#but now they real story can finally begin

[threeacttragedy]

Entry 12: The One Where We Start Laying the Yellow Brick Road to Italy

I realized the other day that, even though I like to bounce around from place to place in the Lukola timeline, I probably needed to start tightening things up on the ship if I ever wanted to get to the end of the story. And, yes, dammit, this story better have a finale at some point because there’s nothing more annoying than an open-ended ending, particularly in the romance genre.

Today we’re going to take a quick jaunt over to Italy because –

NO! Not because Luke is allegedly filming there. If you’re into real-time stalking, you’re in the wrong blog. But, I’m sure there’s a Discord for that.

It’s because I’ve had several people ask for my opinion about the change in behavior between Luke and Nicola during their Day 1 interviews there. Wait – people are interested in my thoughts? Wow, that’s actually kind of nice. Thank you! Okay, back to what I was saying –

Was there a change in behavior when Luke and Nicola reached Italy? Yeah, actually, there kind of was.

By May 9, we had been gifted with a slew of material from Luke, Nicola, and the Bridgerton cast and, I must admit, those early interviews are some of the most entertaining of the tour. In the very beginning, Nicola appeared as the utmost professional – charming, intelligent, and witty at the right moments – and Luke played her likeable counterpart to “Book Colin” perfection – bouncing between being awkwardly boyish and wickedly roguish, all while looking at Nicola like she had just served him homemade peanut butter crumble.

The two of them together, playing off each other, in my opinion, was better than Bridgerton Season 3 (you cannot beat the World Tour being 99% Luke and Nicola, with only a few random side characters taking up screentime). There was some major “Electric Love” radiating from those two throughout the tour, but it seemed very much heightened in the beginning (probably because they hadn’t yet answered the same question 67 times). By the way, if you haven’t heard that song by Børns, go have a listen. It will, at the very least – hopefully – put you in an upbeat mood for the day.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes – was there a change in behavior between Luke and Nicola when they reached Italy?

Absolutely.

Do I know why?

Absolutely not.

Perhaps Luke was bent because someone spilled his coffee, or Nicola was upset because her stylist made her to wear that little silver bow in her hair. In my opinion, the most intriguing part of Day 1 of the Italy press junket was that Luke and Nicola struggled with answering the question, “What is love?” I swear they both babbled on like two kids in debate class who hadn’t bothered to read the material given to them before taking their respective podiums. They finally seemed to settle on Luke’s “Maybe it’s, like, connection.” Well, they seemed to be missing the “connection” that day.

Honestly, no one can explain their “don’t stand so close to me” vibe during those first day interviews except Luke and Nicola. But, we can at least have some fun and speculate about it with a bird’s eye view. At this point, you should know that I love spreading the puzzle pieces out and seeing how they might all connect. Most people – when putting a puzzle together – start with the side pieces, right? You’ll get my joke in a moment (I hope).

In March 2024 – I don’t know the specific date because my timeline is rather murky going back that far (I was unaware Lukola even existed!) – Luke traveled to Los Angeles for a photo spread with InStyle magazine. I’ve heard two versions of this story. The first being that Luke traveled to Los Angeles with Antonia alone; the second being that he traveled to Los Angeles with his friend group, which included Antonia. I couldn’t tell you which is true, and it really doesn’t matter because it doesn’t necessarily add or take away from today’s story.

Before I get started, I wanted to give a “hurrah” to The-One-Whose-Group-Chat-Fills-in-Lots-of-Missing-Bits-for-Me-Including-the-Part-Where-Video-Footage-of-Antonia-in-Los-Angeles-Seemed-to-Indicate-a-Celebrity-Was-Not-the-Videographer-and-There-Were-So-Many-British-Accents-in-the-Background-One-Would-Fancy-a-Guess-She-was-Traveling-with-a-Group.

Moving along…

On April 7, 2024, Antonia posted a series of photographs and clips to her Instagram grid indicating she had been in Los Angeles, including one where she was laying on a blanket in front of the Griffith Observatory and one where she was sitting at a table marked with the number “95.” On April 14, she posted a second set of photographs, tagging her location as Beverly Hills, California and using “End of Beginning” as her audio (yes, I side-eyed this choice of music so don’t feel bad if you did as well). The second photo dump included her lounging on a rooftop.

I’m not going to delve into posts made by Luke and Nicola during that timeframe. I mean, I’m sure Nicola’s comment, “’Friends’…sure Jan,” on Luke’s April 11 reshared post about Bridgerton Season 3 was only meant to be applicable to Polin. And, if Luke wanted to use yellow and black hearts to represent the colors Nicola and he were wearing in his April 12 post, that’s cool, too. And, I am definitely not going to speculate on Nicola’s April 15 post (for Big Mood) that Luke liked, and she captioned, “I will bite off anything that dangles.”

By April 21, Luke and Nicola were in Australia at the World Premiere of Bridgerton. I am only going to provide a quick overview of Australia instead of a full-fledged recital because, at some point, I will almost certainly dedicate an entry to this country. Let’s start with Luke pulling off the hottest walk-up in Netflix human history (I mean, have you watched it in slow motion?). Then, we had the hard launch of the handholding business (because why again?). And, we had Luke tripping over his words, “We’re very, like, giving…I’m not talking about those scenes…” Oh, and Nicola telling an interviewer that, “[y]ou can’t keep a good girl down,” and, in response, Luke’s lips curling into a wicked-ass Cheshire cat's. We had them in the garden, with Nicola bending down to hug Luke after she had scratched/hit/petted his head. Perhaps I should not mention the possibility of a man’s shirt being visible on a bed behind Nicola (I said possibility not that it was). And, Nicola telling Luke, “You’re the funnier one,” when he was concerned that perhaps Benedict was funnier than Colin. Then we had the “Nicola-in-the-green-dress” day where, as they were going down the steps, Luke seemed to instinctively reach for Nicola’s hand, but she played it cool and took his arm instead. Oh, and that entire “green dress” day in general (I mean, there was so much shit going on that day). And, best we do not forget Nicola saying, “the best foundation for love is friendship,” which mirrored the bracelet “someone…in Australia” gave Luke that read, “Do you believe the best foundation for love is friendship?” Because that’s not suspicious at all. Alright, let’s get the fuck out of Australia – but not before I mention Nicola commenting on Luke’s April 27 Instagram post with “Ready for the next?” and Luke replying, “Absolutely.” Yeah, yeah, yeah, their shenanigans in Australia expanded the USS Lukola tenfold.

Oh, also, let me throw this in here because, if you are a “ring truther,” this fact plays a significant role in the Lukola timeline. If you do not know what a “ring truther” is, that’s perfectly fine. You can catch up by reading Entry 6 (The One Where I Explained the Claddagh Ring to My Dad) of my blog. I mentioned in Entry 6 that some Lukola sleuths have stated the metadata they pulled from the sketches of the Claddagh ring uploaded by Chupi indicate they were done as early as April 26. In other words, it means the Claddagh was likely commissioned between Australia and Italy. In fact, if we are to believe Chupi when it said it took four weeks to make the ring, then it had to have been commissioned by May 9, 2024, at the latest. Oh, lookie there, that’s Day 1 of the Italy interviews.

But, before we get to May 9, let’s pause on April 29. That was the day Luke’s InStyle spread was published – yes, the one I mentioned earlier. Luke has pictures from this photoshoot still on his Instagram grid – in fact, Nicola commented, “Yess dude!!” on them – but those aren’t the pictures I want to talk about. No, I want to talk about the pictures InStyle posted on its Instagram grid that day. These photographs came directly from Luke, which was confirmed by the InStyle article when it said, “…the actor delighted the InStyle team by delivering the polaroid photos he’d taken for this story tucked oh-so-carefully in a little brown bag for safekeeping.” The pictures Luke provided, among others, included one where he was laying on a blanket in front of the Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles; one where he was sitting at a table marked with the number “95;” and one where he is sitting in a lounge chair on a rooftop. If you want to see the pictures, InStyle still has them available – you just need to go through hundreds of posts to find them. Luke did not like this InStyle post, which was kind of odd because he was tagged in it, and they were reportedly his pictures.

Why did these InStyle polaroids seem so familiar?

Oh, that’s right, because they were.

Remember that April 7 post of Antonia’s I mentioned a bit ago? Yeah, the one where Antonia posted a bunch of random pictures from Los Angeles and – only after InStyle posted Luke’s polaroids – fans realized Antonia had preemptively posted her version of some of Luke’s polaroids.

I am not going to speculate too much about these pictures or their implications in this blog post, but these pictures may resurface in future posts because I find myself side-eyeing the fact they even exist. And, we should probably accept that Luke was aware of them before his pictures came out on April 29 because he threw a like on Antonia’s April 7 post. Could it have been a “blind” like? Sure, I guess, but the logical side of my brain says he probably looked through them at the time she posted. Let’s not worry too much about it right now, though.

After trying to write out my “general” opinion about the pictures several times, I finally decided that the best way I could articulate my thoughts was through the conversation I had with my father. Yes, Dear Dad returns again for another insightful Q&A.

I started by showing Luke and Antonia’s three “matchy” pictures to my dad and then asked him to compare them. To be clear, the pictures were their respective Griffith Observatory, Table 95, and Rooftop Lounging pictures.

Me: “So what do you think?”

Dad: “About what?”

Me: “Ugh! Why did Antonia take those pictures?”

Dad: “Well, to show she’s part of the ‘in’ crowd. The only reason I can see them being taken is if she was going to put them on the Internet.”

Me: “Uhh, as a matter of fact, she did put them on the Internet! Approximately three weeks before Luke’s were published.”

Dad: “See! I’m not as dumb as you think.”

Me: “Whatever. So, you really believe that? She took them to show people that she was, like, there?”

Dad: “Yeah. Why else would she take them? They’re not the kind of photos you’d take normally. What’s she going to do, put them in an album and show her friends in five years and say, ‘Look, I sat in Luke’s chair?’ Who does that? Nobody. Plus, Luke’s pictures look like they were taken with a polaroid camera and Antonia took hers with, I guess, a phone. Why use two different cameras? Again, it doesn’t make sense. Seems to me like she knew what pictures he was taking, and she was trying to copy them so she could put them on the Internet.”

Thanks, Dad.

You do not have to accept my father’s thoughts on the photographs. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion. However, I think we can meet in the middle and opine that, at a minimum, Antonia’s pictures caused the weak Lukolas to jump overboard; at most, they gave some people stalker vibes; and somewhere in between, they introduced Antonia's negative influence over the fandom and what some may consider trolling behavior (even if it wasn’t recognized then).

Now, before we land in Italy on May 9, let’s summarize what has happened during the preceding two months.

First, we had Luke traveling to Los Angeles in March with Antonia, either alone or as part of a friend group. Luke had pictures of himself taken while there.

Second, we had Antonia posting pictures in early April that would be linked directly to Luke’s pictures by the end of the month.

Third, throughout the month of April, we had Luke and Nicola traveling together for the World Tour. We have all seen these interviews, and we have all formed independent opinions about them.

Fourth, based on Chupi’s own words, we know the Claddagh ring must have been commissioned no later than May 9.

Okay, now we’ve reached May 9, Day 1 of the Italy press junket.

Besides the press interviews, what happened on that day?

Well, Antonia reposted Luke singing Coldplay’s “Yellow” to her TikTok account.

Uhh… Huh. Interesting.

I mean, it’s possible that this was just a coincidence and she just liked Luke’s version of it. Or, it’s possible Antonia knew that “Yellow” was the Polin wedding song and she anticipated trolling Nicola and/or the fandom with it. But, if we believe she knew “Yellow” was the Polin wedding song, that means either Luke told her, or someone with that knowledge told her (i.e., someone from Luke’s team or family/friend group). We also know that Luke mentioned this song in the May 16, 2022 Netflix Tudum article when Nicola and he were asked about their song choices for Season 3. Luke stated his frontrunner was “Yellow” by Coldplay “because of Penelope’s dresses.” Regardless of why Antonia posted the song, I find it hard to imagine Netflix, Bridgerton, Shondaland, Nicola, or Luke were too impressed by Antonia resharing it on TikTok. I mean, at this point, Netflix & Co. would surely have been aware that Antonia’s “copycat post” went over with the fandom like a wet blanket in December in Canada. I imagine some questions were being asked and Luke may very well have received a hand slap from Corporate – and maybe even from Nicola.

But, that’s not the only thing that happened on May 9.

Luke posted his Homme magazine spread to his Instagram grid on that day, too. He captioned the post, “Chatting through all things S3 with @hommeplusmag [o]ut next week x.” Nicola commented, “Yessss,” and Luke tagged his post with the location of Hackney, London. That last part – about Luke tagging the location in Hackney – apparently sent the fandom into a deep-dive of…Nicola’s backyard. Why? Because Nicola lives in Hackney (Nicola herself confirmed she lived in Hackney in a March 18, 2024 interview with Derry Now), and rumors started to circulate that Luke’s pictures were taken at her home.

Hmm, I didn’t realize May 9 was such a busy day, did you?

So, which came first – the chicken or the egg? Did Antonia repost “Yellow” to her TikTok before Luke posted his Homme in Hackney images to Instagram, or vice versa? I’m sure someone out there has this information. The answer might help shine some light as to why Luke and Nicola seemed “off” in the early part of their Day 1 Italy interviews. But, then again, does the order really matter? Regardless of who posted first, it would seem to me that “Yellow” was a very possible culprit for the different energy on set that day.

That, or Luke really was peeved over someone spilling his coffee.

[musashi]

Musing on Movie!Nessa's Future in Part 2

A lot of people simultaneously expressing confusion alongside their celebration of Nessarose finally being played by a wheelchair user, because her being able to walk in act 2 is obviously a huge plot point--the spell cast on the shoes is what turns them into the ruby slippers which establishes the continuity and leads to a bunch of other plot threads, etc etc.

This is obviously the reason a lot of people give for her being played by an able-bodied actress in the past, it's obviously a bullshit reason because a huge majority of wheelchair users are ambulatory and can walk and stand for varying periods of time just fine. So like. They could have still had an ambulatory wheelchair user playing her, but I digress: the point is she is played by Marissa Bode in the movie. A wheelchair user, hurray!

These are just the opinions of someone who is not a wheelchair user so take them with a grain of salt (and please speak up if you have your own stuff to say as a member of the community!) but from what I can see as someone who's been insane about Wicked for about 15 years now, the movie did a lot of good for Nessa's character. Previously, the ableism toward her was baked into the metanarrative itself, but it's now been moved to a more realistic place--the characters within the story.

Previously Nessa was treated with little agency or autonomy not only by the characters but by the people writing the story. Most notably of all, her chair is constantly being grabbed and wheeled around by other characters. The movie corrects this--she is very rarely wheeled around except by her father (and he is called out for his coddling/infantilizing of her by Elphaba within 2 minutes of their introduction) and the one time a stranger tries to do this in what reads even to me as a genuinely traumatizing and far too familiar scene for any wheelchair user to have to sit through, Elphaba immediately fucking goes apeshit and starts throwing fucking furniture. Nessa herself also tries to advocate for herself and tell the professor in question to stop kidnapping/assaulting her and is, again, realistically not listened to.

This last bit obviously happens in the stage musical too but Nessa's own agency is much less pronounced. The movie adds little things here and there to give her more of that agency--Elphaba's protectiveness is much less "I have to help and watch over my poor disabled sister" and much more "I have to make sure no one underestimates or takes advantage of her." Even the plot detail that Elphaba was not there to be her caretaker but just to drop her off and make sure she got settled in her dorm adds leaps and bounds to Nessa's autonomy. Her and Boq's shared look in the opening ceremonies where they both bond beforehand at their inability to see over the crowds' standing ovation. And of course, the dance scene, where he no longer wheels her out but instead beckons her to follow him!

These little details add up in ways that are, at least in my opinion, very meaningful. They also extend to the production itself--where the sets were made accessible for Marissa and she was even allowed to do her own stunts, in her wheelchair! That part in the beginning where Elphaba levitates her was her in a harness in her fucking chair and all. Dope as FUCK.

So I am mentioning all of this because I think the people working on this movie have shown that they are unafraid to make changes to Nessa to be more respectful to her agency. The ableism she faces, which is still plentiful, is framed as such instead of just casually brushed off & baked into the narrative. By making these small changes, Nessa is not just an unfortunate stereotype of a disabled woman, but a real and fleshed-out person who is dealing with the consequences of those exact stereotypes in the society she lives in. I really liked that! I don't know how others feel about it, but I thought it was very well-shifted.

All that said, 'curing' your disabled character is obviously, like, the biggest no-no of writing a disabled character. And that plot beat is a huge one in every version of Wicked... so far. But here's the thing. We have a shot of Dorothy wearing the slippers. And they... are silver.

Why. Are they silver.

And they are silver in all of Dorothy's small little cameos. Every single one. Even though this shot, which was used primarily for promotional material to draw people in like "Hey! Wizord of Oz! This is What The Refrance!" did not make the choice to even suggest that they should ever be red. One of the most important pieces of iconography, consciously and notably absent.

I genuinely don't think Nessa's going to have her disability taken away in part 2. With how much love to this part of her has been done to the retooling of her character, I do not think it is a stretch to assume that they will find a way to advance the plot without removing her disability. I believe this because that is the right thing to do for Nessa, to ascend her character, however you feel about it--she should stay in her chair. She deserves to continue on the way she is.

I realize this little change effects a lot. But after seeing part one, I am confident they can do it and do it well and replace what the change takes away with something just as good. I have so much faith in the direction of these movies. I really, truly believe it will happen and it will be good and satisfying and perfect.

It might still happen, sure--Marissa might get a stunt double, or CGI, or some other brand of movie magic. The shoes may still get enchanted and stay silver to pay homage to the original Oz books. But I can't help but consider that idea and keep asking myself... why. That makes so much less sense. Why not give movie audiences the red slippers, draw them in with the imagery, give them one more lion cub in the bike basket or Boq talking about how much he cries or poppies putting the whole class to sleep. Why not give us the ruby slippers when you... could.

I think because this is going to be a big, long awaited improvement. And I think it is hiding there in plain sight.

[americankimchi]

dragon age veilguard review: spoilers for the entire game ahead

alright now that it's been a few days and i've had time to 1) get over the honeymoon phase and 2) really think on the game beyond the emotional high of the endgame mission/endgame choice, i can finally type this up

my final score for this game is 8/10, if you just care about that part and wanna skip the rest.

preface, i've only finished one playthrough as an elf mage grey warden, and played every companion/region quest*/side objective to completion**.

i played it on the underdog difficulty and it took me ~74 hours (i left the game open and went to do something else a few times, so it should probably read closer to ~70). this is a screenshot of the final auto-save after i beat the game

veeery long review under the cut ✌️

*exception being minrathous since i picked treviso instead, so the region quests got shafted

**didn't find all the chests or all the collectables, but i got close. also, i missed neve's first companion outing because i forgot to do it prior to the minrathous/treviso choice and didn't realize recruiting davrin was a cut-off point. aside from that i finished every quest i could grab my hands on.

OKAY SO i want to start this off by saying that i thoroughly enjoyed this game, enough to want to replay it again (i currently have two concurrent playthroughs as a dwarf shadow dragon and a human antivan crow going) and will probably be modding it to high heavens once that boat gets sailing, and that i believe it deserves that 8/10 score with all my heart. it was a great time.

that being said.

DIALOGUE REACTIVITY BASED OFF CHARACTER CREATION:

anyone who plays dragon age veilguard and only veilguard is getting a very surface level experience of what thedas is/has to offer culturally. i'm saying this because the excuse being "this is tevinter, why would it be the same as the southern half of thedas" isn't enough to explain a lot of gaping holes in the game's setting.

for instance, i played as an ELF MAGE GREY WARDEN in the middle of TEVINTER during a massive catastrophe brought about by the returned "ELVEN GODS"

having played all the games prior to dav, i did so because i knew that there would be

high tension with my PC being an elf in the notoriously cruel-to-elves country of tevinter, the old empire of which caused the fall of arlathan, and who enslaves elves to the point of it being a huge story beat for a previous companion (fenris)

a mage in a magocracy, where the script is flipped between mages and templars as compared to the south which recently went through years of a mage-templar war

a grey warden - their relevancy in thedas ended around 10 years ago due to corypheus basically tricking them all into hearing their calling, and 22 years prior veilguard during the fifth blight. at the beginning of the game, being a grey warden is more of a coincidental occupation than a narrative beat like it is in origins, but there's always something going on with the wardens so i picked it as a 'i'll pick this to experience the game first and then go for what i suspect is the best narratively relevant origin for my second playthrough' option

of the three descriptors, ELF/MAGE/GREY WARDEN, which do you think had the most story-relevant screen time?

that's right.

the grey warden one.

i won't say that there was nothing about being a mage, but i can remember probably on one hand where the option to chime in as a mage was relevant to what was being spoken about. (a conversation about spite, a conversation about scout harding's new abilities, and if there were more they weren't memorable enough for me to recall off the top of my head) which was fine on paper if you don't know anything about dragon age's entire deal wrt mages. i believe the only real mention about tensions between mages and templars happened in minrathous when we met up with neve's templar friend rana. i think the line reads something like "oh templars are just here to make sure the magic doesn't go out of hand. we don't even take lyrium like our southern counterparts" and then the game moves on to other things

which is crazy considering just how seriously the mage vs templar conflict was being leaned into for the previous three games, enough to the point where i was getting absolutely sick and tired of hearing about it. well the monkey's paw curls a finger because not only did i not hear about it, it felt like it never even happened.

TO BE FAIR: we're playing in tevinter (and antiva. and rivain. and the hossberg wetlands. and—well, you get the idea) and there's a general air of tevinter snooty superiority when they consider the 'south', so perhaps it wasn't fair for me to think "oh, they'd talk about it right? they'd bring it up more than once", but my being a mage seemed to just not even register for any characters in tevinter. not that i wanted them to roll out the red carpet or anything, but i can't remember a single moment where an NPC was like "oh right, you're a mage too". maybe they did, and i just don't remember it. but it didn't seem to matter at all.

but alright whatever, if we want to write that off as being "we're in tevinter. that has no bearing on circumstances here because it's a MAGOCRACY" fine i'll let it slide.

but the fact that my being an ELF didn't seem to be a Huge Deal when in tevinter threw me for a fucking loop. was there some sort of massive societal upheaval in the ten years between dragon age inquisition (dorian: i thought keeping slaves was fine as long as you treat them well) to veilguard (i found a single codex entry of a letter where dorian says "hey guys. we should stop keeping slaves. like genuinely what the fuck is wrong with us for even doing that in the first place") but the fact that NOBODY SEEMS TO BLINK AN EYE at my rook's elven heritage. ESPECIALLY since the main antagonists of this game are ALL ELVEN GODS seems like a wildly missed opportunity to introduce some tension. UNJUSTIFIED TENSION, but tension nonetheless.

the wardens had a lot of content, which both surprised and delighted me thoroughly. i'll never speak a word against them of course, and i did love how it showed that the wardens were here to do a job, and not play nice about it. the first warden was, in my humble opinion, one of the best characters in the entire game. annoying, gruff, called my rook warden basically the equivalent of a stupid rhino in a china shop not knowing what's best for the wardens/their oaths and impulsive in a way detrimental to everyone in his surroundings. literally one of my favorite lines happens when he and rook are beefing in the middle of the cobbled swan:

like. that was so satisfying.

the fact that the first warden isn't a villain, he's actually a fantastic grey warden. he'd sacrifice himself to kill an archdemon, and in fact "steals the glory" for himself. like was he an asshole during that exchange? yes, but it's undeniable that he was going to his death voluntarily and with a grim fervor. that's peak grey warden. nobody can say he'd ever shirk his duty. his character flaw was that he's a terrible leader, has the military tactics of a damp slice of toast, and generally doesn't inspire his subordinates to feel any sort of true loyalty to him. see here where my rook aggressively relieves him of duty and after a tense exchange where it seems like combat is about to start, evka saves the day by taking charge. and she does take charge pretty quick. nobody seems to really oppose the real quick promotion.

and then it's back to business as usual. archdemon trapping, anyone?

which was a problem i had with other factions in the game, namely the antivan crows. like yes, not every group is a monolith sharing the same ideals/morals/etc. but having played dragon age origins close to two decades prior where a massive point of contention was between zevran and the crows and the trauma that came from his upbringing as a crow... to then get thrown into treviso to see that the house we're dealing with is a bunch of leathery robin hoods was an unexpected turn. like. guys? weren't they villains? why are we all relatively good people (barring illario) here??? if anything, i thought that there'd be more politicking and backstabbing (literally and figuratively) but everything here seems kinda...... harmonious in comparison to whatever the fuck house arainai was doing. i might have missed a codex entry (i didn't read them all) explaining why the tonal shift happened, like maybe someone somewhere wrote about how house arainai imploded post-fifth blight when a crow went, well, rogue, and exposed the crows for the literal torture they put CHILDREN through, but nothing. like the game straight up lets an NPC whose name escapes me form a new house composed OF children at the end. like. what........ this isn't neverland, why are we forming the lost boys with knives here. hello??

on the other hand, i feel like the wardens had more options to expand on the fact that uh. yeah. grey wardens don't come from great backgrounds. like when you could conscript the mayor of d'meta's crossing much to everyone's displeasure, or the first warden actively being an obstacle to real progress (but not a villain! just extremely blind to the real dangers!), etc. etc. still not great in terms of "we employ literal murderers and criminals of every kind so we can toss them in the direction of darkspawn as a literal meat shield for thedas" but at least it's something.

but i digress. back to the point:

felt like the amount of dialogue options i had where i could bring up my warden expertise not only outstripped the mage/elf tags, but was so prevalent that sometimes it felt like the game was specifically catered to me being a grey warden. this is obviously just because i haven't played enough of the other origins to really feel out how much content they have in comparison, and it's partially just because of how obviously biased i am towards them as a group, but the FLAVOR of being a grey warden was present wherever i went. we'll see how well this opinion holds up after i finish my other two playthroughs.

THE COMBAT:

genuinely the best combat in the series. the fact that you can dodge-roll and more importantly PARRY in this game is an unexpected boon that i can't praise bioware enough for. the abilities themselves are smooth, the detonations provide a nice chunk of damage AND crowd control where you can just unload, and the damage types/weaknesses being a genuinely relevant part of the game to the point where if you have a lightning abilities/weapons equipped and you're facing down a hoard of antaam, you're going to have an extremely bad time*.

* on higher difficulties. i've heard on lower ones that it doesn't matter and you can just brute force your way through the game

i will say the "quick recovery" doesn't feel quick at all, even if i'm hitting the button for it frame-perfect, i can still get knocked down as the animation for quick recovery is going off, which was annoying. would've liked the i-frames to have saved me from getting turned into paste by the three ogres punching me down at the same time but alas.

also, they tend to target you even if you have a warrior (davrin/taash) on the team. unless you're actively casting taunt, they will run past your party members to hammer down on you. which was. annoying.

STILL I LOVED THE COMBAT, i went spellblade as a mage and my build was absolutely disgusting at the end. with a combination of fully stacked out duration+strike abilities, arcane bomb stacking abilities/weapons, and not even glancing at the other two trees for the majority of the game, i felt like i was a rogue that could conveniently cast chain lightning. it was crazy fun.

but also a steep learning curve. mythal took me 17 entire real life minutes to beat. LMAO.

i love that you don't need to restart the game if you want to play a different subclass, you can just refund your skill points and explore the game to your heart's content that way. not that i did, i picked one tree and stuck to it the entire game come hell or high water (or a lightning resistant high dragon 10 levels above me) and i had a blast with it.

THE STORY (THE EVANURIS, ROOK, & VARRIC):

hooooo boy. okay. this is going to be about the MAIN STORY ONLY, companion and region specific stuff will be in its own section later.

the writing for the main story was actually pretty enjoyable the further along in the game i got. every single main story mission was an incredibly cinematic experience; my favorite being the siege at weisshaupt mission—but only because it's kind of hard to quantify the endgame section as a 'mission' when it felt like an entire act on its own.

the amount of personality rook has was a breath of fresh air, and the voice acting for male british rook (alex jordan, who also coincidentally voices my favorite character in wuthering waves: jiyan♥) was SOOOO good. every line delivered felt like it matched the scene's energy/the personality i picked, so the flow of dialogue felt natural enough to be part of a tv show or movie.

although i do wish there was more option to be a little bit more of a bitch. a little rat bastard. not evil because i don't think dragon age would ever let you be evil in the way owlcat games lets you turn into a literal swarm of bugs consuming all (including companions) in its path, i thought there'd be a chance to be like. well. a little mean to people. i can be rude, but not mean. if that makes sense.

i do feel that rook was done a disservice by not having a hawke-like session 0 where we can see, precisely, why they're already so attached to varric and scout harding, but maybe that was left on the cutting room floor. i'm not a fan of tell don't show, so the game telling me "hey remember when you and varric did this thing that we're not going to actually show you" was pretty annoying. i wasn't expecting a dragon age origins-type prologue segment where i move through the world as a warden pre-veilguard, but i do wish we had like. a short cutscene flashback sequence or something to really immerse myself into the character. like let me put my shoes on before i start running the race!

still though rook felt really present in the story. like they slotted really nicely and smoothly into the leadership position which. i mean yeah who else, right? even though they did have plot armor in the sense that i didn't really understand (in-universe) why ghilan'nain and elgar'nan didn't just squish my rook into a pulp and scrape the dagger off the smear he became every time they came face to face... i suppose we wouldn't have a game, otherwise lolol

moving swiftly on, the boss fights felt appropriately built up to, and never did i feel like i was woefully unprepared for the task set up before me (although i must admit i was slightly taken aback by the three-headed hydra at weisshaupt. delightfully so, but it did stunlock me for a few seconds sjkhfj)

from the prologue -> endgame, i suspected something was off about varric once i realized "hey, how come nobody's talking to him anymore?" while the answer of "varric is actually a manifestation in rook's mind caused by solas trying to mold him into someone who could replace solas in the fade prison he crafted" was admittedly beyond the scope of what i came up with:

1. everyone in this game is a monumental asshole (funny, but disappointing narratively)

or

2. he died but bc he died next to the fade magic + we live in the fade now he's just a ghost only rook can see?? (true, but to the left)

i didn't really consider solas had a hand in it which is funny as hell considering. well. blood magic was mentioned at the very start of the game by solas himself

the reveal was very satisfying, and on my current playthroughs it's very entertaining to see everyone (especially solas, but my companions too) very carefully skirt the subject of varric's death by speaking about it in terms oblique enough that everyone in the know understands it as 'varric is fucking dead' vs. rook's manipulated memories understands it as 'varric is laid up in the infirmary'

the evanuris were very well designed, ghilan'nain being a creepy flesh centipede woman with tentacles and blight covering her head to toe was genuinely one of the most refreshing villain designs i've ever seen. elgar'nan was comparatively boring, but considering his whole deal is to be the elven god of tyranny having him just be a conventionally attractive man was a statement in and of itself.

their boss fights were standard, elgar'nan's being the easier of the two specifically because i wasn't trying to haul my ass through waves of darkspawn, but even ghilan'nain's wasn't that hard either considering all i really needed to to was burst some blight growths and could fully ignore the darkspawn if i wanted to. i had more trouble fighting the demon of desperation in minrathous than i did the story boss fights, but that was a trend for most games i feel. the side objectives containing the optional, harder fights and the mandatory quests softening the blow from the main story bosses so the player can get through them at a steady pace.

i do feel like the majority of the story was well written, but suffered greatly from pacing issues brought about by the format of the game itself. while there was a steady pressure brought about by the urgency needed to stop them from crafting the red lyrium dagger, the fact that i could just wander about the world picking up and completing side quests at my leisure before tackling the broader problem at hand did have me slightly confused about how long the game's time frame really was. i think it takes place over the course of a few months, or maybe a year total? if it was mentioned, it went straight over my head.

though i suppose that's a problem most RPGs have—the risk of allowing the player to have agency in picking what to do next means that. well sometimes they can spend hours trying to pick up every collectible while minrathous burns in the background.

though i did wish there was more dalish presence in a game focusing around the elven gods. like i know the veil jumpers are in the game as a faction but. they don't really feel dalish. they just feel like a bunch of archeologists who happen to be elves. a bit of a disappointment, there. also, they were constantly imperiled by something which really put a damper on the "we are also a competent group of people" vibe that i got from pretty much everyone else. the dalish aesthetic was just that, aesthetic. the veil jumpers being posted up in arlathan forest just seemed like they were there due to their occupation and not their heritage. bellara goes into it a little bit through her quest line, but i don't know. there wasn't that sense of unity and closed ranks the way it felt in da:o and da2. the less we speak of the dalish in da:i the better.

as for solas himself, i'm positive that the way you speak to him reflects his demeanor to you over the course of the game (i picked every aggressive/stoic option i possibly could, and the results i got were extremely entertaining; i have so many recorded videos of rook and solas duking it out but due to size constraints i haven't uploaded them anywhere ajkjdj) but at one point they went from "actively antagonistic" to "actively antagonistic but with begrudging respect"... on the side of solas. my rook was extremely honest about hating him every step of the way. extremely honest.

still, i loved how the game kept track of the progression of their relationship. the way every time a new talk with solas started i'd see a little "yeah last time you kept yelling at each other so we're keeping that energy" popup on the side of my screen. the way rook and solas could constantly. well i don't want to call it 'banter' because at every given point my rook would call him out on his bullshit and solas would strike back with a precise cut deep enough to bleed, watching them snipe at each other so aggressively vs. what i suspect is a much softer and more amicable conversation if you go the more diplomatic route was nice to see.

during endgame, since i completed every side objective (the solas's regrets chain of quests + the mythal encounter/fight) i had the option to:

deceive him by giving him a fake prop of his dagger

convince him to stop (unlockable by doing the aforementioned quest chain)

fuck it we ball; 1v1 me right now you bald bitch

obviously, i threw aside all other options and went for the 1v1. when i say i was HOWLING WITH LAUGHTER watching my rook go "I BEEN WAITING FOR THIS" and throw a haymaker to the face........... /wipes tear. it was beautiful. and then my rook STABBED HIM IN THE GUT, SEALING HIM INTO THE FADE FOREVER??? ten years i waited for this. ten YEARS. HALLELUJAH.

though it is very funny after all those years of seeing posts like "UMMM ACTUALLY THE VEIL SHOULD COME DOWN" and then the game is like "nah. that shit stayin up for a while" like kjHDJKLSHGFJK

anyways. i enjoyed stabbing him and watching him get yoinked into the fade. i'll do the merciful ending eventually but i had to do it to him at least once.👍

THE COMPANIONS:

though obviously i have a few characters who i enjoyed more than the others, i did like all of them!!

taash's questline was very good in terms of the cultural aspect (i can relate to feeling torn between two worlds) but the gender identity was somehow both heartwarming and. extremely awkward. it felt a little bit like watching an intro to gender studies 101 powerpoint presentation. like i suppose it was to explain the concept of being nonbinary to people who've never considered gender beyond what color cake to buy for a baby shower, but it did have me raising an eyebrow a few times. not in a bad way but in a very "this is obviously catered to people who don't know a thing about it, and i appreciate that bc it serves as a nice jumping off point for people to really get to know more, but it is a little clumsy in execution". i think my favorite scene for taash is when they're with neve in the dining room talking about how "nobody REALLY likes being a woman" and neve's just there like. oh. you sweet summer child. JKHDSKLAGHFGJ THAT WAS SO GOOD!! but i think the strongest part of their character arc was them trying to figure out who they are in relation to their cultural identity. especially the bit where they fought with their mom about it alllll the time. like where my second generation kids who don't really relate to their ethnic background at!!!!! RISE UP!!!!!!!!!!!!

the way i had to google if i was first or second gen. apparently it's "first to be natively born in a country = second gen" so i'm going with that

and the scene where they're screaming "TAMAAA" when shathann dies...... bro i teared up. i ain't ashamed about it. that was heartbreaking af.

still uh. it was kinda funny (read: eyebrow raising) that a character whose entire arc is coming to grips with multiculturalism and a break from the gender binary..... ends up being presented with a binary choice on whether or not to pursue their connections to their qunari heritage or their rivaini roots. like uh. guys. guys??? why do we have to pick??? aint the whole point of multiculturalism is that it's. uh. multicultural??? i suppose you could argue that it's the "oh you're just supporting taash into embracing a specific part of their culture, you're not really telling them to abandon the other!" but like. eh. EHHHHHHH. it didn't FEEL like that. esp. when it's presented as an either-or scenario.

THEIR PARTY BANTER WITH LUCANIS WAS THEEEE FUNNIEST SERIES OF LINES. i love those two together omg. and taash + scout harding!!! wagh!!!!

EDIT: i was gonna add a section abt the lords of fortune for taash's segment but forgot. which is very on brand bc they were forgettable at best and invisible at worst throughout the entire game. i don't want to say that they were irrelevant but like. uh. yeah. 💀💀

neve. neve neve neve. has hands down the absolute worst voice acting in the entire game. like i'm sorry to say that every single line was monotonous and genuinely lacking in any real connection to the words being said. i have to wonder if the voice actor for neve isn't used to working in a booth and more on camera, because truly with every line she spoke i became more and more disinterested with the conversation. the concept of a mage detective in the depths of minrathous rooting out corruption sounds so compelling, and it was, but unfortunately any deeper connection i could've forged with neve was hamstrung by the fact that i was bored to tears by the voice acting. even the conflict generated between my rook and neve due to him picking treviso (an obvious choice for a warden. they were going to blight the waterways) fell flat. because the lines were delivered flat. disappointing, considering how interesting the content of the game she features in is. like the sequence where i'm running through run-down ruins with NPCs tethered by their own blood jetting out of their bodies as they function as living speakerphones for a blood mage hell bent on revitalizing minrathous in her own twisted way. that's sick as hell. it WAS sick as hell. i loved every second of that. i just didn't love neve's voice acting. a shame, bc i was really excited about her pre-release. :(

scout harding's questline confused me not because of the content, but because it felt like this should've been a separate game entirely?? like why are we discussing the tranquilized titans and their horrific half-dead, half-dreaming state solely through the lens of a companion quest? why aren't we visiting orzammar or kal-sharok for more than 2 minutes and talking about the fact that the lyrium they've been mining for centuries is the blood of their ancestors?? like it's mentioned once or twice, but only during side-quests. like the solas's regrets quest chain or scout harding's companion quests. like isn't this a huge deal? why are we slotting this into a game about the elven gods?? the reveal that the evanuris essentially genocided the titans in order to craft their own bodies is a tale of horrific violence and violation and we........ just kinda. don't talk about it? after scout harding's quest is over? and the fugliest armor set known to man is unlocked? (toes. why does her armor have TOES.)

i did appreciate the fact that the game let us tell her that her anger was justified bc like. ngl if i learned all that and then the only option presented to me was to forgive the fuckers that did it i think i'd go crazy.

aside from that weirdness, scout harding is bestie. i love her. sorry that i KILLED HER OFF THOUGH!!! WHAT!!! okay unironically though i love that. i love that you can PERMANENTLY kill someone off. it adds depth. it adds STAKES. i wish more people would've died at the end. like bellara just being. fine? after being trapped in blight for who knows how long was baffling as hell. like she's not FINE but she's not dead. crazy stuff. how does being a warden sound bellara. u got a swift career change ahead of u. my rook's a warden tho he'll put in a good word for u dw

SPEAKING OF BELLARA. her questline was sad as hell but also like. how many times am i going to deal with cyrian bro like why couldn't we just knock his ass out. i know for the plot he has to keep going back to his evil masked ghost overlord anaris but like. eh.

his death scene was very sad though. bellara :((

CYRIAN UNMASKED LOWKEY....... KINDA FINE THO..... 👀

same as scout harding's i wish bellara's whole thing had more to do with the dalish. NOT THAT IT WASN'T I MEAN IT WAS ALL ABOUT BEING DALISH but it was more veil jumper than anything. man the veil jumpers were disappointing. just a faction built to fumble at any given chance. the only competent person is bellara and she's on the squad........... whole faction just fell apart without her 💀💀

bellara is my cutie pie bestie babygirl though <33 im so excited to romance her WAUGHHH even if i hate her hairstyle like girl what the hell is that on the back of your head!!!! they had to nerf her otherwise she'd be the Perfect Companion 😔💞

emmrich was sooo sweet. literally just an amiable old man on a journey to help his friends and students and his BONE SON!!!! SKELETON CHILD....... manfred my love......... unfortunately i did honor manfred's noble sacrifice and help emmrich into becoming a lich but like. that shit. feels like it should've been saved for post-game, somehow?? like in the veilguard equivalent of a trespasser or whatever. like what do you mean we just have an immortal lich companion just chillin. just vibin outta the necropolis. is that allowed?? are there other liches outside the necropolis???

???

the drip is immaculate though ngl. he easily clears everyone else's veilguard outfits <-she has only seen half of them due to only having the one finished playthrough

i didn't really use him much outside of his companion quests + fighting undead, so i don't know much about him with regards to party banter. sorry emmrich ;-;

davrin was. oh my goodness. have you ever seen a man so beautiful. the soulful brown eyes. the jawline strong enough to cut diamond. the EXPOSED CHEST. GOOD HEAVENS..... /SWOONS

literally the dreamiest dragon age companion ever like im sorry he clears literally everyone else ever made. and i say that even with zevran existing in the universe. (if silver fox zevran had at any point showed up in this game this opinion would swiftly change.)

i didn't romance him and i regret it bc i feel like there would've been something to the whole brothers in arms -> you and i are the only two people on this team who perfectly understand each other; you and i are dead men walking but we go to our blighted graves with grim smiles and clear eyes; should the calling come for one of us, it will end up claiming two, etc etc—unfortunately you recruit lucanis first and i didn't pivot 🫡

THE ONLY COMPLAINT I HAVE FOR DAVRIN: his entire arc focuses around assan. not JUST assan, like assan is the conduit through which davrin works through a lot of stuff, but it feels like. well i don't think there was a single scene where assan wasn't there. which makes sense because GRIFFONS. MY GOD. THEY'RE BACK. but also. i feel like if davrin had some space from assan in like a single mission/quest/etc. it would've been good. absence making the heart grow fonder and all. like i'd kill and die for assan but like 60% of the way through davrin's arc i was lowkey getting tired of it all being about our favorite bird son.

lucanis.... lucanis lucanis lucanis. he's the one my rook romanced and uh....... i'm gonna be honest. i wasn't really feeling like i was in a romance at all until the very end of the game. there's a line where lucanis was like "that's what i love about you" or whatever and i was like. huh? what? when was this established? i don't think we ever had a conversation or an event that would lead to this conclusion??? did i skip it? did i forget??? taps game is this thing on???

like i'm not saying the romance was BAD. (aside from some questionable animation choices. like why was lucanis standing so close to my rook like BACK UPPPPPP 😭😭)

all of the romance scenes were sweet and enjoyable and full of typical Bioware Cringe Romance Lines™ (affectionate) (honorary) but it did feel a little like. 80% of the game we had tepid to mildly reciprocal reactions to any of rook's flirtatious dialogue choices, and then when i got the choice to lock in the romance for lucanis it's like. OKAY HIT THE GAS, BUDDY! IT'S TIME TO FLOOR IT. 0->100 in an instant. i love a slowburn, but this was less of a slowburn and more me silently watching a mile long fuse burn up for like 60 hours until it thunderously explodes all at once.

unrelated but why does rook not have a bed in his room. why is it just a couch. they were suckin' n' fuckin' on an ancient elven la-z-boy in the fade. amazing stuff.

ASIDE FROM THE WEIRD PACING ISSUES I EXPERIENCED (hopefully it wasn't universal) THE ROMANCE WAS SWEET. 10/10 WOULD RECOMMEND

as for his personal character arc. why the hell did lucanis become first talon??? like speaking as someone who found out post-game that he straight up SAYS in his tevinter nights short story that he doesn't want to be first talon. at no point in the game did i think "yeah this guy is fit for and desires a position of authority" like um. viago is right there. i could see the argument if treviso was blighted (don't know if teia and viago survive that; i saved treviso in my playthrough) but like. VIAGO (AND TEIA!) ARE RIGHT THERE BRO...............

him not killing illario is whatever i can understand not wanting to have the blood of family on your hands. it's the becoming first talon that's crazy. although i suppose the whole filial duty to caterina angle........ but since when was the antivan crow org following the right of primogeniture??? WHATEVERRR

also. antivan crows?? are not a moral organization??? what happened between da:o --> veilguard. why are they all robin hoods. weren't they child slavers who mercilessly tortured them into becoming assassins. there's an argument for "oh that was just house arainai" but i was expecting more morally gray/amoral assassins for hire and less "TREVISO WILL BE FREE. DOWN WITH TYRANNY" like huh???? are we red jennies all of a sudden. are we shadow dragons. whats goin on here.

FINAL THOUGHTS:

wow that's a lot. girl has a phd in yaponomics fr. at the end of the day, veilguard is a good game. i mean, i'm playing again it right now on nightmare mode this time. (CALIVAN'S FIGHT.......... WHAT THE FUCK................ i didn't die to his little minions OR to his pride demon summon i kept dying to his fuckass sextuple cast magic missiles that get spammed constantly like BRO CAN YOU RELAX. CHILL BRO CHIIIIIILLLLLLLLLL IT'S NOT THAT SERIOUS!!!!!!!)

i think this game could easily make space for a few more DLC, something like trespasser or mass effect's citadel DLC. hopefully they do because the epilogue slides were PITIFUL. PALTRY. and dare i say? PATHETIC. the romance slide for lucanis and rook being a single line of dialogue that they split between them. i was gobsmacked.

dragon age i say this because i love you and i have loved you for so long and will love you forever: BRING BACK WORLDSTATES. PLEASE. I DON'T NEED A MASSIVE CALLBACK. I DON'T NEED CUTSCENES. I WOULD BE CONTENT WITH THROWAWAY DIALOGUE. WITH A CODEX ENTRY. A LETTER SENT IN-GAME. PLEASE. BRING BACK WORLDSTATES AUGHHHH

although i don't think it'll matter bc if i'm reading those hints right we're going across the sea in the next game to deal with the uh. what was it called? something storm?? that the qunari were running from or whatever???? so i dont think anything we did here in thedas matters. it'll be like me:a except. you know. dragon age.

WAIT. PAUSE. THIS GAME HAS A SECRET ENDING??? <-SHE JUST GOOGLED "DRAGON AGE STORM"

FOR FUCK'S SAKE. WELL THAT'S ON THE TO-DO LIST NEXT THEN.

anyways i love this game. 8/10 would get my ass beat by the demon of desperation and its 5 billion summoned minions again 👍

[fujoshi-yappings]

This is a horror story with Ivan finally giving up. There's no point fighting against the inevitable.

__________________________________________

He felt giving up. His hands weren't bound and his ears were finally free yet his chains remained despite his feet being useless in running away. 

He was undressed and dressed numerous times but he might as well be naked. His kidnapper became too lazy to put up bottom clothes for him with the chains getting in their way. His upper clothes were white even if he can't see it with the blindfold still on yet he can hear his kidnapper whisper in his ears as he embraced. How Ivan looked so beautiful in white.

He supposes his name is Ivan with how they keep reverently calling out this name.

The fight drains him slowly, quietly, until all that's left is exhaustion. His mind, once so sharp, begins to blur at the edges. He tried to hold onto something—anything—but the struggle is too much

Till. Till. Till. Remember Till. Till. Till. Till. Till.Till. Till.

The constant cycle of care, the soft hands, the hand feeding, the soft touches, the forced intimacy - all begins to seep in, like the fog in his mind becoming thicker with each passing moment.

He used to be someone. He used to be someone with thoughts, with desires, with a sense of what was right. But now… now it feels like those parts of him are slipping away, like he's losing pieces with every soft touch, every injection, every hour that stretches into the next. 

His kidnapper keeps touching him, forcing kisses and murmuring sweet nothings and promising him that they'll be together.

He is just so tired. He can’t keep fighting anymore. He's tired of resisting, tired of hating himself for needing something, anything, to feel human again. 

The desire for freedom fades, replaced by a strange, aching longing for comfort. For warmth. For anything that feels real in this suffocating place. 

He doesn’t care anymore about the world outside, about the life he might have had. It’s gone. 

It feels like he'd been here forever, and the idea of escaping seems as distant as the sun in the sky, something he can barely remember. It’s easier to stay here, to surrender, to let himself be shaped into whatever they want.

He let go. He doesn’t fight the hands that touch him. He doesn't resist the care they give him. It’s easier this way. 

He let himself be fed, cleaned, held in those careful hands. 

He let his kidnapper kiss him and take him again and again until he could only moan, writhe and beg for more.

The silence, the soft murmurs, the feel of another person close—it's all he knows now. 

He does not remember anything before this. He doesn't remember the person he was before this. Those times felt like a distant dream, something he could never return to, even if he wanted to.

Freedom is a ghost, an idea that no longer matters. It’s too far gone. His identity is slipping through his fingers, slipping into nothingness. 

All that’s left is this moment, and the strange comfort it brings, even as it erases everything he used to be. He doesn't know how long it’s been, but he doesn't care anymore. There's no need to know. There's no need to fight. He just needed the touch, the care, the peace. Even if it means losing himself forever.

Till. Remember Till

A traumatized and kinda insane Till after r6 transmigrates into the modern world into a body of an heir to the criminal underworld. He sees normal student Ivan and kidnaps him.

[girlyliondragon]

Real talk the thing about making extremely complicated/complex and flawed characters (especially those greatly based off yourself to the point they're your self-created comfort character) that you've grown to be extremely proud of thinking of their stories, is that you also know that there are people out there that will absolutely villainize the fuck out of them or try to 'reason' that they are completely irredeemable even in instances where they have no control over their life and act accordingly or even are pushed into situations where they didn't want to be to begin with or are even trying to be better than they were before even when they have gone through and still go through moments of relapse like any troubled character would in an attempt to make them feel real and it actually really fucking scares me.

I can't give details, but it's like. It's obvious they, the character, aren't a good person, not as a whole anyways and aren't meant to be, in fact said character sees themselves as the worst to exist because in their eyes they deserve every bit of punishment after everything they've done because they are forced to be stuck in the past and mask themselves unhealthily due to repeated mistakes and not wanting to do them again despite making achievements to move on and be happy and despite some telling them that they're doing a good job despite everything and that they deserve to be happy and meaning it rather than trying to placate them, it's obviously up for people to decide their own perception OF that OC from what they read of their story bits to decide whether they like the character based on what they read of them or not, because flaws and shit like this is very compelling to many, myself included.

But at the same time I'm super nervous about the idea of expanding on said character and showing their maladaptive coping mechanisms and behaviors and bad moments alongside their good moments because a lot of people on the internet, especially the very loud ones have no fucking concept of the varying shades of grey morality in the slightest. Even in cases where they are in fandoms with characters with many different forms of grey morality, like it terrifies me that someone could potentially misread everything and ruin my desire to make this OC I'm vagueing about want to not only move on and be better, even if they have to start from the bottom again sometimes, but redeem and even forgive themselves in their own eyes in the process and start anew, just because people have a black/white mentality that they force onto at the expense of others doing so. It really ruins character exploration and growth.

[abedallahmusallam]

Emergency: Help Abedallah and his family to Evacuate From GAZA WAR

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #276 )✅️

https://gofund.me/c358a1a5

Dear Humanity,

Please read this as if I'm a member of your family. maybe your brother, son or a friend and as if my family who's under death now is yours.

My name is Abedallah, a fresh graduate who wants to be a doctor like his role model, his father.

A student who was supposed to start his university and achieve the dreams he worked for but found himself losing the city he's living in, his house and losing any hope of a better future with it.

And after a alot of studying in Tawjihi ( The final level at high school before joining university), the war had another plan.

The story started since childhood, when every one I have knowen called me doctor.

This continued till I reach to the final grade at my school grade 12 (Tawjihi).

In this time, I felt that everything should be real, I can do it, I started to study

and work hard from begining to end, no sleep, no rest, all these things to achieve my goal and make my dream a real one.

The hard year has finished, then two week of fear waiting.

After this, the result came, it’s 99.4, I ranked the third in my country.

Since the war on Gaza strip started, we struggled alot, when we were at home at the beginning of the war the Israeli occupation bombed many houses around us, then we were displaced to Rafah because of fear and at the first day suddenly we heard the sound of many blasts,cracking glass and screaming women and children, they blew up a residential square near us.

After two months, I returned to khanyonis, but not to our home.

I live in tent becuse the israeli occupation burned my house completely, nothing left.

I feel that I lost and continue to lose every thing, this war made my dreams, hopes, my beloved things and my beautiful house burned and disappeared.

The single wish for me at this time is waking up from this nightmare and everything goes back to what it was.

Help your brother to get out of this disaster, rebuild his house and complete his education and realise his dream of becoming a doctor.

[daosies]

when you get injured

sylus, xavier, rafayel ♡ gn!reader

warnings: alcohol (sylus), graphic depictions of violence, sylus is his own warning he's so freaky (but hes so fine), major story spoilers (all three), blood, mc is the protagonist but gender neutral, lowercase intended

notes: MISTY INVASION GOT ME

sylus always looks forward to your calls.

he likes listening to you ramble about the little nothings of your day, the mindless white noise that echoes from your end whenever you get lost in thought.

more often than not, sylus isn't satisfied with just that. sometimes, he wishes he could witness your expressions for himself rather than through the chirps and retellings from mephisto, to narrow the distance between the two of you.

clink! he lifts a glass of whiskey up to his lips.

sylus eyes his phone before taking a sip, gaze beginning to drift around the vastness of his bedroom. warm lamps illuminate the corners and his attention redirects towards the various plushies that line the shelves.

ever-so slightly, the corners of his lips break into the subtlest of smiles.

his gaze returns to the phone.

later than usual, sylus thinks, staring at the pretentious (according to you) grandfather clock in his room. tick, tick. its tempo mimics his heartbeat, the steady rhythm falling into place.

sylus's days are redundant—they have been for quite a while—but what he always looks forward to is your calls, which always come at this time.

except for today, it seems. even though you're not obligated to call him, and you never told him that these calls would become a regular occurrence, sylus has grown expectant. terribly so.

he takes another sip of his drink, eyes darting back and forth from his phone to his wristwatch.

sylus would like to maintain his image as an independent, mysterious alpha; but you—oh, you—have a knack at dismembering him, at taking apart the chambers of his heart and weaving yourself into its tissue. you tattoo yourself into his skin, permeating into his existence without ever realizing.

you've always been a little cruel. sylus likes that about you.

tick, tick. he half-considers calling you first. when it comes to you, sylus has nothing to lose—from the crimson of his irises to the crimson of his blood, he's surrendered everything, offering all that he has in a ferocious, lovely organ that goes, endlessly: thump, thump, thump...

he thinks of your fantastic beauty. the tempo stutters.

tick, tick. ring! sylus reaches for his phone within an instant, not caring about luke and kieran's spiel about how a "real charmer" would wait for the phone to ring multiple times before picking up. but sylus doesn't have time to play games like that—he wants to hear your voice and he wants to hear it now.

"so, you finally decided to call, hm?" sylus asks, swirling his drink leisurely. he brings the glass up to his lips, unable to contain the way a smirk breaks out onto his face, the way you do so much as exist, the way you radiate and oh, the way you seek him out!

sylus thinks he's never felt so satisfied before, with all that he's ever achieved, you just might be the greatest of them all.

and he hasn't even achieved you yet. he thinks he never will; you've always been volatile, wildly beautiful and wildly free. again, sylus likes that about you.

you don't respond. sylus sets his glass down on the table, unbothered, smirk still fixed onto his lips. that is until he hears a loud crash from your end, the sound of labored breaths following soon after.

"[name]?" sylus calls, standing up immediately. his whiskey remains forgotten, free hand reaching for the leather coat draped across his chair, the fabric still stained red from earlier events.

sylus has no time to worry about how he presents himself, because before you can even utter another word, he's racing out of his pretentious (according to you) mansion and swinging a leg over his motorbike.

the steady tempo of his heart begins to race, beating the rhythm of the grandfather clock that, endlessly, echoes tick, tick... sylus attributes its consistency to the fact that the grandfather clock, in all its glory, has never had the pleasure of knowing you.

if it did, then its flow would be disrupted, its rhythm would stutter and leap, and sylus knows this fact all too well because it's happened to him. because it's happening to him.

thump, thump-thump... "[name]," sylus calls. he says your name just to say it, to feel its syllables on his tongue, to swallow the sound and let it reverberate throughout his chest, easing the spasm of his heart and the fracturing of his ribs.

"[name], talk to me," sylus says, the steadiness of his voice starkly contrasting the tremble of his irises. "[name], i'll be there. count to three?"

one. he revvs the engine.

two. his fingers tighten around the handlebars.

three. the tempo of his heart goes, achingly, thump-thump-thump, thump... for a second, the sound changes. for a second, the sound shifts and utters, in the softest of timbres: you.

black and red tendrils spew from the ground below you, wrapping your figure in a tender embrace whilst the sound of an engine rings throughout your ears.

smoke envelopes the room, your vision becoming blurry while the tendrils shrink away, their absence filled in by the warmth of calloused hands.

sylus lifts you up, pressing your head against his chest before whispering, "go to sleep, darling. it'll all be over soon."

when your eyes lull back, and your body falls limp, sylus goes mad. his hands never leave your figure, his evol forming limbs to strangle your opponent, watching the way they writhe and scream without ever tearing his gaze away.

"report," sylus demands, talking to no one.

"after finding out [name] was closely associated with you, boss, this person tried to get some information about you." still, someone responds.

sylus chuckles. "two corrections." he steps towards the suffocating person, crimson gaze trailing theirs and landing on you. when he notices this, sylus clicks his tongue, tightening the tendrils of his evol and forcing the perpetrator to look away from you.

tenderly, sylus caresses the side of your face, as if to brush away that person's distateful gaze.

"[name] and i are more than just close associates," sylus continues with his previous statement, holding you closer towards him. he finds solace in the way your chest rises up and down, reassuring him of your vitality, your incomparable radiance.

"and," he says, retracting his evol. the person falls to the floor with a harsh thud, and sylus merely tilts his head in the direction of the body, commanding the twins to clean the corpse up.

"that isn't a person. it's just some pest. kieran, don't make that mistake again."

luke snickers.

kieran straightens up, mop in hand. "yes, boss!"

only when your breathing steadies does sylus's heart return to its regular rhythm, matching the pace of the pretentious grandfather clock.

you've taken his bed (he's given it, really), and sylus doesn't bother pulling up a chair; sinking to his knees as he gazes at you fearfully, reverently. his hands come up to cover yours, elbows digging into the mattress. the warmth of your skin mixes with his own.

you've taken his bed, but sylus thinks that that's only one of the many things you've taken. you've taken his mind, his heart, him. you've taken all that he's got to give, all that he's ever fathomed of being his.

"you're always so cruel," sylus mutters to himself, thumb rubbing the back of your hand.

(but, i love that about you, he thinks.)

your head and side are wrapped with bandages, tended to by sylus himself. he doesn't trust anyone else—not even luke or kieran—when it comes to treating you; you're too delicate, too fragile for a place like this.

sylus's gaze remains fixed on the bridge of your nose, the cracks of your lips. sweat trickles down your forehead, your brows furrowed from discomfort and nightmares plaguing your sleep. he reaches a hand to brush the sweat away, grazing across your skin until your brows ease up, until your expression drifts into that of contentedness.

oh, you're beautiful. ethereally so.

(you don't belong here.)

still, sylus's hand traces over yours. he feels the callouses adorning your palm, marred by your work as a hunter. filling the gaps of your fingers with his own, sylus's hand locks into place.

(you call it abduction. he calls it love.)

whenever it comes to you, xavier is on high alert.

he's always hyper aware of your location, your status and your surroundings. whenever you fight wanderers together—as partners often do—he's always thinking of you, of ways to redirect everything towards him, of ways to get you as far away as possible.

for the longest time, xavier thought that that'd be enough. he thought that, so long as you're okay, he doesn't care about what happens to him, about what happens to anything. he's always thought that, really. here and philos alike.

"xavier!" you yell, and before he can even react, your figure comes colliding with his, arms wrapping tightly around the back of his neck as the two of you tumble towards the ground.

he doesn't know what went wrong—was it his clumsiness? was it his arrogance? he had always thought that, so long as you were safe, nothing else mattered.

but xavier had never thought of a situation where he was the one at risk, where he was the one who needed saving. he had never thought that you'd be the one to sacrifice yourself, because, ever since he met you, xavier identified himself as a sword, as a weapon at your disposal.

he is your weapon. he is yours.

xavier's hand comes to the small of your back, feeling the blood seep in between the gaps of his fingers. his breath falls short of escaping, shrinking down his esophagus and bringing everything, from the race of his heart to the warmth of his face to a standstill.

primal instincts take over. xavier fights with tooth and nail, forgetting all that he's learned from his swordsmanship classes—but oh, never forgetting his time with you—while his grip around your waist tightens.

his movements are quick and wild as he slices through each wanderer with the efficiency of a machine, running on a code that prints out, endlessly, you, you, you.

after everything has been eliminated, xavier reaches for your neck, searching desperately for a pulse. after confirming that it's there, he teleports away to the nearest hospital, free palm pressing into the center of your wound.

xavier's scared. he's scared you won't make it. he's scared he's failed you. he's scared of a lot of things, really.

when you're wheeled away in a stretcher, tended to by a whole team of medical professionals, xavier's left yearning and waiting, clinging onto nothing but hope and a fragmented memory of you. he's always yearned—back in philos and here, now—but it's a little different this time.

you've always been out of reach, like you were a star and he, an observer. but now, you're so tangible, so delicate and so fleeting despite being right there.

xavier feels like you could disappear within an instant, and he wouldn't put it past you to leave this life behind, to restart anew somewhere else. with someone who was a little stronger than him, a little less selfish.

he's selfish. so what?

you evoke something primal within him, something that makes him forget his etiquette classes and his time at the academy, wasting away at textbooks and duels. you make xavier burn, wildly, fantastically, like a flame—like a star, even.

you make him feel unlike himself, because xavier's used to being calm and collected and oh-so drowsy, but when it comes to you, everything changes. the world reinvents itself anew and presents itself, fogged in a pink lens, as something lovelier than before.

xavier resigns himself to one of the many chairs of the waiting room. he buries his face into his gloved hands, not caring about the messiness of his appearance.

when he closes his eyes, all he can see is your limp figure. he opts to stare at the television screen instead, the reports of the news appearing mute to his deafened ears. xavier swallows thickly, mouth feeling terribly dry, wrapped around the shape of your name. it waits.

a couple hours pass, and a nurse appears to fetch him. xavier says nothing, tongue still stuck in time.

only when he enters your room, and listens to the repetitive beep of the heart monitor, does his mouth free itself from its prison, liberating itself to utter, in the faintest of whispers, "[name]..."

you don't stir awake. xavier's fine with that. he pulls a chair to your bedside, and he sits, and he stares. periwinkle eyes trail across your features, tracing them like a sculptor, desperate to reshape the bandages and gauzes that cover your abdomen.

xavier wishes he could crawl into your body and steal all the pain for himself.

there's a great, irrevocable instinct within him, the kind of instinct that is only ever sung about in epics and myths and tragic, star-crossed plays.

he reaches forward, bare thumb coming to graze over your cheekbone. you're quiet, too quiet, and xavier's paranoid. too paranoid.

there's a great, irrevocable instinct within him. it takes over xavier's eyes and it trains them to fixate on you.

your image slips into his sight, swallowed greedily by xavier's pupils, remembered fervently by his mind. while his hands cannot have you, xavier compensates with his eyes, desperate and mad and oh, so lovely.

there's a great, irrevocable instinct within him. it's primal and it's primitive and it's hungry.

xavier forfeits his beloved sleep in order to watch over your heart monitor, to watch over your heart.

even when all the lights shut off, and when the device's beeps blend into the white noise of the hospital room, his periwinkle gaze never leaves your figure, adjusting to the darkness and finding solace there.

(a star has landed on earth. it's guided by a great, irrevocable instinct. it's primal and it's primitive and it's hungry.)

once more, xavier's mouth wraps around the shape of your name. it utters, in the softest of timbres, "[name], i love you."

although you aren't awake to respond, xavier is content with just this.

(a star has landed on earth. it stayed because it found you.)

"[name]," he whispers again, finding comfort in the familiar syllables, "i love you." maybe, saying it will make it realer than it already is. maybe, saying it will satiate his soul, providing him with enough sustenance to feast on for the next century or two.

maybe, xavier just calls your name to feel its syllables on his tongue. because he likes the sound of your name. because he wants to hear it, in whatever capacity, whenever he can.

maybe, it's just a great, irrevocable instinct.

whatever it is, xavier is content. he stares at you, and he feasts.

it always goes like this: with rafayel chasing after you.

you have a habit of leaving him behind—rafayel thinks it's just in your nature.

you give him a taste of everything before leaving him with nothing, and even though rafayel hates, hates you for that, he can't help but want everything again.

(he had everything, once.)

"[name]!" the scream that erupts from rafayel's throat is raw, marred by a desperation and anguish that travels across lifetimes. rafayel can't lose you—not again, not like this.

"raf—" you're interrupted by a violent cough, blood spilling from your lips. "just go!"

and there you go again, in all your selfish glory, in all your inconsiderate and shameless heroism. do you like watching his expression drop into that of utter horror, when all he's ever wanted was you?

he can never get his way.

"ugh," he mutters to himself, voice cracking at the end. "i just hate you, you know!?" your gaze is preoccupied by the giant wanderer that looms over your figure, its attention belonging wholly to you.

rafayel has the audacity to be offended. hello? he manages to think, despite all the fear and anxiety. why's it not looking at me? i'm right here!

you aim your gun at the wanderer's head, and rafayel almost wants to laugh. to think you're fighting close-combat with guns—wow, what an accomplished bodyguard you are!

rafayel is half-considering finding a new bodyguard now, because it looks like his current one isn't too bright in the head.

rafayel hates the way you go around, saving everyone, saving everything. he hates the way you save and the way you forget, the way you go around picking up more strays whilst forgetting your first one.

rafayel hates you. he hates you. he hates you!

despite all the pain and soreness in his (self-proclaimed) delicate limbs, he rushes forward, daggers in hand while fire vomits from the ground. rafayel hates you, sure, but hate and love are lawfully wedded, tightly intertwined and fueled by one another.

rafayel hates you. he hates you. but oh, he loves you. he loves you in the way he's willing to let you keep that heart of his, the way orpheus loved eurydice, the way he did everything and anything, only to catch a glimpse before losing it all.

he charges in front of you, occupying the wanderer while you take a couple steps back. rafayel half-wishes you'd run. he half-wishes you'd turn and abandon him so he could find it in himself to abandon you. you did it once before, so why can't you do it again?

when bullets stop flying, rafayel wonders if you left. he wonders if it's really over. so, he looks back.

you're still there. this time, you don't disappear. your eyes meet his, and somehow, you find it in yourself to smile.

he wants to cry.

"rafayel, let's resonate!"

and oh, you're otherwordly. you're so, so gorgeous. it's in the flame that dances across your irises, the determination that settles into your features.

you're so beautiful it hurts, because rafayel hates the effect you have on him, the way you go around enchanting everyone, everything!

when crimson blood trickles down your face, staining your skin a violent red, rafayel thinks you're sublime. he feels insignificant in your radiance, in your marvelous existence, your marvelous world.

"fine, let's!"

your hand locks with his, and rafayel hates the way his heart skips a beat. he hates the way yours didn't. he hates the way he's the only one overthinking these things, the only one who remembers after all this time.

the world is engulfed in flames. and rafayel spares you a glance, your skin illuminated by the warmth, flickering in and out. the wanderer disintegrates into ash, leaving nothing but a measly protocore for all the suffering it put him through.

your eyes fall back. instinctively, rafayel reaches a hand out, catching you in his arms despite hating the way you contort his limbs, the way you make him trail after you like a madman.

he is anything but a madman—in fact, rafayel is perfectly normal.

still, he cradles you in his arms. blood trickles from the side of your face.

"you're not the only one bleeding," rafayel mutters bitterly, feeling lightheaded himself. "who do you even think you are?"

his thumb comes to brush your chapped lips, wiping stray droplets of blood from the dried skin.

you're ethereal. rafayel will never admit that outloud. not like this. but, he thinks that you're something akin to a grecian statue, reflecting all that is lovely and all that is mortal.

rafayel thinks that, when you were crafted—long before this current incarnation—you were crafted with the most delicate of touches, the loveliest of visions.

he looks at you, and he wants to create. he wants to waste away at his canvases, wild and fanatic and looking over his shoulder, wondering if you'll still be there when it's all over.

knowing your nature, you won't be.

still, rafayel can't help but dream. dreams can change the world, after all. dreams are what led him back to you.

his thumb reaches for his own lips. he kisses the skin and he weeps.

rafayel hates you.

he hates you so, so much.

he shrinks into your figure and he follows your heartbeat, the sound so, achingly familiar.

when you regain consciousness, it's in rafayel's studio. your figure is drowned in pearl-white blankets, your wounds wrapped tenderly with fresh bandages.

"good mooorning, sleepyhead," rafayel says, not facing you. his hands are occupied with a brush and palette, head craned upward to fully take in the canvas. "some bodyguard you are, huh!"

"rafayel!" you quickly exclaim, trying to stand up. rafayel is quick to turn around, setting his palette down to wag a disapproving finger at you.

"nuh uh! don't get out of bed! get some rest! and oh, don't even talk to me! not until you've apologized for doing all that dumb, fish-brained stuff!"

rafayel looks back. you're still there.

in this life, rafayel thinks he has everything.

[whimsiwitchy]

Controversially Young Girlfriend 

Hugh Jackman x popstar!reader 

series masterlist & main masterlist

summary: y/n is a globally beloved pop star. She is known for her talent and dedication towards her craft. Recently, she has also been known for her preference for older men. After a breakup with her former older boyfriend, she had a run in with the hottest dilf right now, Hugh Jackman. Y/n tried to warn him, but what can she say, she has an effect on hot, older men. 

warnings: age gap (23/55), cursing, y/n used, implied shorter reader, afab reader, she/her pronouns. 

warnings will change as the story progresses! all descriptions of real people in this story are FAKE. i do not know these people and this is purely fiction. Please let me know if I missed anything! <33

authors note: this is an idea I had that I really needed to write. I’d love to make this a series if you guys want more, just let me know! This is only my second time writing fanfiction and my first time writing for Hugh, please be nice lol. Thank you for reading! <3

Part one: breakup and new beginnings 

Being a young girl living in the middle of bumfuck nowhere made it seem impossible to live your dreams of becoming a singer. You grew up in a tiny little town in Louisiana called Minden. With a population of less than 15,000 people, the closest ‘big’ city being Shreveport, growing up was pretty boring. You had big dreams of making it big and making it the fuck out of the country. Minden wasn’t always so bad. It was a nice community that had fun things here and there, but you craved more. 

Once you graduated highschool back in 2020, you focused on working and saving as much money as you could, only buying essentials and equipment to help make music. You took a few online classes on producing and tried your best to make whatever song was bouncing around in your head come to life. It took a year for you to feel confident enough to release your first few songs out into the world. So in July of 2021, you teased a song on TikTok to your small following. You started to gain a few more followers here and there, it was exciting. At the end of August, you released your first song titled ‘to the point’ and it blew up on the clock app. You gained a hefty following after that, on the brink of hitting one million. 

By the end of 2022, deciding on Los Angeles, you had finally saved enough money to move, so you were packing your bags and heading out. Your agent was ecstatic about the move because it meant more opportunities for your career. After releasing a few more songs over the past year, you hired Stacy to help you manage everything. 

Fastwording to 2024, your dreams have come true and you have been an established and respected artist for almost two years. You started to build a reputation as someone who was dedicated and passionate about their craft- always being involved in any creative process. It was bliss. Lately though, you’ve gained another reputation, the controversial young girlfriend, a whore, a gold digger. Since you’ve been in the spotlight, you’ve had your fair share of dating history and if they all happened to be older men, so what? It wasn’t something you had planned on but older men were just built differently. They were so much sexier and put together than the guys your age. They knew what they were doing and how to treat a woman right. You were so tired of being asked out through instagram direct messages, you wanted someone who wasn’t afraid to talk to you in person, and that seemed to only come from men twice your age. You weren’t complaining though, you enjoyed it. 

Your last ‘scandalous’ relationship ended up being far more public than you intended it to be. In the beginning, the men you were seen with were never anything serious, just dates or one night stands. Though with Pedro it was different. You dated him for six months before it all came crashing down and you felt heartbroken. He was the sweetest man you’d ever been with and it all ended because the hate from fans on our age gap was too much for him. It was an ugly breakup and you were positive that he wouldn’t want to be associated with you anymore, even as friends. 

-

“I should have picked a different song.” You huff in frustration. Today you were going to be performing on BBC’s Radio 1 Live Lounge and as requested, you'd be performing your own song and a cover of your choosing. When Stacy first presented this opportunity to you, it had only been a month after your recent breakup and naturally you chose to cover ‘THE GREATEST’ by Billie Eilish. Now that you were mostly over Pedro, the song seemed silly to sing and you weren’t feeling as vocally confident now that you were here. 

“Babe, you’re gonna kill it! Just let your emotions flow, give the fans what they want.” Stacy is sitting across the room as she comforts you. She’s fidgeting with your vocal humidifier, attempting to put it together before you start warming up. Her advice isn’t terrible, she’s right. You’d been pretty silent on the subject matter, steering clear of social media so you wouldn’t say anything stupid. Rumors of your breakup had been all over the headlines but there hasn’t been confirmation from either of you. Singing this song today would definitely stir the pot again and make everyone realize that it is done between you two. 

“You’re right.” 

“As always. Here, start warming up the money maker.” She laughs while handing you the humidifier. 

“I really hope he doesn’t watch it. I’d literally smash my head into a brick wall out of embarrassment…” 

Placing the humidifier over your mouth and nose, you sit there letting your mind wander. Having your personal life exposed to everyone really sucked and hiding your boyfriends wasn’t something you wanted to do, but you knew that in the future it was something that would have to happen. 

“I think I’m taking a break from men.” You let out proudly, glancing over at Stacy. 

“Whatever you say girl.” You could hear the doubt lingering in her tone and the roll of her eyes. 

“Ugh… You don’t believe me do you? I can totally break off from men and be my own person for once.” 

“I’m not trying to doubt you babe. It’s just…You tend to attract men like a magnet and you have some severe daddy issues.” She's typing away on her laptop as if she didn’t just completely disrespect you. 

“I don’t have daddy issues.” You say flatly. “I happen to have a very loving father who was always present in my life, so the whole dating older men thing does NOT stem from daddy issues. Thank you very much.” You say matter of factly. 

“Hm..Well I give it a week.” 

-

After a few sound checks for your mic and band, you perform your first song. You chose a more upbeat song off your debut album to start, given that you were about to lay your heart out of the line. It was honestly kind of awkward performing in this setting. There was a booth in front of you that had the sound board and all of the other electronic stuff that you didn’t understand. Then right to the left of that, the cameras were positioned with a group of crew members sitting behind them. It always felt awkward performing to smaller audiences. 

The first song went by smoothly, earning a few cheers from the people in the room. As the band prepared for the next song, you could see the door in the booth open and two figures walk in. You weren’t wearing your glasses or contacts since it was supposed to be a short day, so you really couldn’t make out who had just walked in. You assumed more workers came in and brushed it off. 

“All ready?” A man behind the camera asks and you give a thumbs up. 

You somehow managed to get through the song without having any vocal mess ups. It was a challenging song and you'd definitely have to text Billie later to give her some credit. A few tears slipped here and there, feeling the emotions that you thought were gone slowly be released. You pulled yourself together and you felt really proud of the performance as a whole, showing the world the potential your voice had. 

A few soft claps are dying out as everyone starts cleaning up the room. You’re reaching down to grab your water bottle when you feel someone rushing up towards you. 

“Ahhh you did great babe but um two hot dudes will be walking through that door any second!” Stacy is whispering and all you could do was give her a confused look before the door opens. You squint trying to make out the two figures. 

“God you’re talented!” You hear the voice before you see the face. 

“Oh um, thank you so much.” You let out not really sure who you were speaking to. Once the two men get into view, your jaw drops slightly. 

“HOLY SHIT!” You yell a little too loudly. Slapping your hand over your mouth, you hear a very rich man laugh coming from a very good looking man. For some reason, whoever is in charge of the fate of the universe has blessed you with the presence of Ryan Reynalds and Hugh Jackaman. 

“Oh my god i’m so sorry, that’s literally so embarrassing. I just couldn’t see who you were at first.” 

“It’s okay sweetheart.” They both wear big smiles on their faces. 

“I’m y/n, it’s so nice to meet y’all, i’m a big fan!” You gush out, trying your best to refrain from fangirling. 

“We’re big fans as well. We were next door interviewing for the radio show, when we heard you were recording over here. We ran over here to try to catch you.” Ryan lets out. 

“No shit! That’s so cool. I really appreciate it.” Before the conversation could continue, Ryan is being called over by someone, leaving Hugh and yourself alone. 

“Hows Pedro, haven't seen him in awhile.” Hugh asks genuinely, giving you a small smile. It caught you off guard completely. You racked your brain trying to think of a time in your six month relationship that Pedro mentioned Hugh at all but nothing came up. 

“Oh I uh- I wouldn’t know. We aren’t together anymore.” Your voice is soft, trying not to make this any more awkward. 

“Shit. I’m so sorry, with the way he spoke about you, I thought you’d be together longer…” He trails off. 

“Yea me too.. he couldn’t handle the heat I guess.” You shrug. 

“Well, his loss yea?” He smiles trying to cheer you up. 

“Yea..” You say softly, your voice matching your smile. You take a moment to really look at him and he’s beyond handsome. He’s aged but in a way that makes you wish you were able to see the years go by with him. He was tall, almost towering over you, and his muscles were practically popping out of his shirt. 

The same guy that was walking to Ryan, gathers the three of you for a picture for the BBC socials. You stand in the middle, both men placing their arms behind either side of you. Hugh’s hand was placed on the small of your back. You looked up at him quickly, his face already smiling at the camera. You hear the camera go off a few times, causing you to look that way as well. Once the cameraman was satisfied, everyone gave their goodbyes and the room cleared out. 

-

Later that night you were scrolling through your phone when a text popped up from Stacy. 

Stacypoo <33: I told you. You couldn’t even go a week. ;) 

The text is accompanied by a screenshot of a notification stating that “‘thehughjackman’ started following you!”. You rushed to open instagram and went to your followers to search from his name. You stared at his page for a few minutes before following him back. 

While you had control over your own social media, someone handled all of your business related content. You went on your page to see that the picture that was taken at BBC earlier today was already posted with one comment standing out beyond the rest. 

Thehughjackman: Great meeting you sweetheart! :)

Thank you for reading <3

part two

[euqinim0dart]

Some positivity in these turbulent AI times

*This does not minimize the crisis at hand, but is aimed at easing any anxieties.

With every social media selling our data to AI companies now, there is very little way to avoid being scraped. The sad thing is many of us still NEED social media to advertise ourselves and get seen by clients. I can't help but feeling that we as artists are not at risk of losing our livelihoods, here is why:

Just because your data is available does not mean that AI companies will/want to use it. Your work may never end up being scraped at all.

The possibility of someone who uses AI art prompts can replace you (if your work is scraped) is very unlikely. Art Directors and clients HAVE to work with people, the person using AI art cannot back up what a machine made. Their final product for a client will never be substantial since AI prompts cannot be consistent with use and edits requested will be impossible.

AI creators will NEVER be able to make a move unless us artists make a move first. They will always be behind in the industry.

AI creators lack the fundamental skills of art and therefore cannot detect when something looks off in a composition. Many professional artists like me get hired repeatedly for a reason! WE as artists know what we're doing.

The art community is close-knit and can fund itself. Look at furry commissions, Patreon, art conventions, Hollywood. Real art will always be able to make money and find an audience because it's how we communicate as a species.

AI creators lack the passion and ambition to make a career out of AI prompts. Not that they couldn't start drawing at any time, but these tend to be the people who don't enjoy creating art to begin with.

There is no story or personal experience that can be shared about AI prompts so paying customers will lose interest quickly.

Art is needed to help advance society along, history says so. To do that, companies will need to hire artists (music, architecture, photography, design, etc). The best way for us artists to keep fighting for our voice to be heard right now is staying visible. Do not hide or give in! That is what they want. Continue posting online and/or in person and sharing your art with the world. It takes a community and we need you!

[cameatslemons]

mouthwashing post. jimmy is a raging narcissist and im tired of people trying to give him benefit of the doubt. his inability to see two feet beyond what immediately concerns him dooms everyone on the tulpar, and even in the end, he only really cares about himself.

big list of all his narcisstic bullshit below bc im here to motherfucking prove it (mouthwashing spoilers of course)

most obviously: everything is a personal attack on him. EVERYTHING. you can see it most clearly at the birthday party; while everyone else is understandably freaking out about being laid off, jimmy starts telling curly off and insulting both him and everyone else at the table, as if being laid off is a personal attack on jimmy specifically. it doesn’t matter that anya has nothing to go back to, that swansea’s life is thrown away- jimmy is the ONLY victim here, apparently. curly is personally responsible for getting laid off, in his eyes.

i don’t actually know the words for this but the way he’s constantly going “i have to do EVERYTHING around here”- again, feeling like its a personal attack to be asked anything at all. anya asks him to take care of curly because her entire fucking life is falling apart, its her end of days, but somehow shes the villain for struggling.

also the general antagonization of anya. she’s extremely competent for the hand she was dealt! shes too poor to attend med school yet shes very knoqledgable in medication and wound care! and yeah no shit shes struggling now, someone she cared deeply about is suffering immensely and now the ship is being “run” by a man who assaulted her. no fucking shit shes breaking down. but jimmy makes it clear time and time again that this is somehow her fault, all this shit of “shouldn’t nurses EARN their titles?” while she’s having a mental breakdown.

similarly, swansea being villainized for holding the cryopod for daisuke and killing him. like, i get it, but jimmy’s whole thing of saying he can fix daisuke is… c’mon man. he’s a hero to himself, he “always” fixes things the same way he “fixed” the ship, and he will fix daisuke and claim heroism even though it’s very clear nothing else can be done for him.

“someday you’ll thank me” while forcing curly to eat his own leg. the incredible confidence that he is in the right even when literally torturing someone.

MOST IMPORTANTLY: the final scene with curly burning. jimmy doesn’t earnestly believe he has anything to be sorry for. even when apologizing to curly he says “we can BOTH be heroes!” despite everything, he still thinks he’s in the right. he STILL thinks he’s a hero, because he’s right, he’s ALWAYS right, surely. he can apologize and grovel all he wants but in the end he still thinks he’s the hero of this story; he doesn’t genuinely think he has anything to right, he’s only doing this to be freed of consequence. and/or believes a simple “sorry” is enough, that it can fix completely ruining the lives of four people with his own inferiority complex.

i do think the choice to put curly in the pod instead of himself is the only time he recognizes his own guilt, if any. maybe it’s realizing that he DOES need something more than a simple “sorry” to even begin to try to fix things, maybe it’s that he thinks this will cement him even further as a hero. even then, does this fix anything? all it’s doing is making curly suffer more. is this actually a good thing?

to him, he’s the hero here. he always is. crashing the ship is a heroic thing, putting all his crewmates through hell is a heroic thing. all because something nobody can control is somehow a personal attack on jimmy.

not to mention all the “hallucinations” he has- it’s what he thinks should happen, it’s what he wants to hear. curly still calling him a friend, the dead corpses of his crewmates praising him, even in the final cutscene with curly burning where he says “no, YOU take the pod”. none of it’s real. it’s just what jimmy thinks is “right”. despite everything, he thinks everyone should thank and praise him, because he can do no wrong.

conclusion: jimmy is a narcisstic piece of shit.

[ayyy-pee]

𝕆𝕌𝕋𝕃𝔸𝕎

Discord 18+ - Twitter - Part Two of Outlaw Series

Pairing: Outlaw!Suguru Geto x Female Reader Genre: Western AU WC: 8.7k Summary:

“Gettin’ train tickets ain’t easy. Where ya headed?” “Just a few towns over. Goin’ to visit family,” you explain, now more relaxed with him. Something about the way he was able to soothe your nerves makes Suguru feel proud. It also is making him clearly insane, because some sick part of Suguru begins to think he could be your family. If you’ll let him. “What about you?” His brows shoot up in surprise. Why would you want to know about him? “Me?” You nod quickly. “I know you’re…” You lean forward and Suguru mirrors the action as shivers race up his spine when you whisper scandalously, “...an outlaw.”

Story Warning: Train robbery, hostage situation, lying and scheming, profanity bc bitch it's me??, dub-con, Suguru has a corruption kink, needy downbad Suguru, "virgin" reader, guns, smut, blowjob, riding, fingering, spit, thinking about spitting, i love spit, dirty fantasies, titty sucking probably, using ropes, hair pulling (lmfaooooo), threats of violence, dirty talk, inexperienced reader, spit!, overstimulation, humiliation kink, Suguru is kinda pathetic, actually real pathetic, don't get your hopes up idk

Artist Credit: @/tsumusbeloved (on twitter)

A/N: FINALLYYYYY. This has been sitting in my drafts for like 3 months!!! I hope yall enjoy!!!

Tags: @syubseokie @yasu-1234 @cassayeee @glmpsfs @struxkbylightning @aotdump @oidloid @sunnysdiarythoughts @stillseren @lovebittenbyevans @avaatara @elliesndg @luv-kae @megtheebimbo @buttercupblu143 @toffeebrat @kaqua@moggleatlife @candy-s72 @sukunadckrider @xixflower @apchmon

It’s the shrill screech of the metal meeting metal on the train tracks that Suguru enjoys most about his work. How this massive tank of metal carrying so many people can just fly across the country, providing beautiful views of miles and miles of desert sands and mountains. The wildlife roams free on the frontier without a care in the world. And the train just keeps going, filling the sky with thick curls of black smoke.

Yeah, this train has many people on it.

Which means, this train has plenty of goods that will soon be his.

“Ah, you dropped your hat, boss.” A smooth voice speaks behind Suguru, holding open the train door as one other clambers in. Suguru kindly grabs his hat from the man, placing it atop his head as he watches his partner take the last person’s hand, lifting them inside.

It’s a woman, small and with strawberry blonde hair. She grabs onto the man before her. The disgust is clear on her face as her eyes roam along his body.

“Couldn’t pick another day to wear no shirt, Larue?” She complains, spreading a small cloud of dust as she brushes her clothes off.

Larue shrugs, chuckling lightly while he closes the train door. The rushing roar of the winds finally subsides. “It’s hot as all hell outside, Manami. Why not be shirtless? Besides, it gives everyone something spectacular to gawk at.” He motions towards his chest where his new set of ink lies – two hearts, one where each of his nipples are.

“A drunken bet gone right, if you ask me,” Larue had said the night after. “They’re gonna love these at the whorehouse.”

“If you two’re finished…” Suguru begins. Both Larue and Manami straighten up. “I wanna get in ‘n outta here. No funny business. Larue, take the back of the train. Better for you to be there in case the conductor gets any ideas. Grab what ‘ya can get your hands on – jewels, shoes, money. Don’t matter.” Suguru taps his chin in thought, running through his mental list to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. “Oh! And don’t forget to check the bars for any spoons or forks. Y’know what that silver’s worth. Me ‘n Manami will take the front of the train.”

Larue nods, no further instruction needed and Manami smiles next to him excitedly. She quickly shuffles over to Suguru’s side, looping her arm through his and Suguru rolls his eyes before slipping his arm out of her hold. Manami shoots him a pouty look before she quickly recovers, folding her arms over her chest.

“Alright, Boss. I’m ready.” She says with a hushed tone. Larue gives one more nod before he turns around and heads the opposite way. He slides the door slightly ajar, peering inside and just after he enters and the door has been shut and locked, Suguru and Manami hear the muffled shrieks of the passengers in the car.

“Hands in the fucking air! This is a stick up!”

Suguru peers down at Manami who is already staring up at him with eager eyes. And it takes everything in Suguru to not roll his eyes in response. She really gets on his last nerve.

‘I gotta get rid of her after this one,’ he thinks as he moves past the woman and into the opposite end of the train.

He slips through the door, closing it quietly behind Manami once she’s in. No one bothers to look up when they come in and Suguru counts his lucky stars that this will be easier than he anticipated. They make their way along the aisle, offering soft smiles to the passengers that happen to look up as they pass. Suguru thinks there’s nothing but a bunch of carefree monkeys too relaxed and stupid as all hell on this train. They don’t even know what’s coming and if they know what’s good for them, they won’t bother to fight back when they find out.

He lets Manami do the work of maintaining a mental checklist of every item worth its salt in this train car. This is where he’ll leave Manami to do her part. Then Suguru will take the final car where the stragglers usually reside. Larue is already taking care of everything in the back. When he’s done, he’ll pile up all the goods in an empty car and then make his rounds to grab what Manami and Suguru collect.

When they reach the end of the current car, Suguru turns to Manami who is already reaching into her blouse. She beams, eyes locked on Suguru as she slowly pulls out a pretty little Colt’s revolver. Her lips pull up at the corners, a sly grin on her face. If it’s meant to be alluring to Suguru, it’s not working. In fact it’s having the opposite effect. It’s so annoying, the way her pupils dilate when she looks at him. It’s only been a few months since Manami joined their group, but it’s only getting worse for Suguru. She spends half her time trying to seduce him and failing. And it’s not that Manami is unattractive. She’s a very beautiful woman, but she’s not exactly Suguru’s type.

He’s looking for someone a bit more…inexperienced when it comes to this life of crime. Someone he can mold into his ideal woman, untouched by the roughness that west has to offer. Manami has been doing this for far too long, and already has habits that consistently get under Suguru’s skin. She’d never interest him that way.

The pink haired woman flashes Suguru her gun, pointing her chin towards the last car as a signal for him to go on. Suguru nods, spinning on his heel and heading towards his destination. And just in time too, because he hears the door on the other end of the train car close and he knows Larue has finished and has come to assist Manami.

The train car slides shut behind Suguru right as he hears the passengers scream in the car behind him. It’s louder than the first instance and catches the attention of the passengers in his car who now stare at him with wide eyes, mouths agape like a sea of fish.

Suguru rubs the nape of his neck, frowning. Then, offering a goofy grin, he mutters, “Ah well…” He reaches behind him, wrapping his nimble fingers around the cool, wooden handle tucked into his waistband. He whips out his revolver, the sun glaring off of the fancy gold weapon as Suguru aims it at the passengers who all shriek in terror. The women clutch their jewels. The men hold onto their women. And Suguru? He laughs raucously before he barks out, “Put ‘em up!”

- - - - - -

It’s a little surprising how easily the heist goes, but Suguru tries not to give it too much thought. You start thinking something’s gonna go wrong and it damn sure will. While Manami is guiding passengers into the back cars, Larue has the conductor held hostage, locked away with threats of a bullet to his skull unless he continues driving. He’d only shown his face and quickly hid away in his cabin when Suguru told him to use his fucking brain unless he wanted it splattered across the window.

Now, Suguru finds himself roaming the cabin to see if there are any stragglers. And there is one. A very beautiful woman, at that. There you sit, in the last seat of the train car. He slowly makes his way over to you. Suguru thinks you must be some type of saloon girl. Your pretty little dress and waist neatly cinched in a leather corset is the giveaway. He glances over his shoulder, just to be sure this cabin is empty, only to find that it truly is only himself and you left. He hates having to wrangle the stragglers. That’s Manami and Larue’s job. And Suguru hates it even more when they’re not doing it.

He tightens the grip on his gun, turning to give you an earful until his eyes meet yours. They’re so wide and glistening, like you’re on the verge of tears. Your lips are quivering, your bottom lip protruding in a pout. It reminds him of the look Manami gave him just before the heist started. Except when coming from you, for some reason, it’s bringing out a different reaction. 

His heart rate quickens, and Suguru’s hands suddenly feel clammy and not from the heat in this train car. He can feel sweat beginning to bead on his forehead and he has to swallow to quell the dryness that’s forming in his throat. Then he’s tucking his weapon away into his holster and moving towards you.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Suguru speaks calmly as he takes the seat in front of you. You peer up at him, with apparent fear in your eyes and he wants nothing more than to see that look disappear. Usually, he’d use force to get you out and rounded up with the rest of the passengers. He’s not sure why, but there’s something about you that makes Suguru want to take care of you. “Why didn’t you leave with the rest of the crowd?” He questions.

You’re fidgeting with the fabric of your dress in your lap, visibly shaken even as Suguru removes his hat and sets it on the seat in front of you before he sits down.

“I–” you clear your throat and bite down on your lip, seemingly to calm your nerves. 

“I’m not gonna hurt ya, ma’am,” he tells you softly, reassuring you. “Just wonderin’.” Suguru takes this time to drink in your features – how soft you look, the way your body so beautifully fills that dress of yours, how you’ve got a face that will be burned into his memory long after this encounter.

And for some reason, it also feels as if it was burned into his memory long before this encounter. There’s a familiarity about you that Suguru can’t quite place. He’s certain he’s seen your face somewhere. He had been through many saloons and brothels in his time traveling the frontier. Perhaps he had run into you in one of the many establishments he frequented? 

No. No, Suguru would remember if he saw a woman who looked like you in any of those places. You would have easily stood out in the crowd. He would have called you up to his room on any of those nights. 

You bite down on your lip as you stare at Suguru. As afraid as you look, you don’t break eye contact. To see you so stricken with fear, and yet you steadily look him in the eye without blinking. You show courage even when faced with danger, and it does something to him. 

The look on your face has him picturing all sorts of things about you and he doesn’t even know your name.

“I was afraid,” you mutter quietly. 

Thankfully so, because Suguru was just about to begin imagining a life outside of crime with you. Which is shocking in and of itself. Three minutes of simply staring at you had him visualizing a future on the prairie hanging laundry on the line while you fed the cattle.

‘Keep it together.’

“Don’t be scared. I’m not gonna hurt nobody,” Suguru reassures you again. He tries to calm your nerves with a smile which seems to work because he sees you visibly exhale. You return his gesture with a small smile of your own, and his imagination runs wild once more.

“Promise?” You ask, Suguru’s smile widens. 

‘Cute,’ he thinks. He wants to see more of those. “I promise, sweetheart.”

He can hear the way you huff, something between a laugh and a sigh of relief. And Suguru finds himself becoming more and more infatuated with you as he keeps the conversation going.

“Gettin’ train tickets ain’t easy. Where ya headed?”

“Just a few towns over. Goin’ to visit family,” you explain, now more relaxed with him. Something about the way he was able to soothe your nerves makes Suguru feel proud.

It also is making him clearly insane, because some sick part of Suguru begins to think he could be your family. If you’ll let him.

“What about you?”

His brows shoot up in surprise. Why would you want to know about him? “Me?”

You nod quickly. “I know you’re…” You lean forward and Suguru mirrors the action as shivers race up his spine when you whisper scandalously, “...an outlaw.”

He leans back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully while he purses his lips together. His gaze is locked onto you because he wonders if you’re up to something. If you’re not as sweet and innocent as you look. But when you lean back and flutter your lashes at him, he begins to doubt it. That sweet face of yours is a rare one to see on this side of the wild west; beautiful and unscarred. You don’t look like you’ve been exposed to anything more dangerous than a thunderstorm. And it’s arousing. The air of innocence that you carry has Suguru shifting in his seat, his pants suddenly feeling tighter.

This is exactly what he’s been wanting. Someone opposite of Manami, someone who is interested in his life, but not involved with crime in the least. As far as he can tell, you’re clean as a whistle. And Suguru likes to think he’s good at reading people.

“Never seen a outlaw before?” He drawls. You shake your head, back to messing around nervously with your dress.

“Never,” you answer softly, batting those pretty, long lashes at him. “Only seen ‘em on signs. Wanted…dead, or alive.”

Oh, you really are sheltered.

“Well, now you’ve seen one in person.” Suguru combs his fingers through his dark tresses, grinning like his criminal status is one to be proud of. To him, he supposes it is. “What d’ya think?”

You do that lip biting thing that Suguru is beginning to realize he finds cute. Maybe it’s a nervous tick, but this time it seems it’s to be you holding back a smile. Everything you do is cute to him. Everything you do is sweet, innocent, arousing.

“I…” You lean forward in your seat again, and whether you realize it or not, it gives Suguru a perfect view of the swell of your breasts. It’s a struggle to keep his focus on your face when your skin looks so smooth, and unmarred, perfect. Those plush lips of yours whisper, “...I think it’s exciting.”

He can only think one thought in this moment.

He wants to ruin you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s excitin’ about it?” He asks, though he has an idea what it is. The travel, not being tied down to anyone or anything, the freedom this life provides. It’s what they all say when they try to make small talk. “Pretty girl like you can’t possibly know nothin’ about this life.”

You inhale deeply, leaning back in your seat and Suguru watches closely, the way your chest rises and falls with the breath. “Well, I never seen a outlaw in person. Surely never spoke to one. And…” You purse your lips together, like you’re contemplating if you should say the next thing. But you do anyway. “I just never thought a outlaw could be so pretty.”

His eyes widen, the corners of his lips rising with a goofy grin. “Pretty?” He chuckles, combing his fingers through his hair again. “You really think so?”

He’s been called a lot of things, but pretty is not one of them.

“Yep. Look at ya.” You stand, moving quickly to cross the small gap between you both and take a seat next to him. You reach for his arm, then hesitate, pulling back for a second. You peer up at Suguru, silently asking permission and he nods. Your fingers ghost along his forearm, over his bicep, along his neck where his Adam's apple bobs with a gulp, and then your hand is cupping his cheek. Your trail leaves behind a trail of goosebumps.

And Suguru’s pants grow tighter.

Suguru has had his fair share of women and men alike during his time as a felon. But you’re particularly tempting. He’s not sure he’s ever wanted someone as badly as he wants you right now and it’s been all of ten minutes in this train car together. But any minute now, his crew is going to come through those doors and tell him they’re ready to go. And then Suguru will have to leave and the chances of him seeing you ever again are slim to none. 

But on the bright side, the chances of him seeing you again are slim to none. It’s a little sudden, but you seem like you want him with the way you’re feeling him up right about now. Maybe you'd let him bury his cock as deep as he can go, fuck you until you’re screaming his name, begging and crying on his cock. Then he’ll fill you with his seed, maybe leave a baby in you to remember him by if you’re lucky and then he’ll grab his spoils with Larue and the rest and go. Then he'll never see you again. 

This desert is far and wide. He’d have you today, then never have to face you again for the rest of his life. A woman like you? You'll be just fine. A pretty face and an even prettier smile. Though he thinks you're a bit naive. Have to be to be sitting here chatting with him like he’s some gentleman you met on a leisurely trip to see your relatives. Regardless, there will be some poor fool out there that'll be happy to have you after he's had his way with you.

‘Weren’t you just daydreaming about settling down with this woman?’

“Pretty eyes,” you hum, pulling Suguru from his filthy fantasies. “Nice skin, pretty lips. Just…very pretty.” Your thumb caresses his skin and his eyes can't help but notice the way your gaze is locked to his lips. He pokes his tongue out, watching your eyes widen just slightly at the motion, as he runs the wet muscle along his lips. And he’s right back in his head, thinking of all the ways he could have you.

There’s no mistaking the thick tension filling the room at this moment. Like a lightning bolt hitting the same spot repeatedly. Each stroke of your fingers along his cheek only intensifies the mood. Suguru’s lips curl into a teasing smirk, and yours into one that matches. “Why do I feel like you're trouble?” He says.

Your smile widens, and like a magnet, Suguru finds himself slowly being drawn closer and closer to you. Even as a soft laugh falls from your lips, his mind is wiped clean of all thoughts that don't consist of you.

“Me? That’s funny comin’ from a outlaw like yourself,” you mutter just as you close the distance between you, pressing your lips teasingly to Suguru's. They barely touch, truly a ghost of a touch but Suguru still has to swallow down the moan that damn near bursts from his chest the second your mouth was close enough to his.

You pull away suddenly, covering your lips as you lean away, your eyes wide with worry. “‘m sorry.”

“What are you apologizin’ for?” Suguru asks, scooting closer.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into me…I just…” You’re back to fidgeting with your dress again, and Suguru places a large hand over yours to stop the movement. “You’re a criminal, and I’m just me. I shouldn’t even be talkin’ to you.” You stare up at him with wide eyes, and fuck he wants you.

You look so sweet, so pure looking at him like that. And he feels a little like a piece of shit because while you’re looking at him with probably innocent thoughts floating around in your head, he’s thinking about how he’d love nothing more than to cover your face in his seed.

“I’m not a bad guy,” Suguru lies easily. “Have I done bad things?” He shrugs, because he’s done way too many terrible things to count. Better not to give a real answer to that one. “But I’m enjoyin’ our conversation. The kiss was just a perk. Wouldn’t mind it if it happened again. I’d gladly accept it.”

“But…I don’t even know you…”

‘All the better,’ is what he wants to say, but instead, he tells you, “And that’s fine. Listen–” he squeezes your hand gently. “Best part of bein’ a criminal is that I just do what I want. Don’t gotta ask permission for nothin’.”

Your eyes swim with curiosity. “It’s that easy?”

“Yep. Do what makes ya feel good, sweetheart.”

You still don’t look convinced, and if this next question doesn’t work, Suguru will have no choice but to tie you up and dump you in the other train car with the rest of the hostages. He doesn’t have much time to waste trying to get you just to kiss him.

“Lemme ask ya…did you like kissin’ me?”

He knows he should be worrying about the heist, not some pretty face distracting him from the job. But when you speak again, he tells himself the job can go to hell.

“Yes…but…I got scared. I– I’ve only done some things with a man…” you admit quietly. “And I’m not too good at it.”

Fuck. He has to have you.

“That’s not a problem, sweetheart,” he reassures you, and you beam.

Your hand grasps onto Suguru’s, squeezing tightly. “Really?”

He nods. “I don’t got much time before I gotta leave, but I can show ya some things real quick.”

“You’ll show me? How to do things?” Your voice is eager, so ready. Suguru is finding it hard to contain how much you’re turning him on right now. “Like kissin’ and…y’know other stuff?”

“What kinda stuff?” He asks, because he wants you to say it. Wants to know how far you’re willing to go if you’ve never done a damn thing before. You pinch your lips together, turning your head away shyly. But Suguru gently cups your chin, turning you to look at him again.

“What kinda stuff?” He repeats. “Tell me.”

“Stuff…that makes a man…y’know…”

He grins, tauntingly. “Enlighten me,” he whispers.

“Stuff to make a man…” you worry your lip between your teeth. “...feel good.”

Oh hell. 

What type of good deeds has Suguru done to find himself here? With someone as virtuous as you, who is asking him of all people to show you how to please him? He has half a mind to tell you no. He’s got shit to do and his partners are bound to come looking for him any minute. But his cock is screaming within the confines of his pants to get into those undergarments of yours. And there’s no argument to be had here. 

He’s listening to his dick.

Suguru crashes his lips to yours, swallowing up the yelp that escapes you from the sudden kiss. “I’ll teach ya whatever ya want, pretty girl.” He groans into your mouth. 

He kisses you hard, but slowly, giving you time to catch up. You’re a little slow to pick up, but you get there. Your lips slot against his, fingers slipping into his hair and holding on tight, making Suguru groan into the kiss once more.

“We don’t got a lotta time,” he breathes against you.

You nod, pulling away to look up at him. “What d’ya want?”

You.

He needs you – bent over the passenger seat and holding onto the bar sitting atop it while he fucks you from behind. He needs you sitting on his face, needs your hand around his length. But he’s looking at your face again, so desperate for instruction. Looks at your lips, swollen from the little bit of kissing you’ve been doing. And he knows exactly what he needs in this moment.

“Ever had a cock in your mouth?” He shifts, sitting back against the seat.

You shake your head.

“Ever touched one?”

Another shake of your head.

“What have you done?”

You hum, thinking only for a short time before you answer. “Kissed.”

What fucking luck.

Doesn’t matter what they score off the train today. This is the biggest reward of all.

“Good,” Suguru says, tugging your hand until you stand. With a grin, he guides you to the floor until you’re sitting up on your knees. “There won’t be another man who’s had ya then. I’ll show ya how to please me, make me feel good.” 

You nod, and Suguru can’t believe how easy this was as he fumbles with his belt, quickly undoing the buckle. He yanks his pants down, along with his underwear. Only to his knees. He wants to be able to get up quickly if needed. Suguru’s dick sits against his stomach, fat and long, with a harsh red tip that leaks with precum. He peers down at you, your eyes honed in on his length.

“Touch it,” he whispers encouragingly.

Your eyes meet as you move, your hands wrapping around Suguru tenderly, pulling a hiss from him. You hold his length like it’s a foreign object, and he supposes it is to you since it’s the first time you’ve done. Suguru grits his teeth, bringing a hand up to your fist. You’re simply touching him and his dick is throbbing in your grip.

“Move your hand…up ‘n down,” he tells you. “Like this.” He guides you, helping to move your hand in slow and light pumps until you’ve found a rhythm that works. His head falls back as the pleasure takes over. “Ahhh–shit, just like that, pretty girl.”

“It’s so big…” you sigh, licking your lips as you stroke his cock slowly.

From here, Suguru is certain he has a perfect view of you. Eyes wide and curious while you observe every ridge and vein running along his length. It turns him on beyond measure, his hips jerking upward in your grasp. 

“Damn,” he moans, fucking himself into your hands. For someone with no experience, you hold his dick just right. He never knew a woman’s touch could feel this good, but you’re a natural talent. You stroke him so good, his mouth falls slack as he lets himself enjoy the feeling of your hands around him. But you surprise him, just as you’ve been doing all this time, his eyes snapping open just in time to watch you lick from the base of his length all the way to the tip, teasing the slit with your tongue and lapping up the bead of precum that sits there.

“It’s salty,” you giggle before you kiss down his shaft, bringing your attention to his balls, kissing and licking the two orbs teasingly. Suguru inhales sharply, eyes rolling to the back of his head as the sensation makes his head swim with pleasure. Especially when your hand wraps around Suguru’s length again, pumping him up and down, slowly as you continue to lap at his balls.

“You’re already so good at this,” Suguru pants heavily.

“I am?” 

He can hear the excitement in your voice, so eager to please him. It turns him on knowing that you’re trying so hard to make him feel good. He wonders if you can feel his cock throb in your hands.

“So fucking good,” he praises you, loving the way you hum against him.

“Can I put it in my mouth?” You ask sweetly, squeezing your hands around his cock.

“God, please.”

When you take Suguru into the warmth of your mouth, you hum around him, and the vibrations make him shiver, back arching off of the seat. His palm finds the back of your head, his hips rolling up so he can shove his cock as far as possible without hurting you. He’s gentle at first. You’ve never done this before, after all. He wants to give you the time you need to adjust, though he can’t afford to give you too much. Which seems to be just fine, because just like before, you catch on quickly. You take his cock damn near to the base, and you take it so well, relaxing your throat for him so it’s easy. 

“Could fuck this pretty little mouth all day,” Suguru grunts, pumping into you. “So goddamn good.” The sound of his balls slapping against your chin as he fucks your face has his legs trembling, pleasure shooting straight up his spine. He wants to grab your head and push you down further, make you swallow all of him until he blows his load down your throat, then make you swallow that, too. But he doesn’t want to cum just yet.

He craves more from you. He needs more from you.

You hum again, sending another vibration through him as your fingers come up, caressing his balls. And Suguru squeezes his eyes shut, trying so hard not to cum. “Ah– shit, shit!” He pushes at your shoulders, forcing you off of him with a loud and wet pop. You look rather pleased with yourself, smiling when you see his red cheeks and the way he rapidly tries to catch his breath.

Like he noted before. You’re trouble.

“Fuck, you’re fuckin’ perfect,” he gasps, staring at your chin dripping with saliva and his juices. Suguru watches through hooded eyes as you swipe it away. He could watch you on your knees all day, taking his cock down your throat time and time again. But unfortunately, time is not on his side today. He needs to hurry it up.

“C’mere, pretty,” he calls for you, taking your hand. You stand, waiting for your next instruction as Suguru leans forward in his seat. His hands find your waist, pulling you close enough that he can press a kiss to your stomach before he leans back again. “Pull up your skirt for me.”

“Okay…” you agree, shakily. You reach for the hem of your skirt, pulling the layers of fabric as high as it’ll go. Suguru always hated these damn dresses. It’s like digging for gold trying to get through every damn piece of clothing. But eventually, you get to the end, revealing your bare thighs to him. Soft, plush, beautiful. But what he’s truly interested in remains concealed by your underwear.

Suguru swallows hard before he drags his finger along your clothed pussy, grinning when your thighs tremble just barely. His gaze glides back up your form until they rest on your face, watching as your mouth falls open with a silent moan. 

Hard to believe you’ve never been touched here. Also, so very arousing to think you’ve never been touched here. He thanks his lucky stars that you’re allowing him to be the first.

He slips his finger into the fabric, his slender fingers quickly finding your slit and sliding along your folds. He sucks in a sharp breath when he feels how soaked you are. He briefly brushes a finger against your entrance, pausing when he feels you tense up.

“Might hurt a little,” he warns as softly as he can manage right now. But you whisper, “go ahead”, hands coming to rest on his shoulders as he dips his finger into your pussy, biting back a moan when he feels your soft walls clench down on his hand. It’s tight, as expected but he moves slowly, pulling back every so often to work his way further.

You whimper above him, squeezing his shoulders as your breaths come rapidly while Suguru pumps his finger in and out of your hole. Your bottom lip sits between your teeth, and your brows are knitted together.

You’re enjoying this. 

And he’s enjoying watching you.

Suguru presses his thumb to your clit, slowly circling the sensitive nub. Dark eyes lock with yours as his other hand finds the top of your dress where he hooks his fingers into the cups and pulls it down. Your breasts spill out of the fabric and your breath hitches when the air caresses your nipples. Suguru kneads the soft flesh, his thumb swiping across one of the hardened buds. 

“Ahhh, yes,” you moan, your voice barely above a whisper. Your head falls back with a loud gasp as Suguru slips another finger into you. 

“Bein’ real good for me,” he coos. His dick grows painfully harder as he slowly thrusts his fingers inside of you, while his thumb stimulates your clit. He’s panting trying to hold himself together while he preps you for what he wants next. Your hips move on their own, riding Suguru’s hand, chasing your high. 

“Feel good?” He grunts, fingers slipping into you over and over, curling inside, and hitting your sweet spot and you can’t help but to gasp quietly each time Suguru touches it. 

“Y-yes, feels incredible,” you whine.

Suguru’s eyes are locked on your center where he watches his fingers disappear into your cunt over and over, your slick coating his hand more with each thrust. It only adds to Suguru’s struggle to keep it together as he ignores the pulsing need of his cock. Your pleasured moans and the squelching sound of your dripping pussy fill the space of the train car.

“I’m–” you breathe harshly against him and he feels your walls squeeze down on his digits. You’re close already.

“Gonna cum, sweetheart?” Suguru’s fingers dip into you faster. His eyes linger on your face as his thumb rubs tight circles on the sensitive bud between your legs. Your eyes flutter closed, mouth hanging open as a delicious moan rushes past your lips, your grip on Suguru’s shoulders tightening so much it stings. But he loves it, loves feeling your pussy squeezing down on his fingers, sucking them deeper as your release crashes over you until he can feel your cum dripping down his fingers and into his palm as he keeps pumping into you.

Suguru sighs as he stares at his fingers, slowly pulling them from you. He licks his lips, admiring his slick covered hand.

He’s never taken the time to just enjoy the moment with anyone. Never cared much to please a woman. It’s easier for him to just get himself off and high tail it out of there. No attachment to these ladies, no reason to stick around. But what is it about you that makes him want to see all the ways your body is capable of falling apart? Because it’s a beautiful sight to behold. 

“Outlaw…” you murmur, slipping your undergarments down your legs until you’re able to kick them off. You push Suguru back by the shoulders, lifting your skirt so that you can easily maneuver into his lap. His hands find your hips beneath your dress as you straddle him, and his thumbs caress the soft skin gently.

“Yeah, beautiful?”

So beautiful. He can’t stop staring at you and your eyes, glazed over with desire. You lean forward, the heat from between your legs making Suguru’s length twitch. It lightly taps your core and you gasp. Your hands clutch onto the bar that runs along the top of the train seat, one on each side of his head. Suguru’s palms glide around to your backside, squeezing the flesh of your ass. You brush your nose against his, soft breaths mingling with his as you whisper, “make love to me, outlaw…” just before your lips touch.

And Suguru’s groaning into your mouth, because this kiss is different. It’s hungry, hot, full of want and need. It’s sloppy and rushed, because you’re both aware of the time crunch you’re in. It’s intoxicating, addicting, the way he never wants to stop kissing you. To hell with the heist.

“Ready for me, pretty girl?” Suguru pants, a hand gripping his cock. He can feel the heat of your pussy radiating off of you and it makes him all the more eager to have you.

Your eyes are wide, filled with something Suguru thinks may be excitement. He’s not sure he sees any hesitation or fear behind your eyes. You want him badly, it’s clear as day. He wants you just as badly, if not more. So he positions himself at your entrance, nudging your hole gently with his tip. 

A small whimper slips past your lips, and Suguru kisses you sweetly. “It’s only gonna hurt for a second,” he coos. “Promise…”

He kisses you again, muttering, “I’m pushin’ in…” against your lips.

You close your eyes, teeth digging into your bottom lip as Suguru rolls his hips forward, slowly sinking his tip into your pussy, only stopping when you let out a harsh breath.

“‘S a tight fit,” he murmurs through gritted teeth. An understatement. Your pussy is gripping him with so much force, he’s struggling to breathe. You’re holding him hostage within your walls and the feeling has him tightening his hold on your ass. “You alright?”

Because he wants to make sure it feels good for you, too. Your pleasure is his. Which is a whole new feeling for him in and of itself. He’s aware of how the tables have turned. What started as him wanting to show you ways to please him, turned into him desperate to please you. But he likes it that way.

You nod, moaning quietly when Suguru keeps moving forward. “Ohhh…” 

“God, this pussy is so fuckin’ –” he can’t even finish his sentence. He needs to focus all his attention on not cumming already.

You take him all the way to the base, moaning loudly when you fully sink onto him. Your grip tightens around the bar, steadying yourself as Suguru lifts you by your ass before pulling you back down on him, so slowly. “Fuuuck–” he groans. He thrusts into you at a leisurely pace, slow and controlled, giving you time to adjust to his size. 

But his kisses…they’re rough. Such a contrast to the way he’s fucking you right now. The pleasure is overwhelming to Suguru, and when your tongue slips into his mouth, it’s him that’s whimpering now, thrusting just a little faster, a little harder.

“Damn, you take my cock so good, pretty girl–” he growls into your mouth. “Love the way you ride me.” He smacks your ass hard, eyes falling to your breast, bouncing up and down with the rhythm of his thrusts. He takes one into his mouth, greedily lapping at your nipple, nipping and sucking and loving the way your cries get louder.

“Oh my god, fuck!”

“Ride my cock, pretty. You already do it so good. Wanna see you ride me.” Suguru groans. He releases his hold on you, hands coming up to play with your breasts while you bounce wildly on his dick. He lifts your dress, relishing the view of his length, glistening with your slick, vanishes into your tight cunt over and over. “Shiiiitttt…”

You slip a hand into his tresses, pulling hard and forcing him away from your nipples. You pull so hard Suguru has to close his eyes because the sensation sends goosebumps igniting across his body. That, combined with the way you keep taking him to the tip before slamming down on his cock repeatedly. Fuck, you’re a quick learner.

Your pussy is what it feels like every single time he pulls off a heist successfully. Like fucking heaven. And he never wants to leave it.

His eyes flutter open, just enough to see your breasts bouncing with every rise and fall of your hips. Your velvety walls hug him tight, so fucking good, Suguru thinks he'd like to be able to have you all the time. Hell, he has half a mind to take you with him once they’re off this damned train. Being able to have you like this any time he wants, watch your body come undone under him, on top of him, in any position you’ll let him have you. He’d even give up this outlaw life if you wanted him to. Settle down, start a family if that’s what you wanted. The thought of it makes Suguru more excited than he’ll ever admit.

Each time your pussy sucks him back in, begging for him to cum, he can suddenly picture a life outside of this. Each time those sexy little noises fall from your sweet lips, he can suddenly envision raising a family with you, building himself a life where he's able to hear those sounds any time he desires. 

He lets his mind drift to these fantasies while he can, enjoying the feeling of you and the sounds you gift him with. 

There's a fire pooling in his belly, growing hotter each time his balls meet your ass. He's gonna blow his load here any second. And he can't wait. He wants to cum inside your walls, wants to thrust himself so deep into you that there's no way you're not carrying his child when he's done. Least you'll have something to remember him by if you tell him you don’t want shit to do with him after this. A sweet woman like you with a wanted felon? Of course you’d prefer to get your rocks off while you can and move on. Which is fine.

Because Suguru is gonna remember you, anyway. He’ll remember the way you squeeze around him, the way you moan the little nickname you’ve given him, the way your cunt feels fucking unlike any other woman’s. You’ve got him mesmerized. 

So much so, that he doesn't even notice the cool press of steel against the center of his forehead. 

“Ohhh,” you moan, whimpering, “Please…please…will you put a baby inside me, outlaw?” 

It’s like you read his mind, and Suguru’s eyes snap open, balls tightening as his release threatens to come at any moment. But then his eyes see the stiffness in your arm, see the glimmer of metal as the sunlight reflects off it through the windows, and he finally realizes you've got his gun to his head, and maybe that’s actually why his balls are tightening. You’ve got this wicked grin on your flushed face as you keep riding him. Hard, fast, walls squeezing him in a vice grip. And he can't do shit but let his eyes roll to the back of his head, let his pleasure race straight down his spine and into his balls as his release shoots from his cock before he has a chance to get ahold of himself.

But you don’t let him get a drop inside, lifting yourself smoothly off his lap just as fat, hot streams of cum land messily in his lap and on his stomach. Suguru’s gasping for air, still struggling to figure out what the fuck is going on. And you don’t give him a second to catch his breath, to let his mind catch up before you’re wrapping your hand around his cock again, squeezing and stroking his length until he’s so overstimulated his jaw is cramping up from how hard he’s gritting his teeth to keep from crying out.

“What the fuck are you ahhh–” you run your thumb over his leaking tip, your eyes alight with joy when his hips buck up automatically, legs trembling as you keep pumping him, though his balls are beyond empty. 

You tsk, shaking your head as you press the barrel of the gun harder against his skin. “Where’s that sweet outlaw from before?” You drawl.

Your voice has changed. No longer soft spoken, shy and sweet. The hardness of your tone tells Suguru all he needs to know. The memories come flooding back. And now he realizes why you looked so familiar when he first laid eyes on you. 

Your face has been plastered on wanted posters in damn near every town he and his partners have stopped in. Murder, robbery, drunkenness, prison escape, cheating at cards. All the crimes that should have you in the town square hanging, you’re wanted for. Somehow, you’ve managed to never get caught.

How could he have let his guard down? How could he have fucked up this badly?

‘Thinking with your dick. That’s how.’

“Guess it takes an outlaw to know one,” He grits out, nostrils flared with fury. He can only hope his crew comes through those doors soon, though it’ll be fucking humiliating to be caught in this position.

A giggle spills from your lips and the sound makes Suguru sick to his stomach. You don’t even sound like the same person from before. “Y’all are pretty easy to spot. ‘Specially when all y’all think with your cocks–” You echo his thoughts, emphasizing the word by squeezing Suguru’s slowly softening length in your hand. You frown, releasing your hold on him. “Huh, thought you’d be able to gimme another one.”

He inhales deeply, shakily, narrowing his eyes at the woman – the stranger – that stands before him. “Everything you said was a lie, then.”

It’s not a question. He knows. Because you’re just like him. Maybe even worse.

Laughter bursts from deep within, like what he said was the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. “It really is easy to fool y’all men. Just gotta make our pussies feel reallllll tight and wet and y’all don’t question nothin’.”

You climb off of the seat, taking the gun off his head while you fix your undergarments, unbothered and careless. And Suguru decides to act fast, takes this moment to lunge for you. But he doesn’t make it far, because his head is yanked back roughly the moment he jumps forward. His scalp burns, and he reaches back, feeling a thick knot tied around the metal bar that sits atop the train seats. The same metal bar you were just holding onto moments ago.

“You fuckin’ tied my hair to the seat?!” He growls.

And you chuckle, shifting your dress around until you’re decent again. The gun is pointed back at Suguru’s face, and he puts his hands back down, not daring to try and free himself when you’ve got a revolver ready to blow his brains out.

“And your hands are next,” you promise in a sing-song voice. You keep your word, spinning around briefly to reach between the wall and your original seat, where you’d apparently hidden a small rope. You make quick work of tying Suguru’s hands behind his back, leaning a little too close to him as you finish the knot. 

He can feel your breaths against his neck, and right now, if he’s being honest with himself – which he may as well be since he could very well be dead soon – it’s confusing him. Because he feels like he fucking hates you, is repulsed by you, could spit in your face right now. Oh, he really fucking wants to. But something tells him you’d like that anyway. And the thought of your face, depraved and covered in his saliva is making his still exposed length hard again. Even when you tug harshly on the rope for good measure, chuckling low in Suguru’s ear when you hear him hiss in pain, his cock stiffens further.

And of course you notice, your eyes glancing down to his lap, where the sticky mess you left him with lies. “Sure you don’t wanna go again?” You tease, laughing when Suguru scowls. 

You like him upset, and probably a little pathetic, because you press your lips to his pout, kissing him hungrily. And apparently, Suguru is as pathetic as he looks, because – and it’s a surprise to him, too – he kisses you back! Your tongues tangle during this brief meeting of your lips, fighting for dominance, though it’s apparent who’s the one in control here. 

The filthy moans between you are interrupted when Suguru feels that damned gun under his chin now, applying enough pressure to push him back. Only a line of your mixed saliva connects you two as you stare down at him in amusement.

“Like I said…” you peer down quickly at Suguru’s lap before whispering. “Aaaalways thinkin’ with your cock.” You step back, pointing the gun at him once again.

“What do ya want?” He asks, pulling at his restraints to no avail. He’d love nothing more than to wipe that cocky smile off your face and flip the tables on you, but it’s not looking good for him.

“What I want…” You wiggle the gun in his face, tauntingly. “...is already mine, outlaw.” There’s humor in your tone, and your body language is relaxed. You couldn’t see Suguru as less of a threat if you tried.

You piss him off.

And make him so fucking hard.

He’s confused!

The noise of the doors to the train cabin opening can be heard and Suguru grins. You’re fucked now. Larue is going to put a bullet between your eyes and sure, Suguru’ll be sad about it. But better you than him. You were a great fuck, he’ll admit. And yes, he entertained the idea of giving you a kid or two, maybe getting a little cabin out in the prairie. But that fantasy’s as dead as you’re about to be. Sad that he won’t be–

“The guy with the nipples and the girl have been taken care of, boss!” A chipper voice sings. 

That…is not Larue.

Suguru couldn’t turn his head if he tried, courtesy of this goddamn knot, but he can see the smirk on your face as you nod. “Great work, Hime. And the goods?”

“Already on the move with the others. Just gotta get on the horses when you’re ready.”

You turn your head, staring out the window and nodding again. Out of his peripheral, Suguru can just barely make out the form of two horses, racing alongside the train and he knows he’s screwed.

You sigh, shrugging while feigning sadness as you pout. “Well, outlaw…looks like this is the end of the line.”

Suguru tugs at his ropes again, struggling against the holds. “You gonna leave me here like this?” He gestures with his chin at his…situation. You must be forgetting his entire dick is out for the world to see. And that you’ve tied his hands up. Not to mention his fucking hair! If he has to cut his hair because of this…

You hum, like you’re actually giving deep thought to his question. You’re not.

“Yeah, actually. Think I am.” You lift your dress, not even pretending to be as innocent as you presented yourself to be when Suguru first laid eyes on you. You tuck his gun into the waistband of your undergarments, patting it affectionately. “Thanks for a grand ol’ time, outlaw. If you manage to survive this, we can do it again.”

You shoot him a wink before you lean over him, leaving him with one final kiss on the lips. It’s gentle this time, soft, save for a light nip to his bottom lip that embarrassingly enough, manages to arouse Suguru yet again. 

“At least tell me your name,” Suguru grits out through heavy breaths. “So I can be sure to repay the favor.”

It’s a threat, but you don’t take it as one. You simply smile. It’s warm, almost reminiscent of the woman he met just earlier. The woman he thought you were. But that look is gone as soon as it appeared. You pat his face gently, reaching across the seat to grab his hat that he had set aside when he’d first sat down. You sit it atop your head, wearing it like some sort of crown, and without another word, you leave.

The train cars open, the roaring rush of the wind filling the space for just a moment before they’re shut again, and Suguru is left with nothing but his thoughts and his dick literally out. He leans his head back against the seat, closing his eyes to calm his racing heart and honestly to stifle the pain of his untouched erection.

This has been the wildest ride of his life. Definitely the worst heist he’s ever done. And if he does survive this, does manage to somehow talk his way out of charges and prison time, he’s going to find you. Fuck the robberies. Fuck the brothels. Fuck gambling and drinking all day. Yeah, if he manages to survive this, he will make it his life’s mission to find you again.

Because even after all is said and done, Suguru thinks he might fucking love you.

[stllmnstr]

sacred monsters: part one

pairing: lee heeseung x f reader

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

part one word count: 19.3k

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

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

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

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

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

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

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or, at least, it has been for you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait. 

Perfect attendance record. 

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

8:59. 

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

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

He has five seconds. 

Four. Three. Two. One. 

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

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

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

And Lee Heeseung is officially late. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But still, the clock ticks forward. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What on earth happened that made perfect Lee Heeseung late?

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

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

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

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

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

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

You. You did it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you did catch up to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you hadn’t. 

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

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

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

“I’m busy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wordlessly, his gaze shifts to you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…..

The blank expanse of your notebook stares at you accusingly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hook, line, and sinker.

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

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

“That’s not nearly long eno—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poetry. Lee Heeseung writes poetry. 

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

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

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

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

As if nothing happened,

She looks at me

With shadowless eyes.

But it is me who has been 

Forgiven and reborn countless times.

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

Even the stars in the universe

Will close their eyes one day.

Underneath their watchful gaze,

All of these moments are precious.

For memory, for regret,

I will carve them

Into the repetition of the moment.

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

The world that abandoned us

Slowly turns to ash. 

But I don’t feel the pain. 

I only feel the cold.

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

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

A shaded castle with no sun

The thick scent of dying roses never fades. 

In a broken mirror, I see myself. 

And my reflection whispers, “Monster.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heeseung wastes no fanfare. “This is awful.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

Or not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I’ll be fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you make your way to the university library. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the first sentence begins:

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

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

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

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

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

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

The taste of blood. 

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

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

-- Anonymous

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heeseung nods, “Exactly. So—”

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

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

“You don’t even know where I live.”

“What a great night to find out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s your draft coming?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sacred Monsters. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your words settle into the space between you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence lingers. A string somewhere is pulled taught. 

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

Again, Heeseung only nods. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three bodies found near the river…

Bite marks on their necks…

No trace of recent animal activity in the area…

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

Bodies completely drained of blood.

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

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

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

Oh god. Oh god. 

Heeseung. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because the alternative…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But even those things you could force yourself to forget. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

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

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

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

[aphelionwrotes11]

MDNI 18+ (light dubcon) unedited

Part 3 : Trucker!simon

CW: smut, cunnilingus/fingering, fluff, a little bit of hurt/comfort

1.6k words

Trucker!simon finally takes his bird home

It takes only a month before you’re quitting your job at the shitty truck stop and talking your landlord out of your lease. Simon does all of the heavy lifting when it comes to the moving. Attaches a trailer to the back of his semi cab and uses that to haul your belongings to his private home in the outskirts of the city.

He tells you this is his actual house, the one he’s taken you to before was just the rental he kept to stay in when he was in the city. Just more convenient, closer to the loading dock for the company he works for. It shocks you that he can afford to rent and own a property at the same time, and he does it just because it’s convenient.

It’s a real nice property, large and lush. The long gravel driveway is lined with pines and brush, at the end is a two story home with a large unfenced yard full of green grass and clover. You can’t help the way you gape at the house, So beautiful, and obviously paid for by the money he made in the military and his fat check from long rides in his truck.

He walks you around the entire property as soon as you get there, showing you around inside and out. The house is even more beautiful inside than out, with gorgeous stained glass windows, wooden beams, spiraling stairs, and a kitchen lined with green tile with flower accents. The decor itself is all rather plain, practically a blank canvas, but it just gives you more to work with. There’s a couch where there’s supposed to be one, a coffee table, plates and silverware for two, but not much else.

When you question him on why there’s practically no furniture at all, he just says he’s never needed much. You imagine so, just one man living in a big house. He doesn’t mention that he bought this property not too long after he saw you for the first time, known since the beginning he would have you one way or another.

“Ther’s space in th’back for a garden. Can put whatever ya want in it.” He tells you, and smiles as you grin excitedly, saying that’s great because you’ve always wanted to start up a garden. (He knows, came home and built up some plant beds and bought gardening supplies after you told him that on the first date.)

He spends the next few hours helping you unpack all of your things, which isn’t much. Didn’t exactly have a lot of space for anything other than necessities in your dingy apartment. He takes extra care placing your folded clothes into your shared dresser. Lining your panties beside his boxers. Chuckles as you wave him off, telling him you can do it yourself with a blush on your cheeks. Walks away with a pair of black lace panties tucked in his back pocket, he’s gonna put those in his truck for the next ride out.

The first few weeks are like a dream, the two of you spending nearly every moment together. You weren’t expecting it to feel this easy. You weren’t expecting yourself to wanna be around him so much. You used to call yourself an introvert, preferred your personal time and space over all else. But now you find yourself crawling across the couch to nestle yourself into his arms late at night, or opting to read your books on the bench in the garage as he works on his truck.

The first time he leaves for work isn’t as bad as you thought it would be, he was gone for only 14 hours. Left in the early morning when it was still dark and came home just in time for dinner.

The second time wasn’t so easy, his ride was a full 25 hours away, and you found yourself nervous the entire time he was gone. He told you before hand that he would occasionally have to go on overnight rides, sometimes he’d have to go on rides that would take a week. But he assured you that those were few and far between. Unfortunately he had told you that before holiday season.

And now, as the next week goes by and you find yourself only seeing your boyfriend a few hours a day, your irritation only grows with each passing 24 hours. When he comes back to his lovely bird being sharp and cold, he knows that something has gotta change.

“Whots th’matter, bird? Talk to me.” He says, a tinge of desperation in his voice, only to be met with your frown as you turned back to your book.

When he first picked up this job after retiring from the military, he didn’t mind the ever changing schedule or long rides. Figured it was for the best, something to keep him busy until he’s too old to work anymore. That was until he met you. Suddenly the long rides felt like eternity until he could return to that greasy truck stop to see you again.

And now that he has you all for himself, the long rides and changing hours make him dread waking up in the morning just to leave your beautiful sleeping form all alone. On the third day of your cold shoulder, the next time he goes into work he has a talk with his boss. He’s promised a strict schedule and reduced hours as soon as the holiday season is finished, with all of the other truckers already knee deep in work, it just wasn’t an option to implement his new schedule so soon.

He makes plans to use a couple weeks of his unused PTO by the next month so that he can make up for the lost time.

When he comes home after a particularly rough shift, his skin feels tight and muscles tense, all he can hope for is to pull you into his arms and nestle his face into your neck. But as it’s been for the past few days, you’re cold once he comes home. He can’t help the irritation that builds in his gut as you ignore him when he asks how your day was.

“Alright bird, that’s it.” He says, rising from his seat that the table and getting to you in record time.

You gasp as he lifts you up and lays you on the kitchen island. Ignores your protests as he lifts up your nightgown and pulls down your panties to reveal an already glistening pussy.

“Been so good for you bird, workin’ so hard, gettin’ that shit done just to come home to you all pissy..” he growls, letting out a low groan as he presses a thumb to your swollen clit.

“Whot you so mad at me for? Think you can’t talk to me?” He asks, pressing his index finger into your pussy as you squirm.

“Would rather you yell at me than this shit- fuck-“ he says lowly, bringing his nose down to your lips and sniffing..like a dog. Chuckles as you whine at him.

“Don’t worry birdie, I’ll make you feel better.”

With that, he starts thrusting his fingers into your throbbing cunt as he licks your clit with his thick tongue.

It’s not long before he’s thrusting into you at a godforsaken pace, the only sounds being your moans and mewls, his low groans, and the lewd sound of your wet pussy being finger fucked and sucked on by his drooling mouth.

“Love you bird, y’know I do-“ he mumbles into your pussy, pressing a kiss to your clit.

You feel that familiar coil of pleasure tighten in your core, your toes are curling, your nerves are hot. You choke out a warning, telling him you are so, so close. He doesn’t relent, just carries on.

The orgasm is blinding, your eyes rolling back into your head as you clamp your thighs around his head. He moans into your pussy as you cum, slurping up your juices and rubbing his nose against your clit.

Pushes you to the point of near overstimulation, stops once you start crying that it’s too much. When he pulls away, a string of his spit and your juices is connected to his mouth. His pupils are blown wide and he looks out of it. He’s panting, fingers digging into the fat of your thighs as he presses kisses into the tender skin.

He presses his cheek into your tummy and glances up at you, “feeling better?” He asks with a smirk.

After he’s finished with you (which is when the sun has long since set) and you are snuggled in his warm arms on your shared bed is when he tells you about his conversation with his boss.

“M’sorry. Been neglecting ya, haven’t I birdie? Won’t do it again.” He tells you. But you shush him with your own apologies, telling him you should’ve just talked to him, shouldn’t have ignored him and so on.

“Don’t ever feel ‘fraid of talkin’ to me, bird. I’ll always listen.” He says into your hair.

That night, after a long week of coldness and anger, the two of you lay sound asleep in each others warm embrace, totally peaceful.

Note: hey guys!!! Hope you enjoyed this one!! Had to add in a little bit of sweetness for you all 🩷🩷 as usual this one is unedited so please forgive any mistakes or lack of cohesiveness, I’m planning on coming back and editing a bunch of stuff eventually. But for now I’m just kinda throwing random things out for fun 😆 anyways, next thing I’ll be bringing out will most probably be stalker!simon, that or trucker!john price. Love you all, xoxo 😘

Simon Riley master list

[sparklingblu]

Eroverse

Pt.1 - The Invitation

IVE Rei x Male Reader (ft. Karina)

"Harder, daddy. Harder!"

The sweet moans of the idol beneath you are music to your ears as you piston into her wet folds rapidly, a hand of yours gripping her throat and another kneading her large plentiful tits as she barely manages to stay on all fours on the bed. Her arched back is dripping with sweat and her breath is ragged. Nevertheless, she takes your pounding without complaint, like a good whore she is.

"You like it, huh? You cock hungry whore"

You ask over her mewls resonating around the room as you grip her throat even tighter, depriving her of oxygen.

"Yes...daddy...pound me"

Karina's voice comes out distorted and inaudible but it's impressive how she still manages to make a sound despite your hold on her vocal cords.

"Good girl"

You praise her and bring your palm over one of her asscheeks, which are jiggling with every one of your thrusts. The slap comes down harder than you expect, leaving a red handprint on that porcelain skin of hers. You repeat the motion again, this time on her other cheek, making it jiggle even more, marking it with your handprints as well. Maybe Karina squeals but it blends into her moans and the sound of her breath which is becoming even more shallow with how long you have been choking her.

You would have never thought you would have the chance to see Karina in real life , left alone fuck her. You have always drooled over the bounce of her huge tits and her curves as you jerk off to her fancams again and again. You would even get hard just from seeing that AI like face of her. However, these days are over as you claim her body as your own with your cock.

Karina's eyes begin to roll into the back of her head as she is cut off from the supply of her life force, oxygen, for too long. That doesn't make you decrease your pace or lessen the hold on her throat either. The only supply she needs to live right now is your cum.

As Karina's body becomes limp like a lifeless doll, you start to feel your high slowly approaching. That sensation in your stomach that travels down to your pelvis and ultimately to your shaft.

"Gonna cum, Karina, don't waste a drop"

You order as your flood gates finally open and Karina open her mouth to let out her final moan, but the sound that comes out is-

"Ring ring ring"

Your eyes flutter open as the alarm clock wakes you from your blissful dream.

"You are an idiot, Michael"

You mutter to yourself as you turn off the alarm. You? Fucking Karina? Yeah, sure, that can happen when pigs fly. You sit up in your bed, only to find yourself rock hard from that wet dream you have been having. That's a matter you should take care of later.

You slowly get off your bed and rub your eyes, the view of your messy room greeting you as usual. The tiny room is stuffed with every single one of your possessions. A shelf against the wall, taking up most of the room and a small wardrobe in the corner which is next to a table and a chair, piled with stationaries and stack of papers.

It's a dump, sure. But it can be considered a luxury for a writer like you. At least you have your own space. You have always dreamed of writing stories and hell, you even have a ten book series planned out in your mind. But in reality, you are barely scrapping by. Going from one publishing house to another to get that novel of yours released that have been sitting on the same table for years. You managed to survive with the money you get from your part time job and sometimes when luck is on your side, some of your articles and poems got featured in some magazines no one read.

"Stop whining" you remind yourself. "You just haven't found your true potential yet" An empty encouragement, yet it gets your mind off the bad stuff. You make your way to the bathroom, brushing your teeth, staring at the wreckage in the mirror which is your reflection. Your eyes were ringed with dark circles and your head throbs with pain from all the shots you chugged down at the bar yesterday after running into some old friends.

You head to the shower and you are about to turn the water on when you see a bigger problem at hand than smelling like a rat dies in your hair. The boner was still there, stiff and hard as ever. That dream really takes a toll on you.

You grab the phone on the sink and scroll through the collection of hundred videos of female idols you have saved on your phone, choosing the best one to jerk off to. There's so much variety to choose from, ass? tits? face? You once heard someone say "Jerking off is not hard, finding the material to jerk off to is" It seems like the case now.

Finally, you land on the video of Rei from IVE. The busty japanese idol in a white top and a skirt. Her tits bouncing with every move she makes. Not the ideal choice but you will settle for it.

You are about to get your hands on your mamba that's ready to pounce when a notification comes up on your screen.

"Still jerking off to Idols? Why not fuck them instead?"

You are confused. What kind of notification is that? It is like someone is watching you right here, right now. Maybe someone is pulling a prank on you? That's impossible because no one knows about your guilty pleasure.

Reluctantly, you scroll down to see the source of the message. On the left side of the notification is the icon of an app, a dark heart shape and its name on top "Ero". You are pretty sure you have never installed such an app on your phone but curiosity gets the best of you. You click on the notification.

Immediately, your screen light up with a warm neon glow as the loading screen popped up, with the same dark heart shape and the name "Ero" in the centre of the screen. After a minute of waiting, you are about to give up and quit the app when the screen shifts. Now, it displays a text box at the bottom of the screen like in video games and the same black heart rotate slowly like a top above it.

The text in the textbox says,

"Welcome, chosen one. Continue to your first quest?"

Chosen one? What in the Harry Potter is happening here? And what quest? Is this some sort of game? And what does it have to do with you jerking yourself off to idols? Million questions swell in your head but of course your curiosity pushes you to click the 'yes' button under the text.

For a moment, the screen is black. Then it lights up with such a bright white light that you nearly got blinded. The light dims, leaving another text box in the middle of the screen.

"First Quest: Rei's Blowjob

Have Rei sucks you off and endure it for 30 minutes"

Your mind is one complete mess, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. This sound like some sort of porn games you play on your laptop. Main character being chosen and all. But this is very much real though you still doubt this is some kind of scam app that steals the information from your phone. Not like you have any data worth stealing though. Another reason to doubt it even more.

As your brain gets blowtorched with questions, your phone suddenly shuts off. Before your fingers can reach the screen to turn it back on, the whole bathroom goes dark. When you say dark, you are not talking "turn off the light at night" dark. Only darkness exists within your vision as if the whole room have been swallowed by the night. You are about to move forward and try to reach out desperately for something to hold onto when your whole body gets washed over by a sensation like getting dipped in icy water. Your body starts to give out, your knees turning to jelly.

"Am I gonna die?"

You think.

"Oh god, I'm gonna die"

The darkness is the last thing you see before you are greeted by it once again as your eyelids close shut.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

The first thing on your mind when you regain consciousness is

"What the hell happened?"

You slowly open your eyes to see a chandelier on the ceiling above. Its yellow lights sting your eyes after seeing only the dark for so long. You slowly sit up, the fatigue in your body is gone, replaced by the lust earlier before you get dragged into this mess by an app. You are still clothless, your mamba springing up like a missel ready to launch.

You stand up, taking in your surrounding. You are in a vast room made entirely of mahogany. In the center of the room is a canopy bed with draping black curtains, opened to reveal the red bedsheets behind. On the console table in one corner rests a black vase holding a single red rose. Apart from it, the whole room is deprived of furniture, giving it a hollow incomplete feeling. The chandelier is the only light source but it is obviously not enough to illuminate the whole room as dark spots are scattered all around the room. If this is not creepy enough, the room has no doors.

Your first instinct is to try to escape but breaking out of a doorless room is easier said than done. Maybe you are dead and in heaven? Sure, if heaven is one dark ghastly room. But you doubt you will get in to heaven. You go back to the source of this problem. That stupid "Ero" app. And what did it say again? A quest, get a blowjob from Rei. But where is Rei?

"Here"

A voice utters from one corner of the room as if answering your thoughts. Your eyes adjust to the dark as a girl emerges from the gloomy spot, emerging from the shadows. It can't be, you think. But no doubt, standing before you is Rei, the japanese member of IVE, dressed in a black low cut sweater dress as if there isn't enough darkness in here and a loose belt wrapped around her waist like she has put it on in a rush. Her dreamy eyes beneath her hazel hair trace your body, studying you and you definitely don't want to be studied while you are butt naked. She folds her arms judgmentally, accentuating the shape of her huge tits under the fabric.

"Master, what takes you so long?"

She asks and you are speechless. Master? This have to be another wet dream. You should have response with some sort of snarky remark but all you can say is

"What?"

You want to bash your head with that vase on the table. A girl is calling you master and that's your first words to her. Stupid as ever.

"Master, I have been waiting for you. What takes you so long?"

This time your response is a bit better.

"Eh, I was busy..."

"I can't wait for that huge cock of yours, I need it so bad"

She whines, gazing at your exposed cock which is hard as ever. This gets you into your mood.

"Then why don't you come and taste it?"

You order, remembering your quest, blowjob. Maybe you can choose other alternatives too but this is a start.

"As you wish master"

Rei kneels, looking up at your cock as if it's something glamorous. The fingers of her left hand close around the base of your shaft, slowly stroking it and fuck, with how smooth her palm feels, you are not sure if you can hold out for 30 minutes for that stupid quest. Her movements are fluid, not too fast or too slow, taking her time just travelling her fingers along your shaft.

"Am I doing well master?"

She asks, looking up at you with her doll eyes.

"Yes, Rei but you have to be better than this"

Rei doesn't answer. Instead, she wraps the rest of her fingers above the space over the first ones and start stroking your cock faster. The friction sending jolts after jolts of pleasure through you body. Her fingers work like magic, with just the right grip and the right motion. Meanwhile, Rei's eyes never leave your cock, focused on it entirely.

"Like this, master?"

"Yes, Rei. Fuck, don't stop"

You groans as pleasure overwhelms you if every stroke of her fingers, bringing you closer and closer to your edge until you remember the time limit. You don't know what will happen if you fail, but you don't want to find out.

You grab Rei's wrist and stop her.

"Master needs you to use that pretty little mouth"

"Mhmm.....yes, master. I want to feel that hard cock stuffed in my throat"

Rei's filthy words leave her mouth no sooner than she impales it on your cock, stuffing your whole length down her throat. Usually, you expect some foreplay. A kiss there, a lick here. But Rei either doesn't know about or care about it as she engulfs your cock in one swift motion. A groan escapes your lips, the sudden warmth and the tightness indulging you with ecstasy. She holds you in her throat, her nose presses against your pelvis.

You have had blowjobs before but Rei's is on a whole different level. Her throat constricts around you, her neck bulging with the foreign object entering it. You are starting to think she's gonna hold you forever when she pulls back, a loud gag escaping her mouth as globes of saliva drop to the ground, the remnants connecting your tip and her lips in silky strings.

You expect her to take a breather but nevertheless she immediately went down on your cock again, taking it back into her warm cavern as she devours it like a hungry beast. Her plump lips sealed around your shaft as she bobs up and down with unyielding speed. Every single movement of hers seem calculated, designed to pleasure you in every way possible. The way her tongue traces the underside of your shaft, the way she moans around your cock, the intentional gagging sounds she makes ever so often. It's like a well organized orchestra with the instruments being her lips, tongue and her throat.

Saliva escapes from the corner of her lips with every bob, dripping down to her thighs and her cleavage, staining her black dress even blacker. You hold a tight grip on her hair, tying it in a lock in your grasp. Finally, she pulls back, leaving only the tip inside her mouth as her fingers envelope you shaft once again, stroking it so fast you think it's gonna start sparking. It might have as well as your body start heating up from her masterclass of a handjob, sweat beads hanging on your temples. You throw your head back, rejoicing in the bliss of Rei's tongue swirling around your head in harmony with her fingers that twist and turn all the way to her lips and back.

You have lost the sense of time, drowned by the euphoric feeling that doesn't seem to be stopping anytime. Has it been thirty minutes? You have no idea. But you are glad you hold out for this long. Time limit or not, you don't want this to end anytime soon.

However, everything have a limit and so do you. As Rei's hand leaves your shaft, only to be swallowed up and deepthroated once again, you start feeling that familiar feeling of the knot in your stomach, unravelling bits by bits. Your cock starts throbbing in the warmth of Rei's throat constricting and relaxing around the tip, as if giving it a massage.

Rei, who's either oblivious to it or doesn't care, suddenly release your pulsing pole from her mouth. She looks up at you and gives you a sly smile, like she knows how desperate you are for release.

"Is Master gonna cum?"

She asks with a smirk and god, you just wants to grab her hair and impale her on your cock again but you don't want to end things sloppily (ironic with how sloppy it already is) but you just nod.

"Cum down my throat master, fill up your slutty whore."

She says opening her mouth, waiting for your move and you instinctively grabs her hair in a makeshift messy ponytail and starts thrusting into her mouth like it's her pussy.

Everytime your cock hits the back of her throat, you get closer and closer to the finale of this rapturous session. Rei holds her gaze to yours, pleading with her eyes to you how badly she needs your cum, how badly she needs to be filled up from the brim.

"Rei....I'm cumming"

You announce as you conclude the act by burying your cock to the hilt into her welcoming throat, unloading spurts after spurts of cum all the way down into her stomach. It seems to go on forever, the flow of cum never ending until it eventually does.

You pulls out your now spent rod from her tight cavern. Rei's mouth was still open, saliva flowing like a waterfall and forming a puddle between the red mahogany floor between her knees, which are trembling nonstop.

"Thanks master"

She mutters, her voice hoarse from being deprived of oxygen.

"Good girl"

You mutter, grinning like a madman. You are pretty sure this definitely isn't a dream. And you just use an idol like a fleshlight. And your quest. Yeah, your quest. The reason you are here. Have you completed it?

As you are reflecting yourself, you are engulfed by darkness once again.

"Shit, not again"

You cursed under your breath. Anymore exposure to darkness today and you won't be able to see colors anymore.

"Worry not, chosen one"

A voice boomed all around you as if the darkness have built in speakers.

"You performed well, I expect more from you in the future"

You are about to protest when the same cold feeling earlier wash over you again and your mind goes blank.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

(My first smut and the start of a series, I hope you enjoy it)

[coryndoll]

hate to be lame

rafe cameron x reader

— in which y/n, caught in a situationship with rafe, struggles to admit she might love him, constantly holding back her feelings while fearing that confessing could make things more complicated.

inspired by: “hate to be lame” (major) & “ceilings” (minor) by lizzy mcalpine

warnings: super long omfg, me treating this like a music video again LMAO, situationships, swearing, mention of drug use, no hard concepts just rafe who can’t commit to you (yet)

authors note: this has been in the works for a good few weeks lowkey. i literally studied lizzy mcalpine mvs top to BOTTOM to rly portray this mini story as best as i can. hope u guys enjoy!!

i tried to add as much as i could for ppl to notice (hopefully), but ESPECIALLY like parallels of the beginning n the end of the oneshot with the opening of the door and saying “hey”!! i wanted this to be little short film core

your room is cold, and you feel your fingers tingling as you pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders. the clock ticks softly, but each minute feels slower than the last.

you aren’t sure why, but today you’re more anxious than usual, counting down the seconds until rafe shows up. it’s not like you have any real plans, just the usual aimless drive or hanging out.

but the thought of seeing him again—his smile, the way he looks at you, even when he’s not saying anything—makes waiting almost unbearable.

you’ve been more than friends but less than boyfriend and girlfriend for the past five months now. you know it’s wrong, but you know you’ll do the same thing you’ll be doing until you reach six months: push it aside and just enjoy the moment.

you can’t tell if rafe is only there for the pleasure, but if that’s the case then you wouldn’t be hearing about his dreams or the way he struggles with trust. and you’re foolish enough to believe that maybe he’s just scared, and that’s why he can’t commit.

right on time, his texts come in one after the other.

‘ hey ’

‘ otw ’

‘ 5 minutes ’

a faint smile tugs at your lips as you send him a quick ‘okay,’ watching the message sit there, unread. but when the notification changes to ‘read’ and there’s no reply, you drop your phone on your bed and get up.

just as you’re finishing, the faint sound of a knock echoes through the house, and you know that it’s him. you head downstairs quickly, and when you finally reach the front door, your hand hesitates on the handle, but you push them down and swing it open, revealing him standing there. his gaze flickers over you, a small smirk playing on his lips.

“hey,” he says.

and there’s that smile again, “hey.”

rafe’s ring-clad hand grips the steering wheel tightly, veins visible beneath his skin as his knuckles flex. his other arm is draped out the open window, resting easily on the door. you glance over at him, watching the way he seems so effortless behind the wheel, like he was born to be in control, and the engine hums beneath you.

you can’t help but steal glances at him, the way his jaw sets when he focuses, the flicker of light as it catches on his ring every time he turns the wheel. you wonder if he knows how these small details, the smallest shifts in his posture, have started to consume your thoughts.

you know what this is supposed to be—casual, undefined—but sitting here, so close to him, makes it harder to convince yourself that it’s just that. just casual.

and sometimes it makes you wonder—does he feel it too? does he fight the same pull you do?

you and rafe end up at a two-story building, bright and welcoming downstairs. it’s one of those places you’d mentioned a few times, new on the island, somewhere you’d been dying to try.

upstairs, you grab a table in the open air, no roof above, just the sky. pillars hold up a net laced with flowers and plants, the same ones woven into the building’s logo on the far wall. a bar counter curves along that wall, half-circling it. it’s gorgeous.

you’re laughing, enjoying lunch with him. he looks beautiful, just by being there, the way he always has. doesn’t matter what you are—friends, strangers, stuck in this limbo of a situationship—you’ve always felt this way about him.

rafe leans forward, arms crossed on the table, telling you a story that keeps you laughing, each detail funnier than the last.

eventually, the day drifts into the afternoon, and you find yourselves in town, just hanging out. you drag him into a bookstore, then a music store, even a museum, wandering from place to place. hours later, when you’re hungry again, you make a quick stop a small convenience store.

you’re tucking your phone into your purse when you glance outside, noticing the sky’s turned dark, and more importantly, it’s raining.

“alright, catch you later, simon. thanks!” rafe says, grabbing the snacks off the counter. he raises his free hand in a quick wave as he turns, glancing down at you with a smirk while you follow him out.

rafe hands you your snacks, and you take them with a small smile, watching him closely to see his reaction when he realizes it started raining while you were inside. his brows raise as he looks outside, then down at you again. both of you are thinking the same thing—you parked a block away, and now you’ll have to rush to the car without getting soaked.

you pop a piece of candy in your mouth, staring at the rain across the street, when rafe reaches out. “c’mon,” he murmurs, and you take it without hesitation.

the two of you make a break for it, trying to walk as fast as possible without slipping or getting in the way of traffic. the rain pelts down around you, but you’re laughing, and rafe’s grinning as you both duck under the first marquee for cover.

you both continue walking, the car finally coming into view just up ahead. he has to jog around to get to the driver's side. as he moves, you step out from under the last marquee and into the rain, letting it soak through your clothes and into your skin. you tilt your head up, eyes clamped shut, nose scrunched, savoring the moment, even if it’s just a few seconds of quiet, cold rain.

“get in the car,” rafe calls out, his voice cutting through the sound, and you glance over at him, already opening the door.

you shoot him a look, digging into your bag of candy, before tossing a piece at him like he’s ruined the moment. it bounces off his shoulder and he slides into the car without another word, but you can tell he’s amused. with a sigh, you climb into the passenger seat, still dripping wet.

before you know it, the car slows, the tires crunching against the gravel as rafe pulls up to his house. it’s massive, even more so than you remember. cold and impressive, it stands there like a fortress—his world.

for a second, you’re lost in thought. rafe pulls into the garage, parking to avoid the rain still pouring outside. he gets out, crumpling the empty chip bag in his hand, twisting off the lid to his drink with the other to take a few gulps before shutting the car door.

you linger inside a bit longer, popping another candy into your mouth as your eyes wander around the camerons’ garage—messy, yet somehow still clean and wide open.

rafe rounds the front of the car, heading for the door that leads into the house. without a word, he slips inside, leaving you behind in the garage. he does leave his keys on the table beside the door, trusting you to lock the car for him since you’re still in there.

you sit there a moment, your head tilting as you look over at the driver’s seat, replaying the small moments in your mind—running across the street in the rain, how he’s paid for you, or the simple ‘hey’ when he picked you up earlier.

a small, soft smile touches your lips before you finally get out of the car. you crush the candy wrapper in your fist, grab the keys to lock the car, and slip inside the house, the garage door clicking shut behind you.

after hours of being at the cameron’s, only the soft patter of raindrops now begins tapping against the glass, just as you settle into the familiar bay window. you tuck your legs beneath you, leaning your head against the window frame as you stare out into the backyard.

you’ve sat here so many times before—usually with sarah, the two of you giggling about nothing in particular, watching the sky and talking about anything. but tonight, it’s just you and rafe.

the house feels quieter without her, without anyone really, except for the occasional murmur of rafe’s voice as he takes his phone call from the other room. he was quick to excuse himself when the phone rang, retreating upstairs where you couldn't overhear. not that you’d pry, but it’s not like you don’t know about rafe’s involvement with deals in the outerbanks, drugs, cash, or both. you turn a blind eye.

he walks back into the room eventually, his footsteps quiet but still pulling your focus from the window. you feel him glance at you, almost like he's about to say something, but he hesitates when he notices the way you’re sitting there, staring out at the rain.

he knows you too well—years of history have given him that advantage, not just the past few months of this undefined mess you're both tangled in. he’s seen you like this before, especially today, always itching to be outside when the rain falls, drawn to it in a way he’s never really understood.

without a word, he walks over to the door leading to the backyard. the soft creak of the door handle catches your attention, pulling you from your thoughts. you watch as he stands there for a moment, his hand resting on the doorframe, looking at you.

no words pass between you, but the way he gestures outside, a playful tilt of his head, says everything. it’s almost like a silent ‘after you’ as if he’s jokingly daring you to go out into the rain.

a smile breaks across your face, and before you know it, you’re up. you brush past him, feeling his presence right behind you as you step outside. the cool rain meets your skin, soaking into your clothes almost instantly, but you don’t care. rafe is close, following you out into the yard, his chuckle barely audible over the sound of the rain as it picks up.

the two of you don’t need to say anything. you just move, running across the wet grass, spinning around to feel the individual drops as they fall on your face. you pause every now and then, standing in place, arms spread out wide to feel the rain cover you like a blanket. but the peace never lasts long before rafe is at your side again, tackling you to the ground with a sudden burst of energy. you both fall, rolling across the grass in a fit of laughter, his weight pressing into you briefly before you push him off with a shove.

you end up on your backs, lying there side by side in the rain. your breath comes in short bursts from all the laughing, and there’s a calmness that settles over the two of you. you turn your head to look at him, and there’s something in the way he looks back at you, rain dripping down his face. it’s just you and him, the world around you disappearing into the sound of the rain, the hum of your heartbeat in your ears.

in that moment, you feel something deeper. something that goes beyond the undefined territory you’ve been navigating for months. there’s a connection—stronger than before, pulling you in, making you wonder how you ever let yourself fall this far. you feel it with every glance, every brush of his hand against yours as you lay there.

and then, almost without warning, it’s over. you’re in the car again, the engine quietly rumbling as rafe drives you home. the rain hasn’t let up, the windshield wipers swishing back and forth, and the streetlights blur past as you sit in silence.

you sit in the passengers seat, wrapped in rafe’s oversized hoodie, the warmth of it settling against your skin, but the comfort feels fleeting. your clothes had been drenched from the rain, and now, you’re dressed in his.

you don’t want it to end. when you were out there with him, laughing in the rain, time seemed to stretch. it was simple, effortless—like the world stopped just for you. you find yourself wishing it could stay that way, even for just a little longer.

but now, here you are, in his car, the night creeping closer to its end as he drives you home. you rest your head against the seat, staring out at the blurry glow of the streetlights through the rain-streaked windows. in your mind, the memories play on repeat, each one a familiar echo of nights like this.

there’s a pattern—you recognize it now. the closeness, the laughter, the silence when neither of you acknowledges what this really is. a situationship, something more than friendship but never quite a relationship. yet, despite it all, you don’t care. being with him in this confusing, undefined space feels better than being without him.

the car slows as he pulls up to your house, and the quiet reality hits. you glance at him, but he doesn’t say anything, just pulls out his phone when he gets a phone call, but he glances at you when you just sit there. it’s enough. you step out into the cool air, the dampness of the rain lingering in the night as you head inside.

the house is quiet, save for the faint clink of dishes in the kitchen. you walk in, and as you make your way to the fridge, your mom looks up from the counter, her eyes catching on your borrowed clothes. “whose clothes are those?” she asks, her voice casual but curious.

you shrug, opening the fridge and grabbing a water bottle. “rafes,” you reply simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you don’t stick around for her reaction, turning and heading for the stairs, the sound of your footsteps fading as you make your way up.

as soon as you reach your room, you dive onto your bed and roll onto your back. your phone buzzes in your pocket, pulling your attention. with a sigh, you pull it out and open a group chat with your friends. for a second, your fingers hover over the screen, and then, without thinking too much, you begin typing.

how do you know when ur in

your fingers pause over the last word. the L word. it feels too heavy, too real to even finish typing. your thoughts stumble, second-guessing. do you really want their advice on this? what would they even say? maybe it’s not something your friends can help you with. not this.

with a slight shake of your head, you delete the message, watching the cursor blink on an empty screen before you lock your phone and drop it onto your chest.

just nights later, you get word that some pogues are throwing a party at the boneyard, but it’s not just any—it’s sarah’s friends.

you look over to rafe as he gets out of the car, his eyes scanning the beach. topper and kelce are already talking by the car, but rafe’s focus is sharp, as if nothing really starts until he steps into the mix.

he walks around to your side, opening the door and offering his hand. you take it so he can help you out of the car. his grip is firm, the way he holds you close as you step onto the soft sand beneath your shoes.

his arm is slung across your shoulder, and he gives you a playful shake as he leads the way toward the party.

even though he doesn’t say a word, the pressure of his touch says enough. it’s protective, almost possessive, like he’s staking a claim. you glance at him.

he wants you close, needs you to be within his reach, and you know it’s not just casual. it’s the way he is, the way he’s always been with you—controlling, protective. he walks slightly ahead, his arm guiding you forward as if he’s leading you, ensuring you’re exactly where he wants you to be.

and despite the way your body tenses beneath his touch, despite the chill that runs through you as his fingers press into your back, you let him. you tell yourself it’s just rafe being rafe—always wanting control, always needing to know where you are. it’s intoxicating in a way, the way he holds you there, the way he’s so sure that you belong with him.

your skin prickles, not because you’re afraid, but because there’s a part of you that knows this isn’t normal—this isn’t how it should feel. yet, despite that little voice in the back of your mind, you follow him. you always do.

you make your way into the heart of the party with your friends. the air smells like salt and smoke, laughter and music filling the space between the flickering bonfires. rafe’s hand slips from yours, but he doesn’t stray far, keeping close as he weaves his way through the crowd.

people greet him—some with a nod, some with a smile—but it’s like there’s an invisible line drawn around the two of you, keeping the rest of the world at arm’s length. and you don’t mind. not when it feels this good.

it doesn’t take long before rafe comes back with some drinks, and without missing a beat, he pulls you in closer to him. you laugh, sip your drink, and enjoy the chaos of the night, but there’s a quiet satisfaction that hums underneath it all. it’s the feeling of practically being his—of knowing that he knows it too.

the night spirals into a blur. somewhere between the music and the shots, you’ve lost count of how much you’ve had to drink. the warmth of the alcohol buzzes through your veins, making everything feel softer, the edges of reality blurring. but topper is there to catch you when you start to sway just a little too much.

“you okay?” he asks, his voice warm as a faint smile appears on his face.

“yeah, just a little tipsy,” you giggle, leaning into him, feeling the world tilt slightly.

as the night wears on, you find yourself laughing at everything, dancing wildly under the stars, the sound of waves crashing nearby blending with the music. but by the end of the night, it’s clear you’re done. you’re not sure if it’s the drinks or the way rafe is nowhere to be seen half of the time.

“this party is lame,” rafe comments as he finds you, topper, and kelce by a bonfire. he’s holding one of the red solo cups but he’s uninterested.

kelce shrugs, “to you, maybe. ‘cause there’s no snow.”

rafe weaves his way through the boys to reach you. “you’re staying with me tonight,” he says, and you don’t argue. you just nod, letting him guide you to the car, his hand gripping yours like an anchor.

once you reach his car, he opens the door for you, his hand lingering on your waist as you slide into the passenger seat. “you really had a good time, huh?” he teases, starting the engine.

“best night ever,” you reply, a goofy grin spreading across your face. you look over at him, feeling a warmth blooming in your chest, the alcohol making everything feel more intense. you just wish you saw more of him that night.

when you arrive at his house, he helps you out of the car. you stumble slightly but he catches you. “easy, easy,” he mutters, leading you inside.

even when his words are dry, and his touch is barely there, you cling to moments like this, convincing yourself it means something.

still, being this close feels good. it always does. you want to tell him—everything. to spill out the truth that’s been gnawing at you for weeks, months. but you know better. don’t ruin the moment, you think, your teeth worrying your bottom lip. it’s too good to ruin. too fragile to risk.

you want to tell him everything, to let it all out. but you can’t. not when he’s like this, not when he looks at you like nothing’s changed.

and now, you’re lying in his bed, the room spinning just a little. the pillows are soft beneath your head, and rafe is standing at the edge of the bed, watching you. his expression is unreadable, but there’s a slight furrow in his brow, like he’s trying to figure something out.

“just get some rest. you’ll feel better in the morning,” he says.

he’s standing over you, and for a moment, your thoughts are louder than the room. he looks at you like he always does—unreadable. it feels like the words are stuck, heavy and burning at the back of your throat. maybe he already knows. he has to. with how often you’re by his side, how you’ve never left, even when he’s cold and distant. it’s so obvious, isn’t it?

“okay. thank you for taking care of me,” you murmur, your words slurring slightly, the alcohol clouding your mind. you look at him, trying to read his expression, wanting to see something—anything—that suggests he cares.

you bite your tongue, trying to keep it all inside, but then the words start slipping, slow at first, like they have a mind of their own. “i love—”

you catch yourself, the words teetering on the edge of your lips. your heart races as you realize what you almost let slip, a rush of fear flooding through you. what are you doing? your heart is pounding and you feel like within a second, you’re able to turn completely sober.

silence. it’s so loud it’s almost suffocating. you force yourself to look up, desperately searching his face for a reaction, anything. but there’s nothing. his expression doesn’t change, not even a flicker of surprise or discomfort. just that same calm, indifferent look he always has.

it’s like he didn’t even register it—or something worse.

“go to sleep,” he says, his voice flat. he takes a step back, glancing towards the door, like he’s already moving on. “i’ll be back.”

all you can do is nod, your heart still racing from the near-slip. “okay,” you whisper, and you pull the blanket tighter around you.

you can’t breathe. you can’t move. your heart is still racing as you watch him leave, the door closing softly behind him. you sink back into the bed, pulling the covers over yourself, but the warmth is gone.

your head spins with everything unsaid, and you can’t shake the feeling that it’s too late.

he doesn’t care. he doesn’t care the way you do. the words hang in the air, heavy and unspoken. a chill runs down your spine as you replay the moment in your head, the way he dismissed your feelings without even a second glance.

he doesn’t care that you almost admitted you loved him? that, or . . . yeah, rafe already knows. and in some way, that scares you more than anything.

you can remember the first time you met rafe—back when you were kids, in middle school. you’d known of the cameron family, but you’d never been around enough to meet rafe specifically. for so long, it felt like you were in two different worlds. but in middle school, rafe finally noticed you, only to say something rude.

it stung, but you were kids. that was the odd beginning of your friendship. it was rough at first, barely getting along most of the time as barely acquaintances. still, you liked being friends with sarah, even if she was a few years younger. you two weren’t super close because of the age gap, but once you hit high school, you didn’t mind looking out for her when she needed it.

only then did rafe approach you again since middle school. he told you to stay away from his sister, as if you were some kind of bad influence. you weren’t, and you told him as much, calling him stupid. that was the end of it—for that day, at least.

you two shared more classes that junior year than you would’ve liked, which meant seeing him nearly every day. you never went out of your way to be rude unless he started it, and he always did. if he saw you, he usually took the chance to say or do something to get under your skin. still, it wasn’t like he was out to get you—it was more like an unspoken routine.

things only lightened up in senior year. you ended up helping him at some volunteer event he didn’t want to go to, and neither did you. you’d brought a flask, figuring it would take the edge off the boredom, and it helped break the ice between you two.

by the next week, you crossed paths again. you drove yourself to and from school, but your tire went flat one day, probably from driving over something sharp in the parking lot while pulling in during the morning.

you didn’t know how to change it, and as luck would have it, rafe spotted you on his way to his friend’s car. he stopped and helped you out. ever since that day, it felt like something shifted, and the foundation for your friendship started to take root.

“y/n,” rafe calls, snapping you out of your thoughts. you immediately turn to your window, tearing off your blankets as you make your way over to peek between the blinds.

there he is, leaning casually against the door of his truck, chewing some gum and fiddling with the wrapper. without wasting time, you rush to pull on your shoes and grab your bag, ready to head out.

now, you’re leaning against the rail of kelce’s boat, staring into your cup as the wind whips around you. it’s the usual sandbar party, and you’re already en route, cruising across the water.

the sun is bright, forcing you to squint when you glance up, scanning the boat for familiar faces. kooks everywhere—laughing, drinking, pre-gaming before the afternoon on the beach. in one hand, you clutch your drink and a pair of sunglasses, in the other, your phone.

you absentmindedly toss your hair off your shoulder, then peer over the rail to watch the water rush past beneath you. two people approach—a boy and a girl, probably friends of kelce’s since everyone got an invite to ride with him.

they linger nearby, the girl shifting nervously until she finally speaks up, “i like your top.” her words come out fast, almost as if she’s afraid you won’t hear her.

you glance her way, taking her in with a brief nod. “i like your . . . shoes,” you reply, offering a small smile. the girl’s wearing sneakers—not exactly the best choice for a day at the beach, but you’re just poking fun.

she seems to miss the teasing tone, accepting the compliment with a hesitant, “thanks.”

the boy steps forward now, smoothly joining the conversation. “how long you been in the outer banks?” he asks, like it’s no big deal, just another casual question.

you tilt your head slightly, thinking for a moment. “most of my life. you and your girl new to the island?”

the boy looks quickly at the girl, and she immediately looks away. “no, we’re just friends,” he says, glancing back at you while you watch them both closely. there’s something unspoken between them, though—especially when the girl throws him a quick, hurt look. clearly, there’s more to their story.

you extend your hand, breaking the tension. “y/n.”

“jasper,” he says, shaking your hand, and for a moment, his gaze locks with yours. but your attention quickly shifts to the girl beside him. you hold out your hand, waiting for her introduction, and after a brief pause, she reaches out.

“i’m isabelle,” she mumbles softly, her voice almost getting lost in the wind.

you give her a genuine smile. the teasing earlier probably didn’t help, but this feels like a better moment. you shake her hand, but something catches your eye. the light glints off the bracelet on her wrist, a delicate piece of jewelry that stands out against her skin. instinctively, you pause, twisting her hand gently to get a better look.

“that’s really pretty,” you say, your voice filled with genuine admiration. isabelle looks a little flustered, glancing down at the bracelet herself before offering an awkward smile.

“my mom gave it to me recently,” she explains, her voice soft, almost like she’s revealing something personal.

you raise your eyebrows, nodding like you figured. “she has good taste,” you say, pulling your hand away and giving her a playful grin. “i wish i had one like that.”

isabelle smiles, this time with a bit more warmth, as you take a sip of your drink. beside you, jasper checks his beer can, frowning slightly.

“i’m out,” he says, looking toward where kelce and rafe are talking. “kelce said he had some in the cooler. be right back.”

you watch him go, your eyes drifting toward rafe as he talks with kelce. for a second, you catch him looking at you, the briefest flicker of attention before he refocuses on jasper approaching. jasper’s probably asking where the cooler is.

you glance over at isabelle, who’s now standing beside you, her posture awkward, her drink clutched tightly in her hand.

you tilt your head at her, curiosity getting the better of you. “is he sure that you and him are just friends?”

isabelle looks startled, her eyes widening as she whips back around to face you, blinking rapidly like she’s been caught off guard. she looks away, the blush creeping into her cheeks as she stares down at her drink.

“he’s sure,” she mumbles, her voice small. “i’m not.”

you wince. the way she said it, the quiet frustration—it all sounds way too familiar. but you wave the thought off. it’s not about you right now.

isabelle looks at you, her lips twitching upward in a shy smile. “i’ve liked him since we were kids,” she admits, the words spilling out now like she’s been holding onto them for too long. “we’re only here for the summer, and our parents are best friends with kelce’s, so . . . i don’t know. it’s just complicated. i don’t think he can even read any of the hints i throw at him.”

you place a delicate hand on her shoulder, trying to comfort her. “well, if he doesn’t see that, then he’s stupid,” you say with a small smile, your tone light but firm. “seriously, he’s an idiot if he can’t tell.”

you give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “he’ll either figure it out, or you’ll find someone who’s not blind,” you say, shrugging. “either way, you’ve got it.”

isabelle shakes her head and looks down at her drink, swirling it gently, the ice clinking softly against the plastic cup. she’s quiet for a second, like she’s not sure if she should even bother saying the rest. but then she lets out a sigh, giving in.

“you know,” she starts, voice low but steady, “sometimes i wonder if he even notices. like, i’ve tried. i really have. but sometimes i feel like he’s just choosing not to see it. maybe it’s easier for him that way, not having to deal with what comes next. and . . . what if i’m wasting all this time waiting for something that’s never going to happen? that scares me the most. i don’t want to look back and feel stupid for hoping.”

isabelle glances up, her brows furrowed, a soft laugh escaping her that sounds more like a breath of frustration. “but what really gets me is the fear of losing him completely. like, what if this—this friendship, or whatever it is—is all we’re meant to be? if i tell him, and he doesn’t feel the same . . . i ruin everything. so maybe i should just keep this, even if it’s not everything i want, than lose him altogether.”

you listen in silence, your chest tightening as isabelle’s words sink in. you nod slightly, acknowledging how close to home they hit. it’s like she’s pulled the thoughts straight from your own mind and laid them out between you.

all those late nights you spent wondering the same thing about rafe, the moments you brushed aside the hints you were giving him, thinking it was easier for him not to notice. you regret the other night at the party. that’s probably the furthest you’ve gotten to practically telling him how you feel.

because dealing with what comes after—if there is even any after—would change everything. maybe you’re scared of that too. of ruining whatever it is you already have, even if it’s not enough anymore.

isabelle takes an innocent sip of her drink, like she hadn’t just spilled her deepest fears. she glances around, shrugging softly. “anyway, that’s how my love life is going.” she laughs, but it’s hollow, like she’s trying to play it off as nothing, like it doesn’t really matter.

you don’t respond right away. instead, you find yourself staring at her, watching as she shifts uncomfortably, unsure of what to do with the vulnerability she just shared. your gaze drifts, following the trail of sunlight dancing over the water as the boat cuts through it.

isabelle’s words replay in your mind, over and over, threading together with every uncertain feeling you’ve been holding onto about rafe. you’ve been walking this fine line with him for what feels like forever, stuck between wanting more and being afraid of losing what you already have. and now, you’re not sure which way you’re leaning anymore.

you pause for a moment, thinking. the words hang on your tongue, but you’re not sure if you should ask. finally, you look at isabelle, your voice careful, like you’re testing the waters. “so you’re just never gonna tell him?” you ask, the question feeling like it’s aimed at both of you.

isabelle shakes her head quickly, like she didn’t mean for it to sound that definite. “no, not never,” she says, shrugging. “this isn’t something i’d take to my grave or anything. maybe when we’re older, when things aren’t so clustered for us right now. i think if we were around each other more often, maybe then i’d say something, but that’s not something i can risk under our circumstances right now.”

you just nod, absorbing her words. there it is—that’s what sets you and isabelle apart.

you get it, the fear of telling someone how you feel, whether it’s like or love, especially when the timing is off or the distance makes it easier to hide. but you and rafe? there’s no distance, no gap keeping you apart. you’ve been inseparable for years, always around each other, no excuses. and yet, here you are.

you blink a few times, but you don’t say anything, the weight of it settling between you and isabelle like a silent understanding. you both turn your attention to the horizon as the boat nears the shore of an island not far from figure eight.

you lean into rafe’s side, his arm draped casually across your shoulder, pulling you in closer, while he talks to the group—kelce, topper, isabelle, jasper—all standing around in a loose circle.

laughter flows freely, and the air smells like sunscreen and the salt of the ocean. people all around have set up umbrellas, towels, coolers—transforming the stretch of beach into a party that’s as chaotic as it is carefree. music blares from portable speakers, the kind you feel in your chest, vibrating through the sand.

volleyball games erupt further down the beach, and the sound of drunken laughter and splashing water fills the air as people float lazily on oversized inflatables.

someone cheers as a girl stumbles down to the water, pulling up her shirt in a flash of skin before diving in, the moment met with more hollering and clapping. it's all easy, light—everyone’s just letting loose, and you’re swept up in it.

you find yourself spending most of the afternoon alongside isabelle, both of you lounging in the sun, sipping drinks and sharing amused glances as the day carries on. there’s this unspoken ease between you now, something that started back on the boat. you talk without pressure, just floating through the day’s moments together.

but there are moments with rafe too. he finds you in the crowd, his hand slipping into yours as he tugs you away, guiding you through the chaos. he hugs you close, his breath warm against your ear as he leans in to say something you can’t quite hear over the noise, but it doesn’t matter. wherever he goes, you follow, and the two of you string each other along from one spot to the next, like you’re tethered together.

and then there’s that kiss. it happens just before you leave the sandbar, when the sun has started to dip lower in the sky. it’s abrupt, initiated by rafe, but it feels like something he needed to do, like he couldn’t let the day end without it.

his lips are warm, lingering on yours longer than usual, and everything else falls away. it’s like you’re the only two people left on the beach, the distant chatter and music fading into the background.

when he pulls back, it’s only for a second before he leans in again, his hands tightening on your waist, not wanting to let you go. you stare up at him after, your heart thudding in your chest, adoration in your eyes as you hold his gaze.

but now you’re home, and the contrast is stark. the dim lighting making the space feel colder, emptier. the energy of the sandbar is gone, replaced by an unsettling quiet. you sit on your couch, your leg bounces up and down, restless, as you stare blankly ahead.

the silence of your empty house is deafening. the faint ringing in your ears from the silence draws you into your thoughts—back to yesterday, back to the way rafe held you close, the way his presence felt like an anchor.

you felt safe, maybe even whole, when you were with him. but now, sitting here alone, the difference is almost suffocating. it’s strange how quickly it can shift—one day surrounded by people, warmth, noise, and the next, alone with only your thoughts, replaying every detail, every touch, every feeling.

the way things are now, it’s safe. there’s no risk, no line to cross that you can’t uncross. but if you were to tell him, to lay it all out there, could you handle the fallout?

because what if he doesn’t feel the same?

but then he kissed you. like he did yesterday, so suddenly, so effortlessly, pulling you into him like it’s second nature. it’s like he knew exactly when to pull you back in, just when you were starting to think too much. and just like that, all those questions you’ve been holding onto, the ones that sit heavy on your chest every time you’re near him, dissolve. because when he kisses you like that, it’s easy to forget everything else.

they vanish, swallowed by the feeling of him, so close, making you feel like maybe you don’t need to figure it all out right now.

but even then, just for a second, it’s on the tip of your tongue. you almost say it, almost let it slip, but you stop yourself. you always do.

i love you.

you convince yourself it’s not the right time, not the right moment, or maybe it’s not something you should say at all. and just when you’re about to pull away, to push the thought down like you always do, he kissed you again.

and just like that, you’re right back where you started. questioning, doubting, but never fully letting go. the feelings circling around inside you, waiting for the next time you’re close enough for them to surface again.

the next few days blur together, each one melting into the next. it feels as though you’re standing still, trapped in your bubble of emotions while everyone else rushes past you, moving faster and faster.

your best friend’s voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts, calling your name with a playful urgency, like she’s been doing for the past few moments. you blink, looking away from the raindrops on the window and finally focusing on her, the light in her eyes breaking through your haze.

“what?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, still slightly disoriented.

she laughs, a warm sound that pulls you back into the moment. as she continues talking, you lean into your pillow, letting the comfort envelop you.

the conversation drifts toward summer plans—what they have been up to, the adventures they’ve had. your friend shares her own stories of beach trips and spontaneous late-night drives.

“we should definitely go to that new froyo place tomorrow,” she suggests. “i heard they have all these crazy flavors. oh my g— remember last summer when we tried to make our own?”

you smile at the memory, letting it wash over you. just as you’re settling into the rhythm of the conversation, your mom pops her head in, breaking the moment. “dinner’s almost ready,” she calls from the doorway.

“thanks, mom,” you murmur, your voice soft as you turn your head slightly to give her a smile. she nods, and with that, she slips away, leaving the door ajar.

as soon as she’s gone, you lean back down, resting your elbow on your pillow and propping your head on your hand. your gaze drifts to your phone, almost expectantly, fingers itching to scroll through your notifications. you’re not even sure what you’re hoping for, but the silence feels heavy, and a part of you longs for a message.

your friend watches you closely, an amused smile creeping onto her lips. “do you want to text him?” she asks casually, the knowing glimmer in her eyes saying she’s onto you.

“him?” you feign innocence, raising an eyebrow. there really isn’t anyone else in your life who fits the bill like rafe, but you can’t just assume. she, however, sees right through you.

“come on, y/n. you know who i’m talking about.” she gets comfortable on your bed, sinking into the pillows as she watches you, her interest piqued. “what’s the deal with him anyway?”

you hesitate, slow to respond, feeling the weight of the question. you can’t seem to pinpoint how to explain what’s been going on. “things are good,” you say finally, the words feeling vague and hollow even as they leave your lips.

the look on your best friend’s face shifts immediately, arching an eyebrow. “good? really?” she prompts, tilting her head as if trying to pry more out of you.

you roll your eyes, exasperated by her unwavering gaze. “fine, it’s complicated,” you admit, the truth slipping out before you can stop it. you grab your phone, sinking deeper into your pillow, scrolling through your notifications as if the action could distract you from your tangled thoughts about rafe.

or maybe even check if you even have a notification from him.

she watches you scroll through your phone, her eyes flicking to the slight frown on your face. she doesn't speak right away, just sits there, observing. then, she reaches over, placing her hand gently over your phone and setting it back down on the bed.

“nevermind. you know, you’re gonna drive yourself crazy overthinking like this,” she says softly, shifting to face you more. “sometimes you just gotta rip the band-aid off and stop worrying about what might go wrong. otherwise, you’ll be stuck forever.”

you glance at her, unsure if you want to hear it. but she’s already readjusting her position, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she continues. “god knows i would’ve done things differently with cooper, but you know.”

you lean your head back, letting out a dramatic exhale at the mention of his name—cooper. you’ve heard enough stories to last a lifetime. but you pull your head forward again, looking at her as she reaches over once more, this time placing her hand over yours.

“i just think you should really do it,” she says, her tone more serious now.

you sigh, rubbing your eyes with the arm you’ve been propping yourself up on.

“whatever,” you mumble, shaking off the tension. “let’s go eat dinner. i’m starving.”

after dinner, your friend excuses herself to use the bathroom, leaving you and your mom at the table. your mom finishes up her plate before glancing at you, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “was it good?” she asks.

you don’t say anything, just smile softly and nod. she smiles back, the corners of her eyes crinkling with affection as she gets up to collect the dishes from the table, already moving to tidy up and call it a day.

you stand too, silently helping her by stacking the plates and utensils as she handles putting the leftovers in containers. the clink of dishes and quiet movement fill the space.

when you walk over to the sink, you place the plates inside, fingers lingering on the faucet handle. but you stop. turning around, you fiddle with your hands, the words you've been holding onto threatening to spill out.

your voice is quieter than usual when you finally ask, “how do you know if you love someone?”

your mom pauses in her search for containers, her hand resting on the cabinet door as she looks over at you. she sets down the lid she’s holding and turns, studying your face carefully. “what do you mean?” her tone is soft, open, and it catches you off guard.

you bite the inside of your cheek, unsure of how to phrase it without sounding like some naive girl, like a kid who thinks she’s in love. you lean back against the counter, gripping the edges behind you. “i’m in this situation—literally—with this boy, and—”

your mom cuts in, a knowing smile spreading across her face. “is it rafe?”

you freeze for a second, caught off guard, but the way she says it, almost amused and without judgment, relaxes you. of course she knows. it’s not like you two ever really tried to keep anything a secret. the island knew, your friends knew, but hearing your mom say it so casually makes your lips curl into a sheepish smile. “yeah,” you admit quietly.

your mom crosses her arms, leaning against the counter opposite you, still smiling. “what’s going on?”

you exhale softly, unsure where to even begin. “i don’t know,” you start, “we’re close, obviously. and he’s been . . . we’ve been spending so much time together lately, more than usual. but it’s confusing, you know? like, he doesn’t commit, but then there are these moments, like, i feel like there’s more between us. and i don’t want to ruin what we have, but i also don’t know if what we have is enough anymore.”

your mom watches you carefully, absorbing everything you’re saying. her expression softens as she considers her words. “i remember when i was your age,” she begins, her voice taking on a reflective tone. “i was in a similar situation with your father. we weren’t perfect—far from it—but i knew i loved him. i knew it because i was scared of losing him, but more than that, i was willing to fight for him. and i did.”

you blink at her, surprised. she rarely talks about how she and your dad got together, and when she does, it’s usually brief.

“we had our ups and downs,” she continues. “but in the end, it was worth it because i didn’t give up on what i wanted. and that led me here,” she says, her smile widening as she gestures lightly, “to you.”

you look down, her words settling in. “so you’re saying i should, what? take a chance?”

“i’m saying if you think it’s worth it, if you believe in it, then don’t be afraid to fight for it. but you have to be sure, really sure. because if you’re not, it’ll show. and rafe? he’ll see it.”

your mom moves toward you, placing a gentle hand on your arm. “whatever happens, just remember, you deserve to be happy. don’t settle for anything less.”

you’re still absorbing your mom’s words, turning them over in your head, when she leans slightly, nodding toward the back door. “go,” she says, her tone gentle yet resolute.

you blink, caught completely off guard. “wh— now?” your voice comes out confused, almost a laugh. you glance toward the window, where rain streaks down the glass. “mom, it’s pouring.”

she waves a hand, like the rain is the least of your worries. "i know. go put on a jacket. tell rafe how you feel."

your chest tightens, a swell of uncertainty rising up again, but there’s something in the way she looks at you—something that makes your heart stutter. “mom,” you start, your voice uncertain, but she interrupts, her expression soft but determined.

“listen,” she says, stepping closer, her hands gently shooing you toward the door, “it’s when you get to the end of your life that you realize how important the choices you made at the beginning were. you’re young, y/n. you have your whole life ahead of you to figure things out.” she pauses, her eyes meeting yours. “but you don’t want to look back, wondering what would’ve happened if you’d just taken that chance.”

your breath catches in your throat. you can’t deny that a part of you has been afraid—afraid of what admitting your feelings for rafe might do to your friendship, to the years of closeness you’ve built. but there’s something about the way she says it that strikes deep, a kind of clarity you’ve been avoiding.

“and,” she continues, stepping back just slightly, "even if it doesn’t turn out the way you hope, you both know you’ll always work out as friends. you’ve known that for a long time now.” she smiles then, soft but sure. “so go.”

you stand there, rooted in place, feeling the weight of your indecision lift—just a little. your mom knows. she’s always known. and the more you think about it, the more you realize she’s right. the fear, the hesitation—it doesn’t outweigh what you already know about rafe. about how solid you two are, even in uncertainty.

without another thought, you step forward, pulling her into a tight hug. “thank you,” you murmur into her shoulder, voice muffled but heartfelt. you linger for a second longer, breathing in the familiar scent of home, of comfort. “i owe you for this. and for the dishes next time.”

your mom chuckles as she pulls back. “all you owe me,” she says, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “is handling your friend when she gets back from the bathroom and realizes that you’re not here.”

you grin at that, shaking your head slightly as you turn away. then you rush toward the front door, grabbing a jacket from the table, your fingers fumbling for your car keys. the adrenaline starts kicking in, buzzing beneath your skin, and your heart beats faster—not from fear, but from excitement. clarity.

the rain hits your face as soon as you step outside, cool droplets splashing against your skin, soaking through the jacket almost instantly. but you don’t care. not this time.

you hurry toward the car, slipping behind the wheel, and as the engine roars to life, there’s only one thing on your mind. you’re not running away anymore—you’re going straight to him. straight to rafe, to tell him everything.

your mom is still standing in the kitchen, smiling to herself as she wipes down the counter. your friend emerges from the bathroom, stretching dramatically.

“ugh, i have the biggest food baby right now,” she groans, rubbing her stomach with an exaggerated pout. “like, seriously, i think i might be in my third trimester.”

she stops mid-step, suddenly noticing that you're nowhere to be seen. her gaze flickers around the room, confusion settling on her face. “where’s y/n?”

your mom just smiles, glancing up from the counter with a knowing look.

the rain pounds against your windshield and your fingers grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white, as the tires cut through puddles, water splashing up on either side of the road.

it’s dark outside, the kind of dark that makes the world feel like it’s closing in, and yet you drive, the rain blurring everything except for the weight of what you’re about to do.

you can hardly believe you're doing this—driving to rafe’s house, of all places, on a night like this. it’s pouring. but the rain, the storm, the darkness—they almost feel fitting. like the weather outside mirrors the chaos that’s been brewing inside you for months.

you think about him. about rafe. about the time you’ve spent together—the laughs, the touches, the kisses, the way he makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world.

you think about the nights he’s held you close, his breath warm against your neck, and the mornings where he pulls away just a little too soon, leaving you wondering if you imagined it all. it’s like being on a tightrope, balancing between something beautiful and something terrifying.

this thing with him, it’s not really a relationship, is it? it’s more like a maze with no exit, a constant loop of confusion and longing, of wanting more but being afraid to ask for it.

you’ve told yourself a thousand times that you’re okay with it—that whatever this is, it’s enough. but it’s not. and deep down, you’ve always known it’s not.

you’ve spent so long trying to figure it out. is this love? do you love him? or is it just the idea of him? the way he makes the world feel quieter when everything else is so loud, so overwhelming. you’ve wondered if maybe you just needed someone, anyone, to make you feel like you weren’t going through life alone. you’ve questioned if it’s love or if it’s desperation.

but then you remember the way his eyes soften when he looks at you—like he’s seeing past every wall you’ve ever put up. you remember the way his touch feels like it’s grounding you, like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. and it hits you, harder than you’ve ever allowed it to before. you do love him.

you’ve probably never loved anyone as much as you love rafe cameron. and it’s terrifying.

because how do you tell him that? how do you tell someone you love them when you’ve spent months pretending you’re fine without a real answer, pretending that this . . . undefined space you’ve both been living in is enough?

your mind is racing, your heart too, as the road blurs in front of you. the rain is relentless, but you barely notice. all you can think about is him. about how you’ve spent so long holding back, holding yourself in this limbo, waiting for something—anything—to change. but nothing will change unless you make it change.

you’ve waited for him to make the first move, to say something, to define what’s between you, but you’re done waiting. you love him, and whether or not he feels the same, you need him to know. you need to say it out loud. maybe for yourself, more than for him. you can’t keep living in this. you deserve more than that.

the rain is pouring harder now, like the sky is trying to drown the world, but it doesn’t matter. nothing matters except for the fact that you’re almost there. almost at his house. almost at the point of no return.

your heart is in your throat when you pull into his driveway. you sit there for a moment, the engine still running, the rain beating down on your car, and you just breathe.

but then you remember his smile. his laugh. the way he makes you feel like you’re floating and falling all at once. and you know you have to do this. you can’t keep living in the in-between.

you throw your jacket over your head as you step out into the rain, the cold water soaking through your shoes, your pants, everything. it’s freezing, but you barely feel it. you walk up to his front door, your steps heavy, heart even heavier. you knock, once, twice, and then wait.

your heart feels like it’s about to explode. everything you’ve wanted to say, everything you’ve felt—it’s all bubbling up inside you, ready to spill out the second the door opens. you’re nervous, terrified, but ready. so, so ready.

the door creaks open, and there he is. rafe.

he looks at you, rain-soaked and trembling, and it’s like something clicks in his eyes. like he knows exactly why you’re here. like he’s been waiting for this moment, too.

you smile, a soft, trembling smile, your heart in your throat. “hey.”

he stands there, staring at you with that familiar look, the one that’s always made you feel like maybe—just maybe—he’s been feeling the same way all along. and then he smiles back, a small, understanding smile that makes your heart skip a beat.

“hey.”

[greaseonmymouth]

I saw this shared around on Threads (why do I go there, I hate it) and commented on as 'this article is so good' and 'must read' including by a few people whose opinion I normally respect, and seeing as monsterfucking and monster everything is like a special little interest for me, I of course instantly clicked through to read it

and I have to say

what the everloving heterosexual fuck is this

two fat paragraphs about omegaverse that don't even mention its origins - I mean - I just - gaze upon this phrase, and despair:

During estrous, Omegas’ vaginas ooze with “slick,” responding to the Alpha’s intoxicating pheromonal perfume.

IT'S CALLED "SLICK" BECAUSE IT'S FROM SELF-LUBRICATING ANUSES. THE REASON THE OMEGAS NEED SELF-LUBRICATING ANUSES TO BEGIN WITH IS BECAUSE THEY DON'T HAVE VAGINAS.

I. have been rendered figuratively speechless. the straights don't know what slick is. the. i. how. how did we end up like this

their dicks swell at the base, creating a “knot,” which lodges them inextricably in the Omega’s slick-soaked (I am so sorry) vagina.

"(I am so sorry)" girl you're writing an article about monster smut and then you have the gall to be embarrassed by the this tame ass (or should i say vagina?) heterosexual omegaverse?

okay, okay. deep breaths. we've only just got started. we started by covering Morning Glory Milking Farm, a minotaur/human erotic romance novel, which well - I've read it, and it's not a bad book by any means, it was actually very very good, a solid story with a great cast and perfectly paced and satisfying romance and loads of sex - is very straight. it's just a minotaur. it's a big guy with a big dick. it's your standard gentle giant/normal sized girl romance. it's not very freaky, but you know, I don't blame the average reader for coming into this thinking this is some out there stuff. gotta start somewhere, right? we didn't all come up through draco/the giant squid crackfic in 2005, you know? and now we've covered Sarah J Maas and we're entering omegaverse territory, this is getting knottier now, right, freakier? this article is going somewhere, right?

you can imagine the intrigue, enemies-to-lovers, and other story lines involved as each captured female eventually finds the member of the barbarian tribe who is destined to worship and fuck the living daylights out of her for the rest of their lives. Oh, and their dicks have a sensitive spur on top designed for clitoral stimulation. It’s just as blue and velvety as the rest of their big alien bodies.

okay so the minotaurs aliens are blue now, i guess.

It seems, also, like the romance genre as a whole is being pushed by monster romance to make things in human-human books as freaky as possible.

ohh?? are we finally getting a proper freak on now??

This genre, “why choose?” or “MMF” (or sometimes even MMMF or MMFM), and also known as “reverse harem,” always features a heroine who is showered with sexual attention by men who are also sexually involved with each other.

having a thousand yard stare moment over here

this author seriously thinks that all these heterofied monster romance tropes are paving the way for the real freaky stuff that is, checks notes, "two hockey players fucking each other while the heroine calls the shots"

this author is positing that human queer erotica/romance are freakier than monster erotica/romance. like. she said that. with her whole chest. black on white.

on one hand a monster, an inhuman being, and on the other, a queer person, a human being. and apparently the real freak is not the minotaur or the blue alien. it is the queer human.

is this satire? it has to be, right?

because if it's not satire, this article is an entire case study in itself on the monstering* of queer people. stunning.

*academic term