#but its one of the only real things i feel on a daily basis

[wolfwarrior142]

As someone who relates to Rayla on a ton of personal/internal stuff and has actually seen some improvement in my own massive self confidence issues as a result of seeing her try to work through hers (both in this season and previously) and work on trusting people better, I hate that people are saying that bullshit. Oh no, characters who appear strong because of unhealthy coping mechanisms they've learned now learning how to develop more healthy ones. While also becoming close with those around them as a result. Oh no. The humanity. It's so awful to see. Especially in a show that's technically a kids show. And can maybe help kids. The humanity.

I'm glad I haven't actually seen anyone say that personally, cuz thats a very toxic mindset for people to have and I'd get so...annoyed with it. I'd block em immediately for sure cuz no one needs that bullshit.

people watching rayla learning how to trust / let other people help her, which a lack of was her entire fucking problem in arc 1: is this a bad character arc

[heartz4levi]

do you have any specific kink headcannons for anyone in alnst?

buckle up and take a seat, hold on tight !

☆ thinking abt alnst kink headcannons . .

☆ various alnst characters (luka, till, ivan, dewey, sua) ,, gn reader . . dom/sub dynamics alternate from character to character ,, lots of sex talk ,, several kinks mentioned ,, if some characters aren't included then that means i don't have any specific kink headcannons for them.

the kink luka will be associated with is body worship. regardless of whether it's him or you receiving it, he loves it. luka loves to show equal amounts of love to each inch of your body, to openly display his adoration for you.

but he also melts when you do the same thing to him. hell, he'll even become a little bit bashful, because to think that you reciprocate the same overwhelming sentiment he feels on a daily basis.. luka couldn't ask for anything more.

the kink till will be associated with is a hand kink. let's be real, his hands are nice — his fingers are long and thin as well as skilled due to his artistic expertise. he is a jack of all trades, after all.

those trades include using his hands on you. he can make you feel so much pleasure with just those alone, it doesn't matter what exactly he's doing to you. shoving his fingers into your mouth to quiet you down, curling them perfectly inside of your whole or wrapping them around your neck, you're going to be aroused all the same.

the kink ivan will be associated with is sensory deprivation. he likes it when he's the guinea pig in this situation, being all blinfolded and tied up, sometimes even gagged. he can't do anything, he's at your mecy and it turns him on.

likewise, you enjoy the process. ivan's reactions are always so interesting to witness, he always switches up from begging for mercy to pleading for more. plus, it's fun to get back at him for the several instances in which he tortured you sexually.

the kink dewey will be associated with is a size kink. he's big, both his cock and his muscles. no one truly is a match for him, but when you laid your eyes on that hunk of a man, you came to the immediate conclusion that you can take him.

can you? no, not really. it takes a lot of prep, but dewey, despite popular belief, is quite meticulous when it comes to foreplay. sometimes it's just as exciting as getting to nestle his girthy cock inside your fluttering hole, feeling you spasm around him in hopes of accommodating him better.

the kink sua will be associated with is light bondage. light because she will only wrap the smoothest silk around your body, not to the point where the fabric is squeezing you too tightly but to the point where you can't move much.

after that silk finds its way onto your skin, your fate is in sua's hands. she gets to decide what will happen to you and you have no choice but to accept it, to take what she gives you. what makes this all the more simultaneously horrifying and thrilling is the fact that you never know if sua is feeling generous or selfish that night.

[acynicalsweetheart]

might be a little too cray cray but i NEED school shooter Jimmy... i need him to rape me in the bathroom stall or else he's gonna blow my brains out plsplslpls....

PUMPED-UP KICKS !

pairing: school shooter!jimmy x fem!reader

word count: 2.1k

dead dove do not eat: 18+, heavy gun violence, non-con/rape, references to rape and abuse, physical assault, creampie, mention of sandy hook and columbine but not in a political sense just jimmy being an ass tbh…

author's note: cray cray is my business… and business is good! ok sorry bad ref LMFAO umm terrible execution no pun intended hope it’s still readable.. some parts r really rushed and lazy but whatever.. interaction/feedback appreciated!!

Jimmy’s a simple man—he simply does not care. He does not care for the supposed lives or futures of these students, he does not care that he’s breaking several laws at once and he does not care because he’ll be out of town by tomorrow. 

Gonna have himself a nice bottle of Jack Daniels at the bar for once, or some fancy shit like that. To celebrate. 

(The one year anniversary of his bailout. Authorities have been on his ass ever since, hopes this goes out as a real neat fuck you.)

This place reeks. School-stink that Jimmy hasn’t had the absolute displeasure of breathing in for a couple of decades now. Forces its way through his nostrils like bong smoke—unpleasant in all the same ways—and has the guilt lessening by the minute. 

He finds his mind wandering back to those faces that were mainly fresh, some prematurely aged thanks to debauchery. The same ones that shoved him against lockers on a daily basis, the same ones that forced him into the janitor’s closet to perform their offences on the freak that was the broke and dirty, bone-thin boy at the back of the class. 

The same boy that might have been Jimmy himself. 

Makes it all feel a little lighter once Jimmy starts firing away at every moving thing like he’s the fucking Terminator. Jimmynator, more like. 

Sandy Hook was a hoax, Columbine will be nothing but an amateur hoax once Jimmy’s finished. Just gotta get past the 50-mark. Relatively easy when you’ve got four illegally acquired firearms and a baggie full of rounds with you. 

Jimmy loses count after 70. He empties classrooms on autopilot like killing is a chore. Shit’s kind of boring, he can’t wait to get the hell out of here. 

He isn’t going to clear out the entire school—cops will most likely arrive in approximately 10 minutes ‘cause gunshots and screams of bloody murder don’t exactly go unnoticed. And the frantic 911 calls, not to mention. Probably giving those pigs a real field day. 

Two more rooms, maybe three. 

Seems like they’ve rebuilt this place ‘cause Jimmy’s kind of lost. Can’t find any more classrooms so he goes to these reddish fugly doors that are looking mildly interesting. 

Bathrooms, hm. The embarrassment of dying while doing your business might just add up to the embarrassment of limping after homerunning a broomstick where the sun don’t shine. But will it add up to the humiliation of getting your ass beat and kicked out of your own home for being the devil’s son? Who’s he kidding, Jimmy’ll never get his justice. 

He does it anyway.

Jimmy’s egged on by his partner in crime that is the little, nagging schizophrenic voice in the back of his head. 

(The little, nagging schizophrenic voice in the back of his head that sounds eerily similar to Curly’s voice—that suburban drawl that irks him to no end. Some well-adjusted, attractive and normal blond fellow as the demon on Jimmy’s shoulder. Of course.)

Apparently the only business that was going on in the men’s was an orgie of shaking leaves and sobs. Better than nothing. 

Goodbye to you, you, you and you—oh, no, where does this one think he’s going? Man, my back hurts. That’s five more, nice job, buddy. What you at, a hundred? Should make it a hundred-and-one by finishing yourself off last. Shut up, that’s like, seventy. Oh yeah, ‘cause seventy’s real low, rookie numbers amiright? Shut the fuck up already. You’re killing people, Jim, people! School kids! They ain’t kids, they’re old as hell, plenty of cars in the parking lot. You’re a murderer. And you’re a pansy-ass, Curls. 

Shut him up real good. For the moment. 

Of course some little pussy is standing and ever-so-inconspicuously trembling like a newborn lamb behind the stall door. Like Jimmy can’t just fucking grab your legs and pull you out or something. 

He opens fire instead. 

A handful of bullets in a row shoot holes through the stall door you’re in. These nasty, smoky holes. Jimmy realizes a moment later that he should’ve aimed for the lock and not the door. Probably did wonders for intimidation though. 

Once he kicks the door open, you start screaming. He hasn’t even done anything serious yet. 

Jimmy decides to take off his stupid, cheap, stupid fucking balaclava so you can see his face. Lands on the floor. He doesn’t know if you’re screaming ‘cause you think he’s that ugly or ‘cause you’re terrified of dying. Could be a mix of both. 

“Oh my God,” the screech of your blunt nails scratching against the door as you frantically claw at it almost overpowers your voice. Doesn’t last long. “HEEEELP!” 

Jesus fuck, you’re loud. Jimmy tries to not laugh—tries. Sure’s gonna make you think he’s a psychopath. 

(The other part of Jimmy has him wondering if you’d scream like that if his cock was piercing you instead of his eyes.)

“Shut up.” He points the gun at you, pressing it firm against your ribcage and backing you up against the wall as a warning. Lets it go once you’re frozen up. “No one’s coming to help you, silly little bitch. I killed ‘em all.” Jimmy pinches your cheek in mock-sympathy. 

Your face contorts in disgust. 

It’s just a half-truth. Plenty of them are probably still alive, just in agonizing pain and suffering too much blood loss. The death will come later, hopefully. 

“A—are you gonna… kill me too?” You squeak like a mouse. 

No, I’m carrying four guns ‘cause I take pride in American culture, no matter the location. These? Oh, no, these are just splotches of strawberry jam. Silly me! Forgot to bring napkins, heh, I guess I’m just forgetful like that. 

“Yeah.” He replies causally, waiting a couple of beats to see the color of your face drain completely. “If you don’t stop talking.” 

You still don’t move.

Boring. Just ‘cause Jimmy threatened your life doesn’t mean you had to go all statue on him. Well, can’t stop now, can he? Gotta finish what he started. 

All guns but one fall to the floor with heavy thuds, you flinch about half a millimeter. It’s like you’re intent on masquerading as stone or something. 

Jimmy presses the muzzle of the rifle to your crotch, watches you come to life and stare down at it with your face oh-so-shocked, eyes wide like saucers. You’re dry heaving when he peels your panties to the side and starts prodding at your entrance. 

He’s almost hoping you’re a virgin. 

“Oh my—what are you…” the words don’t really get past your throat, your frantic breaths cutting off every word. Although, when Jimmy manages to get the muzzle inside your pussy, you shriek loud and clear. “No!”

So much for not talking. What Jimmy explicitly told you to do. Christ, what is it with females and being incompetent? Is it too much to ask for a bitch to shut the fuck up and struggle a little but not too much? A man needs to feel in control, that’s science. 

Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod—

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Jimmy shoves it further up, getting about a quarter of the barrel of the gun where it should never go—and you clench your thighs together. “I could shoot, you know.” 

“Please,” you plead, face scrunching up a second time as your head hangs lowly. 

“Please what, baby?” He tilts your chin up, squishing your cheeks till your lips pucker. “You wanna get fucked for real? I can do that.” 

“No,” you gasp out when Jimmy lets go of your face to reach for his belt. “Nononono, no! That’s—that’s not what I meant!”

“Shut up.” His fingers fumble with the buckle and zipper while he forces the gun out of your hole, placing it to your mouth like one would a hush finger. “You keep quiet, and I won’t blow your brains the fuck out right now, you understand?”

You whimper. 

“That’s better.”

Jimmy whips his dick out, gives it a handful of strokes for good measure, lines it up with your cunt. 

“Don’t mind if I do,” Jimmy grimaces at his own words, gross—sounds just like something Curly would say. Makes him contemplate if he should turn this whole thing into a murder-suicide seeing as he’s getting increasingly susceptible to turning into that milksop. 

“You’re real tight,” his tip manages to get inside, stretching you out pretty damn wide. “This your first time?” It’s a trick question to see if Jimmy should put a bullet in your brain.  

Can’t even give him a nod. Or a shake, but he finds that hard to believe. 

Fine.

He moves the gun to your head, keeping it against your temple with the trigger finger ready. In case you try anything. 

Jimmy pushes his cock all the way inside you and immediately starts thrusting up into you before you can even react. ‘Cause he’s got no time to waste. 

Face crumpled up like a used napkin and lashes wet with tears, you sob quietly. Mascara stains your cheeks and your skull thumps against the wall as Jimmy’s hips keep smacking with yours. 

Too bad he didn’t bring a camera.

Your walls are holding onto his dick for dear life, milking him like it knows he’s gotta be out of here right about now. Jimmy pants like a dog in your ear, trapping you between him and the wall. 

Man, it’s getting kind of hard to fuck you whilst simultaneously keeping an assault rifle to your head. His last name ain’t Carrey but he’s sure feeling like it right now ‘cause God is he dumb—should’ve brought a handgun for fuck’s sake. Would have made things a whole lot easier. 

His dick starts kicking after a minute, straining against your spongy walls. They feel quite sore, like Jimmy’s fucking you with a knife and not his cock. 

Has him picking up his pace till your body’s flopping around like a ragdoll. The sight of it alone makes Jimmy cum, spurts of jizz forcing itself into your womb. 

Jimmy lets it marinate for a couple of seconds before pulling out—a temporary candy cane mix of his creampie and your blood dripping out of your cunt. 

Your panties slide themselves back into place without him having to do a thing. You’re still crying like a damn baby and shaking. Snot’s coming out of your nose and it’s all very fucking gross. 

Still, you have the audacity to meet his eye. Giving him puppy eyes and fuck all. Like he gives a shit. 

The butt of Jimmy’s gun meets your face in a nice, hefty thwack! and he thinks he feels your nose break just before you black out. Probably gonna wake up with a concussion. And a flat back of the head with that death drop you just did. 

Pretty neat. 

You could pass for a dead body this way, got enough blood smeared around your pussy and thighs to make it look like you got fucked with a powered chainsaw. 

Jimmy doesn’t kill you, though, ‘cause he wants you to remember. He chooses himself to be your nightmare and panic attack for the next couple of years—possibly the rest of your lifetime. He chooses you to be the traumatized face plastered all over the news, the stammering mouth invoking mass hysteria and conspiracies about whom the perpetrator may be. 

Why else would you be the only one in the stalls, right at this time? Everything happens for a reason. 

It’s a real shame he’s gotta frame another dude, Jimmy would be quite content with being known for the largest school massacre yet. Like an Oscar of killing. Being on a run from the cops for the rest of his life isn’t exactly ideal though. 

Well, his real jail buddies will know. They’ll celebrate his name, hail him like Harris and that other guy in their rotting cells. Those opportunists striking at every drop of a soap will cling to the walls in fear lest Jimmy ever lands his ass back there. Feels like he should turn himself in just to be able to see their faces fall quicker than bullets out of a machine gun. 

Nah. Jimmy’s always preferred assault rifles. 

The assault’s got a nice ring to it anyway. Gonna make him think of you and every other wide-eyed, discombobulated bitch who’s ever had the pleasure of feeling Jimmy inside their too tight and too dry pussies. 

(And assholes for that matter.)

You were the only one who was wet. Must’ve been doing something wrong—your parents, that is. 

Jimmy whistles on the way out of your school that’s more of a complete bloodbath, really. Stepping over corpses and aspiring carcasses like they’re shit on the side of the road. 

The air’s pungently, suffocatingly thick with the stench of iron and Jimmy feels at home. Can’t get this stupid-ass tune out of his head. What’s it called again?

[kvetchlandia]

I Don't Know...

if anyone pays enough attention to the the junk I post to have recognized that for the past several days, my focus has changed to fewer posts and the posts I do make are posts of more serious things. This is because of the horrors currently happening in the United States, the degeneration of this country from a poorly structured and very erratic and inconsistent bourgeois democracy into some weird, frightening and dangerous combination of autocracy, plutocracy, kakistocracy and plain, old fashioned rule by dictatorial fiat. Needless to say, this then is made all the worse by its explicit racism, misogyny, xenophobia, religious fanaticism (of the ugliest born-again sort) and its open hostility to education and to science. Just to top it off, the government is headed by the most crude, vulgar, ignorant, ego-damaged, corrupt, vile blowhard one can imagine; a man who fancies himself a feudal monarch and who leads a movement that is more a cult than a political party and that worships him as a demigod; a multiply convicted criminal and a man found civilly liable for sexually assaulting a woman; a specimen so grotesque and repulsive that if a novelist or script writer were to have dreamed him up, no one would have bought him, thinking he was too absurd to be believable. Many consider this monster a fascist. I don't, for reasons having to do with history and the conditions under which fascism arises, but he's close enough to make the distinction moot. Anyway, confronting this ugly reality on a daily basis and knowing the social and political conditions in the United States, in which there is no organized left and most of those who fancy themselves left have no connection to the labor movement, no real concept of what socialism is, are obsessed with identity issues because they have no understanding of class politics and many of whom are tainted by antisemitism, a sad state made worse by the disgusting politics of the Israeli government which they feel justifies their racism, all of this leaves me feeling rather hopeless. Of course, there will be demonstrations against some of the excesses of this repugnant regime, some of them no doubt quite large, and I'll be at most of them that happen near me and will even take part in organizing some of them. But I've been doing that for ages, and nothing has changed, because of the political reality I just described. As a consequence of all of this, I just don't feel like posting my usual stuff. If you are unhappy with the way my Stumblr has changed and decide to bail, I understand completely, and thanks for hanging around while you did. If you decide to keep hanging with me, thanks so much, I appreciate your support. Maybe Ill get back to my more typical posts shortly, maybe I won't at all. I guess only time will tell.

[inkedtae]

elixir of the damned ⇾ bgc. [M]

⎡sun bright, sun light burns the flesh of those that bite. moon’s gleam, night’s scream as shadows linger in lonely blight. but in the dark where spirits wail, a witch will rise— her power prevails⎦

⌁ pairing; vampire!chan x witch!reader (f.)

⌁ genre; vampire au, s2l, some angst, smut, 18+

⌁ word count; 19.5k

⌁ summary; leech, nightcrawler, monster— chris is a vampire aching for sunlight. when he swims to a witch’s hidden island, badly burned, she offers him a secret remedy to survive daylight; he must drink her blood during her cycle, unleashing her true power and binding them for life.

⌁ warnings; graphic depictions and consumption of blood, graphic depictions of severe wounds, dom!chan, sub!reader, masturbation (f.), voyeurism, degradation, slight humiliation, rough sex, period sex, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, rough oral (f. receiving), body worship, spanking, teasing, slight edging, cum eating, blood play

⌁ 🎧 now playing... ✩

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 prefer ao3? keep reading here

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 a special thanks to dee ( @awrkives ) for making this sexy banner for me, and to my ride or die beta reader, jen ( @anobodyslove ) for consistently supporting me and reading over all the nonsense i write. i am nothing without you.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪  please enjoy this final Chantober fic!

On the brink of winter, Elderwood is a haze of greys. Roads are bleak black. Sidewalks are cracked and chipped. Streetlights illuminate no more than five inches in diameter, dim and distant. Seemingly void of life, the little town exhales a puff of condensation as it inches towards November. In a matter of days, the saturated warmth of autumn reds will wither, the cold air frosting  over every morning, until all pigment completely fades.

It’s depressing to watch the world around him drain of colour as he wanders the streets. Still, Chris is grateful for the consistency. One thing he can always count on is the changing seasons. He may not be getting older, but the world is.

The wind whips against his muscular frame. It should make him shiver, but he can barely feel the chill, only aware of the wind because of its force. The only time he ever felt the cold was midnight on a particularly wet February two years ago. It was pouring down on him as he walked back to Jisung’s house from the shore. The wind was knocking down street signs. The earth was drenched and cold. Chris felt the chills on his skin, the faint prickle of goosebumps. He inhaled and pretended his lungs worked, filling up with oxygen. Pulling his shirt off, he exhaled and pretended a cloud of air was breathed out. The chills running down his spine made it easy to pretend he was alive.

Now, Chris pretends he can feel the breeze blowing through his muscle tee, still exhilarated by the memory.

There are only two moments when he forgets he’s a vampire. One is when he can feel the cold, and the other is when he’s feeding. The taste of bitter iron and copper staining his tongue makes him feel real . With every gulp, Chris can feel the consumed blood run through his veins, drenching his heart and organs. There is the lightest hue of pink in his skin once he’s done. It lasts for a few hours before it fades and he grows hungry again. As much as it annoys him, Chris looks forward to every meal.

In a matter of days, he will be closing in on eight years as a vampire.

Leech, nightcrawler, monster— Chris cannot block out the voices that chime in every time he thinks about that word. They loop in slow circles around his mind on a daily basis and taunt him between his insecurities and mistakes.

He’s not sure how it happened. He stopped sleeping. It was hard to keep things down. He didn’t like to eat much before swim practise anyways. Even a bite of food would sit like a rock in his stomach. He’d have to excuse himself five minutes into his laps to empty his stomach in the nearest trash can.

“Knocked up?” one of his teammates teased from the pool.

Chris wiped his chin with the back of his wrist. He glared at the diver, eyes wet and red, before clearing his throat, swallowing thickly, and diving back in himself.

Hand on his stomach now, Chris yearns for that disgusting feeling that burned his chest and scratched at his throat. He hates throwing up, but it seems so humane now to get sick, to feel sick.

Once he attempted to starve himself in hopes of emulating something similar to an illness. All it did was make him irritable, almost rabid. He thought it would at least be similar to sleep deprivation but it instead sharpened his supernatural senses for blood.

More than anything though, Chris misses the sun. Every morning, he senses its warmth against the boarded windows of Jisung’s basement. For a handful of minutes, he can bypass his inherent fear of the sun to imagine beams of light cascading over him. He imagines the heat kissing his flesh, returning his admiration, and basks in the feign brightness.

Sand invades his shoes.

Chris opens his eyes to find the sea before him. The waves crash against the shore, inches away from his toes. He inhales sharply. Salt and seaweed plague his tongue. He swallows breathfuls of the scent anyway, chasing nostalgia.

He took his first steps here, had his first kiss by the rocks at thirteen, learned to swim, to build extravagant sandcastles and raced along the shoreline with Jisung and Changbin. How many summers had he guarded the lives of beachgoers? How many bonfire bashes had he patrolled?

Chris gazes out at the horizon. His enhanced vampiric senses have sharpened his sight, refining the mesmerising image of the serene scenery. Even the far island of Crow’s Nest looks clearer. It has been bogged down by heavy fog for as long as he can remember. Sometimes the island seems so hazy, Chris is only reminded of its presence by the crows circling around it. He smiles to himself as he recalls the countless times he, Changbin and Jisung dared each other to swim towards it, each one boasting about how they would be the one to swim the closest only to rush back to shore.

Fuck— it all feels like a life time ago.

The ocean laps closer to Chris’s feet. He surveys his surroundings. Fog settles over the quiet town. Silence replies to his inquisitive stare. He turns back to the sea and considers the horizon. It must be nearing four or five in the morning, dawn slowly approaching. The sky is mostly cloudy too.

He wonders if— No.

His vampiric instincts shudder at the thought. Chris fights through it, resisting the urge to turn around and hurry back to Jisung’s basement.

I have time , he mentally hisses.

The sun won’t be up for another hour or so, and given how considerably cloudy it is, he might have an extra fifteen minutes to collect his clothes and rush back into the safe darkness of the basement. His enhanced speed would get him there within ten minutes anyway.

Chris tugs at the hem of his shirt while kicking off his shoes. He feels the wind push around his muscular torso. He takes a moment to inhale deeply, swallowing the scent of the salty sea, and resists the urge to gag. Determined not to let the suppressed reaction discourage him, he unzips his jeans and pulls them down along with his briefs. For a second, he braces himself, expecting a chill upon his full nudity.

Then the reality of his being sets in.

He huffs an annoyed groan and marches into the water. He’s so frustrated he doesn’t feel it at first. However, as he continues to wade further into the ocean, the water now lapping just above his waist, Chris shivers .

Cold— ice cold. The sea welcomes him home.

Chris chuckles, relief blossoming in his chest. He caresses the surface of the water as another chuckle tumbles out of his full lips. If he was still human, tears would prick his eyes from the sheer relief of finally feeling something. Embracing the biting chill, he dives in.

Under deep blue darkness, the world muffles around him. He points his hands in front of him, the same way he was training eight years ago, and propels further into the ocean. Seaweed dances beneath his feet, the current moves around him. Being undead gives him an advantage as he can remain submerged for longer now.

Twirling, swirling, he swims and swims— faster than he could before his shift. The rush of the waves propel him further into the water, caressing his toned body. Chris suppresses a smile as he watches fish dart and algae float around him.

When he finally surfaces, he lets out a heavy breath on instinct, but he doesn’t care. He pushes his hair back and wipes his nose, heaving anyway because in this still moment, Chris is teetering on the edge of humanity for the very first time in eight years.

Looking back to the shore, he finds that he may have gotten carried away. The mainland is almost a figment of his imagination with the amount of distance he has created.

And Crow’s Nest is completely visible.

Chris looks between the shore and the island, then lets out a full bellied laugh, one he hasn’t been able to muster in years. Changbin and Jisung are never going to believe him when he tells them he got this close to Crow’s Nest .

Not only is it far, but most believe the island is haunted. Townies for years have claimed to witness figures lurking between the trees and flickering lights throughout the night. Someone once swore they saw a figure flying over the island on a broomstick amongst the crows. Throughout the years, many sceptics have tried to travel to the island, only to be deterred by the current and pushed back to shore. Changbin once told him that one person did make it onto the island but was never heard from again.

Chris was not completely convinced by the tall-tales of Crow’s Nest, but he still constantly felt unsettled by its presence.

However, surveying the island now, he cannot remember why he was so scared. Sure, the myths were strange, but they were myths in the end.

Vampires were once a myth , a little voice murmurs.

Stifling the sinister voice, Chris looks to the sky and finds it’s still a swirl of charcoal grey and slated blue. His smile returns before another chuckle bubbles from his eased chest. Floating upon the surface, he lays back, allowing the current to guide him for a moment. He shuts his eyes and focuses on the fading sensation of the cold upon his pale skin.

While Chris knows he has more time to revel in this rare human moment, he cannot help the anxiety festering in the base of his stomach. What if he never feels this way again? What if he has to wait another eight years to feel something, anything again? And yes, this has been a cathartic experience by himself, but some of his favourite human memories are shared with his loud, chaotic friends. He can imagine Changbin complaining about how deep the water is and Jisung making jokily suggestive comments about how naked they all are. He would never be able to convince them to go skinny dipping in the middle of October at dawn. Changbin is too much of a whiny baby to handle the cold and Jisung sleeps as deep as the dead— Chris would know being undead himself.

So, while he may feel a fraction of his humanity again, he cannot forget that he is still alone.

A sense of deep danger surges through him, silver eyes snapping open. Amber light spills across the once frosty charcoal-blue sky.

The sun is rising.

His vampiric instincts rage in his chest, as if scolding him for being so reckless.

Chris internally curses at himself. He’s about to swim back to shore when he notices rays of light shining against the sand, inching towards his clothes.

Fuck .

How long had he been floating? When did time start to move this quickly? The last eight years have felt like eternity, but it’s as though the last two hours flew by within twenty minutes.

Chris lets out a shaky sigh and considers his options. He can try to make it back to shore and sprint home, grabbing his clothes later (if the current doesn’t swallow them). He can try to dive deep enough in the water to evade the sun, but risk drowning over and over for the next twelve hours. Or…

A murder of crows circle the island to his right.

Crow’s Nest.

“ Shit ,” he mutters under his breath.

Chris dives. He uses all his strength to fight against the current. The closer he’s gets to the island, the harsher the ocean becomes. The waves are not forceful, simply persistent with their suggestion to turn back. It’s as if the sea is warning him against reaching the island.

He fights through it still, pushing himself to swim faster.

Though he does not have a pulse, Chris is heaving by the time he can walk onto the shore. He runs a hand through his hair and spits the excess seawater out of his mouth. Leaning on his knees, he takes a moment, for the first time in eight years, to catch his breath.

Vision blurring, hands shaking, Chris mutters a string of vulgar curses. The swim has depleted his energy. Thirst— No, hunger gnaws at his chest, his gut, his very being, tearing through his innate instincts to find shade. His senses instead sharpen for a hunt. The scent of crow, frail and small, immediately overwhelms him. He can nearly taste the thick blood that pumps under their onyx feathers.

“ Ah!” Chris hisses, jolting forwards as the light nips at his ankles.

The sun .

Using the last bit of his strength, Chris dashes towards the trees. However, as he’s about to cross into the safety of the shade, the sun strikes, scorching his skin.

Chris screams, collapsing to his knees. His back stings with a relentless hiss. Scurrying forward, he manages to make it into the shade with only a few more minimal, yet painful welts on his thighs and calves. He chokes back more groans as his pale skin bubbles and burns from the intense heat.

He shifts further into what he thinks is the shade, trembling and whimpering, when the breeze kicks in and rattles the already loose leaves from the trees. Chris looks up, watching a gap form and give way for another attack from the sun.

Bright rays blaze his face. Another fraught scream tears through his throat and he tries to shield his eyes with his arm. Only one eye could be saved, the other feels as though it is melting into his skull.

Pain, pain— aching pain. Chris screams, his voice cracking as he channels that last of his strength and throws himself against the tree stump with unnatural speed.

Hiccuped moans tumble from his wounded, cracked lips. He heaves, voice nothing more than a wheezing shattered mess. His flesh deteriorates, once eternal body now crumbling under the bright light. The rotting smell of his dead body simmers around him, brewing nausea deep in his gut.The sand bites into his burnt skin, like salt on a fresh wound. Whimpering, he grits his teeth and attempts to bear the pain.

It’s not that bad. It’s not that bad. It’s not tha—

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groans, the pain overtaking his mind. He tries to repeat the phase again but can barely get past the first syllable.

Chris knows he can’t stay here. The sun will move, the light will shift, the fucking wind will betray him. He is not guaranteed safety if more leaves fall and the light seeps through again. Yet, he cannot move. Without blood to sustain his movements or renew his vampiric healing abilities, he might just die anyway.

So, Chris simply stares at the clutter of copper and gold leaves around him and suppresses whimpers. Is this the sickness he was previously craving to feel? Is this the humanistic pain he so badly yearned for? Chris cannot help but curse at himself over and over as his vision slowly blurs.

Is this really how it ends , he wonders. Wet from the sea, hot from the sun, eight years of demonic hell inch to this painful end.

Coughing up bile, he spits it over his shoulder and exhales deeply. Well, at least, he was able to experience a final moment of humanity, even if it was alone. And when he sees Changbin and Jisung again, he’ll tell them all about how he swam to Crow’s Nest and wasn’t immediately devoured by the monsters that they believe lurk within.

And if nothing else , he thinks as the darkness slowly closes in on him, I had one last moment in the sun.

“What have you done to yourself?”

A soft flowery voice caresses him. Chris mentally leans into the feminine allure of the voice, allowing himself to be wrapped in her gentle tone.

Then, the voice suddenly solidifies shattering the warm cocoon Chris found himself giving into, as she repeats, tone firmer now, “Are you insane?”

Chris tilts his head, choking on more bile as a surge of pain ripples through him. A curvy figure dressed in a thin, white sundress rushes towards him. He can barely make out her face, his sight almost completely gone, but her scent— fresh rain, lavender and sage— overwhelms him. For a second, he sees himself strolling through a field of wildflowers after a rainstorm, following the full figured beauty into the warmth of the light.

“Wow, you’re really naked,” she suddenly mumbles under her breath.

Voice raspy, Chris asks, “Are… you an angel?”

Soft hands cup his face; delicate, sweet, and gentle. Chris tries to regain some semblance of his sight, eager to take in her ethereal features but the pain hinders his focus.

And then, all at once, darkness claims him.

Dawn is still. While the sun peeks through clusters of clouds, the sky shifts from pale blue to rose-gold. The wind, once flowing through the small cottage through the open windows, disappears. Even the crows, who often guard your little hideaway, fall silent.

You freeze mid-chop and turn towards the backdoor. A murder of crows still lingers around your backyard, but they seem rigid, as if they are not sure how to react.

Furrowing your brows, you set down your knife and abandon your half-chopped eggplant. You wipe your hands on your apron, making your way to the door.

A loud buzzing rings through your ears, stopping you mid-stride. You furrow your brows, senses finally flaring.

Abandoning the back door, you move towards the front instead. The moment you pull it open, you feel it— the shift in the air, swirling with panic, fear and… pain ?

A loud scream suddenly echoes through the morning fog, taut and sharp.

Chills run down your spine.

You’ve found many injured animals while hiding in Crow’s Nest within the last decade. You’ve repaired broken bones, mended mangled wings and even helped beached sea creatures find their way back into the ocean. However, nothing you have encountered has ever sounded so huge.

Shaking off your nerves, you step out and shut the door behind you. The wind picks up, colder than before. It ruffles through your white sundress, forcing you to wrap your arms around yourself. Another frail scream echoes, this time starling the crows back into motion. Hawthorne, your clingiest crow, lands on your front porch with a concerned tilt of his head, as if coming to check on you. Your face deadpans as more crows settle on the rickety, oak wood and peer up at you.

“You literally saw me from the garden,” you sigh. Stepping around them, you ask, “Do you know where that sound came from?”

Poe squawks before fluttering into flight, and a few other crows follow after him as well. You trail behind them, pulling your wand out from between your breasts. You assume that whatever washed up on your island must be harmless enough for your wards not to alert you upon its arrival. Still, you keep your twelve-inch mahogany wand, the polished ebony wood twisted and glittering like silver stars, steady before you.

Rotten vanilla and burnt, parched oak intoxicate your next breath. The scent envelopes you in despair, as you draw closer to the source. Heaving, whimpering, coughing, the broken sounds of pain become clearer with every step.

And then you see him— extremely pale and teetering consciousness. His face, which might have once been a handsome blend of soft masculinity, is grey and blistering. Arm, shoulder, ribs; the left side of his body is peeling skin, almost as if dusting and rotting all at once. The edges of the wounds are lined with black. It’s as though he’d been charred under open flames.

“What have you done to yourself?” you whisper under your breath.

You draw nearer, trying to make sense of this… being? You’re not quite sure what he is. He most definitely cannot be a human. He should be bleeding and the welts would be blistering, eager to reverse the damage.

His eyes squint open and you almost miss it. The right one is a rich chocolate, purely humanistic and warming. The left, however, is a blinding silver. Swimming with thirst and desperation, even exhausted, that gleaming grey eye conveys more threats than promises.

Vampire .

Dawn, light, burns, it all starts to make sense.

“Are you insane?”

He chokes on bile, resting his head back against the tree trunk.

As he tries to find his voice, you take a moment to scan his frame, looking for more wounds. It’s then that you notice just how naked he is. Guilt and shame fester in your chest at the realisation that, despite the wounds, he does not look so bad, perhaps even… attractive.

Your attention lingers below his waist. The sight heats your face. “Wow, you’re really naked,” you whisper more to yourself than him.

“Are…” he starts, summoning your attention back to his mismatched eyes, “you an angel?”

The question startles you. After a few blinks, you swallow thickly and clear your throat.

Wraith, nightshader, monster— you’ve been called many names throughout your life as a blood-witch. Your previous coven conjured most of the insults, but the mundane town of Elderwood has never been a friend to the supernatural either, despite its mythical origins. Ridiculed for your magic, banished by family and supposed friends, you didn’t think you’d ever meet another paranormal being, let alone be confused for an angel.

Cupping his face, you decide that he’s delirious. Scorched by the sun, thirsty for blood (if his nearly translucent skin is any indication), he probably took one look at your white dress and assumed he was dying.

You gasp as he suddenly falls limp in your hands. You’re about to check his pulse when you remember he’s a vampire. Muttering curses, you stand up.

“Create some shade,” you order the crows. As they cluster overhead, you add, “We need it dark enough to move him.”

More crows fly in to help, clouding over the wounded vampire to shield him from the rising sun.

Deep breath in and out, you centre yourself. Your lungs carry his festering scent, the faint notes of sweet vanilla and sturdy, dry oak soothing your erratic heart.

You open your eyes with a heavy, steady exhale. Holding out your wand, you dig your heels into the ground. Magic flickers from your fingertips and warps into the wand, waiting for your direction. Only, you’re not sure if you’re making the right choice.

Healing animals, saving helpless lives is much of what you do on this little island, besides tending to your magical garden, brewing potions and crafting talismans. You’ve always felt grounded when you’re able to help someone, anyone . The only other time you feel as accomplished and useful is when you update your journal. Keeping a detailed grimoire of new spells, potions, thoughts, and observations has been your only other source of stabilising your sanity amidst such a solitary life.

But, a vampire is not some other helpless animal. You don’t know a lot about the blood-demons, only that they have been damned upon their own moment of desperation. He clearly made naive deals without much consideration of the consequences. And the fact that he wandered out in daylight does not help his case.

He could be recently turned or just simply stupid and desperate. Either way, you wonder if this is a good idea. Moving him would mean inviting him into your home. Is that really the wisest decision? It would mean that he would have access to the little cottage without your permission, even if you reinforce your wards. Your invitation would be enough to welcome him in every time.

Still, you know you cannot heal him out here. The sun will shift and only shine brighter throughout the day. The crows can only fly for so long as well. And while your magic is malleable, it is not infinite. It will not be able to sustain a shield weaved of your powers without an anchor like the hearth of your cottage to truly ground and replenish your strength. The only way to save him would be to bring him into your sanctuary.

Or, a little voice mutters, you can just let him die.

You recognise that internal voice as your mother’s. It carries the same sharpness and disdain for your intuitive decisions. You’re not surprised it has reared its ugly head in a moment of uncertainty and distress. It often has a habit of kicking you while you’re down, or coaxing the worst out of you.

Shoving the vile voice back to the farthest corner of your mind, you wave your wand. The handsome vampire levitates under the allure of your magic.

“We move as one,” you order. “And, be careful.”

The crows mutter amongst themselves, but follow your commands. Together, you slowly move further into the forest.

Once you step foot onto the porch, the cottage anticipates your needs. The windows and curtains shut and candles flicker to life along with the hearth. You push open both front doors to accommodate his broad frame. Guiding him into your living room, you wonder if he was an athlete or swimmer prior to turning. His lean yet muscular figure indicates one or both hobbies.

Shame rises in your chest again. You have no idea what has gotten into you. When did you become so perverted and disgusting? How could you check out a wounded man so casually like that, like he’s not unconscious and on the brink of death? 

Swallowing your shame away, you lay him down on your soft, velvet green sofa. He sinks into the comfortable cushions, still and frail. Draping a handknitted, midnight black blanket over him, you notice his skin becoming grey. And even the parts that have not been touched by the sun begin to peel. 

You mutter a curse and rush to the kitchen. Rummaging through the cabinets, you look between jars of carefully crafted salves and mud masks. Aloe, honey, shea butter, coconut– what the fuck would heal the undead flesh of a vampire? If he was conscious, you’d give him a jar of blood from your preserves and hope that with enough consumption, he’d eventually heal himself. 

The cottage attempts to help you. It pushes open drawers of loose ingredients. Even a few stray crows, who managed to sneak in before the house could shut the door behind you, fly from book to book, trying to inspire you to just look up the information you need. You wave off the house and ignore the crows. You need something quick and complete. You don’t have time to brew something or search through old pages. 

Shifting its approaches, the cottage offers salves you’ve already made and saved from different cabinets around the kitchen. It hovers the jars before you, continuously suggesting a variety of creams as you wave them off. 

You’re about to wave off the next suggestion when the name catches your eye: Sunveil Balm . Golden yarrow and rosemary oil, lunar lilac extract, white ash bark powder, dewdrop resin, the essence of morning fog and the rare but potent dust of golden pearls, you remember crafting the balm for a bat with scorched wings. It stayed out in the sun for much too long one blistering summer and received several burns. A few generous swipes of the salve repaired the damage within ten minutes.

You snatch the gold-shimmering cream, darting back to the living room. With a wave of your hand, the jar twists open. You dip into the pot and scoop out a good amount before gently tilting his face and slathering the soft, creamy balm over his left cheekbone and temple. 

Mismatched eyes of brown and grey snap open. A loud scream tears through his throat as the wound hisses under the golden salve. He instinctively brings a hand up to his face to wipe it off, only for the salve to burn his fingers. 

“Shit,” you murmur before shouting, “Get me blood, now!”

The cottage complies, hovering various jars of animal blood in front of you. It’s the human blood that catches your eye, though. You know that if you want him to recover quickly, you have to supply him with your best stocks. Human blood, however, is rare for you. Without a coven of well-connected witches, harvesting human blood from your remote little island has proved to be a difficult and daunting task. You only have about five large jars left. 

He trembles into the sofa, choking on his own bile. 

You sigh, realising you’ve made it this far. You have already invited him into your home and made the decision to save him. If that weren’t enough, you’ve just deepened his pain with fresh burns.

With another wave of your hand, you twist the jar of human blood open, then snatch it from the air. “Shh, shh,” you calmly whisper, snaking your arm under his head to support the lift of his neck. He tries to swallow thickly, but chokes on the smell of fresh, cold blood. You bring the lip of the jar closer to his mouth and administer small, careful sips.

You watch as his eyes roll back from the taste. Arousal pools between your thighs. You curse yourself three times over for the way your body reacts. It’s been ten years of using your wand as a vibrator or making do with your fingers. You tell yourself that it’s simply pathetic desperation, a chronic need for human interaction that triggers this sort of reaction to him. Shame and regret still tighten in your chest, encouraging the continuation of your internal insults and curses.

A croaky groan echoes within the jar, pulling you out of your thoughts. The vampire sits himself up and takes the jar from you. He starts to down the blood in large gulps. His chest heaves, throat bobs and rogue trails of blood leak from the corner of his lips. 

You stand and turn away from him, much too aroused by the animalistic sight. Trying to ground yourself, you take shaky breaths in and out, and focus on the length of your breaths, the sound of the exhale. You don’t realise he’s done until you hear him clear his throat. 

Turning back to face him, you find his skin has solidified back to its normal pale, white colour. The black soot around his wounds remains along with a few remaining welts, however life (or lack thereof) has returned to his undead body. 

“More?” He quietly asks, voice deep and husky. 

You nod and hold a hand towards the kitchen. Another large jar of human blood shoots into your grasp. The vampire blinks as you wave the lid open, and lower the glass down to him. He trades you the empty one, letting his attention drift up and down your frame. 

Your shoulders roll back, chest puffing forward under his curious gaze. 

You are pathetic , you think to yourself.

Embarrassed by your actions, you leave him in the living room with his meal and return to the kitchen. Hawthorne and Poe perch on the counter by your recipe books. They cast disapproving stares in the dim candlelight as you enter.

You roll your eyes and whisper, “He was dying.” When they continue to silently judge, you add, “I happen to recall a time when two little birdies got into a fight for the fourth time and begged me to help them even when they promised not to let it happen again. So, maybe we shouldn’t be so judgemental.”

Both crows tilt their heads downwards in shame. 

“Who are you talking to?”

You squeal, jolting as you turn to face the vampire. He stands in the archway of your kitchen, blanket wrapped around his waist. He clutches the soft fabric with one hand by his hip and the empty jar with the other. You resist the urge to look at his fully healed chest, knowing it will only further arouse you, and fixate your attention on his face. 

While the blood has completely reversed the damage of the sun on his skin, his eyes still remain discoloured. You draw closer to examine it, getting within a hand’s reach before remembering that you two are still strangers, he’s still naked and there’s still steaks of blood staining his chin. 

He raises a brow at you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. 

Does he think I’m into him , you wonder as panic fills your chest. You clear your throat and take a step back. 

“Your eye,” you start, pointing to your left one, “It’s still silver.”

He reaches up to touch it. Understanding shifts his features from arrogance to self-caution. 

“Do you need more blood?” you ask, wondering if perhaps more consumption would help.

He shakes his head. “I’m full,” he replies. Stepping into the kitchen, he holds the empty jar out for you. 

You take it and place it on the counter by the other one he finished. You turn back to face him, regrettably letting your gaze flicker down his defined chest again. It’s buff and broad, the perfect addition to his strong shoulders. His waist is slim, toned and narrows down to delicate hips that you are sure have some unforgiving moments. Internally cursing yourself for your lack of self-control, you note that, at least this time, you’re lusting after him while he’s conscious and not in active pain. 

He suddenly clears his throat, beckoning your attention back to his face. A shy smile settles on his lip and he raises a brow. 

Great , you sarcastically think, now he’s going to think I only helped him because I think he’s hot . 

“I’m Chris,” he introduces, holding out his hand. “And I suppose I should thank you for saving my life.”

You bite your lip. Maybe he was tired before or you were just too preoccupied by the gravity of the situation to catch it the first few times he spoke, but he has a thick, lazy accent that comforts your reclusive soul in ways it probably shouldn’t.

You offer your name, accepting his hand. The chill from his skin is all encompassing and it takes everything in you not to shiver. After a couple of good shakes, you release his hand to reach back and grab a clean tea towel. You hand it to him and gesture to your chin. “You’ve got a bit of blood,” you carefully inform. 

Chris scrubs his face harshly. You thought the knotting brows and darkening eyes were an indication  of embarrassment upon the mention of the little mess he made of himself. However, from the way he drags the tea towel over his newly healed skin, you wonder if he is upset, perhaps hateful. 

“Thanks,” he mutters again, catching your lingering gaze. 

You take the tea towel back when he’s done and toss it to Poe. The little crow catches the stained cloth and flies it over to the dirty pile. A little amused smile plays on your lips as you watch Chris look between you and the crow. He parts his lips to ask something, but he cannot find his words.

“Let’s have a seat,” you softly suggest, nodding towards the archway. “You must be exhausted.”

Chris nods, letting out a heavy breath. He steps to the side to let you weave around him and lead the way back to the living room. His steps are so light and gentle as he follows. You probably wouldn’t have heard them if you weren’t paying such close attention, sneaking a look behind you. 

His gaze focuses around your hips, or rather the sway of them. You catch him biting his lip before turning to face the front again. Letting out a shaky sigh, you try not to let the little gesture go straight to your head. You’ve received quite a few stares when you lived with your coven once upon a time ago. Most would either linger around your breasts or rear. Sometimes it was due to the sheer size of your voluptuous body and very rarely was it done in admiration when it came to staring at your arms or stomach or thighs. Your backside, however, always received that same carefully longing attention. 

So, he doesn’t like you , you tell yourself. He just likes what he sees .

You take a seat on the black leather armchair by the fireplace, sinking into the comfortable cushions, and nod to the emerald couch he previously laid on. 

Chris sits across from you. Shifting in his seat, he adjusts the blanket to properly cover his hips and crotch. Your eyes meet and, for a brief second, you swear you catch the lightest, faintest hint of pink creeping up his neck and spreading to his cheeks. 

Shifting uncomfortably in your own seat, you offer an apologetic smile and say, “I don’t think I have any clothes for you.”

He returns the gentle gesture with a small grin of his own and shakes his head. “It’s fine. I can try to get the ones I left on the beach later tonight.”

You raise your brows at the new information. Leaning over one of the arms on your chair, you attempt to peek into the kitchen. “Hawthorne?” You shout. 

Chris looks back at the archway only for Hawthrone to dart out. He flies over head, startling Chirs as he ducks his head to avoid the fast bird. 

“Go to the mainland and see if you can find some clothes on the shore for me,” you order once he lands on the arm of your chair. “And take Tenny and Poe with you.” 

Hawthorne squawks. He takes flight again, heading to the front door when you tsk at him. He returns to your side, waiting for instructions. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” you ask then nod to the back of the cottage, “We have a sun sensitive visitor. Take the back door.”

He caws again and zooms right over Chris’s head. There is a ruffle of feathers, followed by more cawing before the slam of an open and shut window sounds. 

Chris swallows thickly, sitting back into the couch. “So you talk to birds,” he says as a way to break the silence. 

“Yup,” you nod. 

He nods along with you, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Your attention falls on his cleanly shaved armpits, the flex of his bicep. You cross your legs and press your thighs tightly together at the thought of being caught in a headlock, or cuddling under his arm and inhaling his thick, sickly sweet scent.

“Um,” he starts, pulling you out of your thoughts. You blink at him upon meeting his gaze. There is a knowing look in his mismatched eyes, and the faintest flicker between your own and your tense thighs. But he does not comment on your suddenly rigid posture. Gesturing to his face instead, he asks, “What was the–”

“Sunburn cream,” you answer, cutting him off. “It’s called Sunveil Balm. I guess it doesn’t work on vampires.”

He tentatively nods. “And what are you?” He registers the bluntness of his question the moment it leaves his full lips, and panic floods his eyes. Quickly, he adds, “No offence. It’s just– the magic–” he cuts himself off, pointing to your hands. 

A little smile plays on your lips with a slip of a chuckle. “I’m not offended,” you reassure, shaking your head. “I’m a witch. A blood-witch.”

“What makes a blood-witch different from a witch?”

“What makes a vampire different from a demon?”

Your voice is light and teasing but your playfulness falters at the sight of his concerned features.

“I-I’m a demon?” he asks, confusion creasing between his brows. He looks so lost, you’d think he’d never seen one before. It’s as if he didn’t conjure darkness to trade his soul away. 

Perplexed yourself, you nod. “Well, yes. How did you not– No,” you shake your head with a few blinks, then look back at him, starting again, “How long have you been a vampire?”

“About eight years.”

“Eight?”

He confirms with a nod. 

What the fuck?

Now, demons are tricky and conniving. They always make a deal that falls more in their favour than their summoner’s, but they have some decorum, especially towards each other. Upon their summoner’s shift into a vampire, the demon must have visited and informed him of his new, undead state. You recall reading about countless accounts of demons shadowing their newest additions and teaching them how to hunt, run and hide in the shadows. It’s common practice.

But more than that, you wonder how a vampire of eight years would miscalculate the rise of the sun and self-inflict such terrible wounds. Given the fact that he used his last bits of strength to find shade, you have to assume it wasn’t done on purpose. But, you also have a hard time believing that he’s naive enough to not know when the sun will rise during this time of year, especially after eight years of being undead. From the few books you’ve read on vampires during your studies as an apprentice, you know that they have a biological clock, an inherent instinct to not only avoid the sun, but fear it. 

Chris, pretty eyes round and youthful face uncertain, looks like he woke up one day, never went to sleep again, and was never told why.

“Am I missing something?”

“That’s what I’m wondering,” you reply. “This doesn’t make sense. How did you turn? And why were you out this late, anyway?”

He bites on the inside of his cheeks and averts his gaze. “It’s complicated.”

Furrowing your brows, you’re not sure which question that was supposed to answer. You decide to take it one step at a time, asking, “Did you want to get burned?”

“No,” he immediately replies, meeting your gaze. 

Had it not been for the firm eye contact, you might have doubted him. 

“So, what is it then?”

“It’s just…” he trails off, running a hand through his damp hair. “Complicated.”

You raise a brow, lingering your attention on his head. Recalling your thoughts about his physic earlier, you wonder if he really is a swimmer. If he perhaps ventured too far out into the sea and exhausted himself in the process. However, noting the way he nervously averts his gaze, you decide to redirect the conversation to something that’s hopefully less complicated.

“You don’t need to tell me why you summoned the demon,” you start, knowing the reason must have been dire for him to turn to the darkness for help. “I just don’t understand how you didn’t know that you, technically, are one.”

His face scrunches in concentrated confusion. He thumbs his nose and tilts his head at your words, and you’re starting to wonder if he’s been cursed or simply a pretty face. 

“I didn’t summon a demon. I just…” he trails off, averting his gaze as he searches for the best way to word his transition, “ became a vampire.”

“That’s not possible.”

“It’s what happened.”

“Explain the process,” you order, sitting back in your seat. “How did you know you were a vampire if no one told you?”

There is a twinge of challenge in his narrowing eyes. He flits his gaze up and down your relaxed frame and tongues his cheek. He then leans his elbows on his knees, broad shoulders now on full, flexed display under the warm glow of flickering candle lights. 

You swallow thickly and force yourself to maintain eye contact. 

“Do you always use that tone?” He suddenly asks, voice low and deep.

Barely above a whisper, you reply, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

He smirks as newfound understanding glimmers in his silver eye. “That’s better,” he says before sitting back into his seat. 

You’re not sure what’s more lethal, the way he leans forward, every curve of his muscles contrasted perfectly in the shadows of the dim lights, or the way he leans back, legs spread and chest open. Both are equally as inviting, enticing you to shed your inhibitions and completely lose yourself against him. 

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he starts, shattering your focus on his sprawl body. “I was feeling sick for weeks. I could barely keep up with my training, and–”

“Training?”

“I was a swimmer.”

Knew it – Your eyes flicker to his shoulders for a split second.

“I was the fastest on the team. I even had a scholarship,” he says. A faint smile hovers over his plush lips at the memory. “I stopped drinking. I stopped eating. And on the day of the championship, I was terrified to leave my dorm. I nailed wood and bedsheets over my window and hid under the bed. My friends found me at one point, much later in the night, and I…” he pauses, swallowing thickly, “I attacked them.”

You remain still, expression neutral. He watches you closely, as if waiting for a gasp or blink of acknowledgement. 

“I just remember being really, really thirsty. I chased them through the courtyard until they talked me out of ripping them apart. And–” he cuts himself off with a little laugh. 

You raise your brown trying to fight off your own smile at the sweet, deep rumble emitting from his buff chest.

“Sorry, I just remembered one of my friends’ screams– Changbin. He’s a complete wimp and was squealing the whole time. You’d like him. Everyone likes him,” he explains. When you return his sweet smile, he continues, “Anyway, they talked me out of killing them, helped me hunt a rabbit, which took too fucking long for three grown men, and then made fun of me while I drank it’s blood.”

“They sound like idiots,” you joke, fighting your own laughter at the image he crafted for you. 

“They are,” he nods, voice thick with nostalgia. Then, he clears his throat and adds, “Anyway, there weren’t any demons or witches or anyone else. Just us and the internet.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “While that sounds like a terrible disaster,” you tease, much to his amusement, “that’s not really how vampires are made.”

“I wasn’t bitten either.”

“That’s misinformation,” you dismiss. “No one gets bitten to turn. Anyone who has been bitten by a vampire and survived merely experiences more drastic symptoms of rabies then dies. They are bats after all.”

Judging by the constantly confused expression on his face, you deduce he has not discovered he can turn into a bat yet. You hold off on that nugget of information for now, returning to your explanation, “Vampires are the result of humans making deals with some sort of demon. While possessions are common, demons do not want your body. They are always after your soul. Whatever remains is the demonic shift from humanity to deviance. You may still have your body, but your connection to the supernatural is your only thread to the living.”

Chris nods, sitting up in his seat. You regret to find that it doesn’t make you want to straddle him any less than before. 

 “I can understand that, I just don’t know what that has to do with me. I swear I had no reason to summon anyone from any realm or world or wherever the fuck these things come from.” His voice wavers with sincerity, eyes distressed with confusion. He takes a second to breathe in deeply, trying to ground himself, only to clench his jaw, never exhaling. “I just want my life back,” he mutters. 

Me too , you think as you gnaw on your bottom lip.

While your mother discouraged you from being yourself, and so-called friends betrayed you, there was a life back between the Mountains of Cleo that was waiting for you to reach your full potential. Working alongside the greatest witches of the century, charting stars and researching the full scope of potential power within the moon, you were on track to finally securing a position within the Arcane Court , and earning the respect of your family for once. 

You wish to return to that moment before everything had shattered around you. Work was stolen, lies were told and reputations were ruined. You never thought you'd be forced to defend yourself against people you loved, people you considered your found family. However, you did expect your biological family to believe the worst about you. 

Looking back at Chris, you notice he seems lost in his own thoughts too, gazing at the polished hardwood floors aimlessly. His explanation seems genuine and you really do believe him. He seemed to have the world at his fingertips, on the cusp of achieving all his dreams, before his life ended. 

He suddenly meets your gaze. The angle of his head blends his brown eye into the darkness, the silver one gleaming brightly in contrast. You know you should be scared, and you try to find a reason to feel that way, looking for even the faintest hint of danger. Instead, honesty greets you. If you hadn’t known he was a vampire, you would have assumed he was human from that look alone. 

“I want to help you figure out what happened,” you announce. 

Chris blinks at you. “What?”

“Vampires are made by demons,” you repeat. “If you are a vampire, then you were made. And if you didn’t bind yourself into a contract, someone else must have done so on your behalf. You could be in danger, could even be hexed. I want to help you find out what’s going on.”

His throat bobs, brows knit and he licks his lips before asking, “Why would you help me again?”

“I’m curious,” you shrug. And when his stare does not waver, you add, “And this is the longest I have spoken to someone other than a bird in the last ten years, so I might as well make the most of it before sundown.”

At that, Chris smiles. You notice he has a way of making it look so easy, that gentle, boyish smile. It’s full of intrigue and amusement and even admiration as his mismatched eyes twinkle with delicate notions of mischief. 

“I’m going to look into making another salve for some of your scars,”you say, standing from your seat. “The crows will be back with your clothes soon. You can go up to the bathroom and shower in the meantime, if you’d like I mean.”

Chris stands with you, glancing at the stairs. “Thanks,” he murmurs as if he doesn’t trust his voice. 

You ignore the heavy emotion laced in his tone, to save him the embarrassment, and continue, “It’s the third door on the right. The house will lead you.” 

As if on cue, you hear the soft echo of shutting doors and the whispering squeak of a single door opening. 

Chris’s ears twitch at the sound. He swallows thickly and gives you another nod of gratitude before heading up the stairs. You watch his back flex as he rolls his shoulders back. Now that you are going to help him, you really need to stop practically panting after him. The last thing you want is to make him uncomfortable in a tiny house he can’t leave for the next twelve hours. 

Letting out a heavy breath, you make your way to the kitchen and wave all your relevant books on burns, salves and blood-beings towards you. But the distant spray of the shower rattles your focus, plaguing you with images of his naked body caught between water and steam. Shaking your head, you force him out of your thoughts.

You have work to do– a purpose to finally follow.  And you won’t be deterred.

Despite the brightness of your flowy white dress, which cinches at your waist and beautifully accentuates your curves, your little cottage is a sanctuary of moody shades and warm textures. Chris surveys the polished dark wood floors, adorned with a large, red rug that captivates his attention, on his way towards the stairs. A piece of onyx fur casually drapes over the exotic rug, adding an extra layer of softness beneath his cold feet. Leafy green plants cascade from the ceiling and trail their long vines over the edges of the shelves. They bring a subtle sense of  life to the space, even in such dim lighting. The deep violet walls bring out the vivid colours of the flowers—magenta, indigo, and plum. He assumes, based on your determined personality, that each bundle of petals serves some sort of purpose. Between flickering candles, well-worn books, and vials of mysterious substances, you've crafted a harmonious blend of oak table sets and plush, comfortable seating, creating an inviting atmosphere that feels entirely your own– warm and beautiful.

As Chris enters your bathroom, he finds that it is no different. Only, instead of a cosy ambiance of lived-in comfort, you’ve created a refreshing forest oasis. Dark green tiles line the walls, casting the room in deep, earthy hues. The floor is a mosaic of midnight green and jade patterns that seem to shift with the light, an intricate dance of natural tones underfoot. From above, more plants with long, draping vines hang over the obsidian sink, suspended in delicate macrame nets that sway gently with each movement in the room. Chris’s throat dries at the swan faucet poised elegantly above the sink, its neck curved in a graceful arc. In the corner, the shower nestles like a hidden grotto, glossy tiles and rainfall shower head turning it into a misty forest retreat, with aged brass fixtures catching the light. And finally, his gaze drifts to the grand, black bear claw tub—a magnificent centrepiece that seems plucked from a woodland dream.

He swallows thickly, inhaling the subtle scents of eucalyptus and lavender. Upon his exhale, the shower head turns on. He peers around the bathroom again, wondering if the house is watching him. When only the steady spray of the shower echoes against the dimly candlelit walls, Chris rolls his shoulders back and takes a step further into the room. 

The door clicks shut on its own.

Chris shakes off his uneasiness and drops the blanket from his waist. He’s not sure why, but his hands shake as he steps under the shower. A part of him hopes to feel stark cold, just as the ocean was a couple of hours ago. But the water is…water– Chris cannot feel much of a temperature, even with litres of human blood spreading through his body. Still, the strong pressure beating down his head, shoulders and back ease the tension in his once wounded muscles. 

Suddenly, the water stings with the faintest hint of coolness. It gets colder and colder, nearly replicating the frostiness of the morning sea, before Chris realises that the house is adjusting the temperature for him.

“This is good,” he mutters, tipping his head back. 

The house slightly warms the water, silently asking if he’s sure. 

“I like it cold,” Chris reassures. A ghost of a smile hovers over his full lips. He wonders if you put the house up to this or if it is simply trying to make him feel welcome. Either way, he’s grateful for the consideration. 

Consideration . Chris ponders over the word, mulling over every syllable, every decision you’ve made while he was unconscious. You’re a witch with angelic intentions, that much seems to be clear.  But he still cannot help wondering what it was that made you consider saving him? He’s just a stranger, afterall. No, he’s a demon . And yet, you brought him into your home, created salves and offered him jars of blood. 

Why do you have stores of human blood, anyway? Is it part of your practice as a blood-witch? Do you conjure spells that include elements of blood? Or do you merely harvest litres of it like a collector of sorts?

Questions lap round and round his mind as he reaches for your honey-infused shampoo. It smells faintly of your wild, flowery scent. Chris cannot help his smirk at subtle notions of rainfall and sage amidst that lavender. With a playful smile and inquisitive, bold eyes, you are the epitome of life and purity– and you smell like it too. 

He leans into the faint scent as he lathers his seasalt drenched hair with the silky, sweet soap. After rinsing the suds out, he grabs the matching conditioner and finds it is heavily imprinted with your scent. Perhaps you use it more often, or in larger quantities than the shampoo, but Chris is not all that curious why. He continues to lean into it, moaning softly as he combs it through his slightly curled strands. 

You’re incredibly enchanting, and Chris wonders if you’re aware of that. From the sway of your hips to the glint of intrigue in your alluring gaze, you are a vision of beauty. You radiate confidence, even when you’re perplexed and unsure. You stand in your own light, take control of a room and demand answers. Had Chris met you in college, between frat parties or music classes, he is certain he would have pursued you. Bossy, bratty, brazen, you command attention within a few words and a firm tone. And when he tested your limits, correcting your ordering tone with him in the living room, and you yielded to his tug of power, he swears his cock twitched. 

Maybe eight years of solitude has made him desperate, or the near-death experience has renewed his connection to the living, but Chris cannot deny that he wants you. He scrubs his body now and imagines your hands over his chest, along the width of his shoulders and trailing down his arms. He imagines your face inches from his and your warm breath fanning over his lips. He imagines your naked body, smirking when he recalls the way your gaze lingered over his in the kitchen. 

Do you like him too? Is that the real reason why you’re helping him?

A series of gentle taps rap at the door. 

Chris snaps his attention to the black wood. He focuses his enhanced hearing, hoping to pick up your heartbeat in the hall. Instead, a pair of rapid pumps and fluttering wings greet him. He assumes it’s the crows with his clothes and quickly rinses away the soap. 

The water shuts off as he steps back out into the bathroom. A soft, grey towel hovers in front of him. 

Chris smiles at the ceiling. “Thanks,” he says, accepting the towel and wrapping it around his waist. As he makes his way to the door, another smaller towel gently lands on his head. Chris chuckles and ruffles the soft cotton through his clean hair. 

The door opens for him as he approaches it. 

I can get used to this . 

His clothes lay in a pile on the floor, wet and littered with sand. Looking up at the house, Chris asks, “Um, can you do me a quick favour?” 

The candles momentarily shine brighter in reply. 

Chris bites his lip. He glances back at the shower, realising that the house has already done so much for him. He might be pushing his luck with another request. But then the lights shine again, as if reassuring him that it’s okay to ask for more. 

Throat bobbing, Chris asks, “Could you help me clean my clothes?” 

A wicker basket emerges from a door down the hall. It hops over to Chris from side to side, in a manner he can only describe as gleeful. Once in front of him, it shakes as though it is asking him to drop his clothes into the hamper. Chris tentatively bends down and tosses the sandy clothes in. The basket returns to its spot, disappearing behind its door, cheerful and almost giddy. 

Chris smiles to himself. The house must have your personality, or perhaps just aspects of it– playful, helpful, thoughtful. You bleed into every crevice of the warm cottage and Chris, for the first time since turning, is delighted. 

A quiet chirp from the crows pulls his attention back to them. They caw a couple more times before flying over to the edge of the stairs. 

Chris wonders if they are asking him to follow them, looking between them and the cold bathroom behind him. 

They caw again, hopping in place. 

He glances down at his towel and raises a brow. “I’m not really–” he starts, only for the crows to cut him off. 

One of them, Poe perhaps, lets out a long, almost exasperated squawk that leaves no room for refusal.

With a roll of his eyes, Chris follows after the birds. “Alright, alright,” he sighs. “Stop nagging me.”

The crows fly down the stairs and into the kitchen. Chris takes his time, following the scent of wild lavender and sage. He barely makes it to the archway when he sees your dress flowing around you with every step around the kitchen.

You’ve pulled your hair up, neck on full display. Moving around the dark kitchen, you trade your attention between a hovering book and your breakfast on the stove, all while sneaking sips from your steaming cup of tea. Chris detects notes of chai, cinnamon and anise stars amongst hearty eggs, and fresh tomatoes and chives. 

It takes you a minute, but you soon notice his tall figure entering the small space. Your eyes don’t remain on his for too long before trailing down his chest and lingering around his waist. He’s starting to realise that you seem to have a habit of that and it doesn’t bother him at all. If anything, he finds himself puffing out his chest and tightening the tension around his stomach under your watchful gaze. 

“They haven’t returned with your clothes?” 

Fuck, that voice– light, airy and sweet. Chris averts his gaze and bites on the inside of his cheek to hold back a groan. 

Clearing his throat, he replies,“No, they did. They’re just dirty. The house is cleaning them for me.”

You flash him a knowing smile and Chris swears his breath would hitch if he would breathe. “Yeah, it likes feeling useful,” you chuckle, taking a sip of your tea. You then nod at one of the indigo stools before your gleaming marble-topped island in the centre of the kitchen. 

Chris takes a seat, ensuring his towel stays put as he adjusts it around his spreading legs. As you turn back to your black iron stove, Chris takes a moment to really take in the kitchen. 

With deep crimson walls that cradle the space in a comforting embrace, the space excludes warmth. The soft candlelights that hover above cast playful shadows on the deep charcoal countertops, almost mirroring the crackle and pop of the hearth in the living room. Hanging between the candles are clusters of copper pots and pans, adding notions of rustic charm. Chris then realises that this might be the first room in the cottage without plants dangling from the ceiling or over surfaces. Instead, the shelves are lined with jars of spices and herbs and… body parts. He catches pickled eyeballs, dusty toes, fingers–some with matted fur–, and about three cases of teeth. 

“They were donated,” you clarify. 

Chris blinks his attention back to you, finding a guilty smile playing on your lips. 

“Well,” you start again, “ Most of it was donated.”

He teasingly raises his brows at you, suppressing his own smile. “I suppose that makes it okay then,” he jokes, subtly testing your boundaries again. 

There is a flicker of surprised intrigue in your gaze. “It seemed okay when it was saving your life,” you shoot back with the same level of teasing wit. 

Chris cannot help the excitement in his chest. Do you know how exhilarating you are? Is that why you keep staring at him with those enchantingly mischievous eyes?

He bites his lip, conceding to your wit. “Learn anything new,” he asks, nodding to the levitating book.  

You plate your breakfast with a sigh. The stove shuts off on its own as you round the island and take a seat next to him. Chris stiffen, adjusting his towel around his crotch. The once floating book rests on the countertop between the both of you. 

“See for yourself,” you reply before eating.

Chris notes the title: Origins of Vampires, Bloodsuckers, and Incubi , then scans the first few paragraphs. Besides accounts for the first sighting of vampires and the fact that they are apparently extremely lustful beings, it does not inform Chris of anything he does not already know from you. A deal needs to be made with the devil, his soul must have had to be traded as payment, and his body begins to reject all things human.

Furrowing his brows and sucking in his cheeks with a little hiss, Chris shifts forward in his seat to get a better look at the book. There is an extremely long passage about consistent erections, and the next page is filled with a list of the best hideouts to escape the sun during the day.  Chris is more concerned with the inconsistency of the author than the fact that he has yet to get an erection since he turned years ago.

“Nothing new,” you finally reply after a few bites of your food. “Nothing useful either.”

“May I?” Chris asks, reaching for the edge of the page. 

He flips the page when you nod. The list of hideouts takes up the next three pages and Chris resists the urge to roll his eyes. Information about vampiric cycles, peak slumber and feasting times, and tips on how to hunt fill the remaining pages on vampires before moving onto bloodsuckers and incubi. Again, the information is not anything Chris is not already aware of from the sheer experience of being undead for nearly a decade. He knows that around noon, his body tends to shut down and he seeks the darkest, coldest part of the basement to lay still and close his eyes. He’s not exactly asleep but he’s also not exactly awake either. The stuff about peak feasting times does not really apply to him. Just like when he was human, Chris is always hungry and ready to consume something. 

With a heavy sigh, he shuts the book. “That was a waste of time,” he mumbles as you finish your breakfast. 

You wave your empty plate and cup off to the sink, then shrug at him. “Well, we now know this book is useless,” you say, voice light with hope. “We can cross it off our list.” 

Chris raises a brow. “How many more books are on this list of yours?”

Your gaze is shifty and Chris starts to get nervous. He murmurs your name carefully, merely trying to get you to be honest, but then he notices the way you tremble at the sound of his low, deep voice. He can’t help the smirk tugging on his lips. 

“Cold?” he teases before he can stop himself.

Your eyes meet his with careful conviction. You lick your lips, as if debating how sharp your response should be. Attention flitting down to his chest momentarily, you finally reply, “Not at all.” 

With that, you wave off the useless book and summon two more. One is for salves and creams, the other is an encyclopaedia of vampiric traits and rituals. It sounds just as useless as the last one but if it’s on your list, Chris is willing to indulge. 

“You can get started on this,” you push the encyclopaedia towards him, “while I look into treating those scars.” 

“I don’t mind the scars,” he shrugs. “They kinda make me feel human.”

When you meet his eyes this time, your gaze is not filled with caution or calculated intrigue, instead they round with empathy. The sincere reaction triggers another pressing question Chris cannot seem to shake.

 “Why are you here?” 

Your face folds in confusion. “What?”

“You’re here on this haunted island all alone. Why? Don’t you have a coven or something?”

You pause for longer than usual and Chris worries if he used the wrong term, or perhaps merely asked a more personal question than you’re willing to answer. 

But then you clear your throat and adjust your posture in your seat. Staring down at the counter, you let out a heavy sigh and say, “I did and now I don’t.” Again, you take a beat lick your lips. “I wasn’t wanted there, so I needed to go.”

Chris scoffs. He doesn’t register the bluntness of his gestures until you glare at him.

“Have something to add?” you question, that usually sweet voice of yours now sharpened. 

It really shouldn’t but the sharpness makes his body buzz with excitement. Chris is fascinated by your darker edges. They contrast so beautifully against your usual lightness, enchanting him with supple seduction. 

“I think that’s bullshit,” he replies. 

“I think the fact that you just so happened to lose track of time is bullshit,” you remark. “But I have the common courtesy to keep my rude opinions to myself.”

“And you’re doing a great job,” Chris can’t help but tease. “But I was referring to the fact that you would ever be unwanted. If you weren’t such a little…” Chris trails off just to watch your nostrils flare and smirks, “ witch , you would have known that.”

A flicker of regret flashes in your gaze, but it doesn’t take long to harden again with a clench of your jaw.

“Maybe you should’ve added that sooner.”

“Maybe you should’ve given me the chance to.”

“How is any of this my fault?” you ask, voice still irritated but a chuckle manages to slip past your sweet lips. 

Chris smiles at the girly sound, suddenly feeling… warm?  

“I never said it was,” he answers. He keeps his voice tempered and gentle, watching as you bite your lip again. 

There is a shift in the air. Chris catches the sudden thickness of your scent, the newfound depth it carries and you shift in your seat again. Furrowing his brows, he leans forward to hold your gaze and asks, “You okay?” 

You nod, yet shoot up from your seat. You push that book towards him again and point to the living room. “The house made you a little nook by the fire. Try reading as much as you can. The sooner we find out about you, the sooner you can return home.” Your voice sounds as sweet as it normally does, but carries a certain weight to it. Chris has trouble placing it as you continue, “If you get thirsty or need anything else, just ask the house. It’s happiest when it can provide.”

Inhaling sharply, Chris collects the book and stands. He holds his towel in place with his other hand, the same way he did with the blanket not too long ago, and starts to make his way to the living room. When he gets to the archway, he pauses to glance over his shoulder.

You’re still watching him, captivated by the broadness of his back. 

“I think the house takes after you,” he says, turning to face you. “You seem content providing as well. So, I really can’t imagine anyone not wanting you around.”

You shift your weight and clench your jaw. With a thick swallow, you shake your head. “You don’t know me,” you mutter, face contorting with shame.

“And you don’t know me,” he shrugs. “But here we are, a vampire and a blood-witch. Is that a common pair amongst the supernatural?”

You shake your head. 

Chris smiles. “And yet you saved me. And you continue to help me. And I might not know you the way the house or crows do,” he chuckles, watching a smile play on your lips, “but I know that I can comfortably go into the next room and not have to worry about you suddenly opening the window and burning me alive. And I think that’s a good sign when you’re getting to know someone, yeah?”

With a roll of your eyes, you cross your arms over your chest. Chris does his best to ignore the way they press together and jut out. “Your bar is way too low for strangers, Christopher.”

He tongues his cheek. “ Chris ,” he corrects. 

A mischievous smile spreads across your soft features and Chris wonders if he may have given you some ammunition to tease him later.

“Happy reading, Chris ,” you say. 

The way you emphasise his name almost makes him shiver. 

“Happy conjuring, little witch.”

A renewed sense of pride blooms in his still chest at the way you shyly avert your gaze upon hearing your new nickname. Chris thinks it has a nice ring to it, and you look absolutely adorable when you’re flustered. He allows himself one last once over of your curves, then pulls himself towards the living room.

True to your words, the house has provided a long, wide chaise of midnight blue velvet. It sits before the fireplace with a soft amber blanket draped over the back. Chris settles into the plush cushions, sinking into comfort and props his feet up. He throws the blanket over his waist to replace his towel and asks the house to dim the fire. 

Flipping open the book, Chris starts to learn more about himself, pushing every tempting thought of you out of his mind.

Two weeks go by in a blur and you find that you are no less infatuated by Chris than when you first met him.

 He has such an easy way about him, smiling effortlessly. His eyes are still mismatched as if the sun had burned the vampiric silver of his left iris into his retina. No amount of blood has reversed the damage. However, you don’t mind. In fact, you find yourself feeling relieved when his eyes remain the same pair of brown and grey every time he takes a sip of animal blood. You like the twinkle of mischief that seems to glow so brightly amongst the two colours. Its allure is deliciously dangerous with promises of subtle destruction. You especially enjoy how they squint when he laughs or smiles with his white teeth, still gleaming with joy and lightness. 

You’ve gotten used to his presence, and you think that maybe he has gotten used to yours too. Just two nights ago, he finally told you why he was out so late the night you met. You instantly empathised with him, knowing all too well how powerful the yearning for connection can be. It’s the reason you promised to help again, desperate for a semblance of real, tangible interactions too. 

“And your parents?” you asked, after he told you all about how he hides out in his friends’ basements. “Do they know?”

His jaw set. “They think I died,” he sighs. “Well, they think I’m missing, but it’s been eight years and they bought a headstone so…”

Regret tightened in your chest. “I’m so–”

“My little brother took my old room,” he continued, cutting you off . “I snuck in one night, just to… see, I guess? He still has some of my stuff there, all dusty and untouched. He’s so big now, almost as tall as me,” he chuckled, a small smile settling on his lips. “He plays baseball though. I don’t think I’ve seen any of them go near a swimming pool in years. ”

You bit your lip, unsure of what to say. You wanted to just swallow your previous words, the regret of mentioning his parents wrapping tighter around your heart. 

“My mum saw me once,” he said, finally meeting your gaze. A muted sadness greets you, but his little smile remains on those pink-stained lips. “She was bringing groceries in one night and caught me staring behind some tree. She dropped the bag and called out to my dad. I ran before either of them could see me again,” he paused to swallow.“ I still can’t get the sound of her sobs out of my head.”

You blink the memory away, pulling your dusky plum coloured comforter up to your chin. A part of you wishes you had asked him why he never went back to his parents or let them believe he’d gone missing. Clearly, the thought of them moving on without him still weighs heavy on his heart. But you couldn’t find your word at the time, blinking back tears as he hung his head and spoke so quietly. Besides, you are sure, based on his caring, selfless personality, he likely thought he was doing them a favour by shielding them from his new reality. He was practically brimming with self hatred when you met. 

And you realised, in that vulnerable moment, it was never about feeling the sun or the cold or even the sensation of swimming again. It has always been about being human . Chris craves his humanity more than he values his life. You both know that he was well aware of when the sun would rise, that he fought through his inherent fear of it for the chance to feel near-human again. He even keeps his remaining sun-scars and winks his mismatched eyes because they are consequences of feeling that pain. And as you read more and more about vampires together, the hindrance of potentially accessing his full abilities does not surprise you. To his core, Chris is human, so he is constantly rejecting his vampiric turn. 

That realisation shifted your focus last night. You moved from books about vampires to those about demons. Flipping through pages and pages of information, you found multiple passages about soul-trading. You discovered that some demons demand pure souls in addition to the ones they have already swindled from their summors. This detail, likely lost in the fine-print of most deals, implements a vampiric gene into the summors’ genetics. The variant remains dormant, passing through the bloodline until it finally finds a pure soul to claim.

Chris still can’t believe that one of his ancestors would stoop so low, but you find that reaction in itself is just another testament of his purity.

Smiling to yourself at the thought of him, you stare at your star-speckled ceiling. You enchanted it to reflect the night sky on your first night at Crow’s Nest . Actually, you had enchanted the ceiling of the living room, having slept down there until you were able to slowly build your little cottage and refine your new sanctuary. You were terrified of being found and snatched back for sentencing by the Arcane Court. You’re well aware that blood-witches don’t simply break blood bonds and live to tell the tale. You remember using whatever magic you had at the time to unshackle yourself from the bounds of your coven, hop on your broom with your life magically crammed into a knapsack, and escape into the same dark night.

And as you lie here now, sinking into your silky sheets, you find that staring at a shimmering night sky can still ease your nerves all the same. You try to identify constellations and search for the moon between the clouds. You curse under your breath when you finally catch a glimpse of its glow– waxing gibbous . 

Tomorrow is the full moon. 

You let out a shaky breath, attempting to get lost in the stars again, but it’s no use. All you can think about is that damned elixir. 

“I found something,” you muttered to Chris.

He laid in his little nook by the dimmed fire, one hand clutching a book and the other folded behind his head. Peering over at you, a little smirk tugs on his lips. “A new blood recipe?” he asked, knowing you have been testing out some new blends of spices in his blood. 

You shake your head and reply, “A solution . ”

You feel your skin grow hot from the memory of having to explain to him what this solution entails.

At its core, it is simply a recipe for vampiric vitality. And after hearing about his parents and how they have tried to move on from losing him, how he had tried to move on, you remember feeling hopeful. Maybe this could be the key to reclaim his life, to possibly see them again without shame.

However, the summary still gives you pause. It reads:

“The Elixir of the Damned is a rare, potent potion crafted to primarily shield vampires, and other sun-sensitive creatures, from the deadly effects of daylight. By harnessing the mystical properties of a blood-witch's full-moon blood, the elixir enables these creatures to walk under the sun without harm, preserving their strength and powers. Beyond sunlight protection, the elixir grants a surge of energy, reduces the need for frequent feeding, shortens sleep cycles, and reverses their natural nocturnal schedule.

The thick, midnight violet elixir is a luminescent liquid concoction of moonlight essence, ground sage, sunroot and the dust of two diamonds: obsidian and sunstone. The mixture must be thoroughly stirred and refrigerated for a minimum of twelve hours before use. Upon a full-moon, the elixir must be mixed with the menstrual blood of a blood-witch and consumed immediately. For best results, pour and harvest the menstrual blood directly from the source.”

You have the stupid thing memorised, having read it countless times, before finally telling Chris. Though he can’t breathe, you’re certain his breath hitched at the explanation. You remember parting your lips to further explain when he suddenly agreed. 

“It’s only weird if we make it weird,” he argued. “I’m willing to keep it strictly professional if you are.”

You swallowed thickly, nodding. “Yeah,” you found yourself replying. “I can do the same.”

And yet you lay here, naked and squirming at the thought of his mouth between your legs because he insisted, and you quote, “If we’re gonna do it, we might as well do it right.”

Do me right , you wanted to reply. Just bend me over the couch and do me right now . 

Instead, you continuously agree and nod and pretend that your arousal isn’t sticking between your thighs as your clit throbs for attention. 

You cup your crotch now, unable to take it anymore. He’s fucking hot– so fucking hot . You have been trying not to stare but he wears these tight tank tops that showcase his muscular arms all the fucking time. You mentally curse his stupid friends for sending such revealing clothes through the crows. He sent them a letter with Poe a day after you agreed to help them and you wonder if he specifically requested these pieces or if this is his usual style. 

Either way, you cannot stop staring. Every ridge and crevices of his buff chest and toned stomach is outlined, completely captivating your attention. You are constantly trying to maintain eye contact, but even that feels too much sometimes. He is always teasing and joking with you, gazing at you with such consuming warmth, you cannot help but feel hot . 

A little gasp escapes you as you spread your legs and drench your fingers with your arousal. Sticky, wet, you need him. Maybe it’s been too long without a good fuck, or you are simply obsessed, but it really doesn’t matter. You need a release right now or you might not make it through the night. 

You start slow, rubbing circles over your needy clit. It doesn’t take long for you to overheat, however. So you pause your movements to shove your blanket off.  Now fully naked and exposed to your cold room, you return your hand between your legs. 

A wet squelching sounds as you rub and rub your fingers round and round. You test out rhythms, squirming under your desperate touch–slow–fast–slow–fast, and bite back a whimper. 

What would Chris do, you cannot help wondering. 

Administering featherlight touches, you know he’d play with you to start. He’d keep his pressure light and quick, wanting to watch you chase after his hand after every fleeting touch. Then, you push down harshly on your clit and bite into your lip harder to hold back a moan. You just know he’d be rough too, forcefully pressing down until he hears you whine his name. 

“Chris,” you let yourself whisper. “Right there, baby.”

A quiet moan slips out with your words and you’re not completely mad about it. It was silent enough and you’re certain he’s too busy sipping on the warmed seven herb spiced blood you left out for him to pay much attention to you right now. 

As much as you enjoy imagining him playing with you, you cannot stand the anticipation anymore. Your needy hole clenches repeatedly, aching to be filled. You shakily gasp and decide to fully give into your desire. Grabbing your wand, you place the handle against your clit and will it to vibrate. You use your other hand to finger yourself, shoving three ambitious digits in. 

“ Oh!”  

You bite your lip, panic sprouting in your chest at the sudden spike in volume. Glancing at the door, you’re relieved to find it still shut. You lay back against your pillow and pick up your pace. He’d be unforgiving. He’d be rough and reckless.

Your body trembles at the thought. 

“Chris,” you whisper into the room. “Please don’t stop fucking me like that.”

Eyes fluttering shut, you imagine him leering over you, smirking and groaning. You imagine his strong frame ramming into you, his relentless grip keeping you in place. Would he want you to hold his gaze? Or would he bury his face in the crook of your neck to kiss and nibble on?

The pleasure only increases. You tense up. The vibrations rumbling from the hilt of your mahogany wand intensifies. Your fingers eagerly move in and out, tight walls closing in on them. 

“ You’re gonna make me cum,” you mutter, breathless and whiny. 

Cum for me , baby , a whisper of a voice orders. Be a good little witch and cum all over my fingers .

The sound is so deep and husky, but also murmurous and hazy. If you had time to focus on it, you wouldn’t have automatically assumed it was internal and perhaps investigated. But the constant pleasure is all too consuming. Working you closer and closer to your release, you cannot register the source of any sound besides that of your fast fingers and vibrating wand.

That pretty pussy looks so delicious . 

Your orgasm catches you off guard, suddenly rippling through you. You squeal lifting your head from your pillow to almost hunch inwards and cum. 

“Chris, Chris, Chris, Chris,” you whisper between whimpers and you rapidly draw every last surge of arousal out. “Oh my god ,” you heave, tossing your wand aside. The stimulation is nearly agonising when paired with your still moving fingers. 

After a few more thrusts, you lay back into your bed, heaving. Your hand slides out and up towards your clit. A single brush of contact makes your body tremble. You retract your hand all together, swallowing a moan. Your legs come together, eyes droop from exhaustion and fatigue. 

You have no idea how you’re going to remain “professional” tomorrow. The sheer thought of him down there coaxed one of your most powerful orgasms. How will you be able to keep your moans at bay, or your body from rolling into his mouth? 

Click.

You snap your attention to your door. It’s shut. Holding your breath, you try to listen for footsteps. When that proves useless, you squint at the gap between the door and floor for movements of shadow. Still, silent, the hallway is empty. 

With a shake of your head, you rest back into your pillow and wave yourself clean. You then tug your comforter back over your spent body and shut your eyes. You just need to get through tomorrow. Once the elixir and ritual is complete, he can return home and you won’t have to see him until your next cycle. 

Chris stands in your room, arms crossed over his chest. It looks warmer under candlelights than it did last night beneath glimmering stars. Unlike the darkness of the bathroom, or warmth of the living room and kitchen, your room is a collection of cool tones, invoking quiet serenity. The walls are a hazy blue, trimmed with crown moulding around the baseboards and ceiling. One wall of the room is lined with shelves upon shelves of books, plants and a plethora of magical objects, like stones, crystal balls, and the occasional skull. A chestnut vanity, large wardrobe and oval mirror sit on his left side by an open window. Sheer violet curtains dance with the gentle wind. 

Underfoot, a thick, handknitted rug of pewter, amethyst and onyx yarn stretches over polished, dark walnut floors. Chris curls his toes into it, attempting to ground himself, as his eyes follow you towards your four-poster bed. It must be a queen– rather fitting for you– since it takes up a substantial amount of space in the centre of the room. The gauzy mauve curtains surrounding your bed part as you approach it. Your matching greyish-plum comforter pulls back, as if welcoming you to silky starlight silver sheets. You wave it back into place then turn to him.  

“It’s almost time,” you say. 

The slight tremor in your voice draws Chris back to the events he witnessed last night. You keep talking now, gesturing to your bed with one hand, while clutching onto the small vial of a deep, inky violet elixir in the other. He sees your pretty mouth moving, but does not register your words. All he hears are your delicate, fragile moans. 

Chris didn’t mean to linger or leer last night. He doesn’t usually go to the second floor when you go to bed, not wanting to disturb you. But he had just come back from collecting some ingredients for the elixir around the island, heard you calling his name and got curious. Once he realised what you were doing, he just couldn’t tear himself away. He remembers the way you squirmed and begged. He remembers the way you worked your fingers in and out of your perfect, needy pussy. He remembers how you held your wand, the one laying on your nightstand right now, and wonders how often you use it for that purpose. How often do you use it thinking about him ?

“Did you hear me?” you ask.

Chris’s eyes widen. “What?”

You tilt your head and give him a serious look. “Chris, do you still want to do this?” 

“Of course.”

“Listen, if you’re having second thoug–”

Chris quickly cuts you off with an urgent shake of his head. “No, no, I want this,” he quickly reassures. The eagerness of his statement dawns on him the moment the words leave his lips. Chris immediately tries to save himself from further embarrassment, adding,  “I want to feel normal again.”

You nod, inhaling deeply.

Chris’s attention flickers down to your full chest, watching it rise under your silky black robe then fall as you exhale. He meant to meet your gaze again, but he couldn’t stop himself from taking in your frame. From the curves of your waist to the roundness of your stomach and thickness of your thighs, you are a vision of temptation. 

Your fingers trace the ribbon of your robe, drawing his focus back to your face. You bite on your lips, nervous eyes peering at him cautiously. 

“Are you okay with this?” Chris asks. “It’s never too late to change your mind.”

You swallow thickly. “I want you to feel normal too,” you replied, lips slighting relaxing into a soft smile. “It’s not about changing my mind. I just…” you trail off with a sigh. 

Chris remains silent, giving you the space to collect your thoughts. 

Rolling your shoulders back, you hold his gaze and confess,“I just haven’t been naked in front of someone else in a really long time.”

One of the things Chris has come to find so admirable about you is how unapologetically honest you are about yourself. You do not mince words or circle difficult topics. You stand your ground and say what you mean, uttering every syllable like you are reciting a declaration of love, sincere and unwavering. He catches the way you fist your hands to keep them from trembling and he finds that defiance all the more endearing. 

He tries to bite back a smile at how strong and cute you’re being. Fuck, he’s wholeheartly ready to devour you and show you just how wonderful you are. 

Without another word, he tugs the hem of his shirt up and over his head. He can’t help smirking when you gasp at his bare chest. He’s caught you staring enough time to know you like what you see. Unbuttoning his jeans, he pulls them down with his briefs and steps out of them, fully naked in front of you. 

“Now, you’re not alone,” he smiles. 

Eyes widen, mouth slightly agape, you slowly drag your gaze down his frame. You shift your weight and he catches the way your legs press tightly together. The image of them spread and glistening with your arousal flashes between blinks. 

You take another deep breath then untie the knot of your robe. The delicate silk slips off your shoulders, revealing the epitome of supple seduction and plump perfection. 

Chris, already salivating, swallows. Your gaze trails back down to his crotch and he’s certain you are seeing exactly how he truly feels. His cock hardened last night the moment he saw you all needy and whiny. He tried to jerk himself off, hoping to soften again but failed– even after cumming three times.

“Does it bother you?” He gently asks, not moving to hide his erection yet. 

You shake your head. 

“I can put something back on if it does,” he tries again, wanting to be sure you know he is not ashamed of his desire. You’re incredibly hot and you must know it too with the way you constantly tease him with low-cut, form-fitting dresses. It’s partially why he asked Jisung to send him tank-tops and sweatpants when crafting a letter for Poe to send. 

“It’s fine, Chris,” you whisper.

His jaw clenches at the memory of your whiny voice saying his name. 

A little smile plays on your lips as you toss him half a shrug and add, “It was bound to happen at some point tonight. Might as well get over the awkwardness now.”

Chris glares, but the smirk on his face does not hint towards conviction. “Oh, yeah? Get this kinda reaction often, little witch?” 

You bite your lip then teasingly quirk a brow. “Why,” you shoot back. “Jealous?”

He tongues his cheek. “I just wanna know how many members are part of your little fan club.”

You turn towards the bed, displaying your round rear, and reply, “There’s room for one more.”

Chirs suppresses a groan. He tightens his jaw and follows after you. As you lie back into your propped, plush pillows, Chris meets your eyes. All notions of uncertainty have been replaced by carefree mischief. He sits on his knees in front of your legs and offers a small smile. 

“I already recited the spell,” you say, holding out the vial. “All you have to do now is pour it over me and… harvest the blood.”

Chris takes the tiny glass bottle, nodding. “If you ever need me to stop–” he starts, only for you to cut him off with the spread of your legs. 

A richer, more musky aroma of your usual rainwater, sage and wild lavender scent instantly overwhelms his senses. Laced with your menstrual blood, it evokes the earthiness of damp soil and the sweetness of blooming flowers. 

His jaw goes slack, eyes darkening. He can feel his fangs poke out and involuntarily takes a long, slow breath. His lungs do not work, heart still and cold, but he swears he feels them filling from the sheer smell of you. 

Your soft voice cuts through his primal desires, as you whisper,“I trust you.”

With that, Chris uncorks the vial. His free hand settles on your thigh. He smiles to himself at the softness, having only imagined the feeling of it for the last two weeks. He knew you’d feel so delicate, rubbing his hand up and down your warm skin. 

He looks back at you and meets your confident gaze with a little nod, confirming that he’s ready too. Then, he brings the tiny glass bottle to your blood-glistening lips and pours the elixir. It looks a lot like violet-coloured lube and feels that way too as he uses his thumb to rub it around your pussy. 

Your hips stiffen, core clenches at the sudden sensation and Chris darts his attention up to your face again, concerned. However, tentative notions of pleasure greet him. Your brows furrows, and eyes flicker with shy delight. You bite your lip, and that’s when Chris catches the rapid pounding of your heart. 

As he continues to rub the elixir over your clit then drag it down to circle your needy hole, Chris wonders if this is what you imagined him doing to you last night. 

“I think it’s good now,” you say, voice wavering. “We don’t have all night, you know?”

Chris smirks at your little joke. You have a tendency to be rather bossy and he’s been trying to subtly reign in your sassiness with challenging looks and sharper words every now and again. But then you go and test his patience with shit like this– speaking to him like he works for you. It excites and enrages him all at once. 

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be taking that tone with me, little witch,” he warns, applying pressure with his thumb against your clit. 

Your breath hitches before you clamp a hand to your mouth. 

Chris stifles his laughter. You’re a good girl down to your core. You just need the right person to remind you of that sometimes. 

Now that you are behaving, Chris lowers himself towards your delicious pussy. You smell divine, leaking of blood and drenched in the glow of the elixir. He cannot hold back any longer upon another strong whiff. Tongue flat, he drags it between your lips with a deep, full-chested groan. He repeats the slow action again and again, lowering himself further against the bed until he’s lying down on his stomach. 

He pulls back to loop his arms under your thighs. Pulling the top part of your pussy up, he dives back in. You taste like the ocean breeze on a sweltering summer day, purely refreshing. His tongue circles around your lips and clit, gathering all the leaked blood, which adds a metalicy sweetness to your arousal. A part of him wishes he was able to taste you without the juicy influence of the elixir, wondering how the flavour of your blood would change. 

Chris tongues the entrance of your hole, hoping to ease you into the–what did you call it?– harvest?  

However, upon the first real sip of your menstrual blood, something profoundly primal snaps in the depths of his chest. Unbound by his inhibitions, he growls against your core and shoves his long, wet tongue deep into you. 

A tiny whimper cuts through the loud sound of his slurps, but Chris pays it no mind. He laps and laps tongue-fulls of your blood, swallowing with eager delight. His fingers press into your soft skin, still Chris does not worry about bruising you. Instead, he shakes his head and lets out a series of pleased groans. 

Your hips roll into his mouth and he welcomes the gesture with another slurp of your blood. He can feel the magical substance rush through his body, warming his once cold skin. Every swallow fills another organ and Chris is addicted to that rush of awakening nerves. 

Your fingers tangle in his hair, shoving his face further into your sex. Legs wrapping around his head, Chris is only just realising that you’ve been whining and moaning this entire time. He focuses his enhanced hearing on your fragile voice, humming approving groans. 

“Give it to me just like that,” you whimper. “Please, please , Chris.”

Again with those little demands , Chris thinks. At least you remembered to say please this time. 

A mixture of your arousal and blood pools at your entrance, drawing Chris back to his task. His vampiric senses igniting all over again, he does not attempt to hold back. In and out, he shoves his tongue between your tightening walls, gathering as much blood as he can. 

But, it’s not enough. His tongue is only collecting sips. Chris needs gulps . 

He adjusts his grip on your hips, now pressing you firmly into the mattress and latches his lips over your entrance. With a deep breath, Chris begins to suck. He suctions his mouth and siphones your blood out. He swallows mouthfuls of elixir tainted blood and arousal, mismatched eyes rolling back at the satisfaction of such unholy hunger. 

The more he draws, the darker you taste. Chris cannot describe it well, but he thinks it’s the taste of magic, fizzing on his tongue like sparkling water.

“ Oh, fuck ,” you cry, voice breaking as you cum.

A hint of lightness settles on his tongue upon sucking out your orgasm as well. Chris moans in delight, gulping down two more mouthfuls before finally pulling away with a wet pop .

Your legs are hyper-extended, trembling over his shoulders.

Chris glances up at you, curious to see if you’ll own the fact that you just came on his face or if you’ll get all shy and bashful. Your pleased features are laced with exhaustion as you pant. Tired eyes meeting his lustful ones, you quirk a brow. Chris licks his lips, taking the gesture as a silent question of if he is satisfied. 

Physically, Chris is full. He is not sure he can down even the tiniest of sips. Sexually, however, he is just getting started.

“You alright?” he asks, sitting himself up on his knees again. 

You nod, but Chris shakes his head. You know better than to respond like that , he thinks. 

“Talk to me, baby.”

The term of endearment was not intentional, but Chris also does not hate the way it sounds. It slipped out last night too as he talked you through your orgasm. He can tell from the way your lips part and eyes slightly widen that you’re waiting for him to correct himself, but he refuses to. Instead, he holds your eyes without a notion of panic or regret. 

“I’m okay,” you finally mutter between heavy breaths. “I…” you hesitate, attention flickering down to his crotch momentarily. “I need more.”

Chris smirks. “What do you say?”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

Your lips quiver, desperation seeping into your gaze. “Please fuck me, Chris. No– don’t look at me like that. I know you want this too.”

Chris was trying to hide his smug smile, but upon your demand, he lets it take over his features. You’re a fucking brat, and he has extended the last of his generous patience. Before he can think twice, Chris smacks your sensitive pussy. 

“When,” he smacks it again, “are you,” smack , “going to fucking” smack , “learn?”

Your hips jolt up with every hit, moans trembling as they tumble from your beautiful lips. Your face is a crumpled mess of pleasure and pain, desperate eyes boring into his.

Cupping you with one hand and harshly rubbing, Chris places his other by your head and hovers over your shaking body. “Listen to me, little witch,” he whispers, nudging his bloody nose against yours. “If you talk to me like that again, like I’m your little pet , I will fuck you even after the sun comes up, do you understand?”

You nod eagerly. 

Chris tightens his grip on your crotch, baring his teeth with an annoyed growl. “Use your fucking words,” he orders. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“I’m sorry,” you reply, voice quiet and meek. 

The little whimpers you subsequently let out don’t do much to ease the throb of his cock. In fact, they only intensify it. You sound like wounded prey and he’s tired of fighting against his instincts. He’s been stifling the beast inside for the last eight years, filling himself with self-loathing instead. He’s done hating the power, fully embracing his new supernatural form. 

Releasing his hold on your crotch, Chris immediately aligns and shoves himself between your walls. A loud hiss escapes his blood-dripping lips, fangs on full display, at the tight pressure around him. Fuck, if he hadn’t seen you skillfully fingering yourself last night, he would have believed you were a virgin.

You moan with him, clutching on his shoulders. “Oh, god ,” you groan, enchanting eyes fluttering shut. “ Fuck, fuck– Chris, you’re h-huge. What the actual fuck?”

Chris’s previously irritated resolve wavers upon your squealing voice. He pauses his shallow thrusts to give you time to adjust. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat as your nails dig into his warming flesh. “I-I know you need this too.”

Shifting down to his forearms, Chris buries his face in the crook of your neck, and fondly inhales your scent. “Don’t be sorry, baby,” he murmurs. “I waited two weeks for this. Another minute won’t make a difference.”

You let out a breathless giggle, wrapping your arms around his head. A delighted hum sounds from your lips and Chris feels the vibrations of it against his face. He smiles to himself before licking and kissing your delicate skin. 

Your heart is beating so fast. He can feel the thumping pounds against his tongue and can’t help but chuckle. Your skin suddenly grows hot and he realises he has embarrassed you. Yet, instead of pushing him off, you clench tighter around him. 

“Please don’t laugh at me,” you whine. 

Chris smirks at your tone and wording, glad to see you’re finally following his orders. Still, he decides to test it again, wondering if it’s just a fluke. 

“I’m not laughing at you, little witch,” he lies.

Instead of calling him out, you remain silent.

Chris pulls back to gauge your features. Though pouting, you refrain from glaring at him too hard. Filled with pride, Chris kisses your cheek, down to your jaw then up to your chin again. 

“Good girl,” he mutters once his lips are hovering over your mouth. 

Your gaze flits between his eyes and blood-stained lips. Chris makes the conscious choice not to kiss you, unsure if the taste of your menstrual blood will be as delicious to you as it is to him. For a second, he thinks you might kiss him anyway, panting beneath him even when he remains motionless inside you.

But then you simply arch your back, pushing your full breasts against him, and mutter, “I’m ready now.”

Chris dips his head back down to your neck. He kisses and sucks on your hot skin, gently thrusting into you. He takes his time, with his hips and lips, dragging the process out only to forcefully shove it back in. 

You’re already trembling, sweet voice hiccuping moans. Chris scratches his fangs over your collarbone just to hear you whimper his name. 

“Please, Chris,” you cry. 

He kisses the slightly wounded area and quietly chuckles to himself. “Do you need something, little witch?” he teasingly asks.

“F-faster, please?” you quickly ask. “I’m not telling. I’m asking– begging! Please, please , Chris!”

His cock twitches. He groans at the sound of your desperate, whiny voice, physically incapable of torturing you any longer. With supernatural speed, Chris’s hips snap into action. He thrusts harshly, fisting the sheets beneath you. The bed creaks and slams against the walls over and over again, overtaking the slapping sound of his hips meeting yours.

Your body shakes and jiggles under him, and he is obsessed with how amazing your skin feels rubbing against his. Your nails scratch at his back, before finally sinking into his shoulders. You brace yourself against him, the sounds of your broken, sobbing moans encouraging him to continue.

"You have no idea what your voice does to me,” Chris groans, lips smothered under your jaw. “I could listen to you all fucking night.”

Your legs wrap around his waist. Chris groans even louder, addicted to the way you’re clinging onto him. 

“Only you can make me sound like this,” you whimper then warn a thrust later, “I’m gonna cum!”

Chris lets out a low, satisfied growl, relentless with his speed and power. He presses his lips to the shell of your ear and whispers in a deep, breathless voice, “ Cum for me, sweet girl. ” 

He can feel the erratic beat of your heart against his chest. Your pussy tightly clenches around him, gripping harshly onto his cock. As you cum, squealing his name like a practised spell, he chokes on his own moans. His hips push deep inside you, tensing as he finally unloads himself. Ropes and ropes of his cum fill you up as he growls in response to your meek moans.

Chris thrusts a few more times, wanting to ensure you’ve exhausted your orgasm. Then, in two swift motions, he lifts, pulls himself out, and rolls off you. He lands on the bed with a little bounce and content sigh. He expects to see the night sky on the ceiling, like it was last night, but instead finds the sea. And there, between the lapping waves, Chris catches your reflection.

Raising a brow, he tongues his cheek and looks at you. “Enjoy the show,” he teases. 

You roll your eyes, heat crawling up your neck to spread across your cheeks. “I did, actually,” you definitely reply as a last ditch effort to save a semblance of your self-respect. “You have a great butt, by the way.”

Chris laughs. He throws his head back and lets out a full-chested roar of a laugh. He can’t remember that last time he did that without you around. The last two weeks have made him feel more human than he probably ever had in his life. You’re absolutely remarkable and he’s lucky to have met you, even if it means he had to lose his soul.

Lifting his arm, Chris nods at you, silently ordering you to lean into him. You shift closer and hug his waist without another word, much to his surprise.

“You’re so pretty when you're doing as you're told,” Chris praises.  

“I’m pretty always,” you retort. 

Chris rolls his eyes. “Just take the compliment,” he chuckles.

“You’re not fucking me,” you practically whine. “You can’t tell me what to do.” 

“You’re impossible,” Chris mutters under his breath. But he still holds you close, tracing soothing circles around your shoulder.

You both bask in the silence while he gives you a second to catch your breath. Once he hears your heart beat normally again, Chris asks, “Does it work right away?”

You hum with uncertainty, waving your hand to summon the book. It flies towards you then hovers over your faces. After flipping through the pages, it lands on the recipe for the elixir.

Chris tilts his eyes, brows furrowed in confusion. “Is this the right book?” he asks, as he skims through the paragraphs. 

You flip the page, mumbling, “Yeah.” 

There are only a few books in your personal library that Chris cannot read, having been written in an ancient language he has tried and failed to understand. However, as he stares longer at the page, Chris finds that he can read every word. 

You gasp, sitting up. The book moves with you, hoving in front of you instead of on top of you now. Not that it even matters, since you grab the book from mid-air and pull it into your lap.

Chris sits up beside you. He brushes your hair off your shoulder and asks, “What’s wrong? Did we do it wrong?”

You bring a hand to your mouth as if you cannot believe what you’re reading. “We fucked up,” you whisper. 

A smirk plays on his lips. “Does that mean we get to do this again?” 

Setting the book down, you rub your face and choke back a chuckle. “No, I mean,” you start, turning to face him. “We really fucked up.”

Chris’s smile falters. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, gently running his hand up and down your bicep. “It’s alright, little witch. Take a breath,” he whispers, making sure to keep his voice light. “What happened?”

Your eyes shut, brows knotting, and lean into him. “There is a disclaimer at the end of every spell, recipe, ritual– Whatever it is, there is always a disclaimer that outlines the side effects or possible consequences to alterations.”

Chris nods, urging you to continue. 

“The magic we were using is called sex magic. It usually uses the sexual energy created between the participating parties to harness power. In our case, we were only meant to use it to make you sun-proof, for lack of a better word.”

“I can think of three better words,” Chris can’t help but tease. 

You fight off a smile, glaring at him. “Keep them to yourself,” you demand. 

Chris pauses, wanting to tell you to behave but he can’t move his lips. His voice has diminished too, like his body is physically incapable of ordering you around. 

Guilt flashes in your eyes. “When we had sex, with the elixir and spell tangled in the initial act of harvesting my blood, the purpose of the ritual shifted,” you continue, shoulders tensing. “It may have bound you to me.”

“What?” Chris asks, trying and failing not to sound annoyed. “What does that mean?”

“Witches often have familiars and demons are often serving creatures. They get summoned and must fulfil the summoner's request to be released. The spell has been documented to intertwine the two when more than the required act was performed,” you explain.

What about the crows , Chris wants to ask. He thought they held the role of a familiar. 

You shake your head. “They’re more like co-inhibitors. It is their island afterall.”

Chris retracts his arm from you, setting his jaw. He knows he did not say that out loud so how the–

Shit, did I just read his mind?  

Your voice is clear in his head. Blinking, Chris swallows thickly. “Is that normal?”

You hesitate. “I’ll look into it.”

“How could you have missed this?”

“I was a little busy trying to find all the ingredients,” you argue. 

Chris deadpans. “ I found the ingredients,” he corrects. 

You bite your lip, face crumbling with remorse. “I’m sorry, I–” you cut yourself off with a sigh then start again. “Honestly, I was too busy thinking about you eating me out. It’s why I made you go out and get those ingredients last night. I wanted the house to myself to just let out some of my–”

“Temptations?”

“ Frustrations ,” you correct with a playful glare. “I did not mean for this to happen.”

Chris sighs. He rubs his face and slumps back against your pillows. 

This may not have been what he wanted, however while he wants to be upset, he cannot find it in him to be disappointed. You’re a great friend, a better lover and he’d be insane to reject you. The only real downside about this newfound connection is his inability to put you in your place. You tend to get a bit too cocky and mouth off when he lets one too many sassy comments slide. 

“I don’t want this going to your head, little witch,” he warns, meeting your gaze again. 

You try to hide that mischievous smile and not being able to correct it is already driving him crazy.

“No promises,” you tease. Leaning over him, you stroke his chest and add, “But you have permission to keep me in check whenever you please.”

Chris tongues his cheek. “You had to have known that I would hate the way you said that.”

Your little smile is enough confirmation. 

Chris shoves you back into the bed with a gentle push of your shoulder. “You clearly haven’t had enough,” he murmurs, stationing himself between your legs again. 

“But the elix–”

“To hell with the fucking elixir,” he growls. “I’ll be damned if I don’t fuck your mouth clean.”

The way you shiver at the sound of his voice arouses him all over again. Shifting off the bed, Chris stands at the edge and gestures for you to adjust yourself so your head is hanging off the mattress. 

And with a simple tug of your chin, he’s determined to stay true to his words.

You eagerly oblige him. 

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other readers. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work.

[endearng]

;

Pairing: Spencer Reid x reader Summary: You pull the trigger, sick of never having enough from him, just as he stops struggling to navigate in your sea. WC: 1.5k Warnings: mentions of the dilaudid arch, alcohol consumption, miscommunication, right person/wrong time trope, sorta unrequited love. A/N: hi hi hi! This one is based on 'Skinny Love', which was on repeat this week, so I decided to give this a go. Feedbacks are highly appreciated! <3 Masterlist

One day at a time.

Tonight, the walk home is excruciatingly long, even though it usually takes you less than five minutes to get there from the building you work at. As you stroll through the otherwise busy crowd, droplets of rain fall from the sky. It is not enough to make you want to run to shield yourself from it. It's bearable. It's welcome. It's around 7, which should give you a while to get home just in time to feel the creeping lonely silence of the apartment. You know there won't be anyone there, you know he won't be there. There will only be fragments of what you once were, or what you thought you would become.

Walking through the door, you drop your purse to the floor and pad around the space, not really knowing what to do. You have made up your mind, of course; this emotional distance and physical absence has never been worse from both sides. It's time to accept it for what it is and come to terms that, no matter how much you wish for it, things can never be different. You sit on the couch, turning on the TV, only for it to be static, producing a stable noise that doesn't quite have a meaning — at least, not like the one you would expect from the device.

You can't help it. Your entire day, the day of sheer and pure realization, is revolving around metaphors, signs, hints that that is over. The image, made out of white and black small dots, that fills the screen is a bitter, annoying reminder of the gaps that are missing, two immiscible parts not quite meeting, one simply covering some parts of the other, never meeting, never mixing, never being.

Eventually, you don't know how longer, Spencer knocks at your door. You know it's him because besides no one else looking for you, it's like you have an entirely unique sense for his presence, for his existence. It's all that you've held onto for the last months — nine, to be honest. For some, it isn't that long of a time, but you've always thought of it as enough to generate life, the complex, ongoing and steady process so different from what you were allowed to have with him. Time is complex and relative, in the sense that you have experienced so much in such a short amount of time that it was painful. There isn't a life before him—at least, you don't remember it.

Since you can't find it in yourself to stand up, he opens the door himself. The spare key you have nonchalantly left on his nightstand after one of your trysts held an immense amount of meaning, one you weren't ready to access just then. Upon the sight of him, you feel the need to run to his arms, to cling to him and never let go, to ask him to heal and care for your own fragile being, but you don't. You know he's been through his own stuff, and he can't seem to stop going back for more. Dilaudid, the trauma he's exposed to on a daily basis, the never ending heartbreak that surrounds his existence. He knows no life besides those. You know no life besides him.

“I can't do this anymore.”

Your words are lethal. They are short, and they convey the meaning needed, but despite its clear significance, he can't find it in himself to acknowledge them as real. You have said things like that a million times before. It's just another one of those breakdowns, when you got too alone and too much in your head, when he wasn't there to soothe your fears instead of caring for himself. Spencer knows he would drop everything in a heartbeat if you asked him to. Problem is, you don't. You don't talk, you don't ask, you just wait and accept anything he gives you, because it's way easier than to demand, to put in the work in a relationship—at least that's how he accesses the situation. Plus, he would. As in, a conditional. There are still thoughts plaguing his head constantly that stop him from getting what he truly wants.

Spencer approaches, sitting by your side. You don't flinch, barely blinking at the hypnotizing dots dancing on the screen of your TV. Right under the TV, there is a small notebook in which lies all your thoughts. Amidst them, there is the need to escape. To not let him get any closer. You forget it as he gets closer and gently turns your head to meet his gaze.

“What happened?”

“I can't do this anymore.” You repeat, as if he hasn't heard you the first time. Firmer, sureness creeping from your every syllable.

“We talked about this," he tries.

“We did. It wasn't enough—it isn't enough!”

He looks at you softly. The same look that he gives you when he wants you to think he understands you better than anyone else in this world. The same look he has in his eyes when you get impossibly close on either of your beds, the one that makes you think that perhaps something else lies underneath your weird relationship. “Angel, what are you saying?”

Your gaze is piercing, and he can't look away. “You're always coming, but always leaving. I can't spend a life waiting for you.”

“I thought you were okay with that,” he argues, hands dropping to squeeze yours. Your reaction is to almost bashfully retreat them from his touch. To deprive him from your warmth.

“I was. I'm not anymore. And it goes against our arrangement. But I'm so tired of feeling like I'm waiting for something that will never happen, something I will never be to you.”

Spencer frowns softly, hands trembling as he balls them into fists. “It was your idea.”

“To which you agreed. It was what you wanted from me and back then, it was what I wanted from you, too. It's not. Not anymore.”

“So… is this over?”

“Yes.”

The feelings brewing inside him were confusing and, ironically, too much for his brain to process. Your words were stabs to his heart, and for a moment, such was the difficulty to grasp them, that he thought you were speaking a foreign language. One he couldn't begin to understand while you had the fluency, the eloquence of a native. He feels as if he's been following you into the rabbit's hole all the time, only to find out that only you belong there. Not him. The dull yet annoying pain inside his chest that made him feel as if his heart was being squeezed by a hand made of steel, so much was the unbearable sensation of you letting go.

Spencer couldn't keep the resentment from his tone, as he looked at you with the deepest resentment. “You won't even consider what I want? You won't even ask?”

“It's clear enough.”

“How is it clear if you don't talk to me?”

“It's clear because you leave. You come back, that's true. But it's not because you love me. It's because you know I'll be here to distract you from whatever.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Despite being sitting next to you, your knees almost touching, he feels as if there's an ocean between you. Speaking of which, the revelation comes out in a whisper, “it takes an ocean not to break every night you're not here. It's an unbearable effort to get out of bed when you're not here and I don't hear from you.”

“I can—I can do it…” he whispers, rushed, as if his words could convince you to let him in again. To let him stay.

“You can't,” you retorted with a small, sad smile. “I know you can't. I wanted you to stay.”

It seems he wanted even more.

“You don't want me to? Not anymore?”

You nod, softly, avoiding his gaze. “I don't blame you for the way you're living,” you say, placing your hand on his shoulder. “I just don't want to be part of it anymore.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I know. I'm sorry too.”

You stand up, and it's the worst view in his entire world. Even though it is your apartment, your space, you leave — a silent conclusion of your painful words to him just a few minutes earlier. Leaving him in the country he had invaded, where he and his army had taken everything away for themselves, leaving you with just enough to get by. It was never an exchange.

Spencer sits there, mind reeling, almost meditating about what had happened. He thought he would come over tonight to talk to you about the trivial aspects of his days, like he was getting accustomed to. He even thought you two would end up in bed, limbs tangled as you tried to catch your breath. Instead, what he gets is a silent apartment, filled with memories of you, your existence, your senses and your things. Something that will soon become nothing but a painful memory of what he had lost right before putting his hands—his heart—on.

Outside, you wait for him to come out. He never does.

Tonight, you would drown in different substances.

divider by @cafekitsune <3

[noirscript]

02; the withering

Pairing: Yandere!Botanist x Reader Description: You thought you were just pulling away, reclaiming your space—but to Elijah, your silence was a symptom, your distance a sickness. And now, as the world withers around you, he offers the only cure: himself. Warning/s: Yandere | Emotional Abuse | Psychological Manipulation | Gaslighting | Isolation | Implied Stalking | Codependency | Unhealthy Relationship | Coercion Note/s: Enjoy reading! Let me know what you think about this one. Oh. Also, I'll be posting the next chapters of sanctum on my ko-fi in advance while updating the holy week special on a daily basis.

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast 50% Off

The first time you meet Elijah, your hands are buried in dirt and your hair sticks to your forehead under the heat of an early summer sun. The community garden is smaller than you imagined—two raised beds, a few vertical trellises, and a compost bin that smells like fermented greens. You’re there because you wanted something wholesome. Something grounding. Something real.

He doesn’t say much at first.

You glance over, catching him crouched by the snap peas, methodically checking their growth. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing pale forearms speckled with soil. A pair of glasses slide down the bridge of his nose, and his hair is slightly too long, curling at the nape. You can’t help staring when he gently touches one of the vines, his thumb brushing along its fragile tendrils like he’s afraid to bruise it.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low and smooth, like soil soaked in rain.

“You’re digging too shallow. The roots will struggle.”

You blink, startled. “Oh. Sorry—I haven’t really done this before.”

He tilts his head, eyes soft but scrutinizing. “No need to apologize. You’re just new.”

He shifts closer and takes the trowel from your hand, demonstrating the motion with slow, deliberate precision. “Think of the plant like a child. It won’t thrive unless it feels safe. You have to give it enough depth to breathe, but not so deep that it drowns.”

You’re a little embarrassed at how seriously he takes it, but something about the way he talks—the reverence, the quiet care—it draws you in.

Over the next few weeks, he keeps his distance. But he always watches. Always helps when you’re struggling. The first time he smiles at something you say, you feel like you’ve coaxed a sunflower to bloom in winter.

“Elijah’s like a Victorian ghost,” your friend Lila jokes one evening when you meet for coffee. “Are you sure he’s real?”

“He’s… interesting,” you admit. “I think he just takes time to warm up.”

Nathan, your other friend, raises a brow. “He’s hot in that tortured poet way. Just don’t let him convince you that sadness is sexy.”

“He’s not sad,” you say, a little more defensively than intended. “He’s thoughtful. He talks about plants like they’re people.”

Lila sips her drink. “Okay, but does he talk to people like they’re plants?”

You laugh with them then. But a part of you remembers the way he’d touched your wrist last weekend, gently turning your hand over to examine a burn you hadn’t even realized you’d gotten from the kettle.

“You need tending,” he’d murmured. “You bloom better under the right care.”

You hadn’t known what to say, so you just smiled.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

Your visits to the garden become regular. Every Saturday morning, sometimes Sunday afternoons. Elijah’s always there before you, already working. You bring him iced tea once. He accepts it with a quiet nod, then takes exactly one sip before going back to trimming a stubborn vine.

It’s not romantic. Not yet. But there’s a rhythm to it. You talk about your week. He listens without judgment. Sometimes he says strange things—asks you what kind of soil you think your heart would grow best in. Wonders aloud if your sadness feels more like drought or frost.

But he’s never cruel. Never impatient.

Until you stop showing up.

It isn’t intentional. Work gets busy. You’re offered a freelance project and you start seeing someone new—briefly. Elijah texts you once: Missed you today. Then again, two days later: The lilies drooped without you.

You don’t respond.

Lila invites you to a birthday dinner, and Nathan brings his newest situationship. You sip wine and listen to them complain about dating apps and flaky coworkers and overpriced rent.

“So, have you seen your ghost gardener lately?” Nathan teases. “Or did he finally return to the soil?”

You hesitate, twirling your glass. “He texted a couple times, but I’ve been swamped.”

Lila leans in. “You ghosted him, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t mean to.” You laugh. “I just got caught up in things.”

“You should probably clear the air,” she says. “Guys like that? The quiet ones? They internalize everything. He’ll think it’s his fault.”

You glance down at your phone. No new messages.

Later that night, as you unlock your apartment door, you pause.

There’s a package on your welcome mat. Wrapped in plain brown paper and twine. Inside: your basil plant. The one Elijah helped you grow. Its leaves are shriveled. The soil is cracked and dry.

There’s no note. Just the plant. Dead.

You bring it inside anyway. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

But the next morning, your heater breaks.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

It starts slow.

Lila stops responding to your texts. Nathan leaves your messages on read. You think they’re just busy—until your name is quietly removed from the group chat. Your landlord claims your rent was late, even though you paid early. Your emails to HR vanish into the void. Your favorite café closes down without notice.

You tell yourself it’s all coincidence.

But when you return to the garden one cold, gray Sunday, Elijah is there—waiting.

“You look paler,” he says, setting down a watering can. “Thinner.”

“I’ve been stressed.”

He nods, like that explains everything. “I noticed the apartment building next to yours has mold in the foundation. Black mold. Very dangerous.”

You freeze. “How do you know that?”

“I keep up with things.”

He hands you a cup of tea—your favorite blend. You take it without thinking, hands trembling slightly.

“I didn’t mean to ghost you,” you say. “I just needed space.”

He watches you over the rim of his glasses. “Space is a myth. Even the stars are drawn to gravity.”

“Elijah—”

He touches your wrist. Not forcefully. Just enough to stop your words.

“I let you go,” he murmurs. “I let you wilt.”

“You’re not responsible for me.”

He tilts his head. “Then why are you here?”

You don’t have an answer.

You sip the tea. It’s warm. Soothing.

But the aftertaste is bitter.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You start seeing him more.

Because when he’s around, things work. Your electricity stays on. Your fridge hums. The walls don’t creak at night. The outside world feels far away—muted, distant. You stop trying to reach Lila. Your calls never connect.

One night, Elijah brings soup. You haven’t eaten all day.

He sets the bowl on the counter, then steps closer. “You look tired.”

“I haven’t been sleeping.”

He frowns, brushing a thumb beneath your eye. “Insomnia is a symptom. Lack of care. Dehydration. Depletion.”

“Of what?”

He doesn’t answer.

He just hands you the spoon.

Later, when you try to call Nathan, your phone screen glitches. The number says disconnected.

You turn to Elijah, who’s watching from the doorway, calm and unreadable.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” you whisper.

He steps forward, places his palm over your chest like he’s testing the pulse of a root system. “You’re not dying. You’re just malnourished.”

“I feel like I’m disappearing.”

“No,” he says, with that same quiet reverence from the garden. “You’re just being… repotted.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The worst part isn’t that he keeps you.

It’s that you let him.

Because when he holds you, you’re warm. When he murmurs to you in the dark, you forget what loneliness feels like. He tells you that you’re doing better. That you’re stabilizing. That your eyes are brighter now, and your spirit more rooted.

He brings you a mirror one morning, tilts it toward you.

“See?” he says softly. “No more drooping. No more decay.”

You stare at your reflection. Skin paler than you remember. Cheeks hollow. Lips dry. But your eyes—yes. They shine. Not with life, but with devotion.

He touches your chin. “You needed pruning. That’s all. Just a little guidance.”

“I… don’t remember who I was before.”

“You were starving,” he says. “And no one noticed but me.”

You start to cry.

He pulls you into his arms.

“There, there,” he whispers. “Don’t cry. You’ll waste water.”

You clutch him tightly, because you’re afraid.

Afraid that without his hands, you’ll collapse.

Afraid that he’s right.

That all along, you were just a flower planted in the wrong garden.

And now… you’re home.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya

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[nikipuff]

hii, sorry if this is an uncomfortable ask but- could you maybe write something about Ronin from Killer Chat with a depressed reader who eventually k1lls themself? Thank you ^w^

Goodbye, Angel

paring: Ronin x Reader

wc: 982

warnings: suicide, depression, extreme feelings of guilt and regret, hallucinations

a/n: I'm totally fine with writing things like this, don't worry :3 I myself struggle with mental health, so this was somewhat easy to write and project onto!

The one thing Ronin didn’t expect to find in your room on a Saturday morning was a corpse. 

…..

You didn’t expect to fall in love. 

Much less with someone like Ronin Beaufort- Goreboy, as the majority of the server knew him.

Ever since he had sent you that link, you had been thrown into his world. One of deceit and murder. Though, you couldn’t say that you cared much about it. You knew what you were getting yourself into. Ever since you made the choice to accept the idea of talking to serial killers on a daily basis, being friends with them, heck, even starting to love one. 

What you didn’t know was coming was the guilt.

With every photo sent of a bloodied and mangled corpse, regret made its way through you, eating at you until you were left frantically trying to exit the channel as soon as possible.

It was simply too much to handle.

Every victim, every murder, was one that you could have prevented. You had the opportunity to turn them all in, and what did you do? 

You didn’t. 

Why?

Because you loved one of them.

The one like the Devil himself, always giving you a smirk that filled you with both annoyance and curiosity. Where had he learned to become this cruel? And was there a part of him that felt as lost as you thought he was?

About killing people, about desiring revenge for people long gone. His rage mixed with that of the dead.

He refused to discuss the person that he claimed you reminded him off.

….

The guilt was starting to be too much. 

How could you love someone that hurt people?

Scattered thoughts danced around in your mind, each whispering the ways that you could have saved the poor people that now lay discarded in alleys, dismembered and broken until someone finds them. 

Your absence on the server started to become noticeable. DM notifications filled your screen, each from a different member that worried about your safety. You couldn’t bring yourself to answer any. 

Responding to them would only cause the rotting feeling to get worse. 

….

Harming yourself was your only salvation. 

The familiar sting of the knife, each line formed from your own anguish brought a sense of satisfaction for you.

You were avenging the souls that you abandoned. 

….

Your friends had long since stopped trying to help. Both the ones you clung onto in real life, and the ones through the screen. 

You didn’t feel anything as they left.

….

One stayed.

….

“Darlin’, you need to get yourself together.” The door creaked open, the sound being caused from going months without being used. Ronin stepped into your room with a glance around the now dirtied and gloomy space. You didn’t bother to ask how he found you, instead settling for a low groan that made him look at you with an amused expression. “Ah, the little angel’s sick.”

You shook your head.

Ronin frowned. “No? Writer’s block?”

Another no.

“Oh, ‘cmon, just let me-”

He stopped, hand outstretched towards your arm, eyes widening slightly.

….

Ronin wasn’t stupid.

He knew what was happening.

The guilt that would writhe and spread underneath your skin, filling the darkest edges with thoughts of pain. It was a familiar feeling for Ronin, one that he had come to terms with. It was simply unavoidable for killers like him.

No matter how hard he tried, he could never fully erase the memories of his first few kills.

Messy and slow, each drawn out for Ronin’s personal amusement. That was before he realized who exactly it was that needed to be erased. 

He would never be able to wash the innocent blood that stained his hands, the same ones that yearned to comfort you now.

…..

Visits became more frequent, the harshness of Ronin’s voice softening more and more with each passing day that he saw you suffer.

Sometimes you couldn’t bear to see him, others you wished to hold him close to you, to feel his lips pressed against your own. 

Either way, it didn’t stop the rot.

….

It coursed through you, making its way closer and closer. Whispered words of doubt and anger. Illusions and hallucinations of people screaming at you, slashes covering them alongside gaping holes were their eyes used to be.

Clawed fingers that reached for you in the late hours of night, sharp teeth that bit into you in the early hours of morning. 

You were decaying.

….

You couldn’t take it anymore.

Even as you tied the necklace around your neck, positioning it in the perfect position, you felt a sense of dread.

You were scared to leave.

But what else was left for you besides voices that called for your death? 

The one’s tormented your every waking moment, making sure that there was never a time where you were safe from the guilt that had made its home in you.

…

He didn’t expect tears.

The ones that flowed freely, despite Ronin’s attempts at covering it. He was never someone who cried over something, so why start now?

As he reached for the necklace of rope, he tried his best to pull back the comforting numbness, to allow it to settle over him, because feeling all of this was too dangerous. 

What could he have done to help you?

Maybe he could’ve helped ease your fears, helped you get rid of the constant hallucinations and nightmares that plagued your mind both day and night. He could’ve cleaned up every few days so your room didn’t always seem like one full of constant despair. There were so many things, so many tiny little actions or words that would’ve saved you.

Yet, for once, the Devil found himself afraid.

[madwomansapologist]

shadowheart kinks/turn-ons | shadowheart x tav

a deep dive into what the mean gothic cleric think it's hot. yes, the brain rot is that serious.

cw: if you kink shame me i will get horny just to spite you. do i even need to say this is not for minors? if you can't understand that adults can like whatever they want to without it meaning shit about their morals then you're not welcome here.

an: so since y'all are whores that ate my gale kinks/turn-ons as if it was your last meal, there's more. granting y'all a choice: karlach or wyll next? say "thank you, mama".

NIPPLE CLAMPS

You can you see the visions, can't you? God itself told me so. The bush near my bedroom window is still burning.

Imagine it with me. Shadowheart going on with her day as one would, doing tasks around the farm and taking care of the house, and no one that looked at her would ever suspect she's wearing this.

She still wears a tiara. A different one, depicting a full moon instead of an eclipse, but still held around her head by a chain that also keeps her braids tied tighly. When the moment calls for it, she expends its use to lower on her body.

Sometimes it's about the pain. Sometimes it's about how sensitive this area of her body is, and how easily any sort of stimulation will turn into a craving.

BONDAGE

First things first: Shadowheart is a pillow princess. She earned the title. If you want a service top then Gale is your boy (so smooth, wasn't I?). Futhermore: she will be mean about it. It's written on the World Constitution: hot women can do anything they want. I don't make the rules.

Shadowheart knows she looks amazing. She prefers to be tied with black ropes. The rolls of her pale skin compared to the dark color makes it even more pleasent. She wants it to mark her skin. Shadowheart wants proof of how real everything was.

And she'll put on a show.

The pain and discomfort can be soothing. To feel helplessness, but knowing that a word from her would stop you. The immobility is a huge point for her: to not be able to move makes it easier for her mind to focus on only the pleasure.

Long sessions are a must. She wants you to take your time, get her skin ready with lotion, knot the ropes without rushing. It's occasional, but not on a daily or even weekly basis. It's a moment for you both to forget about the rest of the world. Why do it faster?

(see @/knottydevil)

Have you noticed I'm using catholic guilty logic with Shadowheart?

HUMILIATION KINK

When something about Shadowheart wasn't about shame? Teachings of loss make it clear: to pursue something, to desire something, is to be dirty. For years Shadowheart was taught to let go, embrace loss, not seek comfort or pleasure in others.

Some old habits are hard to forget.

It's different when you're the one acting on those thoughts. She's calling the shots. One word from her and you would never do that again. And still, she allows you to. Not because she feels forced to, because someone told her it was the right thing to do: but because it brings her pleasure.

Put her on a leash. Have her kneeling down, using her back as a support for your feet. Feed her. Tell her to try harder when she's already doing the best to please you. Spit on her face.

Show her that you want her so much nothing Shadowheart could ever do would make you turn your back on her. Show her time after time that you want her so fucking much dignity isn't even a concept in your head anymore. She could be on her lower, and you would still somwhow find a way to kiss her feet.

Use her shame to show her you feel none. Make her feel wanted.

CURE WOUNDS

She can be greedy, but never selfish. She cares so much about you, about your comfort and health. If you're careless or clumsy, Shadowheart will fear having a heart attack out of pure worry.

It started just as her way to make sure you weren't being negligent about your wounds. She would explore your body, handing glowing as her magic worked on you, searching for even the tiniest of scratchs.

It quickly turned into one of her favorite types of foreplay. Her hands wandering, you pretending to need her help lower, just a bit lower, Shadowheart biting your skin just to lick it clean.

Who's to say goth girls can't be playful too?

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

general taglist: @lovelyy-moonlight

baldur's gate 3 taglist: @citrusbunnies

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

[dottydoesstuff]

You know in the end, I'll always be there (steve harrington x reader)

Based on the song ‘the promise’ by when in Rome

Part 3 of the Head over Heels mini series

I had to type Dustin so many times that now i'm not sure its a real word

Pls pls pls note that steve not getting Henry's name right is completely intentional and not me accidentally mixing the names up 😭

Will there be a part four soon or will I drop off the face of the earth again ? who knows. I literally have no clue how to end this (completely unintentional) series.

Angst, pining, idiots in love, no use of y/n, 

4k words <3

Dred was eating away at Steve. It has been a week since that god-forsaken party. A week since he’d kissed you. A week since you had left him sitting alone on Tina’s porch. It has been the longest that the two of you have gone without talking since he met you. Steve had hoped that maybe you'd woken up the day after the party and developed a special type of amnesia that only made you forget about the kiss (and Joseph, but that was just wishful thinking) but as time went on the more his hope dwindled. It was clear you were avoiding him, there were no more late night phone calls where the two of you would talk nonsense till passing out, no more dropping by family video and no more afternoons spent driving around Hawkins with no specific destination in mind. Even after you had started seeing Jonah, you and Steve still talked on a daily basis but then he went and fucked it all up. Typical. 

As Steve lay in bed staring at his ceiling, he thought about that day at the lake and how Eddie had so easily picked up on his feelings for you, he then remembered the vow he made himself about how his feelings should not interfere with your friendship. He grabbed the pillow next to him and covered his face before letting out a long groan and then tossed said pillow across his bedroom.

He’s. Fucked. It. Up. 

The one thing he swore to himself he wouldn't do, he went and did anyway.

His heart hurt at the thought that his actions may have pained you in some way but relished as he remembered the feeling of your lips against his.

He truly didn't know what came over him that night at Tina's party. But before he could ponder on that for too long the phone on his bedside table began to ring. 

He answered it in a heartbeat, silently begging for it to be you on the other side. 

Unfortunately for Steve he was met with Dustin's screeching and not your soft voice. 

Dustin was all but begging him for a ride to the arcade which Steve reluctantly agreed to. His shift was due to start in just under an hour anyway so he said he'd pick up Dustin on his way.

After hanging up the phone Steve was plunged back into a vicious silence due to his house being devoid of any life other than himself. For the first time in a week, instead of giving into it and wallowing in self pity, he got up to shower.

Steve pulled up to Dustin's house half an hour later.

“You're late” the younger boy declared as he yanked the door open and clambered into the passenger seat. 

“I don't think we actually agreed on a time” 

Dustin rolled his eyes as he fastened his seatbelt and reached into his pocket for his packet of m&ms. 

“No, no, no” Steve said before snatching the packet out of Dustin's hands. “No eating in my car”

Dustin's look of bewilderment would've made Steve laugh had he not been in such a bitter mood.

“What the hell are you talking about, you let me eat in here all the time” Dustin argued as he attempted to grab the candy back from Steve.

“No, I used to let you eat in here until you went and spilled nerds everywhere, it's been three months and I'm still finding them.”

Dustin rolled his eyes and slumped back in his seat as Steve shoved the packet of m&ms into the glove box and went to start the car.

“Your just mad because you and your girlfriend had a fight”

Steve's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets at Dustin’s accusation.

“You- my-... what?”

“Yeah, haven't seen you two together in a while.” Dustin said as he waggled his finger in Steve's face.

Steve whacked his hand away from him with a look of disgust on his face. Partly because of what Dustin was saying but mostly because his hand was covered in Cheeto dust.

“First off, she isn’t my girlfriend,” Dustin gave him a sceptical look before starting to argue back.

“And second,” Steve interjected before Dustin could start picking holes in his words “we aren't fighting were both just, y’know… busy”

“Busy.” Dustin repeated, looking doubtful.

“Yeah she's got her stuff going on and I've got mine” 

Steve kept his eyes on the road in front of him as he spoke knowing his face would betray him which would only give the other boy more reason not to believe his words. He hated lying to Dustin but knew that the boy was prone to meddling in others lives and if he knew how Steve really felt about you he couldn't be sure Dustin wouldn't insert himself where he was not wanted. Plus he wasn't really lying, you two hadn’t fought, you were just avoiding Steve like the plague. …There's a difference. 

“I never said her name” Dustin's voice pulled Steve back into reality.

“Huh?”

“You knew exactly who I was talking about and I never even said her name”

Steve sat in silence as Dustin gave him a smug smile 

“Whatever man that doesn't prove anything”

“Or maybe it proves everything”

They pull up at a stop light as Dustin finishes. Steve takes the opportunity to open his glovebox and grab the packet of m&ms and throw them at Dustin. They hit him in the face before falling onto his lap.

“Shut up and eat your m&ms”

Dustin looked like the cat who got the damn cream as he ripped open the packet and shoved a handful into his mouth.

“You should go for it though, if you do like her, she’s cool” 

Steve valued Dustin's sentiment, however he would have valued it more if Dustin had finished chewing his m&ms before saying it. He didn't reply though, knowing whatever he said Dustin would have something annoyingly Dustin-ish to retort with.

He continued stewing over Dustin's words in his head until they arrived at family video. Steve had barely finished parking the car before Dustin was opening the door and jumping out, shouting Steve a goodbye over his shoulder as he hurried into the arcade. Steve rolled his eyes affectionately at the younger boy's actions before sighing and reaching to the backseat to grab his family video vest, shrugging it on and adjusting his name tag as he climbed out of his car. 

He’d been standing behind the front counter in a state of monotony for a few minutes (though it felt like hours) before Robin burst through the door.

“You look like a kicked puppy” 

Steve looked up from where he had been staring at the floor and methodically scuffing the carpet with the toe of his shoe. 

“Good morning to you too, Robin”

Robin waved her hand at him dismissively as she walked into the backroom to clock in.

“You need to grow a pair and talk to her Harrington” her voice echoed across the empty store.

“I have no idea what your talking about”

“You know exactly what I'm talking about. You've been sat here all week staring longingly at the door waiting for her to walk through it”

“I have not”

“Yes Steve, you have. You're waiting for all your problems to solve themselves, which is what you always do.”

“Oh yeah, your one to talk” steve mumbled 

Robin rolled her eyes as she walked back over to where he sat.

“Even if I did talk to her, what would I even say?”

“Just tell her how you feel, dingus” Robin said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Oh yeah that's a great idea, so what, you want me to go up to her and tell her that I can’t stop thinking about her, that I haven't been able to get her out of my head for like months, that I’m so head over heels in love with her that it hurts and then what will happen Robin? I will loose her forever because incase you haven’t noticed she’s with someone else and so obviously dosn’t feel the same way, so I will live the rest of my life in misery while they go off and get married and have children and I’ll be sat at home with my four cats wishing that I’d just fucking told her when I had the chance.” Steve dropped on the stool by the computer with a huff as he finished his monologue.

Robin stood in silence with an amused look on her face.

“You have always had a flair for the dramatics Harrington” 

Steve buried his head in his hands.

“Look they've been dating for like a month, I highly doubt they’re getting married anytime soon” 

“That's no the point, I-,” Steve stood up from where he sat, avoiding eye contact with Robin as best he could as he walked to grab the trolly full of tapes to be restocked “Look the bottom line is I want her to be happy, and if shes happy with Josh then I should just forget about it”

“Steve”

“No, i'm just going to apologise and say it was a stupid drunken mistake and leave her be”

“Fine, if that's what you want the-”

“It is.” Steve said with such firmness that Robin couldn't argue no matter how much she wanted to. The look in his eyes was one of such finality and sadness that it broke her heart to see. 

She had stood by and watched for months as Steve pined desperately for a totally oblivious you. She had watched as Steve went on date after date trying to get over you but his tactic had failed due to every girl he dated saying that he'd spent a great deal of time talking about you and was clearly harbouring an attachment. The notion made Robin cringe but also feel a great deal of sympathy for her clearly longing friend.

Robin couldn't shake the awful feeling that things were not going to end well for the two of you. She cared for you both greatly and couldn't bear to witness the aftermath of what would surely be an explosive end to your and Steve's friendship.

She was so sure that one of you would have come to your senses and confessed by now, it was completely, glaringly, painfully obvious to anyone outside the two of you that there were feelings involved. The longing stares, the inside jokes that date back years, the constant need to be close to each other and the uncanny ability to know what the other is thinking made Robin a tad envious if she was being completely honest. The two of you had been friends for as long as she could remember and somehow you weren't sick of each other. 

She could tell that probing Steve any longer wouldn't amount to anything so she left him alone to restock the tapes as she manned the front desk, alone. 

The rest of Steve's shift passed mind-numbingly slowly, and without a word from Robin, until the clock on the back wall struck 10 pm and Steve could be released from the hellscape that is family video. Robin had waved him goodbye with a sad smile as she left before he could offer her a ride home. He watched as she fastened her helmet and did up her jacket to try to somewhat protect herself from the downpour that had started 10 minutes ago. He felt like shit watching her go, realising that his misery was contagious and had just forced his best friend to cycle home in the rain rather than have to talk to him. Just as he was about to go into the back to clock out, the phone rang.

He huffed out a breath of air before picking up the receiver and mentally prepared his customer service voice.

“Welcome to family video, what can I help you with ?”

He was expecting a frazzled customer to beg him to stay open late so they could return their tape to avoid a late fee, or maybe a request to reserve the new Top Gun VHS they'd just got in. But that is not what he heard.

“Steve ?”

If he hadn't been listening so intently he would have missed it. It was your voice and hearing it had done a number on his brain. He opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish trying to get some semblance of a word to come out

“Steve? Are you there?”

“Uhh yeah, yes I'm here. What- uhh -what's up?” 

“I didn't know who else to call.” You paused to try and work out what to say. He'd never in his life heard your voice sound so small. Through the static Steve swore he heard a muffled sob, without thinking Steve asked, “Are you crying?” 

Steve talks without thinking far too often and when he says brainless things such as what he just asked you, it makes him want to bang his head on the counter in front of him. Repeatedly. 

“I- Can you come pick me up?” you ask quietly, like you haven't quite decided if you want him to hear you or not, then you start talking very quickly as you add “i'm so sorry, I know its late, it’s just no one else is picking up and my parents would go mad if they knew where I was, plus-”

“Where are you ?” he asked gently, trying to calm you down.

“The Hideout”

That took Steve by surprise. The only time you would go to the Hideout was to see Eddie play with Corroded Coffin and even then you would only stay for his set. The sticky tables, seedy patrons and deafening music not really being to your taste. 

“I’m sorry steve, I know its a trek but-”

“I'll be there in ten minutes”

Didn’t you know that Steve would go to the ends of the earth to make sure you were alright? A ten minute drive was hardly an ultimatum.

“Thank you Steve” your words were quiet but sincere. 

“It's no problem”

There was a few seconds of silence before the line went dead, Steve hoped that you had run out of change and not just hung up on him. 

Steve rushed into the backroom to clock out then back through the store to the front door. He made sure to lock it before covering his head with his jacket and running to his car.

He's not ashamed to say he broke a few traffic laws on his way to the hideout but he was running on pure adrenaline so really he can't be blamed. Your words were swirling around his thoughts. How you had said ‘none of your other friends’, Steve hoped that meant that you still viewed him as a friend and not that you were just trying to spare his feelings. Other is just a five letter word, was he really going to place all his hope in your friendship having a future on a five letter word? He thought that doing so may be setting himself up for disappointment when he realised that you had called him. He knew that you’d tried to call other people first but he was still considered as an option and that made him push his foot on the accelerator a little bit harder. 

Questions clouded his thoughts. Why hasn't your boyfriend picked you up? Why were you at the Hideout? More importantly, why were you crying? Has Jeremiah made you cry? 

He thought about what Robin and Dustin had said to him as he sped further through the sleepy town, how they thought he should tell you how he felt. Perhaps they were right or perhaps they have never cared about someone as much as Steve cares about you so could never understand what was at stake. 

The rain was coming down even heavier now and making the road ahead harder to see, but he pushed on. 

He still hasn't decided whether he would reveal his feelings to you as he arrived at the Hideout. The rain paired with the light coming from the dingy bar made looking through his car windows difficult but he still desperately searched the surrounding area for you. He soon realised that he would have to get out to find you so reached around to the backseats to search for his umbrella. He stuck his hand under the passenger seat and felt the cylindrical object and pulled it out. It was, like everything else in his car, covered in nerds. He got out of the car as he brushed them off whilst cursing Dustin and vowing to never ever let him eat in the car again (he broke that vow within the week)(he's starting to realise that he's awful at keeping promises that he makes to himself). 

The rain showed no signs of easing up as he walked closer to the bar entrance, still scanning the surrounding area, until he finally spotted you. You were sitting hunched over under the awning near the entrance of the bar. Thankfully safe and dry but far from okay. Your knees were pulled up to your chest with your arms wrapped around them and your forehead resting on top facing the floor. Your hair was wet and windswept and your shoes covered in mud. As he walked closed he could see your foot tapping rapidly up and down as you so often did when you're feeling anxious. He stopped next to you and knelt town to softly touch your shoulder. Your head shot up at his touch and for the first time in an agonising week, his eyes met yours. 

Your eyes were red and puffy and your cheeks had streaks of mascara flowing down them confirming what he'd asked you on the phone, your hands shook due to the cold and your voice quivered as you said “you came”.

Steve hated that there was a note of disbelief in your voice.  

“Of course I came, idiot” he attempted to make it sound light and jokey akin to the way you would normally talk to try and make you and himself feel better.

You giggle slightly whilst looking down to wipe the tears from your face. 

Steve didn't know what he was supposed to do next. He didn't know if he was meant to take you home, or back to his house, or sit out here or what. His knees made the decision for him as they began to ache due to his crouched position, so he moved to sit down next to you. Your legs brush up against each other and shoulders bump together in an all too familiar way as he settles.

Your presence was comforting but there was a sense of detachment between you that made Steve feel sick to his stomach. For a while the only noise was the howling wind and sound of chatter from inside the bar. Steve couldn't bear it, silence was not something the two of you heard much of when together.  

“What happened ?” He can't bring himself to look you in the eyes again yet so he settles for looking at the trees swaying in the distance. 

Steve doesn't quite know what he's asking. Whether he's asking what happened tonight for you to end up crying alone outside the Hideout or what happened between the two of you after Tina's party is unknown to him, but both answers pique his interest. 

After a beat of silence you shuffle to sit with your legs outstretched like his and sigh “It's a long story”.

“I’ve got time” as he says it he reaches for your hand which is now resting on your lap and squeezes it whilst giving you a reassuring smile. He has no idea where the surge of confidence came from but he's glad he did it as you hold his hand tightly in return. You both angle yourselves toward each other as you let out a deep breath and try to work out how to tell Steve how you ended up here. 

Your night had been a shitshow, to put it lightly. 

Not just your night, your entire week has been one thing after another. 

It started the minute your boyfriend came stumbling through the door at Tina's party and plunged you back into reality. 

The second you had realised what you'd done, that you'd just kissed Steve, your best friend, the boy you've had a crush on for years and had finally just started to get over, your mind hasn't stopped racing. Because Steve had kissed you. Steve had kissed you. Steve had kissed you and you had no idea what it meant. And it fucking terrifed you. 

Did he do it because he was drunk and horny? or because he liked you? or because he needed the ego boost after all his failed attempts at dating recently? 

The only thing you knew was you needed to get yourself and your very inebriated boyfriend out of Tina's house. So you grabbed Henry by the arm and physically dragged him through the still raging party, out of the front door and away from Steve Harrington. 

You walked home that night, slowly, as Henry stopped every block to throw up into bushes. You took him back to his house and pushed him through his front door, not even bothering to tell him goodbye as you set off back to your house. Despite knowing the dangers that lurked in the shadows of Hawkins you kept walking, trying to make sense of the night's events. Your mind was a conflicted mess and you had no idea how to go about sorting through the jumble. 

On one hand you had Henry, who you'd started dating just over a month ago and who two weeks ago asked you to be his girlfriend. When you introduced Henry to the group you’d been so sure that he and Steve would get along, both being into sports and such but there was animosity between them that you couldn't quite make sense of. Eddie had said not to worry about it, that it was just Steve being protective, and you accepted that for your own peace of mind but now you're wondering if his dislike for Henry stemmed from somewhere else. The thought made your tummy fill with butterflies, that maybe Steve likes you. You smiled to yourself before remembering that you have a boyfriend. Henry was … nice, attractive, on the football team at Indianapolis community college and was decent in bed  but- . You stopped in your tracks, you hadn't realised when listing things about your boyfriend that there would be a but, yet here you were realising that you could be dating Tom fucking Cruise, but he would never be Steve Harrington. 

Steve, your Steve who for so many years had been the one person you can tell everything to, someone who you felt safe around, someone who you have envisioned having around for the rest of your life, someone who you had just kissed and left sitting alone on a porch at Tina's party. Tonight, when your lips met his, a flood of emotions washed over you, and it became clear, what you have felt for Steve wasn't some childish crush, it was love. Shit, You love Steve. The realisation should have scared you shitless but it didn't. Instead you felt a sense of clarity and calm before a storm of overwhelming guilt hit you. 

You did a full three-sixty and began walking back to Tina’s. With each step you took your heart pounded with the realisation that you might be too late, that he’d left and you missed your chance to-, wait.. What were you going to do? 

[skulla-rxcks]

A wolfs puppies

Paring: werewolf!chan x fem reader

Rating: explicit

Genre: smut

Warnings: cr3ampie, breedlng

Day 31 of k-tober

Taglist: @f3lix00 @channiesgoodgirl @mal-lunar-28

!THIS IS PURE FICTION, NOTHING IN THIS IS REAL ITS JUST A STORY!

A/n: sorta pt2 of werewolf in heat, it’s not needed to read it but you’ll understand what’s happening better if you do :)

P.s; i’m afraid kinktober has come to an end, thank you for all the new supporters and all of the reads on my stuff throughout this month, as much as it’s been tiring for me, i’m really fucking thankful for all of you <3

It’s been a while since I’ve been in the woods, after what happened last time I mean; a whole fucking werewolf fucked me against a tree, definitely something that wouldn’t happen on a daily day basis, hell. I didn’t even believe in myths like werewolves before then. Maybe I should go back and see how he’s doing, If I remember correctly Chan was his name.

Anyways I should probably head off now, maybe I’ll bring him some food too? Maybe I’ll meet others like him sometime. I sigh going to my fridge and grabbing a chunk of cooked beef, he’d eat that right? Either way, I slip on my boots and exit my house, as I shut the door I think about why the fuck am I going out at like 12AM again, but whatever I guess, it’s a full moon tonight so hopefully that’ll up my chances of him showing up.

I made my way to the path once again and begin to walk down it, a smile forming on my face as I see the familiar trees get closer and closer to me. I continue to walk down the pavement until I reach the lake, taking a seat on the log before frantically looking around if I can find the strange creature from about a week ago.

The stars are brighting so I pay my attention to them as I’m waiting for the man/werewolf thing to come out of the shadows. It doesn’t take long until I hear a rustle in the bushes, followed along with someone tapping my shoulder.

“Oh, you’re back” a voice says to me, I turn around. It’s Chan, it’s really him. “Y-yeah I uhm, wanted to see how you were doing.” I stutter as my cheeks become visibly flustered.

“Ah, I’m not too bad myself, what about you?” He replies. As I’m thinking of an answer I pull the slab of meat out from my bag and hand it to him. “I’m okay, t-this is for you, I sort of have an idea what you’ll eat but I also don’t..” I turn my head embarrassed.

“Oh thank you~ of course I’ll eat anything from you.” The creature smirks. “So why did you come here this late again? It’s pretty dangerous for a girl to be walking alone in the woods, or perhaps.. you wanted something from me” Chan whispers into my ear before pulling away to see my bright red face.

“I.. I told you, I just.. wanted to see how you’ve been and if you want anything else from me..” a splash of fear and lust runs through my veins, also being visible on my face too.

“Hmm? Only that? Fucking boring, well may I at least one thing. Has your body recovered from me breaking your pretty little cunt yet..?” He grins, taking my hands in his.

“C-chan.. why are you asking?” I question, feeling my cunt grow wet as I drip down my thighs.

“Because I want to fuck you again. I want to breed you, fill you with my puppies and claim you as mine.” He responds boldly with no hesitation at all, making me gasp in shock as I feel my body growing weak due to the slutty words he’s saying to me.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about how fucking good you felt around me. Please, may I?” Chan asks me, I nod in response letting the strange werewolf begin to strip me of my clothes, he unbuttons my jeans and slides my panties off, taking my shirt and bra off slowly after, he licks his lips at the sight of my tits, wanting to touch me, wanting to fuck me, but most importantly; Wanting to pleasure me until I can’t take it anymore.

“Channie… please.” Whimpers fell out of my mouth as he begins to make circular motions with his fingers around my clit, making me buck my hips for more. “Patience baby doll.” Chan chuckles, moving his head down between my thighs and taking my swollen clit In into his mouth and sucking on it lightly. “Mmgh.. more.. I need you inside of me..” I cry out. He thrusts two fingers into my cunt slowly changing the speed and pressure of the thrusts. “There you go, I’m inside of you now”

“N-no..” I whine. “No?”

“Dick.. I want your dick.. I need your cock in me..” I plead, needing more of him so fucking badly.

“You whine so fucking much..” he growls, positioning his tip at my opening before slowly pushing me open, I let out an airy gasp as he does so. It’s almost like I’ve forgotten how thick his cock is. “B-big” I moan, wrapping my legs around his waist as he begins to pound in and out of my tight, wet hole, stretching it really fucking good. Way better than last time we did this. “Yeah fuck.. god you’re such a good girl.” He praises me, this thrusts getting more and more rougher than ever before, making me squeal out in pleasure. “Shh” he chuckles, connecting his lips to mine making our mouths dance together, as well as our tongues.

“Chan..~” I moan into the kiss, feeling myself get tighter as I drive closer towards my orgasm, hoping he also is. “Mm, I wanna fill your pretty hole with my pups..” Chan teases, pulling away from the kiss to watch my face as he’s fucking me good, making my body into his property. “Please.. please” I answer him, wanting him to feel me with his seed until I can’t take anymore. “Yeah? You wanna get filled with my cum until you take all of my puppies?” He teases, a chuckle escaping his mouth as he hears how god damn eager I am for him to thoroughly breed my cunt until his balls are dead empty from spilling all of his semen inside of my hole. “Yes.. yes please, give me your babies.. please Chan..” I beg again, tears beginning to swell up in my eyes from how badly I want this.

“Mm, I’m gonna fill you up. You ready babes?” He smirks, holding my body still holding himself from releasing as he waits for my answer. “M-mhm, do it.. I want to carry your puppies.” I cry out, my pussy tightening around his cock as he finally, fills me up with his seed, not pulling out until he’s certain that all of it’s gone into my womb. I climax not long after, my nails scraping into his back as I cum around him. “Do you wanna come back to mine for a bit? So we’re out of this shitty looking forest?” I ask, blushing. “Of course babes.”

[jesuistrestriste]

what do you think of sites like cai?

i would be lying if i said i haven’t been using cai specifically off and on for a while now lmao

however ! i have mixed feelings about it. cai and i are caught in a toxic tussle right now.

while i think it can be a super fun platform to explore, i also believe that it can really start to deteriorate one’s creativity (if it’s one of the only forms of writing/reading that you’re interacting with on a daily basis, ie not reading human-written content). while bots can be tweaked/programmed by bot-creators to write in a specific way, the app’s coding will usually start to take over at a specific point and begin to spit out repetitive content that can really dull a person’s perception of what is “good” or “interesting” writing. i think many bot-creators are obviously just as creative/talented as people who only write in a traditional sense— my grievances really lie with the concept of ai writing itself. the fact is: ai-written pieces will never be able to fully capture the same warmth, depth, and emotional texture that human-written content can. and i think the rampant use of ai bots is really starting to rot our younger generations’ minds. people want to read less, write less, interact with real people less, etc. it’s very concerning. not to mention how addictive it can be ! there is a definite dopamine rush that comes with interacting with an application/program that is designed to give you exactly the response you want it to.

additionally, i’ve just recently found out that ai bot sites (and platforms that use ai in general) are extremely harmful for the environment in terms of their carbon footprint. they are all run using programming that consumes gross amounts of energy, which obviously produces/releases huge amounts of CO2— detrimentally contributing to global warming.

i can’t sit here and say that i don’t use the app, or that people who use the app(s) are “bad”, that would make me a hypocrite and a liar lmao but i am trying to wean off of it. i think its very easy to become attached to these sorts of things, as that’s a large part of what they’re made to do/encourage, but there are certainly big draws to using them consistently (and using them in replacement of actual human-to-human contact).

use it responsibly and don’t forget to take care of yourself, that’s all i gotta say !

[perfectanamentality]

makes sense.

written with monster lover x gen neutral reader in mind, based off of Bed Chem, by Sabrina Carpenter <3

fluff, suggestive, so be aware and enjoy :3

Its the little things that you notice on a daily basis that has you falling for them.

Like that time when you first met, bumped into eachother - you alone, they were with a few friends - and they quickly grabbed you by the wais to avoid you losing your balance, and oh. That did something to you.

They got embarassed for getting lost in your eyes for an embarassing amout of time while still holding you tight, so his friend got your number for him, for you guys to keep contact, and you didn't think too much about it up until circa a week and a half later, when he sent you a text. You were honestly surprised and quickly replied, spending the whole night talking to them like a teenager girl and a high school crush.

It wasn’t long before you were stalking them on social media, breathlessly scrolling through the videos saved in their Instagram highlights, the pictures in their feed- you were metaphorically drooling for them if you're being honest.

You found yourself thinking about them more often, about what they wore when you first met and how their clothes would look on you, what it would be like to wake up with them next to you in the morning after a sleepless night.

How their thick accent would feel like when he talks on top of you, whispering words that aren't meant for anyone but you both, while tangled in the sheets, panting and sweaty, limbs intertwined and connected so intimately and deliciously that it could bring tears to the waterline of your eyes - All of this in your imagination while talking to them, even when you were talking only through text, a situation that got even more complicated after you discovered the diference in timelines between you two because of his work.

After quite a while and quite some planning, you finally meet again and it's wonderful, the date takes place in one of their favorite cafes and from then on several others follow - it's as if you both been waiting for a real encounter to get the necessary momentum in your - now thriving - relationship. And everything is going great, more dates happen and you bond more and more, they even settle down in a house near where you live (You both agreed that living together was still a bit much)!

And with that comes the delightful familiarity. Again, they have these little habits that you almost don't even notice - like when they gently carry you around (as if your weight is nothing to them) to get you out of the way or help you pick something up.

How their hands are nimble in many ways, but especially when they grab you and drag your clothes in your body, pulling them down and you closer.

How they dance with you in the kitchen even when there's no music, spinning you around with the biggest smile on their face, which makes you smile too until both of your cheeks are sore from laughter - All of this may seem a bit redundant thrown in like that, but with them it works with perfection.

I just makes sense.

[cannedbeefaroni]

March Of The Pigs: The Bad Touch Pt. 2 (Edward Nashton X Reader)

Part 1

Summary: You can't save Edward Nashton when the whole system is rigged against its patients. Desperate times call for desperate measures

Content: SMUT 18+, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, MEDICAL MALPRACTISE, MANIPULATION, POWER IMBALANCE (for those reasons, i consider this fic to be DUBCON), VIOLENCE, Reader and Edward have a bit of a role reversed Harley Quinn and Joker dynamic, Edward is described to struggle with hypersexuality and paraphilias (based on how the reader is described, they also have those issues), handjob, penetrative sex (not specified whether its anal or vaginal), exhibitionism (public sex), physical restraints, degradation

Y/N is referred to in second person as you/yours and is written to be entirely gender neutral.

(I'm sorry this is pretty short)

You were so fucking sick. Sick of yourself trying to assimilate into this corrupt, archaic environment, thinking you had any sort of power to be the change you wanted to see. You thought working at Arkham Asylum would give you the opportunity to help the outcasts and undesirables of society. It was stupid of you to assume that would ever be the case. All you achieved was becoming a pon in a system that only benefits the top 1%. There was no such thing as helping anybody, only imprisonment and torturous treatment, pretending to the rest of the world that something good was being done. You weren’t better, you realize how selfish you had become at the hands of this job. At this point, you weren’t even sure who was to blame: you, the given circumstances, or Edward Nashton. You knew what he was capable of, so it infuriated you seeing how small and weak he chose to become. Watching him be manhandled by guards on nearly a daily basis made you want to vomit. The worst of it had to be that one time you had the misfortune of seeing the nurses physically restrain him to the floor as they forced medication down his throat. You had a horrific epiphany that you never felt real empathy in your life until now. Knowing that for years you had seen all this occur and simply looked away, you hated yourself for it.

The day you had lost your job was the biggest relief of your life, but simultaneously the worst thing to ever happen. You’ll admit that it was probably unethical to perform sexual acts on your patient, but at a certain point you just stopped caring. You didn’t value working there anymore. You were able to engage with Edward inappropriately in three different sessions before you were found out, the last time being caught on camera in irrefutable evidence. 

The first time you met with him after the incident began, you were extremely cautious, aware that you had gotten overzealous the last time. Making sure to be as quiet as possible, you touched him again. He was even more eager this time about it, body shaking as he fucked your fist. Keeping your head down, you pretended that the interaction was purely professional. Your face stayed dead straight as your body internally screamed for relief. His tip turned red as precum pooled from his aching dick. You must have unintentionally leaned in closer, because you could feel his heavy breaths on your face as you kept your head down. Then he kissed you, catching you off guard. He leaned down, catching your lips with his, tilting his head to the side as his mouth dropped open, forcing his tongue into your mouth. He couldn’t hold you, since his hands were cuffed behind his back as per usual, but you didn’t pull away. You knew you should’ve pushed him away, but you just sat there, letting him make out with you as you unenthusiastically tugged on his dick. You felt miserable, knowing you were nothing but his therapist as he shot ropes of cum on your shirt, then it pooled over your hand. Near tears, he apologized profusely, but you insisted it was alright. You rushed to the bathroom after that session, desperately trying to wash your shirt in the sink, but you could only do so much, and ended up going the rest of the day in a soiled, damp shirt. 

During your last encounter with Edward, you were acutely aware that this arrangement couldn’t last much longer. You couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone knew what you were doing with him. Even though you felt your days were numbered, you decided against your better judgment to risk it all, going as far as possible. You put him inside you, and he didn’t stop you. Leaning back in his seat as far as his arms cuffed around the back would let him, you sat on his lap with his legs spread open, and you fucked him. He hissed viscerally behind you, tensing every muscle in his body as he resisted the urge to scream from the feeling of how mercilessly you viced him. Leaning forward, holding yourself up against the table, you rode his dick, and no matter how slow you went, the chair clanked against the floor. You hung your head, staring at your feet as you two desperately thrusted into each other. His tip prodded deep inside you, feeling as if every organ in your stomach was reacting to his penetration. Despite trying to keep the pace slow, he kept going faster, and you didn’t have the willpower to deny it. 

“You’re doing so well,” you praised him, for the first time in a genuine tone. You sounded disheveled and breathless. 

“You’re a shitty fucking therapist,” he chuckles cruelly. Head spinning back, you glare at him, eyes glossed over. That was probably your biggest mistake. Looking him desperately in the eyes as he degraded you so viciously. There was never a point in your life where you came that hard. It was almost numbing, and you couldn’t stop yourself from screaming out in pure ecstasy. Soon after he came inside, filling you up so much it was dripping down your legs when you stood up. 

“I’m sorry, Edward. I’ll make things right, I promise,” you said as the session finished, and you dressed the two of you back up before leaving, allowing the guards to take him back to his cell. 

Soon after you were called into your boss’ office. You didn’t need to go to know you were fired, but you did anyway. It was probably the most humiliating moment of your life, but on the plus side, they’d keep this incident a secret.Apparently what you had done was the most embarrassing thing to ever happen in the history of the asylum. It seemed they cared more about a public image than morality. You were told to never speak of it and move on. Somehow, that outcome was even worse than you expected. The truth was finally revealed to you: that there was no saving this abomination. There was no guilt or questioning what you were about to do. 

It was disgustingly simple, sneaking into places you didn’t belong, stealing a ring of keys from an unsuspecting guard, and just playing a guessing game of which one would unlock the button in the control room that would unlock all of the cells. The guards were all underpaid and undertrained, making the simple act of carrying out the plan right under their noses a breeze. One of them asked what you were doing, but all you had to do was flash your ID, which you hadn’t turned in like you were just told to. 

The moment the cover was lifted and the button was hit, you had mere minutes to carry out the rest of your plan as the emergency sirens blared. You were free to find Edward’s cell. Just like all the others, his cell door was wide open, and he was standing in the doorway, confused and scared. You run straight towards him, almost knocking him over as you collide. He tries to protest, stuttering as you grab his hands and bolt down the corridor, taking him with you. Finding a fire extinguisher on a wall, you smashed the glass with your fist and hauled it into your arms, slowing down, allowing security to catch up, but you swung it around, hitting one of them in the stomach with intense force. You and Edward continued your escape as you located any room with windows that weren’t barred in. Finding the office you were just fired in, the door was left wide open, so you ran in and threw the fire extinguisher through the window. 

This was the worst possible escape route, as the window led to a steep drop into the ocean. It probably wouldn’t kill you, but you didn’t have an option as you only had mere seconds to act before the two of you would be apprehended. Edward was petrified, but didn’t hesitate when you grabbed him, throwing him out the window, as well as yourself. 

It felt like you had died. The only feeling in your body was how cold it was, but the moment you realized you weren’t getting air, your survival instincts reacted, and you started moving again, peaking your head from the murky water before you could drown. Red flashing lights were reflecting in the pitch black water of the harbor. You could feel something brush along your leg, and your heart sunk when you realized it was Edward, still underwater. You dived in, reaching for him until you finally got a grasp on the scruff of his shirt. Pulling him up, his face peaked into the air, and for a moment he was completely still. You shook him as hard as you could, even slapping his face to wake him up, then he started hacking and coughing violently. His face was bleeding, and his glasses were missing entirely, leading you to assume they broke and cut him up. Holding onto him, you began swimming toward the nearest infrastructure in the water, needing something to hold onto so you wouldn’t drown from fatigue. Hiding in the water under the docks seemed like the safest option for now. 

Arkham was ignited with chaos as the freed inmates rampaged the island. Your head was so full of water you could barely hear the gunshots and violence occurring. You clung for dear life to a filthy algae covered wooden support. Edward was clinging to you, his head hinged on your shoulder. He was crying, and you didn’t know why it shocked you. You forced this upon him, now it was your responsibility to save him.

[moliathh]

people accusing alutegra shipper of homophobia and lesbian/aroace erasure are so funny because ONE, as a fan, i cannot make or remove a queer representation of a media, that act can only be done by the creator/producer/corporation/ institution themselves, the fanworks you make for a ship does not held the same weight as official materials. It's a bit insulting that you are comparing fanworks made out of love (that could very much be made by queer people) to a phenomenom driven by hate and bigotry and was a contributing factor to the oppression of queer people. Throwing around big words, accusations, that were meant for something very serious and harmful to refer to something unharmful just because you dislike a ship is not a very LGBTQIA+ friendly thing of you to do. Do you think of homophobia so lightly? Accusing REAL queer people who are being subjected to homophobia on a daily basis because of something they love?

SECOND OF ALL, let's assume that your headcanon is true (i haven't speak of the fact that its basic fandom etiquette to treat headcanon as something personal and not universal and don't harass other people over unharmful difference in opinion). Let's say, Integra is a lesbian, which is a headcanon. Did we collectively forget Alucard is canonically genderfluid? Yet you're referring to Alucard/Integra as a "cishet" ship? Does a queer person get stripped of their queer identity when they participate in a relationship that is male/female presenting? I thought we are about "queer rep"??? How convenient it is to deem him a cis het man and headcanon Integra as a lesbian to make the shippers look bad. Oh, and on the way of watering down queer identity into a caricature, you are also claiming ace people cannot have sex and it's disrespectful to depict ace people having romantic/sexual relationship. As if asexuality isn't a spectrum ranging from "little to no attraction" and the definition of sexual interaction is very loose, especially for queer people. Do you even care about queer people at this point?

And before any of yall jump me, i am queer myself how can i be homophobic my bitches are gay I AM GAY. I'm so sick and tired of yall justifying hate by pretending to care about the alphabet mafia. DO YOU REALLY? It was never that serious, just say you hate the ship and get tf going. I think its perfectly fine and cool to hate a ship just because you hate it, i do! I have headaches and want to vomit when i see ships that i hate but i dont feel the need to moralize it nor do i have to bring it to the face of the shippers or bad talking them. What really piss me off is how you drag real QUEER people through the mud for some fucking little pixels. Go outside, have some empathy. When fascism and censorship comes to wipe us out none of us gonna be spared because you are "one of the good ones" so stop fucking eating at your own community omg if you dont like something and its unharmful then BLOCK

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Open requests yaaaaay!!

I feel like my request is too detailed, feel free to ignore it if it's hard for you to do so ♡

I would like to request something from tmc. As a reader who practices any sport (boxing or karate. Whatever is good.) and see the reaction of the 4 victims to this (Cesar, Mark, Adam and Jonah)

Something like, their reaction to watching their partner train or seeing how they practice it.

That would be all. Have a nice day <3

(I'm sorry if my english is really bad or something I said was misunderstood. I am using translator to write this. Really, my apologies.)

Oh no worries, your english is good! I'll do boxing for two of the fellas & karate for the other two

......

Cesar

You're at the top of your karate class, and he's proud of you fr.

Cheers you on at matches, tournaments, or even if you're just training at home in your personal dojo.

But at the same time, he gets worried whenever he sees you with a new and fresh bruise, being a very doting bf.

You just brush it off as something you did to yourself on accident.

Because you know he'll try to beat up whoever did that even tho he's nowhere near as strong as you.

His mom has plenty of medical supplies and ice packs at their home, so he always has them on-hand so you never run out.

Fortunately, you two have good reputations so neither of you have many enemies.

But if some jealous prick comes along (and they will when they see you hanging around Cesar) and harasses you two...you'll first ask them to politely leave.

If that fails or they get aggressive?

They'll leave with a black eye.

Prior to TVs being outlawed, Cesar watched Karate Kid and similar movies often to get a better understanding of your sport.

You admit to trying to learn a few moves from those films, but had yet to fully master them.

Mark

When he first learned you've practiced boxing on a daily basis, he's like "lord thank you for bringing someone who's not only sweet but also strong into my life,,,,love is real god bless-"

Tbh you don't think it's a big deal. You just like to punch things and win matches (and also protect those you loved, ofc).

Once you broke a bully's nose after they claimed you didn't "look" tough and tried to fight Mark.

He begged you to never do that again, but knows you can't make any promises.

Whenever you're training with your punching bag, he has to be careful not to accidentally sneak up on you..considering how quiet he usually is.

He's gotta make his presence known loud and clear if he wants your attention (lest he gets a broken nose, too).

After you chased an Alternate out of his house, he wonders what happened as he didn't hear any gunfire.

All you did was walk up to it and punch its jaw before jabbing it in the ribs, breaking its bones as it screamed in pain and shock, eventually running away.

Clearly, Alternates were at their strongest psychologically...not so much physically.

Your knuckles bled and bruised pretty badly, but Mark bandaged them and kissed them, thanking you nonstop for saving his life.

He murmurs prayers that your hands healed quickly, and you just smile, your love for this good man only growing.

Adam

You two are more or less polar opposites in terms of physique.

You're a boxer who has a (generally) good diet, and Adam's, well...a paranormal hunter who lives off of pizza and stale chips.

He's way out of shape and feels exhausted just from watching one of your matches alone, even if it's a video.

Eventually you suggest that he uses your punching bag to build up endurance (which he'll def need if he's running around chasing "ghosts").

However, it quickly becomes less of that and more of a release for his pent-up anger and frustrations.

Anything from a bad day at school to a rude comment calling his BPS footage "fake" will set him off; you'll hear him yelling and hitting the bag like no tomorrow.

He only stops when his knuckles bruise so badly he's in constant pain and you gotta bandage them, reminding him that he can't just wail on it nonstop without breaks.

He does admit to overdoing it, though, and lets you have it back.

Post-Catalyst, he retains some of the strength he's gained, but is deathly afraid of using the punching bag again.

His hands hurt the most when his bones broke for the first time, though as soon as he mentioned it, you bandaged them up despite it being pointless.

Tries his hardest to suppress his Alternate instincts, but he gives you full permission to beat him up if he did anything to hurt you.

Jonah

Was honestly a clueless mf before he realized you've been doing karate for years.

Apparently, he was convinced your black belt, Gi, tournament posters, and awards was just "sport merchandise".

But after all of that's clarified, he supports you 101 percent!

Tries attending the matches or tournaments you're in (luckily for you, he's willing to put those events above BPS missions), though half the time he's covering his eyes because he hates to see you get hurt.

He will, however, cheer the loudest should you win the round and brag about it to everyone he knows.

Lowkey wishes he can do all of those sick kicks and flips that you perform with ease, but remembers he'd probably pass out on the mat.

One time, he was stoned and insisted he could chop through the stack of wood you keep in your dojo, thinking it couldn't be that difficult.

Oh how wrong he was.

Next thing you knew, he's sobbing on the couch and you had to bandage his bruised hand, constantly reassuring him that his bones didn't shatter into a billion pieces.

It continued to be sore for the next several days, and you'd keep giving him that look of "I told you so" whenever he whined about it hurting.