his gaze hidden beneath the mask, yet still palpable. His grip was steady but not imposing, the veins on his hands prominent, betraying a strength that seemed out of place with his disarming demeanor.
“I haven’t seen you around before,” he continued smoothly, his tone casual but edged with intrigue. There was something both playful and calculated about him, as though every word he spoke carried a double meaning.
“That is probably because I’m not part of the 1%. Just someone invited out of favour,” you shrugged and eased up, thinking how anywhere was better than being near Sunghoon and right now in this man’s arms, you felt oddly at ease.
His golden brow arched beneath the mask, a playful smirk curling his lips. “No one here gets invited without a reason, my lady. You’re meant to be here.”
“Trust me,” you said drily, “I’m no one important, so you’ve picked the wrong girl to waltz with. I can’t help you worm your way to any position.”
He chuckled, “well, that makes two of us. I’m no one important either. Just a nepo baby bouncing between industries like a particularly well-dressed pinball.”
The laugh that escaped you was unguarded, the first real one that night.
“I don’t think I can last much longer tonight,” you admitted quietly, glancing back at the sea of masked faces and swirling gowns. “Do you think there’s a way to sneak out of here?”
He chuckled, as though he’d been waiting for you to ask. “Skipping the speech? Bold choice. I approve.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “Don’t let a maid or butler catch you—they’ll just escort you back in. But I know a way. I’ll help you escape to your chamber.”
You hesitated, glancing back at the dark swirl of dancers in the center of the room. Somewhere in that tide of velvet and masks, you knew Sunghoon was watching.
“Lead the way,” you muttered, straightening your mask and steeling yourself against the lingering shiver of Sunghoon’s presence.
Jaeyun offered his arm with a wink. “Smart choice. Follow me.”
He led you deftly through the swirling mass of dancers, weaving in and out of the crowd as though he’d done this a hundred times before. You kept your hand in his, letting him pull you along, grateful for the escape—even if part of you couldn’t shake the feeling that this castle had eyes everywhere.
The towering figures in elaborate cloaks and Venetian masks seemed to loom larger as you passed, their heads turning ever so slightly in your direction, as though they knew your intentions. You forced yourself to look ahead, Jaeyun’s golden hair your only anchor amidst the sea of elaborate gowns and flickering shadows.
At last, he pushed open a discreet side door, ushering you into a narrow, dimly lit corridor. The muffled strains of the orchestra faded slightly, replaced by the faint hum of silence. The walls here were stone, the flickering sconces spaced farther apart, casting deep pools of darkness.
“There,” he said, finally letting go of your hand and gesturing down the hall. “This leads back toward the guest wings. No one’ll bother you this way—no guards, no butlers.”
You glanced at him warily, still catching your breath. “And how do you know all of this?”
Jaeyun flashed that mischievous smile, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of something too knowing. “I have my ways,” he teased, tapping the edge of his mask. “I’m a bit of an expert at slipping out unnoticed.”
You folded your arms, trying to read him. He didn’t feel like the others—those unsettling, predatory guests whose masked faces all seemed to tilt as you passed. Compared to Sunghoon’s towering, fortress-like presence, Jaeyun was the opposite—light, sharp, and unpredictable. If Sunghoon was a storm, heavy with inevitability, Jaeyun was the wind, playful and untethered, ready to shift direction at any moment.
“You’re not leading me into another lion’s den, are you?” you asked flatly. Trust is afterall not something you hand out very freely.
He chuckled. “No lions here. Maybe a few rats, but you’ll be fine.” He tilted his head toward the hallway. “Go on, I’ll keep watch to make sure no one follows.”
You hesitated, searching his expression one last time, but his grin was steady, his posture relaxed—like someone who lived for mischief but wasn’t cruel enough to throw you into a pit for fun.
“Fine,” you muttered. “Thanks, I guess.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said, stepping back into the shadows near the door. “And don’t get lost—these halls have a habit of playing tricks. It's not called the Corridors of Treachery for nothing.”
You shot him one last glance before hurrying down the corridor, the faint sound of your heels against the stone floor echoing back at you. The hallway stretched longer than you’d expected, the shadows creeping in at the edges of your vision, distorting the path. Doors lined the hallway on either side, their carved handles gleaming faintly in the dim light, inviting and forbidding all at once.
You reached for the nearest door, desperate to find a way back to your chambers. It creaked open slowly, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling downward into darkness. Nope, you thought as you closed the door and opened the one next to it.
This time, the door opened to a vast, empty dining hall, its long table draped in crimson cloth, the chairs eerily vacant as though waiting for unseen occupants. The chandeliers above swayed slightly, though no wind stirred the air. You slammed the door shut, your breath catching, the eerie stillness pressing against your chest.
Your heart raced as you tried another handle, and another, each opening up to various types of rooms but not to the North Wing. You reached the end of the corridor, desperation creeping into your movements. But when the door opened, your stomach twisted. The staircase from the first door now stood before you again.
No, that's not possible. You turned sharply, your gaze darting down the corridor. You were certain the staircase had been at the other end of the hall, far from here. Yet here it was, unmoved, defying logic.
Shaking your head, you pushed the thought aside and moved to the next door, your steps hurried. The knob twisted reluctantly under your grip, creaking open to reveal something entirely different. The air shifted, heavier now, the dim light casting elongated shadows across the floor. The scent of dust and aged paper filled your senses.
“A library?” you murmured, the word barely audible as your curiosity overrode caution. Towering bookshelves rose around you, their rows packed with cracked leather bindings. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint creak of wood beneath your steps. You ventured further in, but a sudden sound stopped you cold—footsteps. Voices.
“I swear I saw someone—” a maid’s voice, soft but tense, carried through the corridor outside.
“No one would be stupid enough to use this corridor,” an older, irritated butler replied. “Still, we’ll get in trouble if someone’s unaccounted for in the Hall. You check the doors on that side. I’ll take this one—”
Panic shot through you as Jaeyun’s warning echoed in your mind: Don’t let them catch you. They’ll just drag you back. Before you could think, you had already shut the door behind you, bolting it as quietly as possible. The prospect of locking yourself in an unfamiliar room was unsettling, but the thought of being dragged back into the Hall was enough to root you in place.
Stepping back into the dim room, your fingers brushed against a nearby oil lamp. You hesitated only for a moment before taking it, the soft glow pushing back the shadows around you. A new thought flickered in your mind: perhaps this was exactly where you needed to be because if there were any place to find answers, it would be in a library.
And so you turned to the towering shelves, your eyes already skimming the spines of the books. Most of the books were likely ancient with their cracked spines etched with unfamiliar symbols and faded runes.
And then, something caught your attention.
There, in the middle of the farthest shelf, tucked between larger tomes, was a book entitled The Annals of Kings. Its spine was cracked with age, the title barely visible in faded gold lettering. Perhaps this can tell me more about the owner of the castle, you thought, carefully taking it out and flipping open the cover. At first, the book seemed to be a meticulously detailed chronicle of royal bloodlines—family trees stretching back to eras long forgotten, with unfamiliar crests and names etched in bold, precise script. "Weird," you find yourself whispering as one particular page had burnt marks precisely over some members of the House. As you flipped further, your breath hitch when your eyes read the word 'Purebloods' in the 3rd chapter. You remembered Sunghoon had once talked about a 'Pureblood' to refer to one of them.
You read on, setting the book down on a nearby table:
In the earliest epochs of human civilization, the Purebloods did not linger in the shadows—they ruled openly, their supernatural gifts woven seamlessly into the fabric of leadership. To mortals, their superhuman abilities appeared as divine providence, unparalleled intelligence, or sheer physical prowess. Kingdoms flourished under their command, their strength ensuring stability and their cunning guiding progress. Mortals, though inferior, were the lifeblood of the empire in every sense—figuratively and literally. They served not only as a source of sustenance but as indispensable tools in the expansion and maintenance of vampiric rule. By draining mortals to the brink of death, Purebloods could create Strays: undead beings stripped of humanity and intelligence, reduced to feral creatures driven solely by hunger and instinct. These mindless abominations, incapable of fear or betrayal, became perfect instruments of war. By contrast, Spoilbloods were created with precision and strategic intent. Only mortals of exceptional strength, intellect, or loyalty were chosen—sifted from the mortals and meticulously groomed. The transformation involved an agonizing process: near-fatal blood loss followed by the infusion of Pureblood blood. The result was a new kin—impure yet indispensable. Retaining their human intellect and experience, Spoilbloods became tethered to their Pureblood creators through an unbreakable bond. They served as advisors, enforcers, and agents, wielding their knowledge of mortal affairs to further their master’s dominion. Their dual nature made them invaluable, bridging the gap between humanity and the Purebloods’ reign, and solidifying the Purebloods’ control over mortal realms. But as the empire grew, so too did ambition and recklessness. The turning of mortals, once deliberate and controlled, became indiscriminate. Strays, bred in overwhelming numbers, escaped their creators’ control, wreaking havoc even within vampiric strongholds. Spoilbloods, no longer chosen for their value, were created in excess, leading to insubordination and infighting. The tools that had forged an empire became the seeds of its collapse. Strays, unleashed without thought, ravaged lands indiscriminately. Spoilbloods, embittered by their tainted status, turned on their masters, allying with mortals or seeking power for themselves. And mortals, emboldened by the chaos, rose in rebellion, wielding fire and steel against their oppressors. What followed was the Great Sundering—a cataclysmic collapse of the Shadow Reign. Purebloods who had once ruled openly were forced to retreat into obscurity, their ambitions tempered by the need for secrecy. Now, the Purebloods operate from the shadows, manipulating mortals and maintaining their dominion through whispers and unseen influence. Yet the lessons of the past remain unlearned, for ambition stirs once more. The tools that once brought empires to ruin may yet be repurposed in the pursuit of a legacy reborn—
The sound of a doorknob turning shattered your concentration, your heart nearly leaping out of your ribcage. “See? It’s locked—” the butler’s voice, the one from earlier, filtered through, sharp with irritation. “No one is here. Let’s go now before we’re the ones getting searched for.”
You exhaled shakily, bracing yourself against the table as your pulse thundered in your ears. I need to go. Quickly, you shut the book, its weight feeling heavier now, as though it carried more than history—something darker, something alive. You wanted to read more, to uncover the truths buried in its pages, but lingering wasn’t an option. And carrying a book about vampire history through this castle felt like begging for trouble.
Your gaze fell to your gown, and in a moment of desperation, you slipped the book into the narrow space between your corset and dress. The edges dug into your ribs uncomfortably, but it would have to do.
Unbolting the door with painstaking caution, you cracked it open just enough to peek into the hallway. Clear. You slipped into the corridor, moving as quickly as you dared. One door, then another—each led to rooms you’d already seen, as though the corridor itself conspired against you, bending and twisting your sense of direction.
"I swear if—" you groaned in frustation as you twisted the doorknob next to the lopsided sconce, half expecting it to open into a room you had seen but this time, as if the corridor has had enough of torturing you, it opened to the North Wing, the one you had passed through to get to your room.
Relief surged through you, propelling your legs forward. You darted down the hall, your steps unsteady, nearly stumbling as your door came into view. Throwing yourself inside, you slammed it shut, bolting it with trembling hands. Leaning heavily against the door, your chest heaved, each gasp scraping against the pressure of the book pressed tightly to your ribs, making every breath feel like a chore.
With a frustrated sigh, you reached for the zipper of your gown, tugging it down just enough to free the stolen volume. The moment felt almost triumphant—until—
“Fuck—what the heck, Park Sunghoon?!”
Your own voice rang out, sharp and panicked, as you froze.
There he was. Sitting on your bed like he owned it, leaning back lazily with his arms sprawled behind him. His hands pressed into the mattress to prop himself up, his posture infuriatingly casual, like he’d been waiting for hours. One leg stretched out, the other bent loosely at the knee.
His golden Venetian mask sat perched atop his head, as though he’d lazily shoved it out of the way. The ornate design, with its sharp angles and eerie elegance, looked less menacing up there—but you’d almost prefer it over his uncovered face. At least the mask didn’t smirk. That infuriating curve of his lips, brimming with amusement, made you want to throw something at him. But more annoying than that was his gaze: how it lingered—too long—on your corseted torso where the gown had slipped slightly from your shoulders. Your cheeks flamed, flustered, as you hastily tugged your dress back together, zipping it up in one swift, jerky motion. You clutched the fabric tightly over your chest, as though it could shield you from the weight of his gaze.
“Calm down,” he drawled, his voice low and almost teasing. “You had a corset on. It’s not like you were only in your br—”
“Shut it," you snapped.
Sunghoon’s smirk deepened, but the amusement in his expression gave way to something sharper as his eyes dropped to the book still clutched in your hands.
“Instead of worrying about your dignity,” he said, his tone suddenly edged with steel, “you might want to worry about the implication of stealing that.”
“It’s just a book,” you muttered, though you knew better.
He tilted his head, the casual air around him darkening. “Just a book? That’s a very important book, and people would kill to lay their hands on it—humans especially. And if the nonhumans find out that a human had stolen it…” He let the words hang, the unspoken consequence thickening the silence.
You swallowed hard, suspicion flaring despite his warning. “perhaps you’re just saying that to stop me from learning what’s inside.”
He rose fluidly from the bed, moving closer with that same languid grace that unnerved you, “Actually, you know what..." his voice was calm, almost mocking, as he advanced toward you. He didn’t stop, his deliberate steps forcing you to retreat until your back hit the door, "Go ahead. Read it from cover to cover. Then maybe you’ll finally understand how foolish you had been to throw yourself here—and perhaps…”
His tone sharpened as his hand slid up the curve of your waist, his fingers curling against your ribs with a vicelike grip. The pressure pinned you harder against the door, leaving no room to escape. You had almost forgotten how paralyzing his beauty could be up close—how each sharp line of his face seemed crafted with unnerving precision. But it wasn’t just his features; it was his gaze.
There, in the scant inches between you, his eyes burned with an intensity that made you hold your breath. It wasn’t the probing look you’d grown used to, the one that seemed to sift through your thoughts for answers. No, this was something else. This gaze demanded. It didn’t seek to uncover the depth of your mind; it sought to make you reveal it willingly.
And then, fleeting but unmistakable, you caught the way his eyes flitted downward—down to your lips—before returning to your eyes. It was brief, the kind of glance you could almost convince yourself didn’t happen, but the air between you felt thicker for it, alive with unspoken tension.
“—learn a thing or two about not trusting anyone here,” he finished, his voice like the brush of a blade against your throat.
The door clicked open softly behind you, and his hand released you just as suddenly as it had held you. Before you could process the shift, something cold pressed into your palm. It was your dagger—the one he impaled on your stacks of files with just weeks ago.
“I’d keep that knife on me at all times if I were you,” he murmured, breath ghosting your ear. “And maybe sleep with one eye open. You’ve made quite the impression tonight—and I’m not just talking about me.”
It was only then did you notice the small charm dangling from the hilt of your dagger—a ruby crest, unmistakably his. It swayed gently, a silent signature that felt more mocking than reassuring. The crimson gem glinted wickedly in the dim light, its gleam as taunting and inescapable as the smirk that now lingered, unbidden, in your thoughts.
Tumblr media
— viii
The second night reconvened in an entirely different space. Unlike the grandeur of the Hall of Ascendancy, tonight’s venue stretched seamlessly into a vast conservatory. But this wasn’t just any conservatory—it was a towering mansion of glass and steel, an architectural marvel that seemed almost alive under the full moon, which hung high above.
The guests were already assembled by the time you arrived, their attire more elaborate than ever. Velvet gowns flowed like liquid shadows, and cloaks billowed with every calculated step. Masks adorned with jewels, feathers, and gilded filigree glinted in the broken light, their ornate designs blurring the line between beauty and monstrosity.
But tonight, something felt different.
Their movements, slower and more deliberate, carried an unsettling weight. The laughter that echoed through the towering space was sharper, colder, its brittle edges slicing through the charged silence.
They no longer looked like nobles. Their presence felt predatory, their glances sharp and calculating, their steps echoing with a primal rhythm. After what you’d learned yesterday, you no longer saw them as elegant courtiers.
Your burgundy gown did little to comfort you, its sheer cape trailing behind as you moved through the crowd. The beads shimmered under the moonlight like droplets of blood, an omen you couldn’t ignore. The dagger in your garter weighed heavier than ever, its promise sharp against your thigh.
At the far end of the room, the soft murmur of voices fell silent when the host stepped onto a raised platform, his usual playful energy somewhat tempered by the atmosphere. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the host spread his arms wide in a gesture of welcome. “Or perhaps I should say hunters and prey.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd, low and knowing.
“As per tradition, tonight we hunt. We test not just our skill but our resolve,” he continued, his tone light but his words laden with a weight that made your stomach churn. “Our prey tonight will be scattered across the grounds. Cunning and elusive, just as they always have been. You know the rules. The one with the highest count by sunrise… wins.”
The crowd stirred, their masked faces tilting in eerie anticipation.
“Hunting?” you whispered, dread curling through you – dread that no one seems to share. “Of course,” you thought to yourself, “it’s normal rich people bloodsport. Deplorable.”
“Word of advice?”
You jumped, surprised, spinning to face the owner of the voice. It was Jaeyun. Despite wearing an ominous half Plague Doctor mask this time, you could easily recognise those piercing in the middle of his lips and the playful voice. He leaned closer, whispering,  “—don’t think of just sitting around and laying low.”
Your brows furrowed. “Excuse me?”
“This is more than just your usual ‘rich-people bloodsport’. The real prize lay beyond rabbits, bison, herrons-” Jaeyun said smoothly, a casual drawl lacing his words.
You shook your head, disbelieving, “forget it. I’m not interested in getting first place in killing innocent animals.”
“Trust me, it’s not just about coming up at the top,” he muttered ominously before his lips widened into the usual playful grin. “That aside…” he beckoned subtly, nudging you to glance toward the far end of the room, “I can never tell if you two are lovers or enemies, but there’s something there. He’s been staring for ages.”
You turned, following his line of sight, and felt your pulse stutter.
Sunghoon.
He stood at the far side of the glasshouse, his tall figure cutting through the crowd like a shadow. But even the mask couldn’t conceal the intensity of his stare—sharp, piercing, locked directly onto you.
You tore your gaze away, the weight of it lingering far too heavily on your shoulders.
“Careful,” Jaeyun murmured, his grin turning faintly wolfish, “you might end up being the one he hunts tonight instead of a bison.”
Before you could respond, a bell rang and darkness consumed the glasshouse. “You have until sun down,” you hear the host announce, amusement evident, “eternal glory awaits those who makes it. Happy hunting.”
There was something ominous about the way he emphasizes the words but before you could process them further, you feel a hand on yours, soft but insistent. “Madam, it’s me,” you recognised the voice, it was one of those maids who served you breakfast this morning, “please follow me. I am to take you to your respective position.”
Before you could resist, she slipped a blindfold over your eyes and led you outside. The cold night air bit at your skin, your pulse quickening with every step. When the blindfold came off, you were near a shed, and  a shotgun was thrusted into your hands.
The bell tolled again, its echo swallowed by the night, and almost immediately, gunshots rang out, shattering the stillness. Manic laughter followed—sharp, jagged, and unhinged, like a predator’s glee.
You’d always been competitive, but killing innocent animals had never been your sport. As the Maid stepped away, a thought struck you. Without hesitation, you grabbed her arm, realizing you could easily disguise yourself—especially since the mask you wore among the guests would conceal your identity.
“Trade clothes with me," you said urgently, "please. It's a bit too heavy for hunting, don't you think?" you lied.
The maid looked hesitant at first but eventually agreed after you promised her some reward as long as she finds you afterward. You two ducked inside the shed and traded clothes.
The maid's uniform was simple and nondescript, just a black velvet dress that hugged the figure modestly with its high neckline framed by delicate white lace and long sleeves that gathered slightly at the shoulders with a matching lace at the cuffs. It was the perfect attire for hiding in plain sight. Or running, should you need to.
You muttered a thanks as she took her leave but just as you were buttoning yours, you heard noises—footsteps, closer now, and the sharp bark of a laugh that set your teeth on edge. You froze, your breath caught in your throat, as you crept toward the narrow window.
Outside, in the clearing beyond, stood the tall man whose obnoxious laugh had always filled the hall whenever you guys gather. His mask hung crooked on his face, barely concealing the manic grin beneath it. He cocked his rifle toward the shadows, his movements deliberate, his laughter trailing like the howl of a wolf on the hunt. Then he fired indiscriminately.
A rabbit fell first, its small body tumbling lifelessly into the frost-tipped grass. Then an eagle, a deer—anything that dared move. He chuckled to himself, carelessly slinging the dead rabbit over his shoulder as another figure emerged from the shadows.
“You’re hoarding everything,” the newcomer whined. He wore a double-faced mask—one side smiling, the other weeping—and his movements were unnervingly fluid, almost inhuman. “You’ve really got to leave some for us poor uncivilized folk. It’s not like we can afford to go hunting every week.”
The tall man turned with an arrogant shrug, his grin widening. “Well, some people are just meant to stay at the top.”
Before he could say more, the masked figure vanished—gone, like smoke dissipating into the night.
And then he was behind him.
You barely suppressed a gasp as the double-faced figure reappeared, silent and sudden, sinking his fangs deep into the tall man’s neck. There wasn’t even time for a scream—just a gurgled choke as the man’s body went limp, his rifle falling uselessly to the ground. The tall man’s once boisterous laughter was silenced forever.
You staggered back, horror twisting in your gut, bile rising in your throat. The realization hit you like ice—this wasn’t just a hunt. It was a literal bloodsport and you were part of the pecking order, a prey for a specific kind of predator.
You had to flee now.
Your pulse thundered in your ears as you darted out of the shed, the shadows of the garden swallowing you whole. Thorny rose bushes clawed at your skirt as you weaved through the rows, their petals dark as ink beneath the full moon. Then you heard it—a low, muffled protest. A man’s voice, weak and disbelieving. You froze, crouching behind the tangled branches, peering through a narrow clearing.
“You bastard—” the man on the ground croaked as he laid in a pool of his own blood. The bile rose in your throat as his voice cracked with desperate rage, “—they were right, you shouldn’t have lived.”
Another man suddenly stepped into the frame with unhurried ease, exuding an air of cold authority. Then with utter ruthlessness, brought his shoe down onto the bleeding man's face, tilting it toward your direction. The lifeless eyes locked onto yours, wide and unblinking, fangs bared in a final expression of fury—frozen in death.
“Why do you have to bleed that much?” the man above him muttered, his tone detached and annoyed. “It’s getting all over my trousers.”
Your breath caught. You knew that voice. That smooth, unbothered and utterly unforgiving voice.
Park Sunghoon.
He stood over the lifeless body, unnervingly casual, shaking his shoes to remove the last traces of blood, as though he’d swatted a fly instead of taken a life.
Your chest tightened. You should have known—he was a vampire after all which means he must have also been taking part in this brutal, predatory game. But seeing it like this, the casual ruthlessness in his every move, made the realization cut deeper than you’d ever prepared for.
Then, his head snapped up.
Fuck, you thought as you drew back instinctively, he knew.
You stifled a gasp, turning on your heel to bolt the other way—only to collide with something solid. Someone.
Sunghoon.
Before you could react, his fingers wrapped around your wrist, effortlessly stilling the blade you had instinctively raised between you. But it wasn’t the pain in your wrist that made your blood ran cold. It was the expression in his eyes. Cold. Calculating. It occured to you that if he could kill his own kind so easily and so remorselessly – killing you would be child’s play especially given the bad blood between you too.
“I should have known—" you said scornfully. Each word spitted out like venom, “you’re just like them.”
“I never said I was any different,” he replied smoothly, his brows arching with disinterested amusement, as though your accusation was a mild inconvenience. “Your words imply you thought otherwise though. I’m touched. But game’s over y/n, let’s stop beating around the—”
Before he could continue, the sharp twang of a bowstring shattered the silence. An arrow sliced through the air, embedding itself in the stone fountain between you with a thud.
“Not the most gentlemanly, is it?”
Both of you turned sharply.
Jaeyun stood at the edge of the clearing, a bow in hand, a smirk painted across his face. His plague doctor mask gleam rather luminously in the moonlight. “Attacking a lone woman? That’s very low of you, Lord Park. But then again, the bar has been in hell when it comes to you—"
Another arrow zipped through the air but Sunghoon caught it mid-flight, snapping the shaft with an almost irritated flick of his wrist. Before he could react further, however, Jaeyun fired again. This time, the arrow struck true, embedding itself into Sunghoon’s upper arm. While pulling his bowstring taut for another hit, Jaeyun tilted his head sharply in your direction, the motion clear and deliberate: run.
You didn’t need to be told twice. You bolted toward the castle, your dagger still clutched tightly in your hand. Behind you, the sound of movement—fast, deliberate, and unnervingly close—cut through the night, followed by the sharp crack of something violent. But you didn’t look back.
You tore through the rose garden, through the labyrinth of shadowed corridors, until the heavy castle doors loomed before you. They slammed shut behind you with a deafening boom, the echo resounding like a gunshot in the empty hall. Only then did you pause, chest heaving, your pulse a frantic rhythm beneath your skin.
As you force yourself to make your way through the series of hallways, dread rose with every step when you realised you had stepped into the Corridors of Treachery—its narrow, winding passages and endless series of identical doors looming ominously before you.
“Fuck,” you muttered defeatedly as you tried door after door, only to find yourself circling back to the same rooms you had already seen. It was as though the castle itself conspired to trap you within its labyrinth.
At this rate, he’d find you.
Then finally, one door opened to a different room. Relief surged through you—until you saw where you’d ended up. The library.
You groaned in frustration, about to turn back but then realised that perhaps this was exactly where you should be. You quickly shut the door behind you as you recalled the host mentioning how tonight's event was tradition. If it was tradition, then there had to be something written about it.
Grabbing the nearest lamp, you scanned the shelves for books that details about traditions or perhaps rituals, reading the titles aloud in a voice that is barely above a whisper: "The Blood Wars. The Vitae Manifesto. Of Reigns and Conquests. The Obsidian Testament. The Silent Prophecy—"
You froze. Backtracking, your fingers traced over one title. The Obsidian Testament.
“This—” you murmured, cutting yourself off as you freed the book from its resting place. You remembered a reference to this particular book yesterday, though the page had been burnt—intentionally, it seemed, as though someone had tried to erase all traces of its existence.
The words from The Annals of Kings surfaced in your mind like a whisper from the grave:  “The Obsidian Testament is no book—it is a hunger that feeds. Blood begets blood, and its truths are carved in the ruin of those who sought them.”
The Obsidian Testament felt heavier than you expected, its weight solid and unyielding, as if the book itself resisted being opened. The leather cover, cracked and brittle with age, was uneven beneath your fingertips. At first, you thought it was some widespread leather cracks, but no—there was something more deliberate about it. The surface felt etched, uneven ridges forming patterns you couldn’t quite discern under the flickering lamplight. But there was no time to linger.
Hurriedly, you flipped through the first few pages, your breath quickening as you searched for any explanation for the night’s macabre events but the first few pages only offered you macabre drawings of human, sigils and strange incantations.
There must be something, you thought desperately as you turned the brittle pages. The parchment crackled under your touch, the oppressive silence pressing in around you. Then, finally, something legible:
The Pureblood lineage, though unparalleled in strength, is not immune to the decay that plagues all empires. Bloodlines can weaken. Houses can fall.  To maintain the purity and continuation of our kind, vigilance is required. The survival of the Pureblood lineage is not merely a matter of existence but the continuation of perfection itself. The weak may breed indiscriminately, but the strong—the Purebloods—must refine and preserve their population with precision.
“Sounds like something straight out of a supremacist manifesto,” you murmured, but your words faltered as your eyes fell to the next few lines:
—what remains hidden knowledge, however, is that the act of turning a mortal into a Spoilblood, while widely practiced, harbors a purpose far greater than is openly acknowledged. The Reaping—is a truth reserved for the most exalted among us, a secret rite that transcends the mundane utility of turning. It is the keystone of power, a ritual that restores the Pureblood’s supremacy, binding mortality to perfection beneath the crimson glow of a blood moon. If, during a blood moon, a pureblood binds their hundredth Spoilblood, renewal grants power anew—
Just then you thought you saw movements outside the window. You peered through an opening, seeing three figures striding toward the castle, weapons glinting in the moonlight—a bat, a sickle, a scythe. The air grew heavy with the unmistakable promise of bloodshed.
You shoved the book back onto the shelf, your pulse hammering against your chest. Keeping to the shadows, you slipped back into the hall, trying every door possible. At last, one opened to a new hallway, but as you moved to leave, muffled cries stopped you.
“I’ll give you my wealth—my land—please!” The man’s voice was frantic, his words tumbling over each other in desperation. Looming over him were the 3 masked men from earlier, their choice of masks as macabre as the weapon in their hands
“Well, look who it is—the Actor,” the one in the Bauta Venetian mask said ,as he pushed the pleading man’s mask aside to reveal his face.
“Too bad,” sneered the one with the Baphomet mask, squatting beside him. “We’ve got too many pretty faces already. Shall we feast instead?”
“Sounds good to me. All that caviar and wine probably makes his blood taste divine.” The one in the clown mask pressed the edge of his scythe against the man’s neck. “Besides, he’s not good enough for the Reaping—not enough wealth and influence.”
The man’s protests fell on deaf ears, dissolving into guttural choking as the three figures descended upon him in a brutal, efficient frenzy. You turned away, bile rising in your throat, the wet, tearing sounds behind you digging into your mind like jagged glass.
Desperate to focus elsewhere, your gaze landed on the nearest window. The silver glow of the full moon spilled through it, freezing you in place as fragments of memory jolted through your mind, unbidden and sharp. Words from The Obsidian Testament rang like a broken radio—disjointed, warped. "When the full moon wanes, the blood moon will rise, and with it, chaos shall reign." The line clung to your thoughts, twisting with Anton’s offhand remark just a week ago: "There’s a Blood Moon this month," he’d said casually, as if it were a trivial astrological event.
The realisation struck you like a lightning bolt. Tonight's bloodsport wasn't simply for entertainment nor indulgence. It was preparation—an offering—for something far more insidious.
This wasn't just a game.
This was the prelude to a Reaping.
You needed to move—fast. The sickening sounds of their feeding still echoed down the corridor, making your skin crawl. Keeping low, you slipped past the door left ajar earlier and darted into the dimly lit hall, your footsteps light and deliberate. Ahead, a smaller door leading to the servants’ passage came into view.
You shoved it open, slipping through and climbing the spiral staircase two steps at a time, your breath quick and shallow. Then you heard it—the clatter of heavy footsteps below, sharp and deliberate. Looking down, your eyes locked with one of the men from earlier—the one in the Bauta mask. He stood at the base of the stairs, his head tilted, his expression unreadable beneath the eerie mask.
“Thought I sensed a weasel snooping around,” he called mockingly, his tone dripping with sinister amusement. “You’re mine, then.”
Panic surged. Fuck. You slammed the door shut behind you, twisting the lock just as he reached it, sprinting into what looked like a gallery of a statues. But everywhere you looked there were no exit in sight, just statues looming in eerie stillness, their solemn faces twisted as though mourning what was to come.
Behind you, the door crashed open, and his relentless footsteps followed, their sound reverberating through the empty space.
Desperation clawed at you as you slid behind one of the statues, your chest heaving, eyes darting around for an exit. Still none in sight. Your grip tightened around the dagger in your hand, its cool weight grounding you. The heart, you thought as your mind raced back to everything you’d read about vampires yesterday. That was their weak point.
But as your gaze flicked between the trembling dagger in your hand and the figure still prowling the gallery, searching for you, doubt seeped in like an unwelcome shadow. His towering build, his inhuman speed, his strength—there was no way you could overpower him.
Your eyes darted back to the blade, the calculated risk forming in your mind the only option left. Steeling yourself, you drew the blade across your thigh, wincing as the sharp pain flared and blood welled up in angry streaks which summoned him almost immediately. “Gotcha—" he sneered, as he closed the distance in one smooth unsettling motion, his grin stretching unnaturally wide, fangs bared in predatory triumph.
You let him topple you, his weight crashing down with bruising force. As you’d anticipated, his head dipped straight to your thigh, drawn to the fresh cut rather than your neck. His grip tightened, his breath sharp and ragged against your skin.
It was the opening you needed.
With a surge of determination, you drove the blade into his chest from his back, straight into his heart. A guttural hiss tore from his throat as his body convulsed, staggering back violently. Blood soaked his shirt as he clawed at the weapon embedded in his chest. He ripped it free with a snarl, flinging it aside like it was nothing more than an inconvenience. “You filthy wench,” he spat venomously, trying in vain to stem the flow of blood.
You didn’t wait. Scrambling to your feet, you grabbed the dagger he had thrown near you and darted back out to where you came from, sprinting into the corridor at the other end instead which led to a hallway lined with mirrors, their warped reflections casting eerie, shifting shadows. You sprinted aimlessly, your only thought to escape. But just as the end of the hallway came into view, something heavy wrenched you backward with inhuman strength. A hand clamped over your mouth, muffling your terrified cry. It can’t end like this, your mind screamed, desperation clawing at the edges of your sanity but no matter how hard you thrashed, it was futile and the next thing you knew, you were hurled into a small, confined space with the sound of the door clicking shut behind you sealing your fate.
Your back slammed against what felt like a cupboard, the hard surface digging painfully into your spine. The body pinning you in place was unyielding—a solid wall of muscle that absorbed your frantic shoves and kicks without faltering.
“Calm down, calm—” a familiar voice whispered, but with adrenaline fuelling your struggle, terror overrode recognition.
“y/n, calm the fuck down—it’s me, Sunghoon.”
Your movements stilled instantly, your chest heaving with ragged breaths. He flipped a hidden switch near the door, his face was set in frustration, though there was no malice in his eyes, “if you don’t stop struggling, they will find you—“
You looked at him, confused but suspicious. This was, afterall, still Sunghoon—a Pureblood who had killed another of his own tonight, and possibly Jaeyun as well. You were naturally next.
“Look,” he hissed, his tone edged with exasperation. “If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it already. I’ve had plenty of opportunities, remember?” His voice shifted then, quieter, almost coaxing. “I’m going to uncover your mouth, but only if you promise to stop fighting me—at least while we’re in here.”
Your heart pounded, your instincts screaming to resist, but grudgingly, you nodded. If he wanted you dead, he wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of dragging you here.
His hand dropped from your mouth, but before you could fully process what was happening, his arm moved behind you, sliding firmly along the curve of your back. With unsettling ease, he lifted you and settled you on top of the cupboard—the motion fluid and controlled, as though you weighed nothing.
Suddenly, he bit into his wrist, the blood welling instantly. “Sunghoon—what the hell—”
He didn’t answer. Instead, in one fluid movement, he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming as he positioned himself intimately between your legs, his hand sliding up your thigh with deliberate intent, the fabric of your dress gathering beneath his fingers.
“Hey—” you stammered, heat flushing your cheeks as you instinctively tried to stop him. But the protest died in your throat when you saw what he was doing—his bloodied wrist pressed against your wound, his movements steady, precise. The smear of crimson over your skin was deliberate, purposeful, and the air between you seemed to thrum with unspoken tension.
“This will mask the scent,” he murmured, his voice low and almost detached, though his eyes flickered briefly to meet yours. You were just about to ease up when without warning, his other hand had slid up your waist, his fingers splaying possessively over your lower back. Before you could reach, he pulled you flush against him with unsettling ease.
“Sunghoon, st—"
“We’re running out of time,” he cut you off, his tone sharp but tinged with something unfamiliar—urgency, almost pleading—something you’d never imagined him capable of. “You just have to trust me on this.”
But before you could even respond, Sunghoon had slammed his lips against yours. They were soft—unexpectedly so—but his movements were anything but. Fierce and unrelenting, the kiss carried a desperation that felt almost feral, as though the very act was a lifeline he was determined to seize.
You struggled against the onslaught, your hands pushing at his chest, but his grip over your waist tightened, anchoring you to him like a shield. Then the door burst open and his intent—his strategy—became clear to you. His body shifted instantly, fully shielding yours from view as his hand hooked firmly under your thigh, steadying you and sealing the ruse with unnerving precision.
Reluctantly, you played along, your hands faltering as his weight pressed against you, quashing any remaining space between your bodies. Your dress shifted dangerously high as his body leaned into yours, the act deliberate and unyielding. While every instinct screamed at you to shove him away, you forced yourself to stay still, to let the illusion hold—for now.
But then you felt his lips adeptly part yours—deepening the kiss in a way you were never prepared—stealing every breath and muffling every protests. The hard planes of his chest pressed against yours, the beat of his heart—or the echo of yours, you couldn't tell—pulsating in tandem with your own. The dresser creaked in protest, the faint sound barely registering above the storm of your senses.
Time itself seemed to bend, stretching each second unbearably long. Every sensation overwhelmed you—the heat radiating from his closeness, the weight of his touch, the faint creak of the dresser beneath you. It all blurred together, threatening to drown you in its intensity. But then his wandering hands jolted you out of the haze, yanking you sharply back into the present. In a swift, instinctive motion, you wrenched yourself from his embrace. "St-stop..." your breath coming in short, uneven gasps, "—they're... already gone."
Your heart pounded in your chest, and you struggled to steady your racing pulse. The stinging sensation on your lips serving as a persistent reminder of the scorching passion that had nearly consumed you. His kiss, like a brand, had left its mark.
Sunghoon stilled, his chest rising and falling, though you knew better—vampires didn’t tire. His jaw tensed, the sharp line of his profile shadowed as he turned slightly away.
“Right. Of course,” he muttered, his voice quieter than usual, as if trying to gather himself. His usual calm façade was intact, but you noticed the faintest flicker—a barely-there crack in his composure, “—it worked. That’s all that matters.”
You exhaled shakily, unable to look at him, your own pulse thrumming wildly against your ribs. “So, what now?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended as you tried to compose yourself, “we can’t just make out everytime there’s footsteps.”
He nodded absently, but midway, his brows arched as if you’d said something illuminating. “Actually, that’s a great idea. Come with me—”
“No—” You dug your heels in as he gripped your wrist—not roughly, but with enough firmness to tell you resistance was pointless. You give in, reluctantly letting let him pull you along, his pace deliberate but measured, as if he were navigating a trap you couldn’t yet see. Through a discreet side passage—a door you hadn’t noticed earlier—he led you to an ornate chamber, hidden away from the guest suites. The heavy door creaked open, revealing a room so grand it felt frozen in time: dark velvet drapery pooling on the floor, an unlit fireplace, and a sprawling canopy bed swathed in deep red fabric.
“This is your idea of a safe haven? Your room?” you scoffed as Sunghoon bolted the door shut behind him. With swift movements, he shrugged off his cloak and undid his buttons, feeling hot – though whether it was from all the running or memories from the earlier kiss, only he knew.
You backed away instinctively, unsettled by his casual ease, his shirt hanging open just enough to reveal glimpses of his sculpted chest, the memory of his touch still fresh, an unwelcome echo that made your skin prickle.
“Sunghoon, what are you doing? You’re not suggesting-“
“—unless you want to—” he smirked, tousling his well-kept hair with a deliberate flick. “Relax. I’m joking. Ease up.”
He leaned casually against the edge of the bed, his smirk deepening. “This really is the safest place. Firstly, it’s my room. Secondly, after seeing the way we ‘made out’ in that closet, naturally, they’d assume we’d escalate things here. You know… where we’d be up all night, tangled in—”
“Right! I get it-“ you interjected, cheeks blazing, “still though – this is your room. I’m supposed to let myself be locked with you for the whole night? This evening is as much of a bloodsport to you as it is to them.”
He sighed, “look, if trust is too much to ask, I’ll ask for your clear-headed logic then y/n. If I wanted you dead, you’d already be. But tonight, I’ve been saving you instead.”
“That’s the suspicious part, why did you save me then?”
The air was heavy. The silence felt like it dragged on for too long.
“I know what Noctis Imperium really is Sunghoon so if you want my trust then you must answer me honestly,” you tone was firm.
Sunghoon tilted his head lazily, his lips curving ever so faintly, “Oh? Do you now?”
You ignored the sardonic edge in his tone and pressed on. “It’s a Reaping, isn’t it?” the word dropped like a blade between you, heavy and damning. “The bloodsport? That’s just the opening act. It weeds out the unworthy—leaves only the best standing. The strongest. The smartest. The richest. And they’re the ones who get turned. It’s systematic.”
His gaze sharpened, but he didn’t interrupt.
“This event coincides with a blood moon which is due sometime this month—that’s very specific. If you guys wanted bloodsport, it didn’t even have to align,” you continued, stepping closer, “and clearly it isn’t just about sick entertainment is it? It’s about expansion—physically and financially.”
Your hands balled into fists at your sides as you turned to meet his gaze, your voice daring and unyielding. “If you want me to trust you tonight, then tell me—why are you here? For a Reaping as well?”
For the first time, something flickered in his expression. A fleeting shadow of recognition—or understanding—but it vanished as quickly as it came. His smirk didn’t return, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, measured, “sounds like you have done your homework-“
“That’s not an answer,” you cut off.
“Fine. If it will get you to shut up tonight, I’ll entertain you,” he plopped himself on the bed, hands braced behind him, “I had my suspicions about this... place,” he admitted, his tone calm but laced with something heavier, darker. “But a Reaping? That’s far-fetched. The Reaping is after all shunned and is not widespread knowledge,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, “it’s forbidden—archaic. Lost and buried for a reason.”
“Apparently not,” you shot back, “because I read a book on it in the library so you being here can either mean you’re part of this ring or someone is.”
“You’re smart enough to find this place and unearth a rather dark history and practice by my kind—” he spoke with a quiet, almost resigned tone, “but can't see just how absurd it'd be for me to play detective with you and ask you to run your simulation for me if all I wanted was to attend a ritual I am supposedly to have been part of?”
For a moment, your gaze faltered—not out of fear, but something closer to embarrassment. “Then why are you here?” you demanded, suspicion still sharp in your voice. His explanation didn’t erase your doubts—not yet.
“I’m kind of like you,” his voice is calm, “except I’m not just playing detective. I’m here to root out the deviants  among us. I don’t just cover foul plays up – I follow the trail and remove the troublemakers.”
You stared into his gaze a little longer, letting the silence simmer, trying to search if there is any faltering – if he was lying. But it is hard to tell with him.
“Not the answer you’re looking for?” he raised his brows – challenging and proud, “that’s entirely your fault for jumping into conclusions when it comes to me.”
“Well it’s not like you were the most forthcoming anyway,” you grumbled back, “you keep people in the dark and then say cryptic shit. You brought it unto yourself.”
He shrugged, “if you say so. The point is, if what you say is true then the odds are stacked against us.”
“us?” you echoed, incredulous, “Just a few days ago, you said I was nothing more than a tool. What’s changed? Can’t survive on your fangs alone?”
He scoffed, his smirk sharpening. “If it helps you sleep at night, then let’s just say it makes the two of us.” He leaned back slightly, his gaze steady and unreadable. “Now, can you set your blade down and ease up?”
You hesitated, the weight of his words settling heavily. Finally, you let out a sharp breath. “Fine. For now. But don’t mistake this for trust.”
His smirk deepened faintly, though his gaze remained steady. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Tumblr media
— ix
They said the third night was set to be a respite. But by now, you knew better. You knew their sick way of twisting words.
As you stood outside the Hall of Reckoning, your fists clenched tightly at your sides, the full weight of the night before bore down on you. The bloodsport, the laughter, the violence—it wasn’t chaos. It wasn’t chance. It was a gladiator ring.
The realization sat heavy in your chest, making it hard to breathe. You had no illusions about the outcome: the deck was stacked, and you were playing with cards designed to fail. But it was too late to run. Far too late.
“What about the masks?” you asked as you approached the butler usually manning the mask cart.
“No longer needed, Madam,” he replied smoothly, pushing the door open.
The Hall of Reckoning. At first glance, the name seemed almost merciful—a place where justice might be sought, where those who endured could demand retribution for their suffering.
But the irony revealed itself immediately. For the mortals, there could be no reckoning. Survival in the bloodsport had made them complicit in its savagery, their hands stained with the violence they had been forced to commit. This hall, for all its grandeur, wasn’t a sanctuary. It was a monument to their sins.
Every detail in the room seemed to echo that truth. Murals stretched across the vaulted ceiling, vivid and grotesque in their depiction of Dante’s seven circles of hell. Around the room, statues stood like solemn judges—angels with shattered wings, warriors frozen mid-fall, veiled damsels cloaked in grief. Their hollow eyes seemed to follow every movement, bearing silent witness to the carnage both endured and inflicted.
This wasn’t a Hall of Reckoning meant to absolve. It was designed to haunt.
The proof lay in the faces of the remaining guests. Unlike before, only a quarter of them had made it here, their masks removed for the first time. It was painfully clear now who among them were human for trepidation clung to their pale, drawn faces, their hollow gazes—stark contrast to the air of haughtiness and confidence that most displayed during the first day.
And then, there were the vampires. At least by the looks of it for their beauty was unparalleled, ethereal almost, as if they’d been carved from marble to perfection. But that perfection was unnerving, cold, their smiles charming yet faintly menacing in certain light. They moved with an unnatural grace, each step calculated and precise. Their eyes, ageless and predatory, gleamed like polished glass, betraying nothing but an unwavering hunger that lingered beneath their elegant façades.
Together, the humans and vampires painted a stark contrast: the fragility of mortality set against the eerie permanence of the immortal.
You were still absorbing the scene when a hand grasped yours, the touch firm yet deliberate, calculated.
Startled, you turned sharply, only to find yourself face-to-face with a man bowing slightly as he pressed a light kiss to your knuckles. “My Lady,” he murmured, his voice smooth and infuriatingly charming.  He straightened, and the wide playful grin that stretched across his face was unmistakable. The glint of a lip ring under the soft glow of the chandeliers sealed his identity.
“Jaeyun,” you muttered, his name slipping out like a reflex.
Unmasked, his face was even more disarming than you’d imagined. His features were sharp—his cheekbones high and his jawline so clean it seemed almost sculpted. Yet there was a boyishness to him, a devil-may-care charm that softened the harsh lines, making him look approachable in a way that felt both alluring and dangerous.
That grin of his was impossible to ignore. His lips, fuller and more expressive than you remembered, curled just slightly as if he were privy to a joke no one else was in on. The lip ring only added to his allure, a small but significant detail that gave him an edge, an irreverent flair.
He tilted his head, his golden hair catching the faint light, and for a moment, he seemed to drink in your surprise. His gaze was playful, mischievous, daring you to react. Where Sunghoon exuded stormy gravitas, with every movement deliberate and weighted, Jaeyun felt like a gust of wind—unpredictable, fleeting, and impossible to pin down.
Before you could react, you felt another presence—familiar, cold, and steady. A hand slid to the small of your back then over your waist, firm and commanding as it pulled you away from Jaeyun.
“You’ve had enough of his company,” Sunghoon said, his voice cutting through the din with icy precision. His tone was low but laced with a chill that sent a ripple through the air, “he’s just a vermin.”
Jaeyun’s grin widened, deliberately slow, as he released you, his movements deliberate and mocking. “Ah, or so I hear about last night,” he replied smoothly. His lip curled in amusement as his eyes flicked between you and Sunghoon. “Apologies. Just a formality, of course. I’d never dare touch what you’ve claimed, Lord Park.”
Your breath caught, mortified. You knew exactly what Jaeyun was implying.
“No, we’re not— we didn’t—" you tried to clarify, but Sunghoon’s grip tightened, cutting off your words as he turned you sharply, his hand firm on your waist as he steered you away.
“Excuse you,” you exclaimed, stumbling slightly as he wheeled you toward the table. His jaw was set, a shadow of something unreadable flashing in his eyes. Without a word, he pulled out a chair and practically pushed you into it, his actions possessive and territorial.
He snatched the plaque bearing Jaeyun’s name from the table and thrust it at a passing butler. “Find this bastard another seat,” he ordered coldly.
Before the butler could even take a step, Sunghoon dropped into the chair beside you—Jaeyun’s chair. His hand rested lightly on the table, fingers drumming in a rhythm that felt calculated, as though he was staking his claim with every deliberate tap.
“Just because you two have some bad blood doesn’t mean I should be the collateral damage,” you huffed, crossing your arms in defiance. “At least you didn’t kill him.”
“I should have,” Sunghoon’s gaze remained fixed on Jaeyun, his expression darkening. “You should stop letting him talk to you,” he said, his tone sharp. “He’s poison wrapped in silk. It doesn’t matter how harmless he seems—he’ll ruin you just the same.”
“And you’re not?” you shot back, your voice low but challenging. “Sunghoon, you’re just as suspicious as everyone else.”
His head snapped toward you, the storm in his gaze faltering. For a brief moment, something softer flickered across his features—something almost tender. His shoulders eased as he seemed to struggle for words.
“It’s not—” he began, his voice quieter, but his unfinished sentence hung in the air, swallowed by the sudden shift in the room.
“Welcome,” the host’s voice rang out, smooth and practiced, drawing all attention to the front of the room. He stepped forward, his grin too wide to be sincere. “After all the fun yesterday,” he drawled, his words dripping with theatrical flair, “tonight will just be purely a celebration. Unending feast and fireworks.”
The room shifted uneasily, the faint clink of glassware underscoring the uncomfortable silence.
“As I’ve reassured you all—what happened last night is not your fault,” the host continued, his grin widening to something almost maniacal. His gaze swept over the room like a predator scanning for weakness.
The words hung in the air, their implication sinking in like lead. The humans, especially, seemed to shrink into their seats, their faces pale and drawn, haunted by memories of the previous night.
“Greed,” the host continued, his voice both rich and biting, “is a poisonous thing. And with stakes so high, we understand when one must act… out of self-preservation.”
Your breath caught at his choice of words. Slowly, your gaze swept the hall, catching subtle tremors in the crowd—the twitch of a hand, the widening of eyes before they schooled back into forced calm. A woman in crimson sat frozen, her glass of wine untouched. Nearby, a man swallowed hard, his fingers gripping his fork like a lifeline. It struck you then: these people must have seen—or done—unspeakable things last night. Survival had come at a cost, and their faces betrayed that cost in every taut line and shadowed expression.
“Rest assured,” the host added, his tone lightening into something almost whimsical, yet no less sinister. “Our discretion is ironclad. Whatever happens here… stays here.”
The words slithered through the air like smoke, a chill rippling in their wake. It was meant to be reassurance but you knew better—it was a warning, one that is thinly veiled in polished charm.
For a moment, the room remained frozen, the silence taut with unspoken apprehension. Then, the faint clink of glassware broke the stillness—a subtle signal that sent ripples through the crowd. The guests shifted in their seats, some reaching hesitantly for their utensils, others masking their unease behind stiff smiles and murmured conversation.
You glanced down at the table before you as the quiet ceremony of dining began. The elaborate spread was a grotesque spectacle, the kind of decadence that bordered on parody. Platters overflowed with fleshy cuts of meat, dripping in dark wine sauces that shimmered like blood under the chandeliers. Fruits glistened like polished jewels, their vibrant colors almost too vivid to be real. Desserts spun from delicate sugar glimmered with an unnatural brilliance.
The clinking of forks and knives against fine china grated against your nerves. It wasn’t the sound of sustenance—it was a performance, a ritual of excess that felt grotesque in its mockery. You shifted uneasily in your seat, unable to quell the nausea roiling in your stomach. This wasn’t a feast for survivors. It was a celebration for predators.
“y/n,” Sunghoon’s voice cut through the oppressive din, low and quiet, his breath ghosting against your ear, “meet me in the library once the firework starts.”
You turned, but he was already gone, leaving behind only the faint scent of his cologne—a mix of wood and bergamot that lingered in the air, equal parts hypnotizing and suffocating.
Time dragged after that, the air in the hall thick with unspoken tension. Each moment stretched unbearably as the chatter around you ebbed and flowed, the underlying unease never quite dissipating. When the first explosion of light burst across the night sky, you slipped away unnoticed, your footsteps soft amidst the murmurs of awe and raised glasses.
The Corridors of Treachery felt colder, quieter as you made your way to the library. Once, these endless stretches of identical doors and twisting hallways had felt alive—ever-shifting, as though the castle itself sought to mislead and ensnare. But now, their tricks no longer held sway over you. After several visits, you had unraveled their secrets, piecing together the intricate design that made chaos into order.
The corridor was more than a labyrinth; they were a calculated test. A clever combination of architectural illusion, psychological distortion, and mathematical precision, that tests not just one’s preserverance—but also the mind. The patterns embedded in the walls required focus to decipher: sconces positioned slightly off-center, cracks in the stone tiles forming faint lines that pointed toward the correct path, even the rhythmic shifts in echo that whispered of direction. It wasn’t enough to simply try door after door—one needed intellect and restraint to navigate the maze. If approached in a state of heightened fear, the corridors became a prison. Anxiety clouded judgment, turned every door into a dead end, and every turn into an endless loop. But you’d learned to steady yourself, to let logic and observation guide your steps rather than emotion.
Now, your movements were purposeful, almost effortless. Three lefts, a right, pause at the second door. The sequence was etched into your mind, the once-treacherous maze reduced to a solvable equation. Without hesitation, you pushed open the heavy library door.
The room stretched before you, towering shelves disappearing into the shadows. The faint scent of aged parchment and leather hung in the air as you lit your oil lamp, its flickering glow barely cutting through the darkness.
Sunghoon, however, wasn’t there.
Figures, you sighed, trailing your fingers along the shelves, half out of habit, half out of frustration. Why did he even—
A sudden gust of wind swept through the room, sharp and biting. The lamp hissed and went dark, plunging you into thick silence. You stilled, your heart leaping into your throat as darkness swallowed you whole.
Moonlight spilled through the tall, arched windows, faint and ethereal. The shadows danced in its glow, painting the room in shifting silver and gray. You fumbled for the small flint striker embedder near the base of the oil lamp, about to twist it when a glimmer among the books caught your eye—faint but unmistakable.
You stilled, the lamp momentarily forgotten as you stepped closer towards the book in the shelf. It wasn’t just the sheen of the leather—it was something deliberate, something hidden. Your fingers brushed the spine, its texture rough and cold. It was The Obsidian Testament—the one you picked out yesterday—but beneath the gilded letters were faint Latin scrawls, curling like veins across the surface like an incantation. You didn’t remember them being there yesterday.
You pulled the book free, its weight heavier than it should have been, like it carried more than just words within its pages.
As you turned it over in your hands, you can feel the roughness in the surface— something you noticed yesterday but didn’t press on. It didn't feel like wear and tear. It was faintly raised but textured in a way that felt deliberate, though the design was invisible to the naked eye. You held it closer to the window, letting the silver light of the moon spill across its surface.
And then you saw it.
Slowly, like ink blooming through parchment, a faint, silvery glow materialised. Ominously scrawled in faint, curling script were words you could barely decipher:"The blood of the pure seals the bond. The moon bears witness."
Beneath it, a coat of arms emerged—hidden from sight, lying dormant until called forth by the moonlight. A spiked crown sat atop the shield, flanked by a raven and a wolf poised as sentinels. Intricate designs framed the emblem, with the motto etched beneath it: "In shadows, we endure. In blood, we rise."
Your blood turned cold. You knew that coat of arms.
“Sunghoon,” you whispered, the realization hitting you like a thunderclap. It was his crest—the same one he often wore on his lapel.
“Took you long enough,” a low voice drawled, making you jump. You whirled, your heart pounding as a figure emerged from the shadows near the door. For a moment, you thought it was Sunghoon but as he stepped into the faint glow of moonlight, the features were unmistakably Jaeyun’s.
“What do you mean?” you demanded, taking a step back toward the table. Unease curled in your chest.
He scoffed, looking mildly offended as he stepped closer. The way the moonlight caught his face accentuated the sharpness of his grin—mischievous, yes, but laced with something colder. “Why do you look so scared of me now? Sunghoon should be the one you’re wary of. Ah, of course, he did save you, didn’t he?”
Before you could react, he vanished—only to reappear beside you, one hand braced against the table as he leaned down, head tilted coyly. Another vampire, you thought.
“Ever considered that saving you serves him more than it serves you? Perhaps he might even be saving you for himself.”
You stiffened, refusing to let his words take root. “And what about you? You’ve been dropping crumbs here and there for me—” you countered sharply. “Nothing is ever free—not from the likes of you.”
Jaeyun’s lips quirked, amused. “You sound just like one of us, y/n. You would make a great addition,” he drawled. “I’m helping because well, you’re not my enemy and I hate inflicting collateral damage.”
“And your enemy is?”
“Sunghoon. Or rather, royal purebloods like him. Someone who has a legacy to reclaim,” he said with a singsong edge. “They represent the dark ages—the rigid hierarchy of power that exalted purity above all else, splintering us with its toxic elitism.”
“Are you not a pureblood?”
“No. I’m a halfblood—borne out of a Pureblood and a Spoilblood.” His tone turned casual, but there was a slight edge to it. “Practically blasphemy to those supremacists. Think of it like a noble bedding their servant.”
The admission hung in the air, bitter and heavy. But you knew better than to simply lap up his words, “and yet you’re here? Toasting and laughing as if you belong.”
His grin faltered just slightly, a flicker of something darker flashing across his face before he masked it with his usual nonchalance. “I’m here because time has changed. We, here, are no longer bound by such hierarchical concept of power—”
He unfurled his hand, and another book materialised. You recognised it immediately—The Annals of Kings, the book you’d pocketed the other day, “—but nothing stays buried forever. Blood, as they say, runs thicker than water.”
Your frown deepened as you stepped closer, your eyes scanning the page he’d flipped open. It was the family tree—the same one you’d seen before, with several members’ pictures burnt out, their identities erased.
“The Annals of Kings usually purges the disgraced from history,” Jaeyun said, his tone casual but laced with intrigue.
Your gaze drifted lower, catching on a footnote you hadn’t noticed before. It detailed how, after the kingdom fell, forbidden books like the Obsidian Testament were uncovered and destroyed. But one line stopped you cold: “Rumor has it the royal bloodline survived through a single son, then eight years old, whose charred remains were never found.”
Your eyes shifted to the Obsidian Testament on the table, the coat of arms seem to glow brighter, its presence now feeling impossibly heavy.
“Who do you think that son grew up to be?” Jaeyun asked softly, his voice a dark thread weaving through your spiralling thoughts.
Your throat tightened. His words gnawed at you, each syllable fitting too neatly into the doubts you were already trying to suppress about Sunghoon. But Jaeyun wasn’t someone you could trust—not completely. His grin felt like a trap disguised as an invitation. Trying to seem unfazed, you retorted, “And your point is?”
“That you should know your enemies,” he said, stepping closer, his presence suffocating. “The Reaping holds immense significance for someone like him—symbolically and physically.” His lips curled into a bitter smile. “The current shadow reign is fracturing, and if someone like him—a figure with such legacy—steps forward to challenge it, everything could come crashing down."
“He is, after all—” Jaeyun suddenly appeared behind you, his long fingers curling around both of your arms like claws. He turned you sharply toward the window, forcing you to look outside.
Below, the rose garden was alive with movements, figures clashing in a violent blur. Your breath hitched as a body crumpled near the fountain, blood pooling beneath it. Then, through the shifting shadows, Sunghoon stepped into view, his chest heaving, a bloodied sword in hand. His expression was cold, detached, as he surveyed the carnage.
“—notorious for being bloodthirsty,” Jaeyun finished, his tone dripping with venom.
“You're not su—” you called out but when you turned, he was already gone, leaving only the echo of his words in your ears.
Before you could process his disappearance, the sharp sound of steel meeting steel cut through the air, pulling your attention sharply back to the garden.
You turned toward the window again, just in time to see Sunghoon locked in battle once more. Two shadows darted around him, their movements impossibly fast—blurs of black against the silver glow of the moonlight. The figures clashed violently, steel colliding in bursts of sparks, the muted sounds barely audible beneath the distant roar of fireworks.
Your breath caught as Sunghoon dodged a strike aimed at his head, his blade moving in a deadly rhythm to fend off one blow after another. The attackers worked in tandem, circling him like wolves hunting their prey.
Almost without realizing it, you followed their movements from one window to the next, each fleeting glimpse quickening your pulse. When you reached the outer hallway near the armory, the scene came into sharp focus.
Sunghoon stood at the center of the rose garden, near the weeping angel statue. The moonlight bathed the scene in stark clarity, illuminating his form as he fended off the taller of the two attackers. The man’s strikes were heavy and relentless, forcing Sunghoon back with every blow.
Then, with a sharp pivot, Sunghoon turned the tide. His blade cleanly plunging into his chest with brutal precision. Blood sprayed across the weeping angel grotesquely as the figure crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
But the danger wasn’t over.
The second attacker appeared from the shadows behind him, silent and deadly, a spear poised to strike.
Given everything you’d pieced together about him—his secrets, his lies, his family—you probably should have let nature run its course. Let him get attacked. Let him fall. Let him bleed.
But you didn’t and apparently, your body had a life of its own as your hands moved before your could catch up, grabbing a bow that had been left discarded near the windowsill. The wood felt foreign and unwieldy in your grip, but you didn’t care. Your fingers fumbled, pulling the string taut, the arrow trembling as you tried to steady your aim.
You weren’t a good shot. You knew that. The arrow might not even strike the man. But it didn’t need to. All it had to do was distract him.
You exhaled sharply, releasing the arrow. It cut through the air, a streak of silver in the darkness. The attacker flinched as the arrow grazed his arm, his blade faltering mid-swing. It was enough.
Sunghoon spun with brutal precision, his sword arcing upward in a deadly sweep. The man barely had time to react before the blade found its mark, cutting him down. His body hit the ground with a sickening thud, blood pooling around him as the garden fell silent once more.
For a moment, Sunghoon stood motionless, the tip of his blade resting in the dirt, as if even he needed a reprieve. Then you saw it—a dark patch blooming on his coat, stark against the pale moonlight. Blood.
Your breath hitched. You couldn’t tell why your chest tightened at the sight, but it did.
He staggered, using his sword for support, his breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps. But before you could call out to him, he vanished—a blur dissolving into the shadowy expanse of the garden below.
“Sunghoon!” you called after him, but the only response was the distant crackle of fading fireworks. Darting from one window to the next, you searched desperately, peering into the garden for any sign of him.
But all you found was stillness.
The gardens were littered with lifeless bodies, their forms grotesque and twisted. Some had fangs bared, their features frozen in feral rage. Others had begun to disintegrate—their flesh sloughing off in patches, bones crumbling into soil as though the earth itself were reclaiming them. That was apparently how vampires die, you realized with a shudder: reverting to their original forms, their unnatural beauty undone, and their once-mighty presence reduced to the frailty of dust and decay.
But more than the remains, it was Sunghoon’s vanishing that disturbed you the most. As you lingered by the window, the night only grew quieter. The shadows betrayed nothing, and the garden below remained hauntingly still.
He won’t die easily, you reassured yourself as you hesitantly step away from the window, eyes still flicking toward the darkened garden as you made your way back to your room, each step heavier than the last. You pushed your door absentmindedly, mind lost in thoughts, why do you care so much, you thought bitterly, trying to distract yourself, he’s not your ally. He is a lying, manipulative-
Except there he was—the very man who haunted your mind—sitting at the foot of your bed.
Battered, bruised, and bloodied, Sunghoon looked nothing like the composed predator you’d grown accustomed to. His back rested against the mattress, his head tilted back in exhaustion, eyes half-lidded as if he barely registered your presence. Blood stained his shirt, his once-pristine collar torn and soaked through. The dark fabric clung to his skin, emphasizing the sharp lines of his frame and the sheer vulnerability of his state.
“Sunghoon…” you whispered, unsure whether it was relief or fear tightening your throat.
He didn’t respond immediately, his breathing shallow and uneven. For a fleeting moment, the vulnerability of the scene struck you—this wasn’t the stoic, untouchable figure you’d grown used to. He looked... mortal.
His head shifted slightly, but his gaze didn’t meet yours. “I’m fine,” he muttered hoarsely, frustration lacing his voice. “Just… give me a moment.”
You stepped closer, your body moving before your mind could catch up. Despite everything—the lies, the doubts, the warning signs—you knelt in front of him, hands trembling. “You’re bleeding out, you’re not fine,” you said sharply.
Your eyes dropped to the dark patch spreading across his lower abdomen, fresh blood seeping through the fabric. Panic licked at the edges of your mind as you remembered how his wounds used to heal instantly. “Why isn’t it healing?” you asked, horrified.
“Too much damage for an old body, I guess,” he quipped weakly, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips before he winced.
“But you’re a pureblood,” you blurted – reminded suddenly of what Jaeyun had said earlier, how the Reaping was significant for someone like Sunghoon, not just symbolically but physically. “Never mind,” you said quickly, hoisting his arm over your shoulders. “We need to stop the bleeding. Can you get up?”
“You know,” he rasped, leaning heavily against you, “if you leave me here, I could just… die. Problem solved.”
“Not funny,” you gritted out, half-dragging him to the bed. “Besides, too late for that. I’m already in this gladiator ring. You’d just be replaced by someone worse.”
“You’re adapting well,” he drawled, though his voice was strained.
“And you’re not,” you shot back, grimacing as his head thudded lightly against the wooden frame. His sharp intake of breath made your guilt flare. “Sorry,” you muttered, adjusting him with more care, “I’m not used to you being this… human. Stay here, I’ll be back.”
You returned moments later with a first-aid kit. His face was slick with sweat, but his eyes—sharp and calculating—followed your every movement. He leaned back against the headboard, his posture deceptively casual despite the bruises and blood staining his shirt. One leg stretched out along the mattress, while the other was bent at the knee, his foot tucked close to his thigh.
You settled beside his bent leg, placing the kit near his outstretched one for easy access. Shrugging off your sheer cape to free your arms, the fabric pooled beside you, leaving you in the midnight-black velvet dress beneath. The low sweetheart neckline felt far too revealing for your comfort, but practicality took precedence. Ignoring the unease prickling at the back of your mind, you focused on sorting through the kit’s contents with swift precision.
“Baring your shoulders in front of a wounded vampire,” Sunghoon murmured, his lips curving into a faint smirk despite the exhaustion that lined his features. His gaze flicked briefly to your now-bared shoulders. “Reckless.”
“If you had no self-control, like eight years ago, you’d have flung yourself at me cape and all,” you grumbled disinterestedly while tearing open a sterile pad. You didn’t miss the slight twitch of his brow at your words.
“This is going to sound crude,” you continued, gesturing at the blood-soaked fabric covering his lower abdomen, “but you need to take that off.”
He smirked, the expression so maddeningly coy that you were this close to hurling the entire first-aid kit at his face. Only the sight of his injuries stopped you.
“Gladly,” he drawled, his tone light and infuriating, “but I’m far too weak right now. You’ll have to do the honors.”
You scowled. “I know you’re not that weak.”
He leaned back, the movement drawing his bent leg closer to you, his gaze never leaving yours, “your choice.”
Cursing under your breath, you leaned closer and began unbuttoning his shirt. The fabric peeled away, revealing the deep, angry wound slashing across his abdomen. Blood seeped sluggishly, staining his pale skin—but it wasn’t just the injury that caught your attention. Beneath the torn fabric, the sharp lines of his torso stood out, his muscles tense under the faint light.
It was jarring how even battered and shirtless, his broad shoulders and tall frame made him seem larger than life. His physique, though marred by the fresh wounds, seemed to amplify his imposing aura, each flex of muscle a stark reminder of the strength he carried even in his weakest moments. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to focus on the gash instead of the sheer dominance his form exuded.
“Hold still,” you muttered, pressing an alcohol-soaked pad against the gash.
He hissed, his knuckles going white as he gripped the sheets. “You could be gentler.”
“Enjoy it,” you said with mock cheer, pressing harder. “Your super-healing isn’t working, so welcome to our reality.”
His exhale was sharp, almost a laugh, though it sounded more like a groan. “Why did they attack you?” you asked, focused on cleaning the wound.
“There’s always a bounty on the head of a pureblood,” he replied dismissively, his tone brushing off the question.
“Especially a pureblood with a reigning ancestry?” you pressed though his expression didn’t shift.
“Does knowing that I have links to old royalty suddenly make me attractive?” he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“You tell me,” you retorted, dabbing the edges of the wound clean before reaching for the gauze. “Apparently the Reaping originated from your family. You knew all about it.”
“I love how distrustful you are of me,” he muttered, his voice laced with dry amusement, “and yet here you are—patching me up, looking rather vulnerable yourself.” His gaze dripped briefly down to your body, as if trying to unsettle you. “I wear my crest openly, y/n. If I wanted to hide my ancestry, I wouldn’t flaunt it, would I? And besides—” a sardonic smirk tugged at his lips, “—if I’d completed my first Reaping ages ago, I wouldn’t be in this pathetic state, relying on a mere mortal to save me.”
“You’re a walking contradiction do you know that?” you muttered, eyes focused on cleaning the remaining dark blood on his gash. “Let’s say you do hate your background that much then why wear the crest around like a badge of honor?”
Sunghoon didn’t hesitate, his voice calm but carrying an edge of practicality. “Because in places like these,” he gestured subtly, “ancestry and purity of blood can mean everything. That crest opens doors that would otherwise be slammed shut. It’s a key, y/n and one I’ve learned to wield to my advantage.”
“You always talk as if you’re not one of them.”
He scoffed weakly, “I’ve killed some of them and they tried to kill me as well—does that look like we are of the same camp?”
Your hands stilled, your gaze lifting to meet his. It was infuriating how his answers were always so maddeningly straightforward—delivered with an air of certainty that made your doubts feel baseless. It wasn’t just irritating—it made you feel stupid, even guilty. Like your suspicions were nothing more than the product of paranoia, blinding you to truths that should be obvious.
“You said you haven’t completed even your first cycle of Reaping—why?”
He leaned back, a sardonic smirk tugging at his lips. “While we’re at it, why don’t you ask how many people I’ve bedded over the centuries I’ve lived?” His voice was laced with mockery, his gaze unrelenting. “You don’t get to ask all the questions, y/n. It takes two to tango.”
Your brows furrowed as you pressed an adhesive bandage over the wound on his abdomen. “Fine. Then you can ask me questions, though I doubt there’s anything interesting you don’t already know.”
His smirk faded, replaced by a sharper edge as his eyes narrowed. “Why did you save me back there?”
You stilled, realizing too late that maybe you shouldn’t have egged him on. His gaze pinned you, waiting for an answer you weren’t sure how to give.
Avoiding his piercing eyes, you grabbed an antiseptic wipe and turned your attention to the shallow cut on his bicep. “Hold still,” you muttered, focusing on dabbing at the wound.
His muscles tensed slightly under your touch. “If you want honesty from me,” he murmured, his tone low and firm, “you’ll need to give me just as much honesty.”
You pressed the pad harder than necessary, drawing a sharp inhale from him. “To make us even,” you answered steadily. “You saved me twice. Now it’s repaid.”
He scoffed, “Of course.”
You shifted closer, careful not to lean too far into his space, though the proximity was unavoidable. Your hands moved to tend to the faint bruises along his jaw, the sharp lines of his face brushing against your fingertips. His skin was cool beneath your touch, but the air between you felt heavy, charged.
Your knees brushed his as you adjusted your position, the small contact enough to make you hyper-aware of how close the two of you were. His shirtless torso, marred by bruises and blood, felt more imposing than vulnerable this close.
You feigned nonchalance, focusing intently on the bruises instead of the weight of his gaze burning into you. The room didn’t help—the soft crackle of the fireplace was casting flickering light across his face, deepening the shadows under his sharp cheekbones and making the moment feel stiflingly intimate.
“You’re awfully quiet suddenly,” he mocked, his tone low and taunting. “Also, why are you avoiding my gaze? You’re not suddenly shy are you? After taking off my—ugh—” He winced as you pressed the antiseptic harder than necessary onto the cut along his cheekbone.
“Isn't it my turn now?” you shot back, your voice sharp and unwavering. “You haven’t answered my question earlier—why haven’t you completed the Reaping?”
He sighed. "Because it’s barbaric,” he said evenly, though a flicker of something darker seeped into his tone. “If you believe a vampire can ever have a moral standing, this would be the closest thing I have to it.”
He paused, his voice dipping lower, laced with bitterness that seemed to surface despite his best efforts, “tying someone to your power for eternity? That’s not dominance—that’s desperation. It’s a legacy I’ve spent centuries trying to outrun—the dark history of which I constantly had to carry over my shoulders, sins of which are thrusted upon me as though I am to pay their penance.”
His tone softened, almost imperceptibly, as he continued. “That’s probably why I’ve allied myself with the Council of Elders for a long time. It started as an act to prove to the world that I am not like what my blood dictates—” his voice dipped, quieter now, as if he was speaking more to himself than to you, “—but now it just feels like a duty. A duty to clean the world after the seeds of chaos that my ancestors have planted—“
Your gaze flicked to his, caught off guard by the quiet rawness in his tone. His eyes were elsewhere, focused on the flickering shadows dancing along the walls—perhaps trying to distract himself, perhaps lost in a memory. The sincerity in his words was equal parts fascinating and infuriating. Infuriating because they felt genuine. Too genuine for someone like him. It’s as if being reduced to this state—a state just a fraction closer to that of a mere mortal—extinguish the cryptic layers he had always put up.
But of course, such a rare moment didn’t last long. His gaze returned to yours, and so did the familiar smirk—lazy, detached and maddening. “Besides, I’ve never seen the need for renewal,” he added lightly, brushing the weight of his previous words aside, “longevity is getting boring anyway. Unless, of course, you’re offering yourself up to be mine. That might make eternity interesting again.”
He leaned forward slightly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “We could spend centuries being at each other’s throats. Literally.”
“I’d poison my blood first then we both can go down together,” you rolled your eyes, moving on to the huge cut on his eyebrows.
“Just like how you poisoned me 8 years ago?” he said suddenly.
That was it. The elephant in the room. Finally out in the open.
Your hand stilled, a physical testament to the guilt you’d carried for years. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, but his stare was inescapable—heavy, suffocating, like it had the weight to crush you on the spot. “I guess the grudge is still there, alright,” you said, your tone brittle with feigned nonchalance, desperate to temper the tension building between you. The isolation, the proximity—it was all suddenly too much. “Then why haven’t you carried out your vengeance?”
“I asked first,” he retorted sharply. Beneath the edge of his voice, though, there was something fragile, almost pleading. “Why did you poison me?”
You hesitated, the truth clawing at the back of your throat. “Because we’re not meant to be,” you finally said, after some hesitation, surprised at yourself for the honesty and depth that you yourself never dared to confront. “We’re too dangerous for each other. Too toxic. It was the only way to break it.”
Sunghoon scoffed, his hand shooting out to capture yours. His grip was firm, startlingly so, yet it lacked malice—gentle in a way that forced your gaze to his. His eyes were unguarded, piercing, the storm within them quieting into something raw and vulnerable.
“Did you ever love me?” he murmured, his voice cracking faintly under the weight of the words.
You froze. The question hit you like a tidal wave, its weight settling deep in your chest. His gaze softened, achingly so, as if the silence cut.
“Did you?” he croaked, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it held a sharp edge, as though the answer could either mend or shatter him.
The guilt clawed at you, deeper than ever, threatening to crack the mask you wore. “Hardly matters anymore, does it?” you shot back, your voice wavering despite your best effort. “I ended it in the worst way possible.”
His grip over yours tightened ever so slightly, his jaw clenching as frustration flickered across his face. Slowly, deliberately, he shifted. Rising halfway, he leaned forward, his shadow devouring the faint light as his frame loomed impossibly large over you. The bed dipped under his weight, tilting you toward him as if even the mattress was conspiring to close the gap.
And suddenly, he was too close—towering over you like a shadow you couldn’t escape. You instinctively leaned back, but his free hand braced against the bed beside you, a silent, immovable barrier that kept you locked in place.
You swallowed thickly, realising how utterly compromising the moment was. His sheer size, the commanding breadth of his shoulders, the dominance in the way he loomed over you, left no room for doubt: he could crush you if he wanted to. The sharp lines of his torso, from the broad planes of his chest to the rigid definition of his abdomen, were marked by bruises and wounds that should have humanized him, softened the edge of his dominance—but they didn’t. Even in his weakened state, he radiated sheer power, every ripple of muscle a quiet, unspoken warning that he could break you, overwhelm you, overpower you, without much effort. His grip on you wrist wasn’t painful, but it thrummed with latent power, the kind that made you all too aware of the control he wasn’t even exerting yet.
You hated how easily he made you feel so small. Yet, despite the tightness in your chest and the way his gaze bore into yours with a storm of unspoken emotions, you refused to flinch. Refused to show that he has an effect on you. You knew him—getting you flustered and yield had always been something he thrived on and now, in a set-up that is meant to amplify it, you refused to give him that satisfaction.
“My turn,” you murmured, the words cutting through the silence like a thread pulled too tight. “Did you?” the question wasn’t a slip—it was purposeful, a strike meant to turn the tables.
Except, the joke was probably on you because instead of a response, something in him snapped. His grip on your wrist tightened almost too punishingly and his other hand shot to your jaw, holding you still as his lips crashed against yours.
Your body tensed at the unexpected contact, but his arm had slithered around your back—locking you in place like a steel band—fingers digging into your ribs as if tethering you in place—closer, ever closer—leaving no room to move, no air to breathe, only the suffocating weight of his presence pressing down on you. The curve of his palm seemed to mold perfectly to your body, a gesture that felt both infuriatingly possessive and unnervingly intimate. His hand, a possessive vice around your nape, tilted your head, allowing him to plunder your mouth with a punishing intensity, his lips slotting against yours with a brutal, consuming force.
You hands clawed at his shoulders, frantically trying to push him off, to break free, but every resistance seemed to ignite a darker hunger within him. With a grunt, he crushed you against him, making you feel every plane and contour of his chest and muscles, the searing heat of his skin branding yours, the unyielding planes of his chest pressing into you, heavy and demanding. Before you could catch your breath, he pressed forward with a brutal force, throwing off your balance and sending you crashing down onto the sheets—his lips never leaving yours as if it was his very lifeline. The world around you spun and you struggled to regain your bearings, but he was relentless, his lips moving with ever greater fervour, forcing your lips apart, his tongue invading your mouth with a forceful, dominant stroke.
The weight of his body pinned you down, heavy and unyielding, his bare skin hot against yours—suffocating and intoxicating all at once. Your breath was coming up in ragged gasps as you struggled against the tide of sensations that threatened to drown you. Like sandcastles against the tide, your resistance crumbled under the unrelenting force of his lips and touch. Your hands, grasping for purchase, clung to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you struggled to anchor yourself, as his tongue plundered your mouth with renewed vigor, claiming every inch, demanding your surrender, refusing to accept anything less.
As you softened under him, his hands glided along your sides, caressing every curve and dip with purposeful precision, setting every nerve alight, while making you feel every plane and contour of his chest and muscles. His taut muscles rippled beneath your touch, a testament to his restrained power. Lost in the tempest of sensations, you barely noticed his his hand creeping higher up your thigh, bunching your dress dangerously high. It was only then did you realised just how far things had escalated. Jerking back to reality, you wedged a hand against his chest, breaking the kiss, and grabbed for his wandering hand, your breath coming in ragged gasps.
But like a raging inferno, Sunghoon was unstoppable, his lips now trailing a scorching path down your neck, leaving a wake of fiery, open-mouthed kisses that seared your skin. "Sunghoon, stop," you gasped, panic lacing your voice as his hand pried yours away and pinned it painfully against the bed. You were utterly powerless then, your movements and strength futile against his onslaught.  For a terrifying moment, you thought he might sink his fangs into your neck, draining you of your lifesource, but instead, he continued to ravage you with his lips and hands—leaving marks and that burned and bruised. It was quickly dawning on you just how far gone Sunghoon was and the prospect of where it was heading terrified you more than getting bitten was. “Sunghoon, please—"  you begged, your voice breaking, and that seemed to have to snap him back to reality for his movements stilled, face hovering inches from yours. The look in his eyes was wild and uncertain, as if he was struggling to reign himself in from crossing a dangerous line.
"I- I’m sorry," he muttered, voice low and hoarse, tinged with something that almost sounded like guilt. He moved off you in one fluid motion, retreating like a shadow, his usual composure slowly slipping back into place. "I shouldn’t have—" He ran a hand through his hair, sighing heavily. "— just stay here for the night, okay? It’s safer. I’ll stay watch outside."
You remained frozen, your breathing uneven, your heart pounding in the deafening silence he left behind. The door clicked shut, but the echoes of his presence lingered, searing into you like a brand. Your bruised lips throbbed, the faint crescent-shaped imprints of his nails burned on your skin, and your neck felt alive with the memory of where his lips had lingered. Every mark he left wasn’t just a reminder of him—it was a reminder of what lay beneath the surface: a beast, barely leashed.
And yet, it wasn’t his loss of control that haunted you most. It was the way, in the charged stillness of the moment, you hadn’t fought him. You hadn’t turned away. Some part of you had yielded—not out of weakness, but out of something more dangerous.
The truth gripped you now, unrelenting: it wasn’t just Sunghoon you didn’t trust.
It was yourself.
Tumblr media
— x
As foretold, the sun set the following day beneath a blood moon, casting an eerie reddish glow over the fourth evening, which was to be held in the Hall of Glory. As if mirroring your impending doom, the castle had been unnaturally still all day. The familiar footsteps of maids in the hall and the muted clink of silverware being set had disappeared, replaced by an oppressive, almost reverent silence. No maids brought breakfast to your door. No butlers appeared with fresh linens.
The absence wasn’t coincidence—it was tradition. You’d overheard whispers in the days before, half-muttered exchanges between the staff about “the sacred day” when they were to leave the castle as it would be reserved only for the “worthy.” You hadn’t understood the gravity of those words then, but now, under the ominous glow of the blood moon and the oppressive stillness of the castle’s grandeur, it felt like a prelude to slaughter. As if you’d stepped willingly into a gilded abattoir.
Unlike the vast, awe-inspiring spaces of the previous halls, the Hall of Glory was smaller, darker, and far more intimate, as though it were designed to suffocate rather than inspire. Towering columns stood sentinel around the circular chamber, their presence oppressive and unyielding. Between them loomed statues of tragedy: alabaster angels with torn wings, warriors collapsing under unseen burdens, veiled women weeping into gilded boxes clutched reverently in their hands. Each figure radiated its own unique agony, frozen mid-suffering, their despair immortalized in marble—a chilling homage to the 'glory' promised by the hall’s name.
At the center rose a massive stained-glass window, its grotesque designs seeming to shift under scrutiny. The blood moon’s crimson light spilled through, bleeding into the chamber and fracturing into jagged patterns across the polished floor, pooling like spilled wine—or something darker.
Then, as though drawn by the room’s gravity, the host appeared at the grand doorway, his jubilance a stark contrast to the oppressive room. “Welcome, my survivors!” he proclaimed, arms flung wide. “The best part of our tradition has finally arrived! As you can see, the hall is surrounded by statues. If they seem to call to you, perhaps they are. In fact,” he paused for emphasis, “at their base, you’ll find your names, and in their hands lie a gilded box where your prize awaits.”
You followed the rest as they hesitantly approached the statues. Yours, a marble depiction of a woman being hauled away by a man, felt like a cruel joke. A mocking reflection of your predicament, carved in cold, unfeeling stone. Your jaw tightened as you pried open the gilded box at its base, the air in the hall suddenly feeling heavier. Inside lay two pieces of burgundy parchment.
Suppressing the uneasy churn in your stomach, you picked up the closer parchment, revealing a name etched in elegant script: “Jaeyun.”
Nearby, a man’s voice rose, sharp with indignation. “A name?! What the hell are we supposed to do with a name?!”
The host’s laugh cut through the hall like a razor, too bright, too sharp, ricocheting off the oppressive walls. “Of course they’re names,” he drawled, his grin widening to something feral. “They’re the ones who will grant you eternal glory.”
The words settled over you like a vice, their meaning sinking deeper with each passing second. If this was the Reaping, then... The thought trailed off, unfinished but heavy, tugging your gaze upward instinctively where your eyes lock with Jaeyun who was perched casually at the triforium near the stained glass, as if he’d been waiting for you to look. Jaeyun leaned against the edge, his grin splitting his face like a sinister mask, hand lifting in a greeting in an almost maddeningly casual way like a predator toying with its prey. Mocking you without a word.
“—The Reaper," you finished your thought aloud, the title slipping from your lips as if it had been lurking there all along, waiting to be named.
Your throat tightened, but your hands remained steady as you reached for the second parchment. When you flipped it, the name seemed to glare back at you, heavier, crueler. You whispered it aloud, the word sharp on your tongue: “Sunghoon.”
Your gaze darted across the room, where Sunghoon stood at the opposite triforium from Jaeyun. His eyes found yours instantly, dark and inscrutable. No surprise. No panic. Not even a flicker of emotion. Just that infuriatingly calm, unbothered facade that made your skin crawl. Jaeyun’s taunting words from the library echoed in your mind: What if he’s saving you for himself?
“I can see some victors are rather popular this evening,” the host chimed, his clapping hands slicing through the suffocating tension. His smile stretched wider, dripping with theatrical delight. “But fret not! As tradition dictates, the popular ones will be granted five minutes with each of their suitors in this hall—for one final waltz. Serenade them, threaten them, confess your undying love—whatever suits your fancy. But remember—at the end, only one name must be chosen.”
A man nearby let out a hysterical laugh, his voice cracking as it spiralled into something desperate. “You’re insane—this is insane! I’m not doing this!” His words barely finished before he bolted for the door.
Not that he made it far.
In a blur of motion, one of the vampires materialized before him. The creature’s clawed hand plunged into his chest with a sickening crunch, emerging a moment later clutching his pulsating heart. The man crumpled, lifeless, as a fresh scream tore through the air from the woman beside you.
“And that,” the host exclaimed, his voice still so bright and cheerful, “is what becomes of the ungrateful.” He gestured theatrically to the room, as if he’d just delivered a perfectly rehearsed line in a play. “Come now, victors. Look alive. You’ve earned this. Eternal glory is yours to claim.”
Without waiting for a response, the orchestra struck a jarring chord, the music swelling into something both grand and ominous. Above, the vampires descended from their balconies like a wave of predators, their movements too fast to track. They poured into the hall with eerie precision, seizing their chosen humans without ceremony. The room erupted into chaos—screams, cries, and the sound of shattering glass blending into a cacophony that seemed to mock the elegant setting.
“And now the Waltz commences,” the host declared, his voice ringing with perverse joy.
You barely had time to react before strong hands wrapped around your waist, spinning you with a force that nearly knocked you off balance. “Jaeyun,” you said bitterly, as he grabbed your hand, the other already planted possessively on your waist.
“I told you so,” he drawled, his voice smooth but tinged with mockery. “Your savior is your undoing.”
“And you’re not?” you shot back, trying to pull away, but his grip only tightened as he began to move, forcing you into the dance. His movements were elegant yet aggressive, dragging you along like a puppet on strings.
“Can’t you see?  I’m the one saving you from him,” he scoffed, exasperated, “don’t tell me his sob story about the his family's sins and the Council of Elders is all it took to sway you—" he clicked his tongue as he spun you around before pulling you back against him, “Can’t you see the double entrende here? he’s not working under the Council of Elders to promote good. It’s completely self-serving – it grants him what is essentially a license to kill vampires. Less powerful purebloods mean fewer threats. It’s all about power, darling.”
You faltered for a moment, his words digging under your skin. “Even if that’s true,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, “I’m still being passed from one wolf to another. You’re not exactly an ideal choice either…”
He spun you away from the center, the shadows engulfing you both, “tell you what, after this charade, they’ll give you a chance to escape through the Maze outside the castle. People would run aimlessly through the maze, thinking that it will eventually get them somewhere but it wont. The secret lies in the statues. Their hands are always pointing at the right way.”
You stared at him, trying to see past those unfathomable eyes. “Why are you telling me this? Why help me?”
He murmured, his lips ghosting dangerously close to your ear, “because we have the same goal, albeit in different forms, which is survival. And Sunghoon is the only one staying in our way. He’s playing the long game y/n. Look at him. Look at how he watches you—like a chess piece he hasn’t figured out how to move yet. You think he saved you? Sunghoon doesn’t save people. He removes and collects them, like a relic. That’s how it is with the royal Purebloods—it's always all about control and servitude. He’ll never let anyone be his equal.”
“Still, even if I choose you. It won’t guarantee my safety,” you said adamantly, “you could still end up reaping me.”
“And what for?” he said matter-of-factly, “My mother was reaped and I became a ‘tainted’ child in a world that worships purity. Can you see now? why I hate collateral damage?"
He paused, his gaze piercing. “And frankly, with what I hear about you and him… the Reaping might just be his way to stake his claim on you you—to make you his in every sense. Among other things.” His lips twisted into a bitter smirk. “Trust me, you’ll wish he’d killed you instead.”
You wanted to open your mouth, say something defiant, but nothing came. He pressed on, “I know you’re smart and rational so think of me as the lesser evil. I, at least, have no motive to want to reap you specifically and if you choose me at the end—I’ll really let you go because then I know that we are of the same understanding.”
Suddenly you feel his hand creep higher over your back, like a vine reclaiming its hold. His face was inches from yours, and for a fleeting moment, the interplay of shadow and light caught you off guard. Jaeyun’s usual devil-may-care grin—mischievous, boyish—seemed to warp under the flickering half-light. The shadows deepened the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the tilt of his lips more predator than prankster, as though the ease in his expression was a veneer stretched over something far more calculated. The light, faint and fleeting, only accentuated the unsettling duality—a face that could charm or terrify, depending on how you looked at it.
“If you choose Sunghoon however” his voice dipped lower, his head tilting so his breath brushed against your ear, “I’ll take it that you’re no different from him. And trust me—I won’t even let you get past any statues in the maze.”
You barely had the time to process the onslaught of words—teetering confusingly between helpful and threatening—when his hand cupped your face. Gentle yet deliberate, he tipped your chin ever so slightly toward him before pressing his lips languidly on your cheek—the kiss too slow, too deliberate to be mistaken for tenderness. No, it was a warning—a searing brand meant to remind you of the stakes.
He was like a thorny vine—subtle, insidious. The more you moved, the more you were pricked, and if you stayed still, it would creep over you, wrapping tighter until it claimed you entirely.
The heat lingered long after he pulled away, your skin prickling as though it carried the weight of his words. He loosened his grip just enough to spin you away, the force dismissive yet laced with an unsettling possessiveness.
The force sent you stumbling, disoriented, until strong arms caught you mid-motion, halting your fall. You looked up, your breath hitching as Sunghoon’s dark gaze locked onto yours. His presence was grounding, anchoring you in the chaos—but it was suffocating too, a storm restrained just beneath the surface, its weight pressing down on you.
“You look like you had an enjoyable time with the loach,” Sunghoon muttered, bitterness lacing every syllable. His grip tightened slightly on your waist, dragging you closer as the music swelled around you.
“And you look like you’re exactly where you should be,” you shot back, trying to twist out of his grip, “—the Reaping’s poster child. Is that why you saved me so far?” you pressed on, unable to conceal your own bitterness, “because you’re actually saving me for this.”
His grip tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you tethered to him. “Would you rather there only be a single name?” he asked coldly, his tone as biting as the frigid air between you. “His?”
“At least he’s honest, Sunghoon,” you snapped, your voice cracking under the weight of your frustration. “At least I know where I stand with him. You—” your hand pressed against his chest, a futile attempt to create space as he guided you into a sharp turn. “You twist everything until I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
“You don’t know what’s real?” His laugh was bitter, humorless, as he spun you again, this time keeping you so close you could feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours. “You poisoned me, y/n. You ran from me. You were the one who destroyed what was real.”
The pang of guilt that surged through you was like a knife, but you refused to let it show. “Oh, I see,” you said, mockery dripping from every word. “Killing two birds with one stone, are we? Reclaim your glory and punish me in one fell swoop. Immortality, bound to you for eternity—that’s the perfect revenge for me, isn’t it? You’ve outdone yourself, Park Sunghoon.”
His jaw tightened, his calm facade cracking just slightly. “You think this is about power?” he asked quietly, his voice simmering with frustration. “I’ve lived for centuries and gone through several wars. If I cared about reclaiming anything, I would have done it long ago.”
“So this is about us, is it?” you pressed, your voice trembling with both anger and something rawer. “Punishing me for what I did eight years ago? You knew the Reaping would break me irreparably more than killing me ever could. That’s why you kept me alive—so you could tether me to you, curse me with eternity, all under your control.”
 “You think I want you bound to me just to feed some twisted sense of power?” he scoffed, the bitterness in his tone cutting sharper than any blade. “God, y/n, this isn’t about control.”
“Then what is it about?” you demanded. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like revenge. A power play.”
His jaw clenched, the restraint in his expression cracking further as he took another step toward you. “You think I want revenge? That I want to punish you?” he snapped, his voice rising. “Can’t you see that it’s you that I want?” his voice cracking, “I can’t afford to lose you. Not to him, not to anyone. I’d tear this place apart before I let him have you.”
“I am not yours,” you said bitterly, the words like venom on your tongue. “And you don’t get to play saviour by making me your captive.”
“Captive?” he echoed, the hint of hurt in his voice was subtle but evident. “Sure. Paint me as the villain then—that’s easier, isn’t it? Easier than admitting you’re the one who’s afraid.”
“Afraid?” you scoffed, though the tremor in your voice betrayed you. “Of you?”
“No,” he said sharply, his gaze piercing through you. “Afraid of what you feel. Of what you felt back then, and what you still feel now.”
You flinched as if his words had physically struck you, the momentary crack in your resolve giving him an opening. He stepped closer, his movements calculated as he swept you into a slow, deliberate turn, each step forcing you to follow, leaving you breathless and off balance. “Because if you were really sure,” he murmured, his voice dropping dangerously low, “you wouldn’t need to convince yourself I’m the villain. You wouldn’t be standing here, accusing me of using you, when the truth is you’re just looking for a reason to run.”
Your laugh was hollow, brittle. “You think I’d run from you?”
“I think you’ve been running since the moment we met,” he said simply, his voice cutting through your bravado like a blade. “And I think you’ll keep running until you admit why you poisoned me in the first place.”
He spun you again, his movements sharp and unrelenting, before pulling you back into him, his voice soft but no less cutting. “You knew what we were, what we could’ve been—and you destroyed it. You burned it all to the ground before it could burn you.”
Your fingers curled against his shoulder, nails lightly digging into the fabric, your voice cracking as you hissed, “What you felt for me is not love, Sunghoon. It’s control wrapped in obsession; possession, dressed up as affection.”
He swallowed thickly, and for a moment, you couldn’t tell why—was it because he had called you out, or because your words had cut too deep? The silence between you seemed to stretch, taut and unyielding. His jaw tightened, his gaze darkening, and when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, sharper, cutting through the air like frost.
“Maybe it is,” he murmured, each word deliberate, his brows furrowing as a glint flashed in his eyes—something cold, something you’d never seen before. “Maybe that’s all I am now.” The faint curve of his lips followed, but it wasn’t a smile—it was bitterness made flesh, a weapon unsheathed.
“Fine, y/n.” His voice dropped lower, darker, as though he were sealing a pact. “I’ll be the villain you so desperately need me to be.”
Before you could respond, he stepped closer, manoeuvring you sharply across the hall. The motion was unrelenting, his grip tightening with a force that felt like it could crush you if he chose. His movements were forceful, almost punishing, the elegance of the waltz tainted by the sheer rawness of his frustration.
“I’ll selfishly take back what you tore from me—what you tore from us—eight years ago,” he continued, his voice low and cutting, each word laced with an accusation that burned. His fingers moved with a slithery precision, curling with just enough force to press you against him, like a marionette in his grasp. His arm, firm and unrelenting, coiled around you like a serpent, each step tethering you closer, suffocating you with its possessiveness.
The curve of his palm seemed to mold perfectly to your body, a gesture that felt both possessive and unnervingly intimate. When he spun you, his hand didn’t falter—it followed the contours of your frame, reclaiming its position with a fluidity that felt inevitable, like gravity itself had shifted in his favour. His grip tightened subtly, fingers splaying just enough to press into the delicate fabric of your gown, branding you in a way that felt both commanding and terrifyingly intimate.
“You tore us apart,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something darker, heavier, as though he was drawing from a well of buried pain. His face hovered inches from yours, his breath searing against your skin. “This time, I’ll make sure you can’t end anything. Because if I can’t have you, no one can.”
The finality in his words hit you like a physical blow, leaving you frozen as he guided you through another step, his movements precise yet devoid of tenderness. The music surged around you, its crescendo mimicking the storm of emotions churning in the air.
And then, as the final note reverberated through the hall, Sunghoon stepped back. His retreat was slow, deliberate, each step like a crumbling facade. His dark eyes burned with an intensity you’d never seen before, emotions swirling just beneath the surface—anger, pain, longing, and something far darker. You couldn’t bring yourself to move, trapped in the gravity of what had just passed between you.
“Now, now,” the host’s voice shattered the silence like breaking glass, his cheerful tone jarring against the tension that lingered in the air. “You know the rules,” he announced, his grin sharp. “Burn the name of the rejected and put the chosen name in the gilded chest.”
Your gaze dropped to the two burgundy parchments in your hand. Slowly, deliberately, you picked up the one with Jaeyun’s name, placing it inside the chest that was meant for the chosen one. The soft click of the lid sealed your choice, a decision made for all to see.
Your gaze instinctively sought Sunghoon in the crowd. His eyes locked with yours for a fleeting second, and in that moment, something flickered across his face—fury, yes, but beneath it, a flash of raw hurt that cut deeper than any words. Then he turned sharply, vanishing into the sea of bodies.
What he didn’t see, what no one would ever see, was how you never burnt the name you rejected—Sunghoon's. You couldn’t.
Instead you folded the parchment with painstaking care, tucking it into the lining of your dress, just over your heart. As though it carried every unspoken word between you.
As if it meant more than you dared to admit.
Tumblr media
A/N: No this isn't the end HAHAHAHA told you it was a 40k work so it's actually supposed to be longer but bloody hell apparently tumblr has a 1000 blocks per post limit and it exceeded. So I gotta chop it here. See you in the next one ((i might post it immediately after, or space it out hohoh so let me know what you think about this one)) !
Taglist: @axartia | @my5colours | @elinushka-ka | @nowjillsandwich | @leaderwon | @moniqueovermoney | @ashrocker123 | @seungkwan-s | @hydroyaksha | @ikayyyyyy | @capri-cuntz | @asyleums | @lovialy | @nikikookie | @lunateez | @reithecat | @hocestmundi | (( tagging those who have explicitly wanted to be tagged eheh apologies if I missed some out :( ))
37 notes · View notes
nevertheless-moving · 2 days ago
Text
Stormlight AU 17B Part Two
Continued from Here
Kaladin takes the honorblade because Syl insists it’s too dangerous to leave, collapses on the way back because holy shit exhaustion and injuries and also it's draining his stormlight a bit.
(There’s some interference between Syl Bond/ Honorblade Bond that takes time to sort out.)
When the storm starts dying, Kaladin and Szeth are found laid out like a Rosharan Renaissance painting.
Kaladin’s sprawled on the palace steps, still clutching the blade. There’s probably a single beam of light streaming down from a break in the clouds, illuminating Kaladin’s artistically devastated and storm soaked body with golden light, because of course there is.
The Assassin in White has dagger wounds in his heart and throat. Wounds from a darkeyes weapon. A LOT of witnesses to that messy aftermath because people are too freaked out to move either of them until Dalinar comes downstairs
When Kaladin wakes up he's injured. Syl isn’t answering. He’s surrounded by lighteyes and a handful of his men. The shardblade is on a pedestal.
Unfortunately this hits right in the incredibly specific trauma.
Adolin wasn't exactly sure what he imagined would happen when the bridgeman woke. No, that wasn't true. Over the last two days vigil, he had had plenty of time to think.
A haughty sneer, maybe. Or maybe a victorious smile, gloryspren, stormfather knew he deserved glory. More likely shock, surprise at even being alive — his body must have been devastated, he couldn't have expected the blade to heal him after he won, could he? A suspicious part of him had considered the idea of an attack, some form of betrayal, but not...
Whatever this was.
Prince Adolin Kholin stood in full shardplate watching bridgeboy — bridgeman — the Captain who killed the Kingkiller, face him down. Kaladin stood in a corner, one hand outstretched towards Adolin, wielding a scalpel like a dagger.
That arm was the only part of him that wasn’t shaking.
His eyes were feral, terrified. Storms, he had seen the man tackle the Assassin in White out a fifty foot drop with less fear. Shudders wracked his body. His other arm was gripping the one armed Hardashian that had been tending him, pushing him behind, protecting him.
Protecting him from Adolin.
Adolin took a hesitant step forward, hands held placatingly in front of him, feeling abnormally overly large and clumsy in his shardplate, like a chull, or a chasmfiend.
Captain Stormblessed finally spoke. "No," he said.
No, he didn't just say it, he begged. Adolins jaw dropped with shock. Before that moment, he would have laughed at anyone who claimed that the proud man could lower himself to plead like that. It felt...wrong.
"No," he said again, and almighty, were those tears in his eyes?
"Just let my men go. They won't say anything. I won't say anything. I don't want it. You can have it. I don't want it. Don't hurt my men. Please."
He was babbling. The proudest, most taciturn man on Roshar was babbling, pleading. Fearspren writhed sickly around his chest.
Adolin felt sick. He...must have been wounded in the head. That would be the most singularly cruel injury he could imagine. Worse than rotspren taking a hale warrior.
He glanced helplessly at his father, but he looked just as disturbed as Adolin felt.
Or — could the blade be doing this? It was impossible to miss the way it glowed, pulsing in time with the bridgemans gasps for air. Could it be cursed? Granting power, somehow healing a shardtaken arm, a body shattered from falling, but stealing the mind of the man who bore it?
"It's alright gancho," the hardassian said softly. "The fights over, eh? You can put it down, see, we're all friends here?"
"You have to run Hab," Stormblessed whispered, audible in the too still room. "It's a trap. They're going to..." he was barely able to stay on his feet, but he pushed at the smaller man, making sure to stay in between the Kholins and the uncertain bridge four guards.
More fearspren choked the air. Stone faces too — almighty above agonyspren too? Those hadn't even shone up when light had flooded to his shardtaken feet, and that couldn't have been comfortable.
The hardassian frowned. "Gancho, I'm getting the feeling you ain't completely with me. Surely you remember the Lopen? One armed hardassian? Irresistible to women? Your favorite wall decor?"
The Captain didn't seem to hear him, eyes glassy and unfocused. "No," he whimpered, looking at Adolin and Dalinar. "They're not a threat." He pushed the Herdassian further back. "I don't want the blade."
Adolin was glad his helmet was off, because he was pretty sure he was going to puke. This wasn't...he had tried sometimes, to put the darkeyed Captain in his place but storms...it wasn't right. The memory of his own behavior made him sick. Did the Captain really think so badly of him? That he would kill to steal the blade? Or was it just the delirium?
"It's alright Kaladin," one of the guards — Moash said, stepping forward. "It's not going to happen again. Bridge four is guarding the hall, just a shout away."
He glared at Adolin. Storms. Their entire guard thought that little of them?
Kaladin shook his head in Moash's direction, tears falling freely now. "We cant take them all, Coreb," he rasped. "We — you — you have to run."
His father finally spoke. "It's alright Soldier. I'm not Amaram. You're not there. You're safe. You're a hero."
Adolin and Kaladin stared in confusion.
Amaram? What in Damnation?
"I —" Stormblessed's voice cracked.
Father looked... hollowed out. He took a deep breath, then stepped toward the pedestal that held the sword. Moash, incredibly, lowered his spear at him.
Kelek's breath, Adolin knew that his men were loyal to their captain, but...stormfather.
Dalinar ignored him, lifting the sword, cloth wrapping the hilt, stepping forward.
Stormblessed's whole body was shaking now, scalpel barely staying in his grip. Still, Adolin barely restrained himself from stepping up to protect his father. On one hand, he could hardly imagine Stormblessed in a less threatening state. On the other hand, the Assassin in White might have thought the same.
Kaladin pushed Moash back, eyes fixed on Dalinar's approach.
"I am not Amaram," he repeated. "You know that soldier. Do you remember our conversation, after I exchanged the shardblade for you and your men?"
The captain blinked, scalpel still brandished in warning.
“What is a man’s life worth?” Dalinar asked, calmly stepping forward.
“The slavemasters say one is worth about two emerald broams,” Kaladin mumbled, frowning.
 “And what do you say?”
“A life is priceless,” he said immediately, blinking hard.
Dalinar smiled, then knelt down holding the blade in front of him, still not touching the hilt directly. Moash sucked in a shocked breath, and Adolin couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment.
“Coincidentally,” his father said. “That is the exact value of a Shardblade. Two days ago, you saved the four lives I hold most precious in this world, not to mention countless other priceless lives across Roshar. There is no treasure great enough to serve as payment for such a deed. If, as a start, you would be willing to accept what you have already earned, I would consider it a bargain.” He extended the sword, holding it perpendicular to them both.
“I…” Stormblessed blinked down at Dalinar in confusion. “Sir…?” 
The scalpel slipped through his fingers and landed on the floor with a clatter. Adolin exhaled in relief. I mean, the man could probably  do unreasonable amounts of damage with his bare hands but — still. One less thing to worry about.
The man blinked harder, eventually turning away from the blade to look at Moash.
"Syl," he said fervently. "Something's happened to Syl."
The lieutenant's eyes widened — he clearly recognized the name. Did bridgeboy have a girlfriend?
"It's alright Kal," he said soothingly. "Syl's tough, right? She always comes back."
"She always comes back," bridgeboy said, squeezing his eyes shut and swaying on his feet. Moash and the little Herdasian both moved quickly to steady him. "She has to come back," he whispered.
Dalinar rose smoothly, stepping back. "Perhaps it would be wise to allow the Captain more time to rest before discussing anything further."
"Of course brightlord," Moash said, nodding respectfully, as if he hadn't leveled a storming spear at his Highprince minutes ago. "Come on Kal." The three started moving slowly back to the bed.
Perhaps they were all going to pretend the last ten minutes hadn't happened. That seemed like a good plan to Adolin right now.
Upside of all this, Dalinar is pretty convinced about the Amaram accusation.
Funny conversation with Zahel because yeah fair enough you didn't need shardblade training but also because of that you definitely need shardblade training
REALLY funny conversation with Shallan because the boot stealing incident already happened, Kaladin's getting feasts and parades, and she's like oh. oh i done goofed.
Don't worry Syl's fine, it's just a tight fit until Kaladin's soul adjusts. She maybe even gets a nebulously defined sick power boost (ability to hold honorblade in physical realm perhaps?!?)
Kaladin gets ordered to go master his new powers and is just like. Ok. But i'm doing it because i want to, not because you told me to.
comes back a day later like Ok I can stick rocks together wahoo.
Comes back three days later like "I CAN FLY!! GUYS, GUYS I CAN STORMING FLY!!" it is the first time any lighteyes in camp have seen him smile and might cause several minor sexual crises
Learning to fly and getting to joyfully share it with bridge four right away because why not :)
Happily swapping the blade around bridge four giving a bunch of lighteyes aneurysms, though Syl insists on always taking it back after a bit because she's maybe sort of also bonded with it and its uncomfortable for it to go too far for too long
Incredibly resistant of new titles/lands. It becomes a thing.
Whitespine Uncaged except its like, 20 guys because it's a desperate trap for Kaladin specifically, trying to get him before he masters the honorblade and becomes the Blackthorn's unbeatable champion and the rest of the world get washed away in a river of blood.
...People are kindof freaking out about the blackthorn having a personal magic assassin
Adolin gets a little more beat to shit but they still manage to wreck everyone. I think Renarin also gets the honorblade for a hot minute and gets to go to town since this one doesn't scream. Possibly more of bridge four gets involved.
Absolute epic clusterfuck of a duel. 'Duel' is really the wrong word for 20 shardbarers trying desperately to kill a minor demigod and two pissed off kholins.
Dalinar and the King actually end up giving back a bunch of the shardblades and plate after the Kholin win because keeping all of them would be it's own political nightmare
i mean the 'duel' was already a painfully obvious metaphor. it's Kholins v Everyone Else time and the odds are not looking good for the everyone else side.
Kaladin gets his boon and duel with Amaram but of course it doesn't go how he wanted. Was there ever even a best case scenario here?
(Amaram desperately wants to become a radiant)
(Amaram has also accurately judged his likelihood of victory against the OP darkeye who has gotten even more OP since the last time he saw him to be approximately zero)
(Amaram sees the writing on the wall for house Sadeas now that Kholin is on the rise)
Amaram surrenders completely, throwing himself at Kaladin's feet, swearing over his lands and all that he owns, swearing eternal service to Kaladin in repayment for his sins. Kaladin really really really wants to kill him in cold blood but FUCK he's got morals that's like his whole thing
Kaladin: oh god does this mean i have to deal with Amaram all the time now
Dalinar: i mean he's yours to do with what you want. you could lock him away forever without trial.
Kaladin: oh god why is that even an option
Dalinar: ...the more politically expedient thing to do would be to keep him on as an advisor, at least until you get a better grip on his lands
Kaladin: oh GOD
Adolin kills Sadeas so now the other highprinces are REALLY freaking out
Actual radiant status gets hidden by glowing sword clearly giving Magic powers.
Like. The crabcat is out of the bag on the magic and flying but the sword is VERY CLEARLY GLOWING so. Fun sideways reveal.
TREMENDOUS number of assassination attempts because i can not stress this enough — this sword makes you unkillable and also gives you the power to fucking fly.
Oh! Forgot to mention: Shortly after waking up/bonding the blade he attends the meeting with Stormform!Eshonai, still dissociating slightly, because Syl is high on honorblade and extremely attuned to cognitive realm. Ends up helping Eshonai get rid of stormspren and bond her own light spren. End result for plot is this:
Rumors filter out that one of his powers is making people Radiant, so that's definitely adding to people going wild over him/The Blade/Dalinar's weird religious midlife crisis
new uneasy partial detante with Parshendi because at least one of them has superpowers now (thanks for that)
the desolation gets pushed back another year (tbh mostly because I want more time to explore plot device/political fallout of Kaladin being an absolutely overpowered freak amongst normies)
Stormlight AU Masterlist
37 notes · View notes
saphig-iawn · 1 day ago
Text
A Drone's Well-Earned Rest
Another new subject, a darling drone that hails from the same land of song and magic that I do.
It had been so patient, with me.
It had booked a session around the end of November but life happened and things got delayed and delayed.
But tonight, I had it all to myself.
It had just finished a shift at work, and already felt it had wound down to be ready for trance, but boy did it have no idea what was waiting for it.
I was greeted by such a sweet drone, clad in shining black material, with such adorable cat-ear headphones.
As I was briefing it I could see its eyes were beginning to flutter and its head beginning to lull but it kept pulling itself up.
I told it that it could drift it wished, that it could let my words carry it away as we talked, that I knew it was listening.
Usually there's a little bit of a fuzzy line between the end of the briefing and the start of the hypnosis, but it looked so comfortable and safe that I leaned into lulling it down and down and down.
It was a pleasure to watch its chest slow as we travelled down.
It was a joy to see its body grow heavy in its comfy spot it made for our session.
But even I was not ready for the moment I finished counting it down from 5 to 1, a countdown that some readers know all to well and how that countdown ends, to see its face bear an expression that I can only describe in Welsh which is hiraeth.
Its eyebrows raised, its eyes, though closed, widened as if remembering they could tear up.
We floated together in my embrace, letting the feeling of being on my lap sink in.
It was all giggles and blushes when I woke it up.
It told me how recent hypnotic sessions had been direct and almost procedural in approach.
It hadn't been so relaxed and comforted in such a long time.
I was so glad I was the one to be able to let it feel that again.
(This writing is about a real hypnosis session with real hypnosis and real people. If you would like to see more writing like this, then please support me over at https://ko-fi.com/saphig, where you can also commission 1-on-1 hypnosis sessions and have your own piece of writing just like this!)
43 notes · View notes
nicksolemnlyswears · 1 day ago
Text
FORGED UNDER FIRE
Tumblr media Tumblr media
blurb: when brennan sorrengail died he left more than his family and a dragon behind. he left his best friend. he left his lover. he left his unborn child.
pairing: brennan sorrengail x rider! reader
word count: 1.1k
a/n: first and foremost, this is unedited. second, i've had this in my drafts since i finished reading fourth wing in september. i kinda wanted to make it a fic but lost some steam. i don't think i'll continue this but if i do it will be shorter blurbs/moments rather than the 10k monstrosities i like to write. i figured it wouldn't do anything in my drafts so here you go!
i like the idea of brennan having someone he befriends and takes under his wing while at basgiath war college. there's so much we don't know about him and this is me filling some of the gaps with the wonderful fanfiction.
i hope you enjoy! i honestly love fourth wing so damn much and i can't wait for onyx storm. i even have tickets for rebecca yarros tour in january. so yes, read, enjoy and let me know what you think!
Tumblr media
The cold wind drifted around you, ruffling the grass and the branches of the dispersed trees. The sunrise was turning from a beautiful deep blue to a pale pink that bled into orange. The chill bites into your cheeks and nose, reddening them, but you welcomed it. It numbed the pain that continued to tear through your heart.
“You must stop thinking so much about him.” Your dragon Calliss shares through your link. She’s the angry voice in your head reminding you to move forward.
“I thought we agreed I could wallow in my misery this time of year.”
The day that marks his death came and went yet it left you with a whirlwind of emotions. You should’ve moved on long ago, the pain in your chest turned into a soft ache that you remember fondly as you rebuild your life without him. Still, it remains a deep gash that continues to bleed and keeps you up at night, unmoving.
“You have better things to do.” Calliss reminds you. Its inscription day and people from all over the continent will be arriving to drop off their children.
“Mhm. Yeah, sure.”
The red dagger tail huffs behind you. The air coming from her nostrils counteracting the cold breeze. She’s moody because you shut her out instead of letting her help.
The ground lightly shakes and the air stirs as another dragon lands near Calliss. General Sorrengail’s brown dragon, Aimsir. The older woman approaches you and sits down beside you on the damp grass. Despite her reputation she’s been kind to you, patient even. She’s kept you close, tucked under her wing just like he used to.
Your signet allowed Lilith to keep you closer than most. Otherwise, she’d have no choice but to leave you on your own to battle your emotional wounds.
It tends to weigh in your conscious that she only does it because you have the last piece of him. Had it not been the case, would she have cared as much?
At the same time, you’re eternally grateful. Had it not been for Lilith Sorrengail you would definitely be cold and dead. Despite all the bad days, there have been good ones woven in and you wouldn’t trade those for nothing in the world.
“Violet goes today,” Lilith says, looking at you sternly.
“You sure this is what you want to do?” You ask her, keeping your gaze on the mountain and the sunrise.
Lilith has discussed Violet's inscription with you time and time again. It's the one thing she continues to think about since the death of her husband, which is unusual. The woman is confident in her decisions, she's calculating and precise. A wonderful quality for a commander, but it falters when it comes to her children.
“Do you think she won’t be able to make it?”
You sigh and look down at the grass before your eyes shift up to look at her. “She’ll make it. She might've been raised by a scribe but she was also raised by you and Mira and Brennan which means Violet won't go down without a fight. She won’t go down easy. It is my belief dragons respect that.”
Saying his name is difficult. It's heavy on your tongue as you enunciate the syllables. So familiar yet strange at the same time.
Lilith hums in agreement, leaving a period of silence to hang in the air. She’s giving you time to talk, to bring him up. When you don’t she takes matters into her own hands.
“I can’t believe it’s been five years.”
“Only five and it feels like a century,” you scoff, pulling at the grass blades near your crossed feet. Calliss and Aimsir shuffle behind you two, making the ground tremble. It used to scare you as a cadet.
“You should get out there again, try and find something that at least resembles what you had with Brennan,” Lilith dares say.
You gasp in a sharp intake of air at the mention of his name. It’s not a surprise for Lilith to suggest such a thing. After all, it’s been five long years since Brennan left, died. But, does she not feel like she’s betraying her own son by suggesting this?
“She’s right,” Calliss voice purrs in your ear. She’s suggested it more than once, begging you to ‘release the tension you have inside.’ You've tried but the sense of betrayal that follows reopens old wounds.
“Hush, Calliss.”
Calliss growls from behind you, voicing her displeasure at you telling her to quiet. Humans do not tell dragons what to do.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able replicate what I had with Bren. It was forged at Basgiath under the threat of imminent death. I was another person there who needed help desperately and Bren was the perfect person to guide me. He was one of a kind, our circumstances were one of a kind. It might’ve been short lived but it held so much value.” You give Lilith a smile and shake your head, “I have everything I need. I’m making a name for myself, which was what I always wanted. I was married, and I have a child who I love to death.”
Lilith nods offering you one of her rare smiles. She stands, dusting off her clothes from any sticking grass. “Speaking of, we have to make our way back before he wakes and brings the house down.”
You nod and laugh, “Oh, he’s going to throw a fit when Violet goes.”
Your son and Violet are as thick as thieves. They get along well and Violet loves to spoil him. She’s never one to turn down babysitting or entertain him when you need a break. After all, he's what she has left of her brother.
“Maybe Mira will get him to calm down,” Lilith hopes, climbing up Aimsirs leg.
You have one question for Lilith. From the ground, glancing up at her you ask. “How do you do it? It’s been five years and I feel just as heart broken as I did that day.”
Brennan’s father passed away about a year ago. His heart giving out on him. All because of Brennan’s death. You mourned him too, he had always been kind to you and he loved his grandchild. It might’ve been the only reason he held on for so long.
Lilith sighs and takes a moment to form her words. “Your relationship was young and somewhat new, barely 4 years. He was the first person you trusted. You had your whole life ahead of you. My husband and I were together for nearly 30 years. We travelled all around Navarre, had three amazing children, and we watched them grow up. I wish he was here to see what will become of Violet but,” she pauses without finishing her sentence. “My point is you were full of what ifs and places to go. It’s hard to move on from that when you keep trying to make sense of it.”
“I wish I knew I was pregnant before he died so I could’ve told him. Maybe things would’ve been different,” you confess.
“Possibly. I know Brennan would’ve loved him.” With those last words General Sorrengail flies off, leaving you and Calliss alone once more.
“No more moping. We have a job to do,” she says, urging you to get on her back.
“Thank you for being patient with me,” you tell her honestly.
Calliss is opinionated but she wants what’s best for you. She continues to feel all the pain Brennan’s death caused you. All her snide remarks are only meant to encourage you to manage your pain and move forward.
“Beware. It’s running thin today.”
Tumblr media
thoughts?
41 notes · View notes
bloomblood · 7 hours ago
Text
pitfighter/'emo' arc vi x piltover scientist reader (soulmate au)
(IVE HAD THIS IDEA FOR SO LONG IMMA SPEW RANDOM NONSENSE BC IM ASS AT WRITING LMAO)
•basically, reader is from piltover and has studied love and soulmates her entire life. she looks for vi, the name engraved on her wrist because she was desperate for answers.
•reader is reffered to as 'she,' or, 'the girl,' it gets a little confusing. also sorry for ooc!
it seemed like a sick joke. yeah, there were letters-a name-carved into her skin since birth. she would stare at them on lonely nights, thinking, wondering.
maybe this person would love her, even after everything. every person lost, every mistake. after caitlyn.
maybe she had hope after all.
vi scoffs in the girl's face. this random girl, vi had seen her before, but she was looking specifically for vi. they were soulmates. yeah, soulmates-like that meant anything to vi. she could care less; the ache in her chest suggested otherwise.
"you- you're serious?" the girl asks. vi rolls her eyes. "i don't need a soulmate. i don't need you, piltie. i've been on my own, and it's gonna stay that way." vi's lips twitch up into a sly smile. both of them knew it was forced.
"so do yourself a favor, sweetheart." vi steps closer, towering over her. "run away and forget about me. let's pretend this never happened."
she crosses her arms. this woman-the one she wore the name of-just told her to leave?
"then leave. im waiting." she snaps, glaring at vi. "but just know, we'll end up in this situation one way or another. i've chased this-the answer to this for my entire life, and i almost have it." she says. vi stands there for a moment, brows furrowed. she was definately going to leave, but she seemed a little crazy. or determinded, to put into better words.
"answer to what?" is all vi asks her. "the reason for soulmates." she replies with an eyeroll. "there's a scientific and logical reasoning for everything. this should be no exception."
vi rolls her eyes. yeah, totally crazy.
"right, well...you have fun with that, sweetheart." vi says casually before turning around. she pauses. a wave of panic crashes through her stomach. she thought vi would stay, ask her what she was looking for specifically, anything. but no, she was going to leave?
"wait!" she calls out as soon as vi starts walking. "what?" vi snaps out. she didn't have time for this. after everything, she couldn't. with a wound as fresh as caitlyn and pain from everything, from jinx...
"y-you're just going to leave? no questions, no nothing?" she questions, voice quiet. "you don't even know anything about me!"
there's silence. uncomfortable silence. it surrounds them, engulfs them.
"you aren't curious? about...who i am?" her voice grew even smaller. vi shakes her head as if it would shake her thoughts off.
she was really curious. after fights, on lonely nights, after a couple drinks (more like a couple bottles, with vi), after a loss, she was curious. who was she tied to? why them? why her? how would things be different if she met them? what would change? it was only the surface of questions that had swirled in her mind.
"i don't need a little soulmate to fix everything. stay away from me. go find someone that isn't me." vi replies, voice almost barely audible. "we've met before." she blurts out. "in- in piltover. you and these other kids blew up a-"
"don't." vi cuts her off. that was the beginning of everything falling apart. "it's a part of this cycle!" the girl's voice raises. "two people are born with the other's name on their skin." she starts. "then, it goes to passing. a singular moment in time the two people see each other." there's a pause. "from there, it's meeting, which develops into a bond. whether it's lovers, enemies, friends-it's all the same." she rambles.
vi's silent for a moment. this girl was...interesting, to say the least. a piltover women and a fighter from the undercity. perfect match.
"we're complete opposites, sweetheart. we aren't meant to be." vi mumbles. "w-well humans are attracted to contrasts. it's what we learn to go to or stray from." she says softly. vi sighs. maybe, in a sense, they were alike. they're both stubborn. this girl was fragile, shy, stubborn. but vi is a fighter. she's strong and stubborn.
some people aren't meant to be. they aren't destined to succeed. others...it's in their blood-on their skin. just how in black letters, it read 'violet,' on her wrist.
(i'll write a part 2 if y'all like this lmk please!!! i'll take requests too if anyone wants any because i need to write more-)
45 notes · View notes
onekeii · 1 day ago
Text
Would I ever hurt you?
Day 12: Feast Baldur's Gate 3: Astarion x Fem Virgin Reader Warnings/Genre: smut, pet names, blood sucking, oral (f receiving), eding(?), piv sex, not proof read Word count: 1.6k Summary: You let Astarion drink your blood, but his feast quickly turns into something else. AN: first time posting a full on smut please be gentle ALSO happy new year!
Tumblr media
Read on AO3
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Letting Astarion drink your blood had become a regular occurrence, one that developed its own routine. He’d let you get comfortable on your bedroll, crawling over your tense body with his sweet touch and even sweeter words encouraging you to relax. Then his fangs puncture the sensitive skin on your neck, pain coursing through your veins as your blood leaves your body. Astarion strokes your hair, runs his hands gently through it, bringing you back to the mortal fold. But you want more.
You want to feel his arms graze your bare skin. You want to feel his fangs on other parts of your body, his tongue lapping at more tender areas… You blink fast as if that would banish such thoughts. It’s scarier, somehow scarier than trusting a vampire to not drink you dry, so you leave it.
Yet Astarion seems to be able to read your mind, for his hands move from your hair to your waist, tracing the outline of your body, they travel first down to your hips and back up to the sides of your breasts. Something ignites within you and you lean into his touch, satiating that yearning in your belly. Then you place a hand on his chest and gently push him away, careful not to use so much force that he might rip your throat out. 
Astarion releases you and pushes himself back onto his knees. He’s towering over you, kneeling between your legs, but his eyes are soft, free from their usual malice or glint of mischief. He sucks in a breath before he speaks, “It seems I’ve crossed a boundary…” he sighs, “I apologise.”
He shifts his weight, moves to stand up, but you sit up with such speed that you nearly knock your forehead against his. Your vision splinters, scattered with sparks and stars as your heart works to pump more blood around your body. Astarion holds you up by the shoulders, taken aback by your foolish and sudden movement, “What are you doing?”
“You didn’t- I, uh, I-” pausing at the mess of words streaming from your mouth, you look down and frown. Why was this so difficult? You bite your tongue, think it through, and look at him again with determination. His eyes, blood red, flicker in the nearby firelight. They’re searching your face for an answer, and you nearly choke on your words again at their beauty, but you push through, “I-I want to, but, you know,” your cheeks were uncomfortably hot now but you refuse to let your eyes wander, “I’ve never done it before.”
Astarion’s eyebrows jump, his eyes blown wide and reflecting your face clearly back at you, “You haven’t?!”
“Um…” This was definitely not the reaction you were expecting, “...No?”
He smiles. A genuine smile; it’s faint and small and disappears in an instant, but it was there. “My darling, you are so beautiful, I thought you would have used it much to your advantage, but…” Astarion leans forward, threatening to push you back into the bedroll if it weren’t for one strong arm wrapped around your back and holding you in place. Your heart stutters at how close his face is to yours now. He continues, “I don’t think I deserve it, but the thought of being your first is exciting. To hear what vulgar sounds might come from your mouth, or how you might react if I touched you elsewhere.”
They were only words, but you could feel his touch already, his cold hands setting your body on fire. You needed him tonight, you were ready, “You do deserve it, but…” there was one small problem, “I’m just, I don’t know, scared?”
“You? Of pain?” he chuckles, his free hand brushing against the fresh wound on your neck still dribbling blood. Astarion brings his now bloodied fingers to his mouth, sucking up the remainders of his feast without breaking eye contact. Then he pulls his fingers away with a pop and says, “Would I ever hurt you, dear?”
When you shake your head - no, you could never hurt me, truly - he pushes you the rest of the way into the bedroll and adjusts the flat pillow behind you, making sure you’re comfortable.
And then his hands slip under your shirt, his ice cold touch sending shivers through your body as he travels further up. One finger traces a circle around your nipple, the other hand cups your breast and plays with it gently. You’re unsure what to do with your hands at first, so you place one at the back of Astarion’s neck and pull him close, kissing him gently.
His hands travel even further up, wrapping around your back and lifting you off the ground for a moment, breaking your kiss to pull your shirt over your head. Before the fabric is even on the ground, your lips are crashing against his again and your tongue is begging to go deeper. Astarion lets you in, and you’re so lost in your kiss that you don’t have time to shy your now bare torso from him. 
When Astarion breaks away again, he makes up for it by leaving a scattered trail of kisses, bruises, and shallow bites down your neck and then your chest. He’s planted his knees either side of one of your legs now, and when he latches onto your nipple with his mouth, he pushes his thigh into you at the same time. You let out a weak groan, but with each swish of his tongue against your tit, Astarion has you whimpering. 
He wants to hear you more, so he drags his tongue further down, his lips meeting the band of your trousers. When he looks up at you through dishevelled white locks, you don’t hesitate to nod your approval. He’s pulling your pants and underwear off in an instant, peeling them from your legs and letting you kick them off your ankles. You freeze up for a moment when you realise that you’re now fully naked and powerless before him, while he remains fully clothed. But there’s nothing you can do or say before he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, pushing the other to the side as he descends upon your needy clit.
You immediately feel a pressure building in your core, only much more intense than anything you’ve experienced before. You decide you want more and roll your hips forward in an attempt to feel more of him on you. Astarion obliges, parting your already sick folds as he pushes his tongue into you. The feeling is budding, it threatens to spill, wash over you and drown you. Astarion pulls away.
Cool air taunts your aching core, the pleasure you were chasing now regrettably subsiding. You grab at the fabric of Astarion’s shirt in a feeble attempt to pull him closer, and whine “Please…”. But he just smirks at you.
“You were so nervous just moments ago,” he teases, “but you’ve forgotten it all from just a few flicks of my tongue,” he’s toying with you, but he still pulls his shirt over his head and finally reveals himself to you. You get busy roaming his skin with your hands, exploring as much as possible, while he continues to taunt you, “You’re so beautiful when you writhe around underneath me like that.”
His lips are on yours again, his tongue fighting and beating yours in a futile game of dominance. Your face burns even hotter when you realise you can taste yourself on him, but you’re distracted again when you feel Astarion tugging at the drawstrings of his pants and pulling them down just enough that his already hard member springs free. He bites your lower lip playfully and drags it out as he breaks the kiss, shifting his weight to line up his dick with your entrance. It takes all your self-control not to push yourself onto him. 
“Are you ready, my love?” he asks. 
You nod. Astarion holds himself up with his arms either side of your face, eyes trained only on you as he pushes himself into you. You wrap your arms around his neck for support while he watches in admiration as your face twists in pain and pleasure. He stops when you let out a sharp gasp, watching you bite at your lip so hard you taste blood. Astarion stays completely still inside you, giving you time to adjust as he leans down and laps at the traces of blood pooling in your lower lip.
When you finally relax a little - welcoming him - he slips in further, groaning into your ear as he bottoms out in you. And when he begins to move, the feeling is strange at first: the pain of his cock stretching you open sets you on fire and leaves you wanting more, melting into tasteful pleasure. Everytime he pulls out, you moan into his lips, not wanting to lose him from you. 
Sounds tumble from your mouth, spurring Astarion to move faster and harder with each whisper of his name. You feel that tight pressure returning to your stomach, your walls clenching around him and drawing a grunt from him as he continues to thrust into you. He’s chasing his own high still as every part of you crescendos, pleasure crashing through your body in waves. Your body falls limp as you feel Astarion finish, too, inside of you, his cock twitching once, twice, three times in your cunt.
Astarion makes no effort to move, collapsing on top of you and burying his face in your shoulder. After a few moments of silence, punctured only by the dying fireplace and your harmonising and desperate pants, he mumbles into your ear, “You feel amazing.”
Tumblr media Tumblr media
@12daysofchristmas
If you enjoyed, please consider helping out by dropping a reblog or follow ✩
46 notes · View notes